Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Without a doubt, the most dreaded day of every year was the day of the reaping. The day when the chosen children from each of the 12 Districts of the Ardhalis Union would be taken from their homes and sent to what would most likely be their certain deaths. Sent to be nothing more than a simple game piece in a brutal game of survival for the sake of pure entertainment. To play as Tributes in what the country called the Scythe Games.

No, not just entertainment, thought Lauren Sinclair. But a lesson. A reminder. The monarchy’s way of reminding us lesser folk that we are the sheep, and they the prey, and that they have all the power and control over us.

Lauren sat at the dining table, a mug of warm coffee settled between her palms, her elbows resting on the shining surface of the wood. Adorned in her best clothes of a white woven blouse with a ruffled front and a blue tea skirt made of chiffon, her crimson hair tucked into a neat chignon at the base of her neck, she watched through the large, paneled windows as the sun finally rose over the horizon. Lauren was always an early riser, too overcome by her constant insomnia to achieve any type of sleep or rest on most nights. If she were to wager when her sleep disorder began, she would have to bet it began the day she learned she was now an orphan, worsened only by the day she lost her childhood best friend.

But despite her usual habit of rising even before the sun could touch the horizon, Lauren knew today in particular would be a long and jarring day. For today was reaping day, and something in her gut was telling her—No, more like warning her—that today would not just reap the name of a child from their home, but reap a part of her soul once more.

She sighed as she took a small sip of her drink, the events of the upcoming day rolling through her head. It was only about six in the morning, meaning the reaping would take place at the Justice Building in approximately seven hours. Within that timespan, she, as niece of the Head Peacekeeper, would be expected to report and assist in the day’s preparations, maybe greet the guests and do whatever else it was the District council would assign her to do. At times she would be sent to fetch the Capitol escort and film crew and escort them to the Justice Building from the District Train Station, as if they hadn’t been doing the same exact thing, every year, for almost two decades.

“Maybe you’ll be chosen for Tribute this year,” they’d once said to her when she had arrived to pick them up. “Now wouldn’t that be quite the honor? To represent your District in the Games.” Lauren had frowned and cringed at that. She was only thirteen at the time, and yet here they were conversing with her, a child, about the honor of dying for her home. As if they actually understood what they were talking about. She knew they didn’t. They were from the Capitol, after all, not civilians of the Districts. The Capitol were of the fortunate groups of people that weren’t allowed to compete in the Games. Only the people of the Districts held that honor.

This year, she would most likely be assigned the same role of escort and be sent to the train station yet again. And she’d watch from the sidelines of the Justice Building as the film crew would set up their equipment, cameras and sound systems alike, and watch as they prepared to broadcast the live feed of the 11th District’s reaping. Recording the names being chosen from the glass bowls, recording the looks of horror and anguish on the chosen’s faces, recording the moment the chosen—the Tributes—knew that they most likely were never coming home alive.

Another form of twisted entertainment, thought Lauren, feeling violently ill, her hands clutching around her mug tighter. As if watching children fight to the death wasn’t enough, they have to make a show of just choosing the names, too.

The memory of the previous year’s reaping came into her head like a flood of memories flowing from a broken dam, her mind spinning and reeling in an instant as if drowning in its waters. It took nearly all of Lauren’s reflexes to not drop the coffee mug she was still holding in her hands and breaking it onto the table. Her mind playing the image of a fifteen year-old boy walking to the front patio of the Justice Building as his name was called, pale grey eyes growing even paler, his white hair gleaming in the summer sun as he reluctantly moved towards the stage to stand in front of his loved ones—his peers, his family, his friends—for what would be the last time they would see him alive.

Dylan… Now dead and gone.

Another image, this time of Lauren, tears spilling down her face, as she nearly tried to launch herself towards the stage, hand extended out to him, his name a cry on her lips. What she would have done if she did reach him, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she could keep him from going, could stop him from boarding the train and leaving her forever; she would have been killed just for trying. But having lost her parents just two years before and now losing her best friend, it was more than she could take. Had it not been for William Hawkes grabbing her hand and pulling her towards him, arms locked tightly around her smaller frame, she easily could have lost more than just her friend that blistering afternoon.

A voice from behind Lauren shook her out of her reverie, and she looked behind her to find her uncle descending down the stairs, still dressed in his sleeping robe, his miniscule, round glasses resting on his face.

“Good morning, Ren,” Uncle Tristan greeted, a small yawn escaping him. “I’d say I’m surprised that you’re already up and ready, but then I’d be lying.” He looked towards his niece as he approached the dining table, before peering down towards the white mug in her hands, and taking a look at his niece’s face, easily noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes. He raised a brow, arms crossed. “Another sleepless night I take it.”

“Today’s a big day,” Lauren responded simply, her lips turning upward into a slight, if a bit forced, smile.

“Ren…” he sighed, head shaking in disapproval. “You know, since you’re only sixteen and—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Lauren, nonchalantly waving her hand in front of her as if dismissing his words away. “I’m only sixteen. I should take better care of myself. Sleep more. Eat more. Drink less coffee ‘cause it’s not good for me. Yes, I've heard it all. Believe me, Uncle Tristan, I’m…” she paused, huffing at her own upcoming lie “...trying.”

Tristan Sinclair could only chuckle at his niece’s uncaring attitude as he took a seat adjacent to her right. “It’s almost a shame that you had to inherit your mother’s eyes. Rachel’s eyes deserve better than to be hidden by those dark circles of yours,” he joked.

“Yeah, well, maybe it would have been for the best if I didn’t. At least then people would stop calling them pensive.” Lauren cringed, but despite that, she couldn't keep the genuine laugh from resounding from her, a laugh her uncle reciprocated. 

“You know, I think it's less the eyes, and more just you. I don't ever recall anyone calling Rachel’s eyes pensive in the same way others do with you.”

Uncle and niece shared another warm laugh at that. It was true. Since Lauren could remember, she was always at the receiving end of what others considered a compliment—“Such beautiful pensive eyes,” they’d say, friends and suitors alike—which, on the other hand, Lauren would take anything but as a compliment. It was more an aggravating statement than something she thought she should be flattered by. Her mother, however, never got the same remarks. Perhaps it was because there was so much good in Rachel that her eyes were the least impressive of her qualities. The memory of her parents made Lauren's heart lurch with both longing and love. Their memory—truly the kindest people she'd ever known—always bringing her heartache and sorrow as much as it did joy and happiness.

Happiness. When was the last time either Uncle or I had been truly happy? Lauren looked down at her mug as their laughter died down. She lowered her hands down towards the table, resting the mug on top. She let out a sigh as she stared down at its empty contents, her smile faltering, a familiar hollow feeling creeping up inside her. The hollow hole her parents left reminding her once again of their absence.

“I can’t believe it’s already been three years,” Lauren murmured, her head turning towards the window to her left, right hand coming back up to rub the back of her neck. “And a whole year since Dylan…” She bit back the words. She knew that if she continued, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back any more, or worse, the tears that would inevitably fall. Instead, she took a deep breath in an effort to keep her emotions at bay and simply gazed out the window as the sunlight continued to filter into the room.

“Lauren…” Tristan began to say. He reached out his hand, patting Lauren’s shoulder gently, before resting it there. Lauren turned her head back towards his direction, her sorrow still etched on her face. “I miss them, too,” Tristan continued. “All of them. I hope you know I’ve tried my best to keep you safe and secure. Even if I’ve failed as a guardian sometimes, know that I will always continue my best to make sure you will always be safe and sound no matter the cost. That I will do my best with whatever power I still have to make sure of it. And I know I’m no Rachel or Alexander, but I—”

Lauren reached out to grab the hand at her shoulder and gripped it tightly, as if to say It’s alright. “I know, Uncle. I know.” She looked at him, a sad smile replacing the anguished look in her gold eyes. “You’ve done more than enough to be there for me. I know it can’t be easy being a law enforcer of the country that took our family—my parents, your own brother. I know that if you had the choice, you’d do away with it all. But I know that you haven’t because of me. You and the household along with Lucy have been family enough for me, so please don’t ever feel like you haven’t done enough. If it weren’t for you, I’d have no one else. I know I’m definitely one of the luckier ones in a world full of people struggling just to stay alive out there, so thank you.”

Tristan opened his mouth, words almost coming out, but instead he gave her a sad, tight-lipped smile, and said, “Thank you, Ren.”

Tristan cleared his throat as he pushed himself out of his seat, clearly ready to change the subject. “What shall I get Lucy to make for breakfast? We’ll both be busy this whole day, so a big meal is a must for this morning.”

“But I—”

“And no, coffee does not count as a meal.”

Lauren chuckled. “Fine,” she groaned. “I wouldn’t say no to Lucy’s blueberry pancakes.”

When Kieran White woke up to the sweltering heat of the July morning, he knew it would be the longest day of his already too long life. At just eighteen years old, Kieran had always felt that he’d already lived twenty lifetimes over if not more, sometimes forgetting that he himself had yet to reach the age of twenty, while simultaneously believing that he would never live long enough to even reach that number. 

A handsome paradox he truly was.

It was currently around eight in the morning, a good five hours before he would have to make himself present at the Justice Building for this year’s reaping. At eighteen, it was the last year he would be eligible to be chosen to compete in the Scythe Games, the last year his name would ever be added once more to the bowls that contained all the 11th District's children's names—at least those who were at the age of twelve—and the day when the carefully laid out plans that had been thrusted upon him by his superiors, plans of the past few years, were to be set in motion. Plans that depended on him and his survivability.

Remembering the laundry list of things he would need to get done before attending the reaping, Kieran rolled out of bed, and started about his day; brushing his teeth, fixing the rat’s nest he called his hair into a small bun at the back of his head, and making breakfast (leftover from last night’s dinner, really). His finest clothes already laid out the previous night—a simple black button down, and a pair of matching black trousers, paired with his darkest black dress shoes—he dressed himself quickly, rolled up the sleeves of his top to his elbows, and stepped out the front door of his small apartment and into the beaming sun.

As he walked about the streets of the blistering summer, down the cobblestone pavement on his side of town, the stark contrast between him and the passersby and onlookers around him couldn’t be any more noticeable. Most of the civilians around him were not only dressed in fine and flowy dresses or brighter colored suits in an effort to combat the heat, but their attires shone with expensive jewels and metals sewn or attached to their garments. While it was customary for the citizens to wear their best on reaping day, the 11th District had a habit of dressing a little too much of their best even on regular days throughout the year. The 11th District was, after all, the wealthiest of all the 12 Districts of the Ardhalis Union, being not only the closest to the Capitol geographically which allowed for easier trade with the wealthy Capitol businesses, but the District was also an area rich with surrounding mountains full of jewels and other valuable materials. Most of the lower class citizens of the 11th District worked to mine such valuables for a living, while the wealthier, higher class citizens made money off the backs of those people.

As for Kieran, he fell somewhere more in the middle-class sector of the District’s society. Neither poor nor rich, he lived more than comfortably with more money and clothes than he needed, but humbly enough where his finances were never an issue. Working as an archivist during the day at the Justice Building made for a decent income, but as for his night job, well, that was where his main source of money really came from. No one paid much mind that Kieran didn’t attend school, nor that he lived alone with no known family, or the fact that he held a full-time job at such a young age. Most people in this District were too busy being selfish hypocrites to pay someone like him much mind.

As Kieran continued to walk through the edge of town, walking along the river, his destination eventually came into view: The Hob. Located by the western end of the river and inside what was previously an old cathedral, the Hob was a marketplace full of anything and everything anyone could ask for, from foods, drinks, alcohols, rare garment materials, weaponry, and sometimes even wildlife, the marketplace seemed to have it all; though the legalities of how some of the merchandise were obtained could be a bit questionable, its visitors never really bothered to ask where such things came from so long as they themselves could own it and make a claim for it. It was also one of the places—if not the only place—open despite today’s special occasion. 

Kieran walked up the cracked and chipped stone steps that led to the wide wooden doors of the former cathedral, and slipped right through the crowd, passing by a group of other shoppers taking a sniff of some liquids inside odd green bottles. While the architecture of the building was still somehow reminiscent of its prior holy structure, the inside was anything but. The pews where prayers and sinners alike would gather and sit on were gone long before the Hob even existed. Where statues of old saints and idols previously were were now stacks and stacks of boxes and racks of different products and merchandise. Upon the steps of where the altar of a pious man would have been by the stained glass windows, were now various booths and small tents of sellers, traders, and bargainers looking for a quick deal. Not even the roof of the building was kept intact as there were multiple holes in the ceiling of the stone structure where Kieran knew detailed paintings of cherubic angels and Heaven would have been, but instead now sunlight bled from the open space above into the already warm interior. Despite the seemingly broken structure of the building, the fact that the ancient cathedral was still able to hold itself up after centuries of being built and nearly destroyed impressed even the unholiest of men.

Weaving through the crowd, snaking his way around well-dressed visitors to ragged individuals, and ignoring the different shouts of merchants trying to sell their goods, Kieran made his way to a dark door located at the side of the cathedral, adjacent to the booths by the altar. No one paid him any mind. In fact, when it came to the Hob, no one really paid anyone much mind unless one had something good to give or money to spend, so slipping past the dark door and into the room of what once was a confessional was easy enough of a task.

Sitting on the wooden bench inside the tight room, Kieran pulled back the curtain to reveal a dark shadow awaiting him on the other side of the lattice window. The figure—dressed in all black, a hood disfiguring its face—sat in silence, not even bothering to turn its head at Kieran’s entrance.

Kieran smirked. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Chapter Text

Kieran remained seated on the wooden bench of the confessional despite his hooded companion having exited the space moments ago. A large piece of horizontal parchment was held within his hands, rectangular shaped creases covering the whole paper from where it had been crisply folded. It was a map of an unfamiliar terrain—one with crescent jutts of mountains, a large lake, and clusters of trees—somewhere Kieran knew he'd never been to ever before. Yet, as he scanned the paper, he knew precisely what and where this location before him was.

It was the map of this year's arena.

The image before him showed the monochromatic images of a crescent curve of the mountains to the northwest, groups of trees that covered a majority of the space in the middle, while a lake and ravine cut through the forest, the water leading back towards the mountains where Kieran guessed there would also be a waterfall coming from the jutted barriers. Towards the eastern side of the map, from north to south, was a wide open field, and at the very center of the entire map, located southwest of the shores of the lake was a red X—the Cornucopia. 

The Cornucopia was debatably the most essential location in the arena in every Game. A giant, golden spiral cone containing anything and everything any Tribute would need to survive, from food to healing ointments to, more importantly, weapons. While it could be the saving grace for any Tribute, it was also the most dangerous location to be at. The start of every Game began with each Tribute being placed together in a perfect circle surrounding the golden spiral, and it was in essence their starting point. And as soon as the countdown marked the beginning of the Game, it would also mark the beginning of the bloodbath. One either ran from the Cornucopia or towards it, or they died trying.

Turning the paper over, one word was handwritten in a bold red pen, circled, and underlined thrice: Survive. As if Kieran needed to be told twice. Everything he'd done up to this point in his life was for the sake of survival, and he wasn't going to stop now.

"Burn upon examining," the shadowed figure—the Messenger—had said to him.

Kieran took one last examination of the map, committing the images to memory, before taking out a lighter from his shirt pocket and setting the bottom right corner of the page aflame. The bright orange fire illuminated his face in a flickering light and shadow as the flame consumed the paper, the black ashes falling to his feet.

Lauren’s guess about today’s task had been correct, much to her dismay. 

She was currently sitting in the back seat of the elongated car that was now parked at the District Train Station, the giant text that read 11th DISTRICT hung in front of the glass panels and red brick structure of the building. The District Station was located at the very edge of town, the multitude of tall curving hills and clusters of trees that made up the open woods and fields visible beyond the station and train tracks. The live electrical wire fence that surrounded the entire District—the fence that made sure no one could venture beyond the District’s borders—now just a mere few feet away from the vehicle.

Almost as soon as she had walked up to the town square after helping Lucy and the other maids with cleaning up after breakfast, she was greeted with Mayor Stefan Hawke’s secretary with the request that she, Lauren, make her way to the train station before 8:45 A.M. to greet the Capitol escort and the accompanying film crew at their arrival. It was a simple enough task. All Lauren had to do was be polite and be a pleasant company, but the thought of interacting with the Capitol escort made Lauren want to be anything but polite or pleasant.

The 11th District’s very own Capitol escort, Lady Arthingham, was an eccentric woman with a flair for the dramatics, her fashion sense equally as odd as her character. Usually adorned in volumes and layers of different tulles and silks no matter the temperature, a large white wig on her head in an effort to mimic the late Marie Antoinette, layers upon layers of makeup on her face, and some type of fragrance that reminded Lauren of spoiled brussel sprouts, she was not a sight to miss. Even without the heavy layers of garments and terrible perfume, the strange accessories the older woman wore in her white wig—whether it be lit lamps sticking out in prongs or even live birds in metal cages—made her an easy individual to spot. 

Citizens of the Capitol were truly something else.

Lauren sighed leaning into her seat, rubbing at her temples. It would definitely be a long day. I should’ve dragged Will with me. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer alone, she grimaced.

Opening the door, and stepping out of the car, she informed the driver she would return soon enough, before making her way to the arrivals platform of the station for the 9 A.M. train. And right on time, it came. Not that it surprised her. The Capitol was barely a stop away, and with the speed of the trains, one could make it to the Capitol and back to the 11th District within the hour.

As the silver train approached to a halt at the end of the tracks, its automatic doors slowly slid open to reveal its passengers. Lady Arthingham appeared from the doors of the fourth car, her round, poofy gown of pink glitter bouncing about her as she stepped off the train car’s steps and onto the wooden platform of the station. Behind her came the two film crew members, their cases of equipment held in each hand.

“Lady Arthingham,” greeted Lauren, a lopsided, strained smile appearing on her face as the older woman approached her. “Pleasure to see you once again.”

“Oh, hello, dear!” Lady Arthingham greeted her. “What was the name again? Lorraine, was it?”

“Erm, no. It’s Lauren, actually. Lauren Sinclair.”

“Ah, well, they both sound the same to me!” Lady Arthingham giggled at that as if she had just told a silly joke.

Lauren inhaled deeply, her brow twitching involuntarily, fists quivering at her side. Keep your cool, Sinclair. Keep your cool. You only have to deal with her for the car ride to the town square. Then she’ll be someone else’s problem. Probably Will’s, but still, at least she’s not yours.

Lauren cleared her throat, attempting to maintain her composure, faking a laugh. “Yes, well, I suppose they do. If you’re ready, shall we head out then? The car is waiting for us right by the entrance.”

“Oh, yes, of course, dear,” Lady Arthingham responded. The eccentric woman made a motion as if she were about to step forward, before stopping almost mid-step. “But wait, hold on. We’re missing someone. Where’s the Darcy girl?” she asked, looking around.

One of the film crew members piped up, “I think she’s still on the train, ma’am.”

Lady Arthingham's caked face seemed to turn an odd shade of pink as she huffed. “Oh, that girl! Always running late to everything!” She turned towards the car directly behind her. “Darcy!” she yelled in a voice too loud and shrill to be pleasant for anyone’s ears, hands cupping her mouth for amplification, the voice causing chills to crawl on Lauren’s skin. “Come here, child! You do know we’ve arrived, don’t you?”

Other passersby looked towards the group at the shrill call, Lauren’s face nearly turning a shade of red that matched her hair. It was all Lauren could do to not hide away her face behind her hands at the woman’s antics. She looked towards the film crew members whose hands had gone up to their ears, their expressions almost as embarrassed as hers.

“Coming, Lady A!” a voice called back from the train cart. A slender figure appeared by the car door not a moment later.

The young woman that appeared before them was a stark contrast to that of Lady Arthingham. While Arthingham’s clothes were bright and pink, the usual odd ornaments dressed in her white hair, the other woman adorned a much more muted attire with a dark blue dress that flowed with the passing breeze, a simple fur stole wrapped around her shoulders, dark brown hair sweeping down her back. The demeanors of the two women couldn’t have been any more different either. Whereas Arthingham had a far more boisterous presence, the Darcy girl seemed to carry a much more easygoing air about her.

Lady Arthingham motioned for the Darcy girl to approach them. “Lorraine—”

“—Lauren—” Lauren sighed.

“—this is Neyra Elena Darcy. She’s the new head stylist for the Eleventh District’s Tributes. She’s to be a guest alongside myself and the crew for today’s events.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lauren,” chimed Darcy, her hand extended out to Lauren which she took graciously. “You can just call me Neyra or Darcy, whichever you prefer. Lady Arthingham insisted I join in today’s festivities as a way to familiarize myself with your District’s culture. It’s a bit hard to come up with designs for the Tributes to wear when I’ve never actually been here before.”

Lauren politely shook Neyra’s hand, inwardly cringing at the use of the word festivities, but smiling politely nonetheless. 

“Well, welcome, Lady Darcy,” Lauren responded, her gold eyes meeting Neyra’s own amethyst ones. Up close, Lauren couldn’t help but notice how young the woman in front of her had to be. Definitely, not much older than Lauren herself, most likely still a teenager like her but perhaps older by a year or two.

“It’ll be a pleasure to have you with us as well,” Lauren continued. “If you have any questions about our home, please don’t hesitate to ask. My uncle is the Head Peacekeeper here, after all, and my best friend also happens to be the mayor’s son.”

“Oh, you must mean William Hawkes? My father did mention I would most likely meet him today, though I hadn’t realized it would be this soon...” Neyra’s voice trailed off, eyes turning downwards, lips in a tight line.

Strange, thought Lauren. She'd never heard of this Darcy girl before, and yet she happened to already know of her best friend. “Uhm, yes, he will be at the reaping today, as well, and is currently helping with the preparations at the town square. I’m sure I can introduce the both of you whenever we may have time.”

Neyra bit the tip of her tongue. “Hmm… Yes...” she responded with a hesitance that Lauren couldn’t help but notice. “That would be much appreciated,” Neyra added, a polite though tightlipped smile spreading on her face.

“Alright, enough chit chat, ladies,” interrupted Lady Arthingham. “We have much to do today, Darcy. Make sure not to trail too far behind.” She motioned for all to follow her as she turned towards the platform’s exit. “Come now!”

The rest of the group trailed behind the older woman, their pace easily catching up with Lady Arthingham's small pitter-patters on the wooden floor. 

Neyra turned to Lauren who was walking by her side at an even pace. Is she always like this, Neyra seemed to ask as her eyes met hers, Neyra’s brows furrowed in annoyance.

Unfortunately so, Lauren responded with an equally frustrated gaze, her shoulders shrugging. You get used to it.

I sure hope not, Neyra silently responded, rolling her eyes, and crossing her arms.

Lauren chuckled quietly at this. At least for now she wasn’t alone in her misery.

***

The car ride back to town was at least a pleasant one now that Lauren had Neyra as a buffer between her and Lady Arthingham. The film crew members would make the occasional comment, but never enough to stray the older woman from her ramblings. The group was now seated around the back seat of the stretched vehicle, Neyra sitting next to Lauren, the tinted windows behind them; a flute of chilled champagne in hand, next to the mini bar, Lady Arthingham sat on the seat across from the two girls; while the film crew members were seated directly at the back facing the front. 

The Capitol escort had been going on and on about something pertaining to her handsome butler—or was it about something about a ransom butter? Regardless, Lauren didn't care—for the first ten minutes of the ride before Neyra had politely interrupted, saying, “That's a really fascinating story, Lady A. You’ve got quite the man back home. But why don’t we talk about life here in the Eleventh? That’s why I’m here after all, isn’t it?” Before the escort could get another word in, Neyra turned her body in her seat to face Lauren directly. “Tell me, Lauren, what’s it like living around here?”

Ignoring the indignant huff of Lady Arthingham who turned to the other two passengers in the car instead, Lauren thought of how to put her opinions into words. “Truthfully, the Eleventh District is probably the best place to be.” District-wise at least. I’m sure Capitol life can’t be too bad either, Lauren added in her mind. “Being close to the Capitol has its advantages, and a lot of us are able to live luxuriously without needing to rely on the Victor winnings like some of the other Districts.”

Neyra hummed in understanding. “Yes, that is very much unlike the Thirteenth District, then. That’s the only other place I’ve ever been to outside of the Capitol. They literally train their children down there for the Games, you know. Though I suppose that’s why they’re referred to as one of the Career Districts.”

Lauren nodded. “Yes, they and the Sixth and Third Districts are, though I think Thirteen is the only truly successful one of the bunch. It’s a strange thought, but I suppose in those areas, you have to do what you can to survive.” Even if it means teaching children from birth how to kill and fight, Lauren thought bitterly. “Thankfully, we don’t really have people struggling to that extent here in the Eleventh...”  Lauren paused, reconsidering her words. "I think..."

In all honesty, the last part Lauren couldn't be too sure about. There were areas of the District she had always been forbidden from entering, one of which was the Greychapel area, most likely nicknamed for the rundown grey cathedral at its core where the Hob marketplace was located. She’d heard rumours of its beat up and torn down buildings, and of the children and families living on the streets with no real homes, but it was a place Lauren had never seen for herself. As a child, she had wondered if such stories were true or if they were tales meant to scare children like her from misbehaving—after all, how could a place as wealthy as the 11th District have a whole area that was as poor as some place like the 6th District where she knew people starved to death each day. Dylan was the only person she knew who had lived in Greychapel, but he never spoke much of his home life outside of telling stories about his father.

Lauren and Neyra sighed almost simultaneously, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts now, Neyra’s expression almost matching that of Lauren’s solemnity. The dark haired girl gazed out the window as she held her head on her hand, elbow resting now on the open windowsill. “We really are a privileged bunch, aren’t we?” she murmured more to herself.

Lauren looked up at the girl beside her in a jolt of shock. She hadn’t expected anyone from the Capitol could ever feel sympathetic to the Districts' problems. It was the Capitol, after all, who truly benefited from their sufferings. Lauren’s own godfather was a member of the Capitol, and it sickened her at times to think of how he could possibly sleep at night knowing he’d intentionally killed numerous children with his position as Head Gamemaker—as the person in charge of designing and planning the different ways children could kill one another, the person in charge of controlling their fates in the arenas.

Lauren bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how to respond. “Yeah, just a bit,” she mumbled inaudibly.

The remaining duration of the trip back to the town square consisted of other conversations about their personal lives, family, friends, sometimes some meaningless topics, and more of the 11th District’s history. It was only around 9:45 A.M. by the time they arrived at their destination at the Justice Building, but no one wasted much time working to complete the needed tasks.

Upon exiting the car, Lady Arthingham made her way straight to the Justice Building's patio-turned-stage with Neyra being dragged behind her, and the two film crew members went about placing all their cameras and other devices at their proper locations.

The cameras—no longer the large, bulky devices of the past that had been used in old movies from centuries ago—were sleek and lightweight items with a huge amount of power. One camera could fit in the palm of a person's hand but be able to capture every movement and image in a pristine picture, capturing every little detail down to the fibers of one’s clothing, the beads of sweat on one’s brow. The cameras were set upon stands in front of the Justice Building's stage, while a group of others were strung along the roofs of the surrounding buildings, making sure they were angled perfectly so as to capture every moment of the reaping that was to come.

As Lauren watched the crew assemble their equipment, she felt a presence come up from behind her, the golden set of hair making it evident who her new companion was.

“You look like you've seen better days,” Lauren jabbed at her friend, brow raised, a playful smirk on her lips. “I'm assuming you ran into our dear Lady Arthingham already.”

“Please don't,” Will scowled, shivering at the Capitol woman's name. His usually kept blonde hair was now disheveled, his tan vest seemingly unbuttoned thus exposing the wrinkled white top underneath.

Lauren chuckled. It was unusual to see the perfect, typically put-together William Hawkes in such a disarray.

“I simply went over to greet her for formalities, and next thing I know, she’s throwing her entire weight onto me, and swooning over something!” Will cried, incredulously throwing his hands in the air.

“Swooning over you, my dear William,” Lauren laughed, shaking her head at how oblivious her friend could be. Despite his popularity with all their classmates, and despite his reputation as the District's Prince Charming, William somehow managed to still be surprised—often embarrassed—when anyone would think him attractive. A man too humble for his own good, Lauren thought. Fact still remained though, William Hawkes was a handsome boy with an equally handsome character. The gold hair and bright blue eyes were enough to make anyone fall to their feet, and it didn't hurt that William had a genuinely endearing personality and good heart.

"Oh, no," Will wrinkled his nose at Lauren's comment. “I hope she knows I’m only seventeen.”

Lauren shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like she’s too concerned with that.” She looked over at the pair of Capitol women who were now currently speaking with Will’s father. “I take it you’ve met Lady Darcy over there then. I meant to introduce the two of you, but well...” She pointed with her thumb at their District’s escort.

Will put his hands in his pockets, kicking a small pebble on the cobblestone with the toe of his shoe. “Yeah…”

“She seems to know of you. And from the looks of it, you seem to at least know of her, too.”

Will sighed. “My father’s hoping that I can somehow—I don’t know—I guess beguile my way into the Capitol. Her father somehow knows my father, and knowing Stefan Hawkes, he’s always up to something. Makes sense, I guess. Next year is the last time I’ll ever have to worry about possibly being reaped, and after that, I’ll have to actually start planning for the future. Thought my father would’ve wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become mayor like him, but obviously, he always needs me to do more than I think I do.”

Lauren’s brows furrowed. “And how does your mother feel about this?”

Will shrugged. “She hasn’t really said much about it. Guess she’s just letting my father take full control over me. I mean, after Rafael disappeared, she hasn’t exactly been too trusting of her own judgment since then.”

Lauren remembered that day, almost two years ago, when William had come running to her home, tears streaming down his face, as he tried to tell her through sobs and hiccups of his older brother’s disappearance. The only thing left behind that even told them of Rafael possibly being alive was a handwritten note left on Will’s bed that morning. Needless to say, his parents hadn’t taken their oldest son’s sudden leave so well.

“Hm, so yeah…” Will let out a deep breath as he continued. “There’s that going for me right now. I'm to show Lady Darcy around for a bit before she heads back to the Capitol in the afternoon.”

Lauren reached up and gently placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder, having to tiptoe just a bit to do so. When did he get so tall? When did we all grow up so fast? she wondered. “Hey, make sure you keep living for yourself, too, Will,” she told him through a warm yet sad smile. “Remember that it’s your life, not theirs.”

Will patted the hand on his shoulder with his fingers, Lauren’s sad smile mirrored on his face. “It’s easier said than done, but thank you, Lauren. I’ll try.”

Lauren looked towards the patio again, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “And hey, if it doesn’t work out with Lady Darcy over there, you at least have a backup plan with Lady A.”

Will nearly choked on his spit. “I—wha—Lauren!”

“Shall I start planning the wedding preparations? Know that you have my absolute blessing,” she joked through her laughter as she started to dash away from him, tongue sticking out at him. She could’ve sworn she could see Will’s soul leave his body. He dashed towards her and she evaded him, the two of them looking like two children playing a game of tag. 

No matter how old they got, no matter the amount of tragedies they had already faced, Lauren knew that she and Will would forever be children at heart, taking comfort in one another always. She could only wonder, however, how much longer that that would last.

When Kieran exited the confessional, he was met again with the hustle and bustle of the busy marketplace. Even on a holiday, the place was full of people and crowds as if they had nowhere else to be in a few short hours. Attending the reaping if you were of age was mandatory unless you were on death’s door; Peacekeepers would make sure you were there to attend even if it meant using force. But while attendance was only required for the younger generation, most parents and older adults still joined the viewing of the name choosing, silent prayers on their lips as they hoped that their child, brother, sister, loved one wouldn’t be taken from them that year.

Strolling towards the exit of the building, Kieran allowed himself to wander between the different stalls for a bit. Today, after all, could be the last day in his life that he would be able to do so, and he intended to at least squeeze out whatever amount of freedom he had left in doing something he enjoyed.

Passing by a small stand with tin buckets and vases full of colorful plants and flowers stacked upon each other on a pyramid-like display table, he stopped at one of the planters, literally smelling the roses in one of the vases.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” a man called from behind a wooden table wedged in between the numerous displays and shelves. “We’ve got more behind me if you need any.” The shopkeeper motioned behind himself at the arrangements of the different colored roses—white, red, yellow, pink—placed beautifully in glass vases.

“Oh, no thank you,” Kieran responded, eyes scanning around the chromatic stall. “Just looking. I wouldn’t have much space to put these in my apartment anyways.”

The shopkeeper's eyebrows shot up his head. “Your apartment? Gees, kid, how old could you possibly be to have your own place already?” the man asked in bewilderment. He scratched at his beard, staring at Kieran in curiosity.

Kieran laughed softly. “Just turned eighteen this past winter, sir.”

“Eighteen, huh? Today’s ‘bout to be your final reaping day then. Pretty lucky you’ve made it this far.”

Lucky, spat Kieran mentally. Not quite the word I’d use for myself.

Kieran shrugged. “I could say the same for you. I’m sure you must’ve grown up with the Games also. Seemed like you managed to keep yourself from becoming a piece of dead arena meat, too.” Kieran tilted his head as he considered the man before him. He wasn’t necessarily young, but not that old either, crow’s feet and facial lines barely just appearing on the gentleman’s face. The scruffy beard that covered the man's face did make him look more mature, but there was a youthfulness to the way the man presented himself, as well. The Scythe Games were only two decades old, but the man before him could have easily been young enough to be eligible to be in at least a Game or two.

The older man’s hand reached up to fix his tousled brown hair as he noticed Kieran’s gaze. “Yeah, guess so. But that was before they started having you kids add your names again and again, consecutively, for every new year to the bowls. In my day, you only had your name dropped in once and that was it. One entry for all seven years. Wasn't until just a few years ago that you had to start adding your name for every new year on top of the entry you already put in last year. Kinda crazy how it is now. At eighteen, you’ve got what? At least seven entries instead of just the one? Then they come up with the tesserae where you’re forced to put your name in another time for each time you sign up to get food from that, too!”

The ticket…

Kieran could remember the days back growing up in the 6th District when he was just a thin, lanky boy desperate for food. His already chiseled face looking all the more hollow, body more bone than skin. For people like him, there was the tesserae to keep them alive. What could be considered a Godsent, though, was also a double-edged sword. By signing up for a tessera, you were given a whole year’s worth of grain and oil, each set good for only one person. For someone like Kieran who had nobody else, one was all he needed. The catch? It meant another entry for the Games in addition to the already existing entries and upcoming future entries. While someone who had no need for the tesserae would only ever have seven entries their whole life, Kieran himself now had at least thirteen. Even with the relocation to a new District, the entries were still transferred to the 11th District’s reaping as it would anywhere else. There was no escaping that.

“You have any kids in the reaping this year?” Kieran asked not wanting to think of his past.

The shopkeeper tensed, clearly bothered by the question. He crossed his arms in front of him, eyes darting towards the ground, dirt from his hands staining his already soiled overalls. He cleared his throat. “Nah. Not anymore anyways. Odds weren’t exactly in our favor last year, and I lost him in the Games.”

Oh. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kieran said, guilt flooding him for bringing up an obviously terrible memory in a stranger he just met.

“Yeah… He was a good kid. Just fifteen when he went. Wanted to be a doctor when he grew up, but obviously that’s not happening anymore. He was pretty good with flowers like me though. I think those hyacinths over there”—he nodded at a pot of white flowers on a corner table—“were his favorite, too. Planted them all around his grave when they brought the body back.”

“Hyacinths? Like the royal family’s emblem?” Kieran wondered.

“Well, the monarchy’s flowers are purple hyacinths. The white ones he liked more for their meaning: sincerity. Fitting for a kid like him. He was always honest and genuine with everything. Purple hyacinths, on the other hand though, mean—”

“Sorrow and forgiveness,” interrupted Kieran who gave the man a sad, apologetic smile. A somewhat ironic flower for a wretched family, he thought. “Your son sounds like he was a great person.” He gestured with his thumb to the purple flowers in the pots. “I think I’ll take a couple of those then. Consider it my way of apologizing for bringing up some bad memories.”

The shopkeeper smiled softly in sheepish gratitude. “Don't worry about that, kid. It's not your fault,” he said as he walked around the table towards the pot of purple flowers.

Kieran placed a gold coin onto the table, murmuring a soft thank you as the man handed him the bouquet wrapped in newspaper. “I appreciate the talk, Mister…?” he raised a brow, realizing he never caught the florist’s name.

“Rosenthal,” the older man responded.

"Kieran," the younger one introduced himself.

“Pleasure to do business with you, Kieran. And hey, good luck in the reaping today. What is it that those Capitol people say again? ‘May the odds be ever in your favor’? Well, I hope yours are better than mine were.”

Kieran attempted a friendly smile that he knew probably came off as a cringe before walking off. He knew the man meant well, but Kieran didn’t care for the so-called odds nor did he really believe in luck or fate. Kieran believed in taking charge of one’s own destiny, and he intended to do just that later today.

Chapter Text

As the sun reached its peak when noon rolled around, the heat wave over taking the town became all the more unbearable, as if the tensions in the temperature were an external representation of the residents’ own internal tensions as the time for the reaping drew closer. Families who had signed in early to the town square were clustered together despite the heat, the desperate looks on all the present members' faces visible in the bright sunlight, murmurs of hopeless comfort being whispered in soothing tones.

Despite the 11th District’s close ties to the Capitol, and the wealth and luxuries the District possessed, the reaping was a brutal reminder that they were no different from the other Districts of the country, a reminder that they were not as special as they liked to pretend to be, that they were no exception.

Lauren’s eyes scanned about the square, hands shaking in anticipation by her sides, perspiration beginning to form on her neck. She took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm her nerves, as the familiar feeling of dread that she had felt earlier that morning washed over her again.

You'll be fine, she told herself. Five entries is better than seven. You'll be fine!

But then again, Dylan only had four entries last year, and yet it had landed him in the Games in the end. Or, at least, Lauren thought he only had four. Did he ever need to apply for a tessera? she wondered. As far as she could recall, there had only been Dylan and his father living in Greychapel. Quickly remembering the living standards in that part of the District, it wouldn’t have surprised Lauren if he did indeed apply for the extra food rations. How many times did he need to put his name in the reaping just to stay alive? Lauren scowled at the irony of it all.

Will was now awkwardly making acquaintance with Lady Darcy, the girl also being as equally awkward yet courteously charming. The pair walked leisurely about the square which was now adorned with the large banners and insignias of the Capitol—the face of a gold stag with a royal crown floating directly above it, a pair of purple hyacinths flanking the animal. The concrete structure of the Justice Building now hung long, purple vertical banners on its pillars by the entrance, the Capitol symbol placed above the door. Two large television screens displaying the exact same symbol against an amethyst background stood on the front corners of the stage.

Lauren hovered under the shadows of the building, watching as a troop of Peacekeepers—dressed in their armored uniforms that completely covered and clung to their entire body, their batons in hand, their helmets adorned on their heads, the helmet’s tinted windows obscuring their faces—marched through the crowds of people. The guards dispersed into their positions in precise neat and even formations, their bodies flanking the borders of the square and the edges of the Justice Building's stage, some climbing up the steps to the guard towers to the sides. Regardless of the indecipherable faces, Lauren could make out her uncle at the rear of the group, his posture tall, head held high, hands behind his back, looking like the paragon of authority as a Head Peacekeeper should be.

She gave him a small wave which he reciprocated with a small salute in her direction, his presence somehow lifting a fraction of her anxieties.

Lauren let out an exhale. Yeah, she would be fine.

When the bell tower of the town square chimed that the time was now 12:15 P.M., Kieran had been sitting at his drawing table in his spare room, going down his list of preparations. The light from the window facing him shone on the wooden surface and illuminated the small room which was now empty save for the table and chair Kieran was currently occupying, the apartment now devoid of any sign of its owner’s inhabitant. All of Kieran’s belongings were now packed in a small stack of boxes—books, clothes, and the likes—leaving the apartment barren almost as if it were vacant and tenantless, which, in truth, it was about to be. He didn't know where his belongings would be taken, but it no longer mattered to him. He wouldn't be around to find out where they would go.

Gazing at the purple hyacinths he had placed in a vase outside on the windowsill, Kieran repeatedly tapped the pen in his hand to his chin, his thoughts trailing back to his encounter with the Messenger earlier that afternoon.

“You're our next chance at moving forward with the plan. Don't fail us now,” Kieran had been told. "We've sacrificed and lost too many people, and we can't afford another set back. Do you understand?”

“So basically, I'm your last hope. Aww, I'm quite flattered actually,” Kieran had smugly responded, arms crossed, his body leaning back on the dark wooden wall of the confessional. “Though, you know, risking my life for your cause wasn't exactly what I thought I'd be signing up for when I accepted your offer to move to the Eleventh. Don't get me wrong. I love having an actual home and money and all—seriously, your pay isn't half bad—but I was sort of under the impression that my mission was more like: play archivist, spy on the mayor, give reports, et cetera. Didn't think I'd be needing to send myself to certain death on top of all that.”

“You will do what you are asked to do, White,” the Messenger responded without a hint of emotion in its voice. “Your skills will prove to be beneficial in the arena to ensure this plan does not fail again. This is not an option, you will participate in the Games.”

Kieran clicked his tongue then. “Hm, sending in children to participate in your ruthless games... Not too far from what the Capitol is doing, now is it? Though, at least, they’re transparent about why they do it. What’s supposed to be our reasoning again? Freedom, was it?”

The Messenger had given no reaction, almost as if it hadn’t heard Kieran speak at all. Instead it responded: “Make sure you’re prepared for the reaping today. There will be no going back. You will find something useful to your mission under your seat. Burn upon examining.” Without another word, the hooded figure disappeared through its respective exit, leaving no trace of its presence in its wake.

Now, leaning back in his chair, Kieran’s mind raced back to the image of the map, its geography clear as day in his memory. He wondered what adversaries the Gamemakers would create in the arena this year, wondered what clever tricks they would have up their sleeve to make sure all participants suffered for the sake of the Capitol’s entertainment. Would it be floods and tsunamis, or monstrous muttations genetically created just to torture its victims, or some other unknown force that they’ve yet to be introduced to?

Of course, Kieran had known for months what he was meant to do, what he was expected to sacrifice. But regardless of his prior knowledge, there was still a part of him that felt uneasy at the thought; the thought that he—like many before him—was just another sacrifice in an endless cold war against the Capitol; a war created for the sake of their cause.

For the rebellion’s cause.

He would fight to survive, of course. He had always been a survivor.

Kieran’s mind continued to wander back into the past, the image of his younger self shivering in the cold forests at the outskirts of the 6th District. A forbidden place for no one was and is allowed beyond the borders of their District, but an area he had frequented growing up for the sake of finding food and other necessities. He recalled the day the Peacekeepers found him by the electric fence of the District, a sword in one hand, a bloodied hare in the other. Quite damning evidence.

Imprisoned immediately, he was taken to the 6th District’s Justice Building, hands bound to the whipping post at the center of the town square, his captors flogging the then seventeen year old like there was no tomorrow. Not only had he trespassed onto the outer regions of the land, he had been in possession of a weapon—illegal to all but Peacekeepers—with forbidden game in hand; the punishment came as no surprise to anyone, not to passerby who watched in sympathy, and not even to Kieran himself. What did come as a surprise was the stranger that approached him soon after when his punishers were satisfied with their work, the stranger’s hand outstretched to the bleeding and wounded boy.

They had taken him in after helping him remove his binds, had helped clean and dress his wounds, and even offered the boy a warm meal in addition to new, clean clothes. “I have a proposition for you,” they had said to him during their meal.  “You can have these luxuries, have a home, and escape your life here if you help us with something essential.”

Kieran had looked at the stranger from across the table, confusion etched on his face. “I don’t understand... Why me?” he had asked.

“Why not you?” his savior had replied. “Truth be told, we’ve had our eye on you for quite some time, Kieran. Your skills with the blade are… impressive, to say the least, and you clearly know how to hunt and kill. We also know of your many excursions out in the forests—of how you managed to find the weak wires in the electric fence to slip through, and of how you've been able to find your own meals while the rest of the District dies in the cold from starvation. You’re a survivor. And those brains and muscles of yours will surely come in quite handy to us. So, if you decide to help us out, we’ll help you.”

Kieran had pondered at the stranger's offer, the promise of an easier life immensely tempting, his desperation to survive overtaking his senses. He would be given everything he couldn't obtain on his own, he realized, be handed all of it practically on a silver platter. And all for what? Just to do their dirty work for them? It had seemed simple enough back then when he was still young and naïve and any offer to be removed from the 6th District had been enough for him, everything else were just additional benefits. In the end, it hadn't taken much more thinking or time for Kieran to consider his final decision. Kieran had agreed to the proposal and its terms and that was that. From that point on, he was then tied and bound to the rebellion. Not out of belief for their cause—not fully, anyways—but out of obligation and gratitude—a debt owed.

But now here he was, becoming another pawn on the chess board, a puppet with someone else pulling at his strings, becoming a piece in a game where others with the same mission like him had died before. He knew he couldn’t say no, couldn’t just run away from his task—even if he tried, there was no doubt someone else from the rebellion would come find him, or worse, someone from the Capitol (he would be missing on reaping day, after all). So, weeks after coming to terms with what he had to do, Kieran made the decision to face his destiny head on. He would fight in the Games and survive no matter the cost.

Another set of chimes from the bell tower broke Kieran out of his trance from memory lane. He looked down towards his wristwatch, the time telling him it was now half past twelve, that it was now time to walk out of his apartment—his home for the past year—for the last time.

It was time for the reaping.

At five minutes til one o’clock, before the feed would go live, Mayor Stefan Hawkes stepped up to the podium of the stage to deliver his annual speech to the 11th District and to all of the Ardhalis Union. Behind him were seats currently occupied by his wife Josephine Hawkes, his son William Hawkes, their guests from the Capitol—Lady Arthingham and Lady Neyra Elena Darcy—and finally, the 11th District’s only living Victor, Oliver March. By the edge of the stage on either side of the main podium sat two tables, one large ball-shaped glass bowl placed on top of each surface, the names of each child of the District filling their contents, one glass for the males, the other for the females.

Those who were eligible for the reaping were required to sign in prior to entering the town square—fingers pricked, blood drawn and scanned to ensure the identity of the person—before being herded into groups not unlike cattle. Girls on one side of the square, boys on the other. Lauren, being sixteen, had been herded towards the center of her group, while the younger remained towards the back, and the older towards the front. Family members and other townsfolk who were no longer of age to be reaped stood along the sidelines, viewing the events as they unfolded.

Lauren easily caught from the corner of her eye the familiar face of Dylan’s father by the front of one of the surrounding buildings. Mr. Rosenthal. Lauren’s heart lurched at the memory once again of last year’s reaping: at Mr. Rosenthal losing his only child to the reaping, his anguished sob when Dylan’s name had been called, at the man having to witness his son die in the Games.

Lauren’s heart began to beat rapidly, hands again shaking at her side, sweat trickling down her back. You’ll be fine, she repeated to herself once again. You’ll be fine.

Due to the 11th District’s proximity to the Capitol and due to its close bond with the royals, Lauren’s District had the honors of being the first to have their reaping broadcast to the country, the 13th District, 12th District, and all others following after them. Stefan Hawkes’s speeches were always the same, but this year, Lauren found herself listening more attentively than usual for some reason despite practically knowing the speech by heart. She and Dylan used to recite them almost word-for-word at each reaping, giving each other looks from across the crowd, laughing quietly at each other’s shenanigans.

Oh, how she missed him.

Mayor Hawkes began with the usual description of how the Ardhalis Union came to be, starting with the wars and natural disasters that forced the Earth to be what it was now, a remnant of the past’s wrongdoings and disasters. He spoke of how the coastal areas and countries of what was once known as Europe had been engulfed by the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, causing the already small continent to become even smaller, rare resources to become rarer, food to become scarcer; How the Ardhalis Union was the saving grace of the torn world when they established their monarchy and control over the divided people, and created the thirteen districts to organize the different resources and materials in their land; How the people from the Districts rebelled against the monarchy and a war had ensued over twenty years ago—those days now known as the Dark Days; How the Dark Days ended when the 1st District was completely demolished by the rebels after they had caused the bombing at the District’s train station, causing the death of all its residents along with the death of the previous king, King Edward; How the Capitol had pulled themselves up and ceased all the fighting through extreme force and violence; How the Scythe Games were created during the Treaty of Treason to remind the remaining 12 Districts of the Capitol’s brute force and power, and of the rebellion’s failures—the name of the Games an obvious reference to the expression: “You reap what you sow.” In other words, through your own faults and mistakes, these will be your consequences, your punishment.

And that was where Lauren was now: in a time where she, along with the past and future generations, would be forced to pay the price for someone else’s mistakes. Being forced to celebrate a game like a sporting event, a game that scarecely anyone wanted to partake in.

“It is a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” concluded the mayor. He motioned then for Oliver March to stand, the former Victor a shell of what he once was. Lauren had known Oliver March for all her life, her family being well-acquainted with the gentleman. Lauren knew for a fact that he was much younger than he appeared to be. But with the scraggly face, unkempt brown hair he wore underneath a cap, and the sullen eyes, March seemed to have aged thirty years instead of twenty since his Games.

When March stood from his seat and solemnly waved to the crowd, Lauren couldn’t help but feel the emptiness surrounding him, the missing presence of his wife and daughter always evident when he was seen alone. His wife, Annabelle Leigh March, had been a former winner of the Games—not long after Oliver had won at the first ever Scythe Games—winning during the fourth year. March had been her mentor for her Game, and the two had fallen in love. Not long after their marriage, Rosie had been born. Lauren could recall the days when she and her parents would spend days with the March family, Lauren playing with Rosie when the two were children, back to Lauren’s happier times as a child with her family and loved ones. But like all good things, even those came to an end. Rosie, at the young age of six, had succumbed to an illness not even Capitol technology and medicine could fix, and Annabelle, one night, was suddenly taken from the Marches’ own home not long after.

Not unlike my own parents, thought Lauren, the memory of the night her parents were taken by the Peacekeepers creeping into her mind. She shook the thought away, focusing her eyes and concentrating on the stage before her.

Soon after Oliver March’s quick introduction, Lady Arthingham trotted to the podium replacing the mayor at the microphone, the screens on either side of her mirroring her image and movements. It was now the beginning of the reaping's live broadcast to the whole country.

“Happy Scythe Games, everyone! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Lady Arthingham cheered to which she received the typical unenthusiastic applause. “What an honor it is to be here for yet another wonderful year of the Games! We at the Capitol are always in awe at your sacrifice and bravery, and look forward to what the Eleventh District will bring to the Games this year.”

Lauren’s stomach churned at her words, bile rising up her throat. Sacrifice and bravery? As if we have the choice! she wanted to shout, but the words remained inside her, and she continued to watch in agony as the Capitol woman continued to speak.

“Well, now, let’s not waste any more time. Ladies first!” Lady Arthingham moved towards the glass bowl on her left, the click of her heels echoing in the now silent square, the unnatural quietness and stillness in the crowd deafening. The anticipation heavy, breaths held all around, hearts clamoring in every chest, Lauren could feel her anxiety bursting at the seams.

Lady Arthingham made a show of swirling her hand inside the bowls, digging deep inside through all the stock cards before her hand pulled away, a name in the grasp of her fingers. She trotted back to the microphone, the card in front of her face, her fingers peeling at the closed card’s opening.

She cleared her throat. “Lauren Sinclair!” she called.

Lauren’s heart dropped to her stomach, skin going cold despite the beating heat. What? There was no way. She must’ve misheard.

The girls around her looked in her direction expectantly, knowing exactly to whom the name belonged to. Lauren refused to meet their gaze, her eyes instead shifting to the members on the stage, her eyes meeting Will’s as he looked out at her in a wide-eyed, shocked expression that mirrored her own, mouth hanging wide open. In her peripheral vision, she could see Josephine Hawkes’s hand splayed at her chest, while Stefan Hawkes remained seated in his chair unemotionally. Well, perhaps not entirely unemotionally. Lauren could make out a slight smirk on his lips, concealed only by his blonde facial hair.

What was going on?

“Lauren Sinclair!” Lady Arthingham bellowed again.

Lauren blinked at the sound of her name being called again, her body seemingly beginning to move on its own, her legs forcing her to move past the other girls whose faces both showed sympathy and relief all at the same time. A Peacekeeper escorted her to the stage, her eyes wandering over to where her uncle was positioned.

Help me! she wanted to yell at him, her face contorted into a wordless plea. You promised to protect me! But, instead, she kept her mouth closed, staying silent and obedient.

Upon Lauren’s final step onto the stage, Lady Arthingham turned her head towards Lauren’s direction, a gleeful and excited look on the Capitol woman’s face at recognizing the young woman now beside her. What Lauren wouldn’t give to smack that expression off her.

“Do we have any volunteers who would like to take her place as Tribute?” Lady Arthingham asked, turning to the group of girls. When no one made a sound or any sort of motion—for why would they volunteer anyways?—she clapped her hands enthusiastically. “No? Well, how wonderful then!” the escort exclaimed. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm round of applause to the Eleventh District’s very own female Tribute for the twentieth Scythe Games!”

A respectful applause resounded amongst the crowd, light and slow. Lauren’s eyes began to prickle with moisture, mouth quivering, her body shaking, but she forced herself to remain stoic and still lest she show her fear and emotion on camera to the rest of the country, to the other Districts who were watching her reactions. She wasn’t going to allow herself to look weak in front of those who would later try to kill her in the Games.

The Capitol escort cleared her throat yet again. “Now, onto the boys!” She walked off towards the other side of the stage to the remaining glass of names. Making the same show as earlier, she swirled her hand into the bowl slowly for a moment, pulling out another card with another name.

Opening it with a similar gesture as the girls’ names, she pried open the card. “Lukas Randall!” Lady Arthingham called.

There was a sigh of relief amongst the boys’ area, save for a massive cloud of dark aura that suddenly appeared at the front of the group, radiating from the person Lauren could only assume was Lukas Randall himself, his displeasure at having his name called evident. As the boy that would be her District partner was escorted to the stage in a similar fashion as Lauren was, Lady Arthingham leaned against the microphone asking once more for volunteers, this time to take Lukas's place.

Lauren was quick to dismiss the question, knowing full well that the residents of the 11th District were either too comfortable with their lives to want to partake in the Games or too scared to even think about it, but she was soon to be proven wrong.

A tall figure dressed in all black, his hair matching the same shade as his dress shirt and trousers, came forward from the front of the male group, his hand raised. The only color that popped from the dark colors he adorned were the bright shades of aqua and cerulean in his eyes, hidden behind loose strands of his dark hair.

“I volunteer!” the man yelled out before he began snaking around the other members of his group and approached the stage, the group of Peacekeepers by the front opening up a small path for him. There was a gasp amongst the crowd at his declaration.

The man walked closer to the edge of the stage. “I volunteer,” he repeated. “I volunteer as Tribute!”

Lauren knew she should recognize the owner of the voice, should recognize the face of the person below her. Her brows knitted together as she tried to recall to whom they belonged to. The dark hair. The bright eyes. She frowned as the realization soon hit her, her stomach tightening at the impact. She unfortunately knew—or was acquainted with—this man. She’d come across him from time to time during her visits to the Justice Building with her uncle or Will, or at the library after school. Had been one to take less than a liking towards him from the moment they had met.

She peered down at him from where she stood on the stage, her eyes meeting his for a hint of a moment, his lips spreading into a smirk as blue met gold. He seemed so different without the usual glasses framing his sharp face, or his dark hair parted in the center and tied in a neat low ponytail, or his body dressed in the beige and white uniform of his job.

Kieran White. The District's archivist, Lauren sneered, her eyes narrowing into a glare, a nerve in her head pulsing at the sight of him. God, just kill me now.

Chapter Text

To say Lauren Sinclair was not fond of Kieran White would be an understatement. Their acquaintanceship had always been tumultuous and less than amicable from the moment they met—she thought him arrogant and full of himself, he thought her overtly temperamental and stubborn. Though having only interacted a handful of times, the impressions of which each left the other had only worsened with every encounter.

Kieran wondered what Lauren was now thinking at his sudden presence as he allowed his eyes to meet hers for a moment. Would she be aggravated at the thought that she was now stuck with him while they were both about to be sent off to the Capitol, possibly living in the same quarters for a few days before being forced to fight to the death? Or would she be thrilled at the thought of getting the chance to finally get rid of him—in the arena—as she had always threatened to do? From the glare in her eyes, he was confident she had yet to realize the latter option.

Probably for the best she doesn’t realize it. Wouldn’t want another foot to the face, he thought, grimacing at an almost distant memory, the echo of a boot to his cheek almost palpable.

“Oh, how exciting!” cried out Lady Arthingham, her joy evident at the sudden turn of events. “It's been a while since the Eleventh District has had a volunteer. Come up dear and tell us your name.” She motioned for Kieran to take Lukas's place on the stage, the latter sighing a breath of relief at being released. Lukas Randall walked off the opposite side of the stage as Kieran approached Lukas's previously occupied spot next to Lauren on her left.

“My name is Kieran White,” Kieran spoke, leaning forward into the microphone, not a hint of fear or anxiety in his voice. He winked at the cameras at the front of the stage, giving the audience a wide grin, the screens only helping to amplify his charming demeanor. Lauren could only roll her eyes as she crossed her arms over her chest.

The Capitol escort’s voice cheerfully rang through the town square: “Lauren Sinclair and Kieran White! There you have it, ladies and gentlemen! The two Tributes of the Eleventh District!” Lady Arthingham stepped back from the microphone, waving her hands at Lauren and Kieran as she gestured for the two Tributes to move closer and face one another. “Go on you two, shake hands.”

Lauren tensed, her hesitance visible to Kieran. He was the first to extend out his hand towards her, his grin still plastered on his face. She took his right hand in her own reluctantly, though she shook it graciously nonetheless, her grip firm, her palm slightly cold against his touch. Lauren at least had the decency enough to attempt a courteous smile in his direction, but her eyes betrayed her true thoughts and feelings.

What the hell do you think you're doing? gold eyes seemed to scream, her grip on his hand tightening, nails digging into his skin.

Kieran winced through his smile, his hand throbbing at the sudden lack of blood flow, his skin turning a faint white. Careful now, darling. There are people watching.

Yes, how fortunate for you, her forced smile seemed to say. Kieran chuckled at that, knowing full well that if it weren't for their audience and the cameras, she would already have a knife pressed against his throat by now—where she would even get the knife from, he didn't know.

He released her hand, shaking his own lightly mid-air to let the blood flow through to his fingers again. The two took a step backwards as Stefan Hawkes came between them, the mayor stepping up to the podium once more as he prepared to give the mandatory Treaty of Treason reading.

Kieran, barely paying attention to the words being spoken out loud to the crowd, discreetly turned his head towards Lauren’s direction, the Sinclair girl now evidently trying to even forget his existence next to her. Her body had now shifted to face the mayor, her mind and thoughts undoubtedly elsewhere if her eyes were anything to go by. His own eyes darted back and forth between the mayor and the young woman who was now his District partner, questions filling his own thoughts.

During his residence at the 11th District for the last 12 months, he had come across various information regarding the Hawkes family in addition to the Sinclair family. He knew they were well-acquainted, as to be expected, with one family holding the mayor and the other the Head Peacekeeper. But he also knew that their relationship was not as civil and cordial as they appeared to be on the surface—he’d been within hearing distance on more than one occasion during some heated debates between Stefan Hawkes and Tristan Sinclair. As far as Kieran had learned from months of eavesdropping and snooping, Mayor Hawkes seemed to hold some disdain towards the other family, the reason apparently due to some political differences. The Hawkes family, after all, were quite loyal to the government and the monarchy, one of the reasons the 11th District held such strong ties with the Capitol. The Sinclairs, on the other hand, had other opinions, opinions that seemed to clash with that of the mayor’s, opinions that without a doubt have been the cause for some of the misfortunes that have befallen upon the Sinclairs. With his eyes on Lauren Sinclair, Kieran wondered how much either she or young William Hawkes knew of their respective family’s conflicts, and wondered how they'd been allowed to maintain their friendship for this long.

When Stefan Hawkes concluded his reading of the Treaty, and the fanfare of the Ardhalis Union anthem began to play—thus marking the end of the 11th District’s broadcast—a group of Peacekeepers approached the duo of Tributes, leading them through the entrance of the Justice Building. They were escorted through the foyer, around a corner, and straight towards the end of one hallway where a pair of doors sat parallel across from each other. Lauren was led inside one door with Kieran into the other, the doors shut behind each of them.

The lack of sunlight despite the summer day was the first thing Kieran noticed upon entering his room. Within the small den hung large velvet curtains—curtains that wouldn't be there on any other day—that blocked out any natural light from the windows, the only source of light coming from the ceiling light above. Velveteen seats and sofas sat against one wall, the fabric soft to the touch underneath Kieran’s fingertips. Around the other walls of the room were a few small shelves and other surfaces.

The next hour before the Tributes would be delivered to the train station was traditionally meant to be a time for saying farewells or well-meaning wishes to the Tributes, a time for families and friends to come to terms with the possible upcoming loss of their loved one. For Kieran who had no one left in his life, he expected the shut door to remain so for the remaining one hour.

Sighing, Kieran grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer of a corner table along with a newly sharpened pencil, the two items he had made sure to stash within both rooms the day before in preparation for his one hour of waiting around. Lauren Sinclair would undoubtedly have a visitor or two to say their farewells to her, while Kieran would not. Leaning against the plush sofa with his ankles crossed along the seats, the pencil in his right hand, paper laid against a tome he grabbed from a shelf, his hand began moving the graphite against paper—an image blossoming from his motions.

Circles and curved lines began to consume the surface of the paper, details and edges forming around the shapes, the structures of a familiar face blooming on the page. Where golden orbs and scarlet hair would be instead were circles and lines in shades of grey and black—brows furrowed in consternation, pupils constricted, lips curved in a forced smile, her hand gripped tightly around another. But even with the lack of chromatic pigment, the subject of the picture was still apparent. She wasn’t a sight easily forgotten, after all.

“Hey, Kieran. Why are you always drawing?” a voice from a faint memory of another time long ago had asked, the voice clear and resonant in his mind.

“Hm…” he’d ponder, turning the question over in his head, an answer forming on his tongue. “Well, have you ever felt that tinge of warmth when you see those subtle moments in life that remind you humanity can be beautiful?” His bright blue eyes would gaze out into the empty space, a warm smile spreading across his lips. “I draw them so I can keep it. This sense of humanity… I don’t ever want to lose it.”

His humanity... 

If he expected to make it out of the arena alive, it was inevitable he would have to fight tooth and nail to survive, even if it meant another one’s life being cut short with his own bare hands. He’d known that was bound to happen from the beginning, knew there would be no other choice, but still he had to ask: Would he be able to keep his own humanity then, even with the deaths of 23 others surrounding him, their blood on his hands? Or would the Capitol inevitably remove even that part of him and finally turn him into a monster?

No, he scolded himself, his vision going dark at the notion. His hand gripped at the pencil, his chest tightening, a feeling of suffocation overwhelming him.  I—I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it happen!

But that would be easier said than done. Kieran knew it would be naïve of him to think he had that much power—power to take full control over his fate, over his life, as if he ever had such a privilege to start with. He had already signed away all of that to the rebellion, had allowed them to own him virtually body and mind; he knew it would be foolish to think the Capitol wouldn’t attempt to seize his soul next, and after that, whatever pieces left of him they could scavenge for the sake of control. No, that would be inescapable—and yet something inside him told him it was still worth a try.

A knock sounded from the opposite side of the door, the sound bringing Kieran out of his thoughts. He looked up from the page, his drawing hand now completely still. Without waiting for an invitation, the door opened, and a man in all white appeared at the doorway, his Peacekeeper helmet now stationed in the crook of his elbow, small round glasses placed on the bridge of his nose shielding a pair of brown eyes. 

Kieran’s brows shot up, surprised at his guest’s sudden appearance.

“Commander Sinclair,” Kieran greeted, his feet meeting the floor, body straightening up. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Lauren had been in this room before. When Dylan Rosenthal had been reaped for the Games last year, she had given him a tearful good-bye—the last she would ever be able to give him—with cries of promises that she would never forget him falling from her lips. She’d hugged him and held onto him with all the desperation she could muster, like she could force him to stay and never leave with just her weight alone. It had taken both William and her uncle to pry her arms off the young boy, to keep her from running off and following him.

“I’ll be fine, Ren,” Dylan had said before he was escorted out of the room, the train to the Capitol awaiting him at the station. “I promise, I’ll be fine.” He had said it with such conviction that she had almost believed him then. But of course, it had all ended up as a lie.

Now here she was, in the same exact room, facing the same exact fate as her friend.

The familiar feeling of her anxieties overtaking every inch of her body had now returned, and she could feel her heart pounding against her chest like it was trying to break free from her. She paced around whatever open space was available to her within the small room, hands behind her back, thoughts going at a hundred miles a second.

She was now a Tribute. Her name had been pulled out from the glass bowls during the reaping in front of the entire country. Kieran White had volunteered to be the male Tribute and was now her District partner. She was stuck with him. She was going to have to fight in the Games and— Dear God, she was going to have to fight in the Games!

Lauren groaned inwardly, her hands coming up to her face, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. How did it all come to this?

When the door to her room opened not a minute after she was escorted inside, she found herself face-to-face with the Head Peacekeeper himself, helmet still situated on his head and shoulders, the dark window of the helmet obscuring his face. He closed the door behind him, his hands coming up to the side of his head as he removed the headpiece, revealing a visibly despondent look across Tristan Sinclair’s face. He breathed out a heavy sigh, his eyes refusing to meet Lauren’s.

“Uncle!” Lauren cried out upon seeing him. “Please tell me there’s a way out of this. Please—please tell me you’re going to help me escape or—or—dismiss me from the Games or—something! Please!”

Lauren Sinclair was in hysterics, her desperation having reached the point of overtaking her senses and logic. She knew there was no way out of her predicament, knew that even thinking about running away would be treason, knew she would be sent off to the Capitol in an hour to be groomed and prepped for the Games like she was partaking in some pageantry. But she also knew that there was absolutely no way she would survive within the arena, much less win. She knew she was going to die. But she’d be damned if she was going to willingly accept her fate so easily.

“Please...” she begged again, softer this time, her voice cracking at the word. She fell upon her uncle’s chest—her fists balled between them, forehead pressed against his white armor—silently pleading as she had earlier for him to help her.

Tristan’s hand came up to gently pat against her head, careful not to disrupt the chignon at the nape of her neck, his other arm coming up to wrap around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Ren...” were the only words he spoke, and yet they held so much meaning, unspoken words clear in between the lines.

I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do.

Lauren’s heart lurched, her eyes widened. She turned her head upwards to face her uncle, his head tilted downwards to the side, his gaze still avoiding hers. She removed herself from his hold, her body shaking and going weak as she took a step back, and another, before her legs hit the sofa against the wall.

She really would have to fight in the Games.

Tears began to form in Lauren’s eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall, the truth finally settling in and hitting her hard. She resigned to the seat behind her, her head held in her quivering hands.

“Lauren, listen to me,” her uncle spoke as he slowly knelt down beside her.  “You have to fight. You have to try. You know how to shoot, and you know how to fight with your bare hands. You can still have a chance.”

Lauren scoffed. 

Sure, she knew how to shoot a gun—her uncle had made sure she learned how to defend herself regardless of its legalities (perks of being the Head Peacekeeper’s niece, she supposed)—but automatic firearms were banned from the Games. Apparently, they made killing other Tributes too easy, and the Capitol viewers found it less fun to watch when Tributes were slaughtered too quickly. And sure, Lauren knew how to fight, but self-defense against an unarmed combatant was one thing; fighting against someone with a sword or spear in hand while she only had her bare hands was something entirely different.

“No, I don’t have a chance,” she retorted. “I could fight, maybe wait it out until there are only the last few Tributes left, but then what? I’ll most likely get killed off then, or worse, I’ll actually be forced to murder someone just for the sake of winning. I… I can’t do that… I can’t. I can’t come home knowing I’d have so much blood on my hands.”

“Lauren, listen, please,” Tristan pleaded. “You have to live. I’ve already lost Rachel and Alexander.” He placed a hand on her cheek, cupping it at her jawline. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Mother and Father... Lauren lowered her hands to either side of her, shoulders hunched up, her eyes on the floor. She turned her face away from his hand. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she murmured, saying nothing more.

They sat in silence for a few short moments, neither one knowing what to say. Tristan got up from his position by Lauren’s side and settled himself onto the seat next to her, his helmet left on the floor. He took a deep breath, contemplating his words. 

“That night when your parents were taken,” he began to say with mild reluctance. Lauren turned her attention towards him, meeting his eyes. “I made them a promise that I would keep you safe just as I did to you this morning. It’s clear now that I probably haven’t made good on that promise, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. And neither should you. You may not think you have a chance, but I believe in you, Lauren. You just have to stay strong just as you’ve stayed strong all this time.”

You will need to be strong, Little Ren, his words from three years ago rang in Lauren’s ears, the words he had spoken to her the night of her parents’ arrests. They rarely ever spoke of that night, the memory of it too strong and excruciating to want to be remembered. But for the past three years, Lauren had had to carry the burden of being in the dark, of never knowing why she was forced to lose her family, of never getting the answers to questions she had always been too afraid to ask.

But today would be the last day she’d ever be face-to-face with her uncle. Tomorrow she would wake up in the Capitol, a few days closer to her death, and if she wanted answers, it would be now or never.

Lauren swallowed, mentally preparing herself for her upcoming words. “Uncle, what happened that night? The night that the Peacekeepers took my parents… What happened to them? Why—why were they, of all people, taken? What did they do that was so bad that it warranted all this?” 

Tristan looked at her, lips pressed into a tight line. His eyes darted to the side. “I don’t know anything, Lauren.”

An obvious lie. 

He had been the one, that night, pounding on her family’s front door, yelling for all of them to wake up, the urgency in his voice wild and present. In her then groggy haze, the events that took place had almost seemed like a far-off dream in the night, a dream that had turned into a nightmare when the sun had risen the following morning.

Lauren briefly closed her eyes, the conversations that had taken place between her parents and uncle replaying behind closed lids like an old movie. The memory of three years ago now like a photo that had faded at the edges with time, the colors lacking against the dark moonless night, the spoken words muffled and barely audible as they floated from the living room and into the hall outside of Lauren’s then-bedroom.

She could hear the vague cries of her uncle as he spoke to her mother and father, the urgency in his tone clear, but the words lacking the same clarity. “They’re coming, the other Peacekeepers. Hawkes, he—” Whatever followed that statement, Lauren never heard. Instead came the strings of words like pieces of a broken syntactical puzzle, the voices indiscernible:

“How did he—”

“—need to leave now—”

“But—we—and Lauren—”

“What do we—”

“—can’t—hide—”

“—take care of her—”

“I promise.”

A crowd of footsteps soon followed—the troop of Peacekeepers, Lauren now assumed. A new voice came forward, gruff yet familiar, a stern and serious tone present in his voice.

“Say your last good-byes,” the new voice had said amongst a flurry of other indistinguishable words.

Not a moment later, the creaking sound of Lauren’s bedroom door resounded, a small tint of light bleeding into the darkness. A light hand shook her shoulder, consciousness flooding in, gold eyes meeting Lauren’s own as her eyelids fluttered open.

“Lauren, we’re going to need to make this quick,” her mother had said, pulling her up from the bed and taking her into her arms in a tight embrace, Rachel’s face buried in her daughter’s hair. “Remember that we love you. No matter what happens, we will always love you. Your father and I are going away, and… and we may never return.” There was a slight quiver in her mother’s voice as she continued to speak. “But please remember that everything we did, we did for you.”

Lauren tried to blink her groggy haze away, the words coming out of her mother’s lips barely registering. Before she could bring her arms up to return the embrace, Rachel was gone, the warmth she brought suddenly replaced with a cold chill.

“Mom?” Lauren asked, her hand reaching out to her mother who was now a shadow disappearing through her doorway. “What’s going on?”

When no response came, Lauren brought her hands to her eyes, rubbing at them, lids narrowing in the darkness as she forced her eyes to adjust. “Mom?” she called again, legs swinging over the bed. “Dad?”

She had stepped through into the hall, a stream of light pouring from the open front door, the sight before her causing her eyes to widen in fear and shock. There they were, her mother and father, with their hands bound behind their backs, a group of Peacekeepers pushing them aggressively through the doorway.

“Wait!” Lauren had yelled. “Where are you going?” She remembered then how she had tried to make a run towards them, remembered how her Uncle Tristan had stepped forward, blocking Lauren’s path to the door, remembered how he had knelt down beside her and had taken her into his arms in an embrace similar to her mother’s as he tried to comfort her.

“You will need to be strong, Little Ren,” he had said.

She had never been so lost and confused as she had been then. And three years later, she was just as lost and confused now.

When Lauren opened her eyes, she shifted her gaze once more towards her uncle still seated beside her. He hadn’t been the Head Peacekeeper then, and to be honest, she wasn’t quite sure how he managed to take the position after Stefan Hawkes had resigned from the role before being elected mayor. Their game of politics was just as dangerous as the Capitol’s Scythe Games, it seemed.

“I see…” she said in response to his lie. She wouldn’t push it; if he wasn’t going to tell her the truth now before her departure, then the likelihood that he would tell her the truth at all was probably slim to none. Besides, she was too tired to fight him—it had been as long a day as she had predicted, if not longer, and it would only get longer from here on out.

There was a light, quiet knock on the door, its sound barely audible. When the door opened upon Lauren’s permission, William Hawkes appeared at the doorway, his presence lightening the tension within the room.

“I’ll give you both some space,” Tristan offered, standing up from his seat. “I think I’ll make a quick visit to our volunteer and offer my congratulations.” With that, he gave a chaste kiss to Lauren’s forehead, picked up his helmet, and strode out the open door, shutting it behind him.

“Hey,” Lauren said quietly at Will who still stood by the doorframe, his hands awkwardly placed in his pockets.

“Hey…” Will responded as softly. His eyes scanned around the room as if he were trying to commit each piece of furniture to memory. “You know, I didn’t think I’d be back in here so soon. Had hoped I’d never have to be after… Well, you know…”

Lauren felt she had done a decent job thus far at controlling her emotions since the moment she heard her name called out during the reaping, had forced a smile on her face, and had forced the tears from rolling down. But at the sight of her oldest friend, at the implications of his words, she could sense the weak spot in her dam beginning to falter, the flood of emotions threatening to break through.

“Will…” she tried to say, her voice breaking, “I… I’m so sorry.”

Will shook his head. Taking the seat previously occupied by Tristan, he placed his arm across Lauren’s shoulders, her body now hunched over as she held her face in her hands.

“It’s not your fault, Lauren,” he said with a voice that would seem unnervingly calm to the untrained ear. But Lauren knew William Hawkes. She knew Will always hid his emotions better than she ever knew how to, had always been the most level-headed out of all of them. And she knew him well enough to know that he was hurting just as much as she was right now.

“First Rafael… Then Dylan. Now me…” Lauren struggled to say. “It’s not fair to you, Will.”

Will gave no response at that. He didn’t need to. His somber expression was enough. Neither one needed more reminders of all the people they’d lost and were going to lose. Instead, he pulled her towards him gently, her head tucked under his chin, her ear lightly pressed against his shoulder—much like he had to Dylan the year before, his gestures and actions emitting a sense of much needed calm and comfort.

“It’s okay,” he muttered.

No, it is not okay, Lauren wanted to cry out, but ultimately decided against it. She didn’t want to fight him either. She just wanted to appreciate the simple support he was offering her, and to cherish the last moment she’d share with a close friend. And so she kept quiet, the two simply enjoying each other's presence for what may be the last time.

Visions of their childhood together surfaced into Lauren’s mind in the serene silence, like a colorful montage of bright suns and warm colors; the days of when she and Will would play cops and robbers in her family's backyard (she was always the cop), picking her favorite flowers in the park with Dylan, the rainy days of when she and Dylan gathered around a piano as Will's fingers danced across the ivory and black keys—the melody of the song in her memory so sweet and lulling.

“Hey, Will,” she mumbled. “That song you used to play for Dylan and me… Can you sing it? Please?”

Will looked down at Lauren, his eyes blinking at her request. He breathed out softly, clearing his throat, before his melodic tenor reverberated around the room, his voice shaking around the lyrics:

When the night is falling and you’ve lost your way

When the rain is storming

And your world’s turned to grey

When the woes wait outside

And you feel like you’ve nowhere to hide

The moisture returned yet again to Lauren’s eyes as she listened to the words. She bit down on her lower lip to keep the tears from falling, inevitably failing as the drops hit her skirt, dark blue spots appearing on the fabric.

Don’t you worry

Just remember

Remember when I said:

Will held onto Lauren as her silent sobs continued and her body shook as she finally allowed her emotions to be released. The last few lines of the song came out softer and softer until his voice was barely a whisper, the last few lines sung with a gentle breath:

‘Darling, close your weary eyes

‘Everything will be fine’

‘Let the breeze wipe away your tears

‘There is no need to cry’

Lauren wiped away the tears streaming down her face with the heel of her palm.

She couldn’t do this, she realized with too much clarity. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to die. But the odds were certainly not in her favor at all, that fact echoed through her mind.

From his position on the sofa, Kieran watched as the Head Peacekeeper strode across the small space to stand in front of him. Tristan Sinclair peered down at him from where he stood as if analyzing and scrutinizing him.

“Are you who they chose for their pawn this year?” Mr. Sinclair asked him.

Kieran blinked at the question, unsure if he understood its implication correctly. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Commander.”

“Don’t play coy with me Mr. White. Unfortunately, I’m in no mood for some sort of game right now.” The Sinclair man pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated exhale escaping through his nostrils. He took a seat on one of the chairs across from the sofa,  sitting on the edge of it. “I’m well aware of what the rebellion has been trying to do for the past few years, of the children they themselves have sent to the arena. And I take it you’re who they’re trying to send for this year’s Game.”

Kieran’s eyes widened at the Head Peacekeeper’s confession. He opened his mouth, licking at his lips, unsure of how to respond. “So have you come to arrest me then?”

“No. Quite the opposite, actually. I’ve come to ask you for a request.”

Kieran’s face pinched with confusion. Not exactly what he’d expected to hear from the Head Peacekeeper, of all people, at knowing of his ties with the rebellion. “I see… And what exactly does this request entail?”

“My niece, Lauren. I’m sure you’re acquainted with her,” Mr. Sinclair began.

Kieran crossed his arms against his chest, leaning against the back of his seat. “Something like that,” he muttered.

“I’d like to ask you to please help protect her in the arena.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Mr. White. Lauren is the only family I have left, and I refuse to believe that this will be the end for her. I’m asking you to do whatever it is that you can do to make sure she also survives.”

Kieran considered the older man’s words for a moment, brows furrowed in consternation. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair, but you do realize that considering only one person is allowed to survive and leave the arena, that's going to be an impossible feat if I'm also trying to survive, right? Although I’m relatively confident in my skills to protect myself, I don’t even know if I can extend that in protecting your niece, much less be able to get the both of us out alive.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. White, but much like you, I, too, have some… friends… who may be able to assist us. All I need is for you to make sure she lives through the entire thing alongside you. Is that understood?”

Kieran nodded slowly, understanding Sinclair’s words, but the why or how was still lost on him. “If you’ve known all this time that I had ties with the rebellion, why haven’t you done anything about it?”

Sinclair looked towards him, his head tilting up. “My dear boy, who do you think helped with the arrangements for your move here to the Eleventh?”

Kieran blinked at his words, the meaning starting to click. Oh.

“Besides, even if I weren’t on your side,” Sinclair continued. “You’ve just practically volunteered to walk into your own death sentence. Though I do hope you’ll fare better in the Games enough for the both of you to live.”

Kieran hummed in thought. “You say that, but I'm sure you couldn't care less if I fail so long as your niece survives, am I wrong?" Kieran looked at the other man expectantly. 

Tristan gave no response to that, opting to remain silent at Kieran's accusations. 

"Hm. Didn't think so. No worries, I'm not offended. I think I've already become numb to the rebellion only using me for their needs," Kieran continued, though the bitterness in his tone didn't go unnoticed. "I do have to ask though; what exactly is in it for me if I do decide to help you with your favor?”

Tristan Sinclair looked at him with forlorn eyes, the creases on his face appearing all the more evident, his features somehow looking older as he gazed towards Kieran. “I can only offer you whatever else the rebellion can give you in return. I’m hoping though”—his eyes darted down to the drawing sprawled across Kieran’s lap and back up to his face—“that you’ll be willing to help out of the goodness of your own heart.”

Kieran pursed his lips. I’m not even sure if there is much good left in me, he almost wanted to say. Thinking against it, he replied instead: “With all due respect, your niece isn’t exactly my biggest fan. She’s not going to want to work with me that easily.”

“Hm. Yes. I’m not unfamiliar with her dislike towards you—I hear she’s had some altercations with you in the past, if I'm not mistaken.” Kieran grimaced at his words, a chuckle coming from Tristan Sinclair at his expression. “That's Lauren for you. But considering what’s at stake here, I’m hoping the two of you can put aside your differences for the sake of staying alive. 

“However,” Tristan Sinclair’s voice went quiet, the tone of his voice lowering as he continued to speak, “I urge you to ensure that Lauren knows absolutely nothing of the rebellion. She mustn’t know a single thing of its existence, and of either of our relations to it. Getting her involved is the last thing I want for her—next to her getting killed, of course.” 

Kieran’s eyes wandered downwards as he thought of his requests. It was a lot to ask of him. The idea of surviving through the Games had seemed somewhat simple enough, but now adding another person’s life on the line, in addition to his own, was starting to make things a little more complicated.

“This is quite the favor you’re asking of me,” Kieran voiced. “Not that I’m not willing to help, but my mission has always been to keep myself alive, not babysit. You’re the Head Peacekeeper. You can’t expect me to believe there’s not something you’re able to do about Lauren.”

Tristan Sinclair turned his head towards the covered windows, eyes beginning to glaze ever so slightly as he stared at whatever bit of natural light could make its way inside the room. “I’ve already tried. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I…” The Head Peacekeeper took a deep breath. “The moment Lauren turned twelve, I had constructed a scheme of sorts to ensure she would never be picked for the Games. Had made sure that not a single card would ever have her name written in it. I’m assuming, though, someone must have caught on, and now this is my punishment for trying to cheat this ridiculous system.”

A hum of acknowledgement and understanding sounded from Kieran as he pondered over Tristan Sinclair’s words. It seemed so ironic that the man who seemed to hold so much of the District’s power was also the man who ended up so powerless in the end.

Kieran thought back to his last year working as an archivist in the Justice Building, at the conversations he’d overheard and reports he made back to the rebellion. “If I were to take a wild guess at who may have discovered your little scheme, I’d place my bets on the mayor himself. I’ve noticed he’s not exactly as fond with your family as he appears to be.”

Mr. Sinclair considered Kieran’s words for a moment, his fingers at his chin as he thought. “Unfortunately, I’d have to agree with you. I wouldn’t put it past Stefan to have somehow replaced every name in that bowl with Lauren’s or something of that sort.” He rubbed at his temples, sighing exasperatedly. “And of course there’s no chance of a confrontation with the man without outing my own schemes as well.”

“Why go through so much trouble to get rid of Lauren this way?” questioned Kieran. “He’s the mayor. I’d imagine he could just dispose of your family in an easier manner.”

“It’s always been a political game between Stefan and me, a game of chess, if you will, only with more tangible consequences. And with both our ties to people in the Capitol, one small mistake on his end could ruin his entire career and image, not to mention place his family at risk. I presume getting Lauren in the Games is his way of not only him exemplifying his power, but also a way to eradicate the last of my family without it tying back to him.”

Kieran narrowed his eyes in thought. Lauren was just another casualty in this political war just like he was, he realized. Worse, maybe. She had no idea of the game she was already inadvertently a part of. Kept in a bubble of ignorance, under the guise of protection.

“Okay then,” Kieran said. “Hypothetically, if I do decide to help keep your niece alive, what exactly would be the plan?”

Tristan Sinclair took a deep breath in, a grateful grin spreading on his lips. “Listen carefully…”

Chapter Text

Lauren really wished she hadn’t cried so much. Her red rimmed eyes stung with each blink, her nose a deep shade of rose. The beating pulse in her head and the heat of the season did little to assuage her misery.

She knew for a fact that the cameras that were poised at her face would only contribute to the pitiful image she was now inadvertently portraying—the sad, fearful girl who was about to be walking into a lion’s den, her attempt to appear stoic and brave earlier was now all for naught.

She was currently standing at the District Train Station much like she had this past morning, only this time on the departures platform rather than on the arrivals side. The train that would take her to the Capitol—the very same one she had waited on earlier—stood before her in its silver glory, gleaming and tall, its doors still closed despite all its passengers—the Tributes, their mentor, their escort and stylist, and the camera crew—being already present. They would be forced to wait until the cameras were satisfied with the feed they were capturing of the 11th District’s Tributes, their arrival and presence at the station now being broadcast live to the whole country, reporters and the like swarming the vicinity.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the screens that hung around the station's pillars and walls, Lauren straightened her back, attempting to mask her face of any emotion despite its condition. Her chignon had been redone by Lady Darcy in an effort to make her look a bit more presentable following her emotional episode back inside the Justice Building, and Lauren wouldn’t deny that it did help her feel a little more put together at the very least.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Kieran White smiling and waving, even posing, for the cameras that swarmed the area where he stood. His charming demeanor radiated here much like it had at the reaping—a bright grin on his stupid face, blue eyes shining like the ocean when he spoke. Lauren rolled her eyes at him (something she found herself doing often whenever he was nearby) and scowled. Self-absorbed pig, she thought.

Much to her chagrin, though, it seemed others held differing opinions.

“Now there’s someone who knows what he’s doing,” Lauren heard, amusement lacing the words. She turned her head towards the direction of the voice, its owner appearing at her side: Oliver March, her District mentor for the Scythe Games. He pointed at Kieran who was presently speaking with a reporter, an impressed expression spreading on the older man’s face. “If you want to get sponsors, that’s definitely one way to do it.”

Lauren scoffed. “No, I think he just likes the attention.”

March chuckled. “Could be. Either way, he’s doing a good job at selling himself to the crowd. He definitely won’t be having trouble getting any sponsors during the Games.” He turned his head down to look at Lauren, pursing his lips as he took in her hostile expression. “You know, Ren, it wouldn’t hurt to try and give a smile or two to the cameras. Remember, the Capitol is always watching; and who knows? One of them might be the sponsor you need to win the Game.”

Lauren crossed her arms and shrugged, her scowl deepening. “Maybe, but I doubt I’ll need to rely on Capitol sponsors, not when I have my uncle or even Will for support. Besides...” Her eyes shifted away from her mentor’s, her voice softening as she continued, “...it won’t matter anyways. I’ll probably get killed off the first second we step into the arena.”

Oliver March’s brows furrowed in concern at her comment. “Do you really think that’s true, Lauren?”

“There will be Tributes in that arena that are twice my size, some who have probably trained their whole lives to kill. I’m just being realistic.”

Oliver March sighed. “No, that’s called being pessimistic, which, believe it or not, is not the same thing. Can’t say you’d be the first ever Tribute to think like that though. But I guess that’s what I’m here for; to help make sure you survive.”

Well, you were Dylan’s mentor, too, and look where that still got him, Lauren nearly spat. She didn’t need another person trying to instill false hopes in her like her uncle had tried. And she wasn’t going to try and fool herself into believing there was any possibility of her survival, that there was a chance she’d be able to come home no matter how strong her desire for that was.

“Yeah, lucky us,” Lauren murmured in response instead. 

The clinking sound of metal and wood grabbed both their attention, the sounds of the train doors finally opening making them all look up ahead of them, a small set of steps inside at the entrance visible to all. Lauren breathed a silent sigh of relief, grateful for the interruption to their conversation, but her heart began to beat quickly at the sudden realization that it was now time to leave for the Capitol. Behind her, Lady Arthingham clapped her hands in jubilee as she shouted instructions for all the passengers to begin boarding the train before she herself strolled quickly to the open doors, Lady Darcy following afterwards. Lauren could only inhale deeply as she steeled her nerves at the prospect of her imminent departure from her home and towards what may as well be a slaughterhouse.

“Well, looks like it’s go-time,” March commented, taking a small step back and gesturing with his hand for Lauren to pass him as if to say Ladies first. Lauren gave a brief nod at his invitation, swallowing thickly as her feet moved towards the train.

It was all she could do not to fall apart as her vision blurred and her head spun when she reached the bottom step of the entrance. She grabbed onto both sides of the railings by the stairs, gripping them with shaking hands as she began to climb upwards, hoping she could keep herself upright as she moved.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked behind her, the genuine concern in it making her blink twice. She turned her head over her left shoulder, the blue eyes she despised meeting her gold ones.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered through gritted teeth, turning her head back to the steps ahead of her.

“Okay, great. Then could you move a little faster? You’re kind of slowing down the line here,” Kieran responded blankly, his thumb pointing over his shoulder to the crew members and March who stood behind him patiently. “Or what? Are you hoping someone will carry you up the steps, princess?” he asked, a smirk on his face.

She frowned at the nickname. “Don’t ever call me that,” she bit back at him. She continued to stride up the short set of stairs, reaching the top in an instant. She’d like to think his comment about her slow pace didn’t bother her—she refused to give Kieran White the satisfaction of knowing how much he could get under her skin—but the way she strode up the last remaining steps would say otherwise.

The spectacle that met Lauren as her feet met the top landing was an overwhelming sight to behold, and it almost made her forget the annoyance she was feeling towards her District partner—almost. While Lauren had been blessed enough to live comfortably, the contents within the compartment was another reminder of the wealth the Capitol alone held. With crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, fragments of pastel rainbows shimmering around the walls and floor as the sun hit the jewels through the wide open windows; violet velveteen seats and cushions with gold trims filling the space; clear glass tables placed in each corner with rows of snacks and refreshments covering their surfaces; vases filled with flowers in each corner; and a mahogany dining table off to one side, it could only make Lauren wonder what the actual city itself would look like. Very few District civilians were permitted to enter the Capitol or even travel in between Districts unless granted special access, and though the Sinclairs had a few acquaintances within the grand city, she herself had never been able to venture anywhere past the 11th District’s borders. The epiphany that this would be her first time ever stepping foot outside her home made Lauren realize just how small her world had been for the past sixteen years and how big the world outside truly was.

Lady Arthingham and Lady Darcy, having been the first to enter, were awaiting the rest of them to make their way in, the younger girl lounging on one of the cushioned seats with a pastry in hand, while their chaperone moved about the space, adjusting small ornaments around until she was satisfied with their presentation. The doors to the train soon closed, the only proof of the train’s movement were the trees and buildings beyond the windows passing by in a blur as the feeling of the vehicle’s motion seemed to not exist within the train itself.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Lady Arthingham spoke up, stepping in front of the group, her eyes fixed primarily on Lauren and Kieran, “you can find your chambers upstairs past those doors.” Her forefinger swung in front of their faces as she pointed to the frosted glass doors at the ends of the compartment. “Girls’ rooms are to your left, boys’ to the right. Each person here has their own room, and you can find a change of clothes in the dressers and towels in the washrooms.” With pursed lips and her eyes poring over the appearances of her two Tributes as if scrutinizing them, Lady Arthingham continued: “And I’d highly recommend using them. There will be cameras at the train station once we disembark”—Lauren groaned inwardly; Great more cameras—“and I can’t possibly have you both looking like this when we arrive. Now chop-chop.” With a clap of her hands, their chaperone dismissed them, turning her attention elsewhere.

Lauren could feel the rest of the group disperse around her into the other areas of the train, and in her peripheral vision, she watched as Kieran followed Oliver March to the right side of the car, presumably towards the area for their chambers. How Kieran White could be so calm and unbothered by their predicament baffled her. Did he not know what it was that he himself had volunteered for? Why in the world had he volunteered in the first place for the Scythe Games of all things, she wondered. For other Districts where volunteering was a part of their culture, it was for the hopes of being the champion that could bring their home the gifts and prizes that followed with winning the Games, but that was primarily within the less fortunate Districts of the country who needed the extra support for survival. For the 11th District where residents feared the Games and gained very little from the winnings, it wasn’t exactly the norm to want to partake in its pageantry and ruthlessness.

Realizing she had been standing in the same spot for too long, Lauren tried to will her legs to move on, the weight of them heavier than she remembered. Neyra Darcy stood up from her seat and approached Lauren, a look of sympathy on her face. “Let me show you to your room,” she offered, to which Lauren could only accept with a somber nod.

Going up a flight of stairs in the next car and down a hallway, Lauren found herself outside a glass door, curtains hung across the frame on the opposite side. She took a deep breath as she turned the bronze knob of the door to her room, the inside of it giving her the same impression as the train’s entrance. The interior of her chamber was just as grand and overly decorated as the first train car, gold trims along the wall, a queen size bed with the ornate headboard against one side of the room in the middle, wardrobes and dressers against the wall adjacent to the door, and even a walk-in closet that faced the bed, the door to the washroom inside tucked in-between the shelves of clothing. 

Lauren tapped on a wide screen embedded against the wall beside the closet causing the screen to light up, and, pressing on a button, images of different clothes popped up before her, the item and its exact location displayed on the screen. There were rows of dresses of expensive materials that hung on the racks, tops in different cuts folded within the dressers, and bottoms and skirts of varying lengths stored in the wardrobe. It all seemed so… unnecessary. Their trip to the Capitol would only take about half an hour, not a year like the contents of the train seemed to suggest. It almost felt like a waste for such goods and utilities to be present here only to go unused, the clothes and accessories most likely discarded afterwards once they were no longer to the Capitol’s taste.

Browsing through the catalogue quickly, Lauren settled on a deep burgundy dress the program had recommended her, and stepped into the closet, grabbing at the dress that shone beneath a small spotlight. The dress was comfortable enough with a halter top that left a portion of her back exposed, the skirt flowing down in multiple pleats above her ankles, a black belt stitched with beads of onyx stones cinched at her waist, a pair of black pumps now on her feet. Lauren took a quick look at herself in the full body mirror, satisfied with her appearance. It was the simplest and most modest item she had been able to find, unlike the other dresses made of multiple layers of fabric, formed in odd shapes that reminded her more of abstract sculptures instead of wearable garments. Grateful for having some knowledge on cosmetics, Lauren washed her face before she began applying bits of foundation, concealer, and blush to her skin, a soft pink shadow to her eyelids, a quick layer of mascara to her lashes, and a subtle brownish-red lipstick around the edges of her mouth, the shade close to the natural color of her lips.

If they were going to be swarmed with even more cameras upon their arrival, she was going to make sure she at least looked ready. She wasn’t going to allow any Capitol citizen or anyone else in the whole damn country to criticize her for her looks of all things, and she certainly wasn’t going to arrive with the same meek and tear-stained look she had presented herself with earlier on the platform. No, no matter how terrified she was, she refused to let anyone else see her as anything less than capable.

Arriving downstairs back into the first compartment, she found her mentor seated at the round dining table, a series of different bowls of stew, vegetables, and meats covering the surface, plates and utensils placed in front of every seat. Kieran White sat on the seat to Oliver March's right, the two conversing amongst themselves.

When she began to approach the table, she couldn’t help the glower that overcame her face as she took sight of Kieran’s wardrobe. Kieran White, it seemed, had freshened up much like her, his dark attire from earlier this afternoon replaced with the vibrant colors of a glimmering red blazer, the front of the off-white shirt he wore underneath visible through the open front of the overgarment, black bottoms that he currently adorned somehow also shimmered in the afternoon light. They were matching, Lauren realized. Unintentionally, of course, but they were matching nonetheless. Lauren had half a mind to go back and change her clothes, but the rumbling that she could feel growing in her stomach told her to stay and eat, the clock on the wall telling her she wouldn’t have enough time to do both.

“Lauren!” March called, waving her over. “Come join us.” The way her mentor’s eyebrows raised at the sight of her attire didn’t go unnoticed, and there was a slightly amused glint in his eyes as they darted between her and Kieran. “Did you two plan this?” he laughed light-heartedly.

“No!” Lauren groaned, heat rising up her neck and cheeks. “This is all by coincidence!”

Kieran glanced over at her direction, eyes skimming over her appearance, before he chimed in: “Hm. Yeah, I like to think I wore it better anyways.” Lauren sent him a glare at that.

Oh, please, she thought, sighing exasperatedly, taking the seat on March’s left, just across from Kieran.

“Well, I think you both look great,” March said through a small chuckle. “I’m sure neither Lady Arthingham or Darcy will argue otherwise. And the cameras are definitely going to enjoy the sight of you two when they see you.”

Lauren attempted to distract herself from the thought of their impending arrival to the Capitol, busying herself by taking small samples of each of the different foods that sat on the table before them. She could sense a pair of eyes watching her with every action she took, her lips pursing in annoyance, eyes narrowing into a glare as she looked up to see her District partner observing her from over the rim of the cup he was drinking from.

What do you want? she mouthed.

Nothing! he mouthed back silently, his eyes shifting away like a child caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do. He coughed into a fist, clearing his throat. “So, March,” Kieran spoke out loud this time. “What were you saying about our game plan for the arena again?”

“Well, like I was saying,” March began to respond, quickly picking up on their earlier conversation. “Make sure you don't neglect finding shelter and food in the arena. The chances of you dying from starvation and the cold are actually much higher than you getting killed by another Tribute, and most other Tributes don't ever seem to realize that.”

March continued to speak about the different tactics he himself had used when he partook in the Games and other methods used by past Victors, but as he spoke, Lauren could only keep her focus on the food on her plate instead, taking bites of her meal as the words spoken between Kieran and March faded into nothing but muffled static to her ears. Lauren knew she should be paying attention to her mentor’s advice, knew how imperative his words were to staying alive in the Games, but her senses seemed to refuse to absorb anything he was saying, not that she was too interested in hearing any of it anyways. It was already hard enough to stomach the thought that they were only days away from the beginning of the Games; Lauren wasn’t quite ready to start thinking of herself within the arena just yet.

“So, Kieran, what made you volunteer for the Games anyways?” March asked. Lauren's ears perked at the question, her head tilted towards Kieran as she looked up from her plate, eyes blinking rapidly as she focused back into reality, the question that came from Oliver March to Kieran White piquing her interest.

“Oh, you know,” Kieran responded almost awkwardly, his eyes meeting Lauren's for a brief second as she waited in anticipation for his answer. “I figured I’d try my hand at the Games and see where it takes me. The lifetime of money from the Capitol is certainly a nice benefit, and I’m sure getting to live in one of those fancy houses at the Victor Village doesn’t hurt either, huh, March?” He made a nudging motion to their mentor, laughing softly as if telling a joke.

Lauren could feel her body go numb at his response, the spoon in her hand nearly tumbling out of her grip, the contents spilling back onto the plate.

Was that really all there was to it? He wanted to partake in a game that murdered children on live television just for that? Money? A house? As if he didn’t already possess any of those back home! Lauren wondered angrily what kind of person Kieran White truly was, what his true colors could be beneath the faux charming façade he always displayed.

“What? Your archivist job not paying you well enough?” she sneered, her words dripping venomously. All eyes shifted towards her as she spoke.

Kieran raised a brow at her and snickered. “It was alright,” he said, shrugging his shoulders casually. “It was enough for rent, at least.”

She frowned in disbelief at his response. “What is the matter with you?” Lauren practically shouted, standing up from her seat, her fists slamming on the table.

“Lauren…” March said with a warning tone. She ignored him.

“How are you even okay with any of this? How are any of you okay with this? We’re about to be sent to the Capitol just so we can be slaughtered in front of the whole country, and you’re willing to play in their stupid game just for the money?”

Kieran leaned back in his seat, elbow resting on the armchair, apparently unbothered by her outbursts towards him. “You do realize the money also goes to the rest of the District, right? The Capitol sends the winning District a whole year’s worth of food and other nice things as a prize for becoming a Victor.”

“So what?” she yelled. “The Eleventh doesn’t need it! There’s no way that this is only all about the money. You’re just an egotistical jerk looking for fame and glory in the sickest way possible. I don’t understand how you can be so willing to be here when the rest of us can only wish to be anywhere else. We’re being taken to the Capitol, of all places, where they watch the bloodshed of children each year for fun, where they live in absolute ignorance of what the rest of us in the District are forced to go through. But here you are sitting here actually looking forward to all of this. You’re nothing but a monster!”

Something darkened within Kieran's face as her words hit him, a flicker of a shadow passing over his eyes, his sharp jaw looking sharper as it tightened. He slowly stood up from his chair to meet her level, his eyes fixed on hers, his blue irises somehow disquietingly bright against the shadow on his face. Lauren would be lying if she said something about the way his expression changed didn't make her a bit uneasy, but she returned his hardened look nevertheless, her face contorting into a deep scowl.

“Lauren, that's enough,” March attempted to interfere. Kieran held up an arm, cutting him off.

“No, no. I wanna know what else Miss Sinclair here thinks of me,” Kieran said, his tone low and even. “A monster, you say? Tell me, Lauren, are you even remotely aware of what the rest of the world outside of your bubble even looks like? ‘The Eleventh doesn’t need it’? Is that really what you think?” The questions almost came out as a laugh as he spoke, as if he couldn't believe he had to say the words aloud. “You condemn the Capitol and what they do, yet you parade around in your own privilege, unaware of the people struggling around you in your own home. I may be a monster, but you’re a selfish hypocrite.”

Lauren flinched, her fists tightening, nails digging into her palm. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from retaliating. She could tell him that he was wrong about her, that he had no idea what he was talking about, except, much to Lauren’s chagrin, he was right about everything. Her parents had sheltered her her whole life, her uncle had done the same when he took her in, and despite her close friendship with Dylan Rosenthal, she knew nothing of his life in Greychapel before he died.

Lauren swallowed, opening her mouth to try and speak, the words failing to come out.

Kieran continued. “You have no idea what I’ve had to go through to get where I am and how I got here. At least I’m doing what I have to for the sake of everyone else, what are you doing?”

Nothing. She was doing nothing, except for cowering at the thought of her imminent death, and continuously feeding the flame of anger and hatred that she had towards the Capitol and the Games. But outside of that, she wasn’t doing anything at all, nothing to help anyone else or to help herself. Was she really just a selfish hypocrite?

Kieran pushed his seat back not waiting for her reply, the edge of the chair hitting the wall with a small thud. Lauren and March watched as he stalked out of the room, his shadow looming over both of them as he passed by to get to the door. The click of the door closing was the only sound left in his wake.

Lauren stood in her place, frozen, her mind reeling at what had transpired.

“Ren, you shouldn’t have done that,” Oliver March spoke up, his seat scraping the floor as he pushed it back to stand up, his tone angry yet concerned as he looked at her. “Look, I understand this isn’t ideal and that emotions are high, but you need to be working with him, not against him. You realize that, don’t you?”

Did she realize that? Why would she want to work with him of all people?

Lauren liked to think she was smart, that she was clever, and that she possessed a good sense of judgment. She was well aware an alliance in the arena with her District partner would be beneficial for her and her survival, but she was also aware that all alliances in the arena were temporary. Considering the nature of the Games, it would be inevitable that someone in the alliance would succumb to death eventually, whether by the hands of the Gamemakers, the other Tributes, or even by their own ally. It almost felt like a ridiculous notion to consider allies if it meant a possible betrayal and a literal knife to the back. From the way Kieran spoke, she wouldn’t put it past him to be the type to throw her under the bus for his own benefit.

“No, I don’t,” she finally responded.

Falling backwards onto his bed, Kieran sighed deeply as his arms crossed over his face in frustration. Kieran had never felt the same amount of disdain for Lauren Sinclair as she did with him. He’d always tolerated her and had respected her from a distance even when she’d throw quips and insults his way at each chance she got. Today, however, seemed to challenge whatever little tolerance and respect he had left for her. 

If she was going to be this difficult now, how much more difficult could she possibly be when the time for the Games came? How was he still expected to cooperate with her then in an effort to keep her alive?

He had technically never agreed to help her. In fact, he knew for certain that helping her would only slow him down from his mission, and potentially lead to not just his failure but his demise, maybe even to both their demises. He wasn’t entirely sure why he bothered to consider the possibility of allying himself with her, why he humored the thought that they could both work together; it was evident from their recent interaction that they were incapable of having a civil exchange much less succeed in a partnership.

Maybe it was out of pity that made him consider helping her? She was right about one thing, she didn’t ask to be here. He was the one who volunteered to play in the Capitol’s games, not her. Maybe it was out of his own selfishness, his fear of being alone—of dying alone—that he was desperate enough to associate himself with her. Or if he was going to be completely honest with himself, maybe somewhere deep down it was simply that he had— No, Kieran stopped the thought before the words could blossom into completion. He wasn’t going to humor that possibility, a ludicrous and outrageous theory, really. Yes, there was a mesmerizing quality to the Sinclair girl that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. But like fire, she could burn and hurt as dangerously.

A monster, he sneered, her words palpable in his ears. He wasn’t even in the arena yet and she already thought him a monster. If he was a monster now, what could he possibly be then when the inevitable time came for his hands to be bloodied with the deaths of their compatriots?

He sat up from his place on the bed, bringing down his arms at his sides, as he looked out the window in an attempt to push those perturbed thoughts out of his mind. The sun’s descent towards the horizon had already begun, the bright orb shone brightly in between the peaks of the mountains, the sky still blue but with gradients of orange and yellow bleeding into its colors. The backdrop of the trees, fields, and rivers that were nothing but a blur mere moments ago slowly came into clearer, sharper focus, the shadows that passed by appearing crisper than they had earlier, the train evidently slowing to a stop from its 250 mile per hour speed.

Kieran guessed they’d only be a few minutes away from their destination now, no more than five minutes away from the edges of the Capitol. A knot in his stomach tightened, and he breathed in deeply to calm his nerves and willed the sensation to vanish. He’d done a decent job so far at masking his fear—better than Lauren Sinclair, at least—and he wasn’t going to let any of it show now, especially not at the Capitol. He stepped up to a mirror hung above his dresser, ensuring that his hair and attire were still in perfect place.

A sudden darkness engulfed the room, the serene view and sun vanishing instantaneously, a stream of fluorescent light appearing here and there from beyond the windows as the train passed through a long tunnel—the entrance into the Capitol’s borders, made up of the natural barriers of mountains and rock that surrounded the gigantic city. The tunnel continued on like an eternal night, the feeling making Kieran wonder if there would even be sunlight outside once the tunnel reached its end. Almost as soon as the thought reached his mind, a bright gleam of natural light shone through the windows, the sun’s rays bouncing off a series of white structures coated with glass and metal, the buildings towering over them as high as the mountains at their borders. In place of the natural lakes and wildlife they had traversed through were now the glimmering buildings and statues that made up the country’s capital city, artificial lakes flowed down into waterfalls over several layers of concrete walls like that of a giant symmetric fountain, the water flanked on the sides by more buildings built along the edges of the flowing streams. But most impressive of all was the gothic structure that loomed over the enormous city: the royal castle of House Aevasther. With its towers and walls so high and visible even from a large distance, the highest point of the building looking almost as if it could touch the clouds, the castle itself practically looked as if it was a mountain itself instead of being built at the peak of one.

Kieran, much like most citizens from the Districts, had only seen the grand city on television through the lenses of the cameras, but seeing the spectacle in person made him realize that not even Capitol technology could give justice to the city’s grandeur and magnificence.

Through the windows, he could see the different citizens stop and gawk at the passing train, hands waving in enthusiasm at their arrival, many trying to pass in front of others to get a better glimpse of its passengers—primarily its Tributes—cars on the roads slowing down as they, too, tried to watch the train pass by. Citizens of varying colors—their skin and garments ranging from all the colors of the rainbow from blue, pink, green, pure black, orange, and the likes, their bodies dressed in all sorts of accessories and ornaments, hair styled in odd shapes, clothes unnaturally vivid and bright and seemingly misshapen—gathered all around, the outside of the station filled to the brim with people, regular civilians and official Capitol personnel alike, as the train slowed into a stop.

Kieran took one last deep breath. They had arrived.

Chapter Text

Suffice to say that this was truly the worst day Lauren had ever experienced in her life, and considering that she had lived through several truly atrocious days, this was definitely telling of the life she led. It was worse than the day she had watched her parents be taken from their home, worse than the day Dylan was reaped for the Games, worse than the day she watched him get blown to pieces in the arena and killed in front of the entire nation. Because now it was Lauren Sinclair who had been taken from her own home, it was her who had been reaped and chosen to be Tribute for the Scythe Games, and while she was still physically whole, who was to say that she wouldn’t find herself falling into a landmine within the arena and meeting a similar end?

Lauren turned over from her side and laid on her back, the mattress beneath her body shifting when she moved, red hair sprawled messily around the pillow. She stared up at the ceiling in the din of her suite, her mind playing back the events of the past 18 hours, unable to silence her mind enough to get some much needed sleep (not that that was new to her anyhow). Being awake felt like she was living in a surreal dream, as if everything she had experienced the past day was nothing but a trick of the mind, almost like if she could just close her eyes, she would be brought back to actual reality, back to the 11th District, back home with her uncle and Will.

Of course, life wasn't that easy, not for Lauren Sinclair.

The knowledge that her District partner was probably resting peacefully, just on the other side of the wall that separated their rooms, unnerved her even further. Though by this point, she shouldn't be surprised at how unbothered he was by all the present and future occurrences.  What did surprise her was the sudden change in his attitude towards her. He had been the first to enter his room once they'd arrived at the penthouse—the enormous apartment within the Training Center where they would be residing in for the foreseeable future until the Games began—locking the door to his suite, not bothering to even speak to anyone upon their arrival within their floor, especially not to her. She had known him for a year, had had multiple disagreements with him since their first encounter, and yet somehow he'd always approached her with the same mirthful challenge in his eyes, a smirk on his lips, and a clever retort on his tongue. That was until now.

Lauren pressed her lips together, a heavy weight in her chest as she recalled their earlier interaction, the rage from that moment beginning to burn within her again, but with it also a sense of remorse. Was she sorry for letting her temper get the better of her, for the accusations she had thrown at him? Or was it just shame that it happened, shame that she, once again, had let him under her skin?

They had both made the effort to avoid one another once they had reached the Capitol Train Station, both keeping their distance as if coming too close to the other's space would cause a cataclysmic catastrophe (which, in fairness, it probably would have). Through forced smiles and avoided eye contacts, she had powered through the cameras and paparazzi in addition to the excited cheers of the Capitol citizens who had joined the commotion to catch a glimpse of the first batch of Tributes to arrive to the city. (March had been right. The cameras and people really did go feral over their unintended, coordinated red and black ensemble.) Kieran, on the other hand, had presented the same charismatic mannerisms—smiles and waves and winks and the like—as he had in the afternoon at the reaping and their departure, only to turn it all off once the cameras were no longer poised their way, the smiles and charming allure replaced with a stern attitude and cold air.

It didn't take a genius to know Lauren was the cause for such a shift in his demeanor.

March's words echoed through her head: You need to be working with him, not against him. She shuddered at the possibility that he might be right.

The festivities that were taking place just below their penthouse windows did little to aid with Lauren's insomniac predicament. Up on the floor that matched their District number, the view of the royal castle shone in its gothic splendor, it's gold spikes and concrete and white brick structure towering over everything in the vicinity. The majestic building seemingly an anachronistic treasure with its antique architecture amongst the more modern and contemporary surroundings. Across from the grand castle, enveloping the large expanse of space between the Training Center and the castle was Nightingale Park, the culprit for the evening's loud noises, fireworks, music, and elated cheers. It appeared that the Capitol had a tradition of pre-celebrating for the upcoming Games, the noisy gaiety an obvious sign for the excitement that was to come for tomorrow’s (or, technically, today’s) Opening Ceremonies; then, not a week later afterwards, the Games.

In the morning, she and her District partner were expected to meet with Oliver March for their mentorship, before being escorted to the Remake Center to be groomed and dressed up like a doll for the Opening Ceremonies. Lauren had seen the Ceremonies multiple times on television, the Tributes clothed and draped with costumes and accessories meant to showcase their respective District’s industry, traipsing in horse-pulled chariots as they rode through Nightingale Park for the whole Capitol and nation to behold, the crowd throwing gifts, flowers, and trinkets to their favorite Districts with roars of applause. The Tribute Parade was meant to serve as an introduction to all the new competitors, Lauren thought of it more as a shameless dog show. The Tributes for the 11th District last year had been embellished in silver paint, metal-infused tunics over their bodies, and pieces of crystals glued to their skins. Dylan Rosenthal with his white hair and pale eyes had looked like a shimmering ghost in his monochromatic ensemble, a fitting description for what he was to her now. 

Lauren pulled the linen blanket further up her torso as she turned over on her side, gripping on to the fabric and squeezing her eyes tight in an effort to let the sleep finally in. If the past day was any indication for how long 24 hours could be, the following week would only prove to be hell. The last thoughts within her head as she drifted off into an empty, dreamless sleep was the hope that Neyra had better ideas than decorating her in gauche body spray and making her look like a phantom that would continue to haunt her loved ones.

***

Lauren wasn’t accustomed to waking up when the sun was already up in the sky, and she most certainly wasn’t accustomed to being the last one up and ready for the day. According to the set of blinking, bright red numbers that had appeared across the glass window (apparently also a screen) facing her bed, a ringing sound coming from some hidden speaker in a corner of the room accompanying the time, it was already eight o’clock in the morning. Lauren shot up from the bed and rubbed at her eyes, attempting to register the light that was streaming into her room, eyes fluttering as she took in her surroundings. She could feel her heart drop and skin go cold as the reminder of her current location dawned on her.

It wasn’t a dream, she sighed to herself.

Suppressing a heavy groan, she made her way out of bed and pulled on a simple robe around herself. She ran a hand through her messy locks and breathed in deeply before turning the door knob and stepping out into the rest of the apartment, steeling her nerves for the new day and whatever torments it would bring her way.

Here’s to another long day, she thought cynically.

She stilled at the sight of her mentor and District partner seated around the penthouse’s dining table, a set of freshly cooked breakfast and half-eaten foods on the table’s surface. A sense of déjà vu hit Lauren in the face, and she kept her eyes on the floor as she passed by the two men while they ate their meal, like refusing to meet their gaze would cast her invisible from them.

“Hungry, Lauren?” March called out to her.

The sound of her name forced Lauren's walk into an abrupt halt. She turned back with mild reluctance towards her mentor, her mouth trying to form a response. So much for invisible.

“Uh, yeah, just a bit,” she answered, her hand to the back of her neck, eyes still cast downwards. “I’m just gonna go wash up.”

“Better make it quick. We've got a lot to go over before the Ceremonies tonight.” March's tone held the same solemn sound as yesterday, his displeasure at her and probably Kieran's behaviors apparent in his voice.

Lauren swallowed thickly, her throat unusually dry. “Right. Of course.”

She cast a brief glance upwards, her eyes meeting the side of Kieran's profile, his cheek turned the other direction as he sipped on his mug. She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure as to why his lack of acknowledgment to her presence grated on her nerves more than when he actually spoke to her. She pushed the feeling aside—He’s not worth your time, she berated herself—and headed towards the bathroom, washing her face and hands, and brushing out the tangles in her bed ridden hair. She gently patted at her cheeks, the light stinging bringing her to her senses, the blood flowing within her face making her look less like a hollow-eyed corpse and more like a living person.

Outside in the hall, a servant girl had waited by the door, a clean, fresh towel draped over her arms. Lauren nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden sight, her body nearly colliding with her, the white-haired girl with her pale face seemingly like a phantom apparition in the dimly lit hall, the white servant frock she wore did little to help with that image.

“They’re called Avoxes,” Lady Arthingham had told them the previous night. ”Just simple servants. If you need anything from them, just tell them what you want, and they should get it done in an instant.“

Lauren hadn’t thought much past what Lady Arthingham had said—servants in a land full of the elite wasn’t a surprise, and even Lauren’s uncle’s household had help around the house. That was until Oliver March had approached her a moment later, adding in a whisper: “They can’t speak. Their tongues are removed before they’re forced into servitude.”

“What? Why?” Lauren had asked, looking up at him, eyes wide with disbelief and confusion.

“It’s their punishment. Punishment for disobeying the Capitol.”

Lauren had gaped at him, bewilderment etched on her face. “Punishment for what?”

March had shaken his head. “Best not to ask. Just be nice to them. Sad to say most Capitol people aren’t. Just make sure Lady A doesn’t see you talking to them though, more for their sake than yours. We’re technically not supposed to speak to them at all unless it’s to give an order. But even so, I’ve managed to learn a few things over the years about them. That one”—he pointed at the female Avox, her hair a a shade of white that rivaled the color of snow, her eyes a shade of dark lilac—“is apparently called Grace, and the other”—his finger switched to the male Avox that had been on the other side of the room, a mop of dark brown hair on his head, his blue eyes peering at the floor—“is named Andrew, I believe.”

Grace and Andrew. Lauren had tried to be polite to each of them as she had moved about the space upon her arrival. It was awkward and uncomfortable to say the least, as the Avoxes stood motionless against the backdrop of the penthouse, moving only when called upon (usually by Lady Arthingham), their eyes always gazing downwards as if making eye contact with anyone would be treason. It was nothing like how the maids back home at the 11th made her feel, their warmth and support always present, while the Avoxes here were understandably cold and distant.

“I—” I’m sorry, Lauren wanted to say—sorry for nearly running into her or sorry for the girl’s unfortunate situation, Lauren wasn’t entirely sure. She clamped her mouth shut instead before the words came out, March’s words resounding in her mind. She didn’t need to risk getting the Avox girl—Grace—into trouble over her own actions.

Lauren stepped aside to allow Grace inside the bathroom, quietly watching her replace the used towel, before she made her way back to the dining area, not wanting to interfere with the Avox’s chores. She paused at the edge of the table, eyes skimming between the two occupants, noticing how March sat at the head of the table with Kieran to his right just like yesterday. Her hand reached out to the chair on the opposite side of her District partner, choosing a chair a good three seats away from him.

March raised a brow at her chosen place, but made no comment.

“Alright,” March began to speak, hands folded in front of him, as Lauren got herself acquainted. “All the Tributes from the other Districts should have arrived by last night, all of whom you'll be meeting later this evening at the parade.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and sighed exasperatedly. “Look, I know things are… tense… between the two of you right now, but if you want to make it in the arena, you're going to have to work together.”

Lauren barely looked towards March’s way as he spoke, choosing instead to pick at a piece of egg on her plate. She didn't need to see his eyes to feel his strong gaze on her, the heat of it was palpable enough.

“But,” he continued, “since I can’t exactly force you two to make amends, I want to at least urge the both of you to consider getting to know some of the other Tributes tonight, and see who you may want to work out an alliance with.”

Lauren hummed in acknowledgement at his words, refutations sitting on her tongue. She didn’t need to voice her thoughts anyhow, her furrowed brows and narrowed eyes probably said it all. As if reading her thoughts, March continued to say, “I know alliances can be tricky. No doubt there will be Tributes out there who will only want to use you before they decide to kill you. But there will also be others in there that will be dependable, some that you might need to rely on for food or support or whatever else. Let me tell you now, you’re not gonna make it in there without at least one ally.”

“And what if we get to the bottom five or worse, we’re the last two left? What then? Kill our friend?” Lauren asked with bitterness.

There was a hint of a concealed chuckle when March responded: “You could, or you could just break off the alliance and hope that someone or something else gets to them. Alliances aren’t permanent, Ren. You can always part ways before it gets to that point. Most alliances will splinter off towards the last six or so Tributes just so they can avoid doing just that. Just be careful who you partner with.”

“Any suggestions on who you think we should ally ourselves with from the other Districts?” Kieran asked, the sound of him finally speaking grabbing Lauren’s attention, like his voice had suddenly filled a void she didn’t know existed.

“I have some ideas, but it’s hard to tell right now,” March replied. “Come this way.” He pushed back his seat and stood up, tilting his head towards the living area adjacent to the dining space. Lauren followed him into the other room, Kieran right behind her, and sat against the edge of the circular sofa that enveloped the living space, her fingers gripping the border of her seat, while Kieran sat within one of the curvatures, back leaning against the cushion, his arms crossed over his chest.

March grabbed at a remote control on the coffee table as he settled into the middle area in between his Tributes, the screen against the mantel in the wall coming to life. On it were three rows and eight columns of faces confined within vertical rectangles, the subjects ranging in ages but always a girl then boy then girl then boy again in a repeating pattern: the 24 Tributes. Lauren could make out her and Kieran’s faces towards the center of the last row at the bottom of the screen.

March clicked on another button on the remote control, the faces of the Tributes disappearing only to be replaced with the familiar anthem of the Ardhalis Union playing on the speakers, the emblem painted across the screen. In an instant, the face of the Scythe Game’s annual host appeared, his long blond hair over his right shoulder, pale grey eyes sparkling as he spoke to the camera: Viscount Albert Redcliff.

March lowered the volume, saying over the host's greeting and announcements, “This is the recap of the reaping from yesterday's broadcast. It'll be the perfect way for you to gauge not just your competition but potential partners, so pay attention.”

The volume rose back to its original level as the first reaping to be recapped came into view: the 13th District, one of the three Career Districts in the country.

Whatever the names of those who were called had been, Lauren couldn't remember. Rather she found herself taken aback and appalled by the torrents of people who had hurried to come forward to the Justice Building, each one yearning to take the place of those who had been reaped by being the first to reach the stage and take the title of Tribute for themselves. Elbows were shoved in faces, hairs were pulled, and a number were left on the ground with some form of injury. It was like watching a pre-Games bloodbath, or perhaps witnessing one in the making.

Was this how the reaping for the 13th District always occurred? Lauren questioned, never having been one interested in watching other District reapings in the past.

In the end, two eighteen year-olds by the names of Belladonna Davenport and Harry Anslow were able to overtake the crowd and win the title as their District's Tributes, their fists held proudly in the air. Tears of joy filled the pink-haired girl’s orange eyes as she grinned, her expression both mirthful yet perturbing. Her District partner, though not as expressive, still displayed a sense of pride and satisfaction, brown eyes gleaming brightly.

“Never a dull year with that one. We absolutely love how riveting the Thirteenth District can be every year,” Redcliff commented over the footage of the 13th District's Tributes smiling widely and waving enthusiastically to the cameras.

The following broadcast of the reaping for the 12th District could not have played out in a more opposite manner, the contrast between each event so jarring, Lauren was sure she'd received whiplash. As opposed to the 13th District, the footage of the 12th District was wholly bleak and solemn, lacking in the enthusiasm and smiles that had been present in the previous District's footage. Instead, in the current scene, were the petrified faces of the young Tributes whose names were unfortunate enough to be chosen from the bowls, the male Tribute’s face covered in tears and sweat, his face a bloated red as he continued to weep, the features of the female Tribute not at all dissimilar to her District partner's, her face a mirror of the boy's. The sounds of their cries continued on before the scene cut to the next District.

The 11th District.

Lauren groaned at the clip of her face being shown on the television screen as she heard her name from Lady Arthingham's mouth once more, the cameras clearly having captured the footage of her eyes widening and her body’s stiff motions as she hesitantly walked towards the stage. Now in the living area, Lauren hid her face behind her hands, fingers blocking her eyes to shield her view of the events on the screen. She didn’t need to see it play out on the television to know what had happened; the memory of it all still lingered in her mind like a never ending movie.

“Hm. Maybe I should've worn something brighter,” she heard Kieran mumble as the clip of his declaration to become the volunteer was broadcast, the smile on his face somehow audible. Of course that was his biggest concern, she thought to herself, eyes rolling towards the ceiling.

“That was definitely one of the most exciting reapings we've had in a while from the Eleventh District,” Viscount Redcliff commented as their District's reaping came to a close. “It’s not often that they get a volunteer for the Games, and I feel like I can speak for the whole Capitol when I say that we are absolutely thrilled to see what their Tributes will bring to the table this year.”

Lauren could feel her breakfast begin to climb up her throat in response to his commentary, the urge to vomit visceral. But she forced herself to swallow the contents, refusing to let herself be sick over some empty words that Redcliff was probably scripted to read.

The rest of the reapings for the 10th District to the 7th District all played out similarly enough to that of the 12th District. The terror and anxiety written on all the Tributes’ faces were clear as day as the Lauren was forced to continue watching the previous day’s events. Her heart lurched for the young twelve year-olds whose names were called with no one brave enough to take their places, the sickening feeling in her stomach growing stronger and stronger.

“Then of course, there’s the Sixth District,” Redcliff announced as the screen cut to the following reaping.

Within her peripheral vision, Lauren’s eye caught the sudden shift in Kieran’s posture as he sat forward in his seat, the laidback air about him now vanished, replaced with the solemn concentration he was displaying, his eyes focused on the events playing out before them.

“Your home District, isn’t it, Kieran?” March asked, looking towards him.

“Yeah…” Kieran’s response was almost a whisper.

Home District? Lauren wondered, her brows knitting in confusion, eyes staring intently at Kieran White. She opened her mouth to ask for a clarification, but as the 6th District’s Capitol escort declared the names of his Tributes who had volunteered, her attention was forced back to the screen as the faces of her competitors were presented.

“Give it up for Beatrice Blakesley and Tim Sake,” the 6th District’s escort had announced. Blakesley appeared to be a young woman about Lauren’s age if not younger, a set of dirty blonde hair curled over her shoulders, a pair of green emeralds for eyes, and a sharp grin on her face. Her District partner smirked proudly beside her, his arms crossed over his chest, the daunting scar on the right side of his face an impossible feature to forget. Beneath the raw disfigurement was his right eye, its iris a pale grey compared to the black of his left.

Casting a quick side glance back at Kieran’s direction, Lauren wondered with mild curiosity if he would have been the one on that stage instead of Tim Sake, if his demeanor would still be oozing with the charisma she’d become so accustomed to in the past day. She wondered furthermore why he’d waited until his final year of eligibility in a District that wasn’t even apparently his real home to finally volunteer for the Games.

Well, if it’s for the money, she told herself, maybe living in the richest District after winning the Games sounded the most appealing.

Still, it left behind the unanswered questions she now had roaming in her head. Thinking back on it, he’d only first appeared around the area of the 11th District just about a year ago. Before that, there was no sight or mention of him whatsoever, not even at any of the past reapings where she was certain she would have caught sight of him at least once. Was that around the time he made his move to the 11th? How did he end up in the 11th District, anyways? And why choose to represent a District that had money and wealth, instead of the District that desperately needed the winnings more? There was Greychapel, sure, but compared to the poverty-stricken land of the 6th District, Greychapel’s issues were nothing compared to what those in the 6th experienced each day.

You do realize the money also goes to the rest of the District, right? His words from the train echoed through her mind. The Capitol sends the District a whole year’s worth of food and other nice things for the winners. If that was truly one of his reasons for being at the Games, then it was starting to become a little less sound to her.

Lost in her thoughts, Lauren hadn’t even realized she’d missed both the reapings for the 4th and 5th Districts. Now on the screen was the broadcast of the 3rd District as the scene of their Capitol escort opening the piece of paper came into view, the name for the female Tribute now being called.

“Kym Ladell,” the escort's voice rang out. The camera cut to a sprightly young girl, her dark blue, pixie-cut hair flying in every direction beneath a cap, a pair of round sunglasses resting on her face. She skipped forward from the crowd and up the steps of the stage, the toothy grin she flashed the cameras showcasing her youth and innocence. If she was bothered in any way at her name being announced, she showed no indication of it.

When the escort called forth for any volunteers, Lauren half-expected a mob to come forward and replace the girl just as it did for the 13th and 6th Districts. After all, the 3rd was another Career District much like them, and volunteering was the norm for those three areas of the country. Yet, to Lauren's surprise not a single one came forward.

Her shock must have been transparent on her face because March turned to her saying, “You’ll probably want to keep an eye out for that one. I highly doubt there isn’t a reason as to why no one volunteered to take her place.”

“What do you mean?” Lauren asked.

“For the Thirteenth and Sixth, their volunteers are those who crave the glory of being in the Games. For the Third, their volunteers are those who have trained almost their whole lives to try and win the prizes just to help support their District. Usually, the District will come together to decide who they want to volunteer for the Games on their behalf. If there’s a reason as to why no one is taking her place—”

“—then it’s because she’s already the best they’ve got,” Lauren realized.

March nodded. “Don’t underestimate that one, that’s for sure.”

“Ladell…” Kieran spoke up, curiosity in his voice. “That’s a familiar name.”

“Her sister, Daena Ladell, was a Tribute in the Games about five years ago,” March answered. “She was one of the last few remaining in the arena before a tsunami hit, drowning her and most of the Tributes. I think the female Tribute from the Thirteenth won that year.”

“Makes sense,” Kieran said. “It’d be surprising if the Tribute from the fishing District didn’t know how to swim.”

The 3rd District’s reaping continued on to the calling for the male Tribute’s name, and when the escort called for volunteers once more, one did come forward to take the place of the boy whose name had been called. The volunteer appeared from the middle of the crowd and strode with heavy confidence towards the Justice Building. But before the volunteer could close the final five steps to the edge of the stage, as he was close to sealing his fate, another boy had come forward in that moment, blocking his path.

“I volunteer! I volunteer!” the second boy declared as he ran up the steps of the stage, and towards the microphone. With that one act, he'd become the official male Tribute of the 3rd District, effectively taking the role for himself.

There was an uneasy murmur amongst the crowd that served as the response to the events transpiring, surprise ringing all around. It appeared quite clear in that instance that the newcomer was not meant to have been Tribute at all, that he was not the very person his home had expected to represent and fight for them in the Scythe Games. And Lauren understood why.

Compared to the rightful volunteer, the newcomer had a much more unassuming and oddly fragile air about him. Though tall, his physique was much lankier and slimmer than the more muscular boy he had stolen the role of Tribute from. The honey colored hair cropped on his head and his large eyes set against his round, freckle-dusted face gave him an appearance of someone attempting a guise that didn’t fit his true nature. 

In the end, it had been the blue-haired girl and freckled boy that were granted the roles of Tribute for their District. “Kym Ladell and Harvey Wood,” the 3rd District’s escort announced officially.

As the recap for the reapings wrapped up at the end of the 2nd District’s Tributes being declared, the faces of every Tribute appeared once again on the screen.

“And there you have it, folks,” the voice of the Games’ host resounded again. “The twenty-four Tributes for the twentieth Scythe Games. How so, very exciting! We’ll catch you back here tomorrow for the live broadcast of the Tribute Parade for the Opening Ceremonies at eight P.M. sharp! Until then, Ardhalis today, Ardhalis tomorrow, Ardhalis forever. Have a good night!”

As the video ended, leaving only the still photos of the Tributes on the screen, March began to speak about their plan and schedule for the evening and for the next few days. Lauren half-listened, catching onto some of his words as she skimmed the pictures of each of her competitors with keen eyes: the boy with the scarred face, the freckled boy whose own District hadn’t expected him to be their champion, the small, blue-haired girl whose abilities Lauren knew she needed to be wary of, and the pink-haired girl with her lively yet unnerving grin. Lauren wondered vaguely which of them would be the one to end her life when the Games finally came around, already knowing that she probably didn’t stand a chance against any of them.

Chapter Text

This was torture, he was sure of it. 

Kieran winced as the metal of the tweezers pulled not one but four strands of brow hair from right above his eyelids, his nerves tingling at each strand being removed at the roots. For the past two hours, Kieran had been laying as still as his body would allow him on the cold surface of the table, body pressed flat against it, as his prep team worked aimlessly to pluck at every little rogue hair on his brows, scrubbing whatever rough concoction they had created against his skin, face shaved clean and smooth, his nails trimmed and filed to a shallow length. There was a part of him that had thought he would actually enjoy all the pampering and grooming—it wasn't exactly a privilege he had around growing up—but that appeared to be a false notion. Did Capitol people actually enjoy going through this?

His eyes wandered around the room in an effort to distract himself from the discomfort, eyes skimming over different products and bottles on the shelves hung against the wall, devices he knew not the names of nor did he understand their functions lined the counter surfaces, the tray on wheels by his table cluttered with creams and oils he could hardly make out the names of. 

He and Lauren had been sent hours ago to the Remake Center to prepare for the upcoming Opening Ceremony that was to take place this coming evening, costumes to be fitted over them, faces and probably bodies caked with whatever products and colors their stylists would think suited the occasion. He could only hope the evening was drawing closer to end his current sufferings.

“Your jaw is so sharp and cheekbones so high,” one of his stylists commented, the nail of her pinky finger stroking his face, the metallic tweezer held between her thumb and forefinger. “Are they natural?”

Kieran blinked in response, her face currently upside down from where she stood above him, wondering if she was being sarcastic or rhetorical. It seemed obvious that the features on his face would all be natural much like everything on his body was. But upon tilting his head up to see her green-tinted skin, pieces of what looked like scales embedded permanently into her arms and neck, hair bleached and dyed to a pale pink, he understood. The people of the Capitol were far more accustomed to having work done on their faces and bodies than not at all. In fact, most of the people from this city he'd encountered all seemed to have some kind of cosmetic procedure done no matter how small or imperceptible. Even his Capitol escort had permanently tattooed makeup on her face, her lashes extending towards the heavens; Neyra Darcy, though simplistic, had an unnatural glow to her skin, her brown complexion always shimmering in the light.

He flashed the stylist a bright smile as a response, his newly whitened teeth shining her way. “It is. Thank you for noticing.”

A pink tint rose underneath the green skin, and the stylist looked away, her hand against her cheek, a slight giggle escaping her lips. Kieran took that as a good sign. If he could charm her, then perhaps all the effort he’d put into his antics with the cameras and paparazzi may have all been for something.

“Are you really always this delightful?” she asked back, her voluminous lashes fluttering.

“Only when I’m around pretty girls like you,” Kieran said, not skipping a beat, sending a flirtatious wink her way.

The pink tint rose even brighter on the beguiled stylist's cheeks, and she giggled girlishly at his words.

“Stop flirting with the Tribute, Eurydice,” the other stylist—presently seated at the other end of the table doing God knew what with Kieran’s feet—chided his partner, throwing a narrowed, pointed look at her. “We need to have him ready before Lila comes in, so stop wasting time.”

“Shut up. I wasn’t flirting,” the girl apparently named Eurydice retorted, her blush growing. “I was just... being nice.”

The male stylist scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I was! Besides,” her eyes scanned down Kieran's bare torso, stopping just above his navel where a white towel was wrapped loosely around his hips—her lingering gaze over his skin leaving behind a burning sensation into his flesh—before she added, “we don't get Tributes this good looking often.” Then, averting her eyes from Kieran's, she muttered underneath her breath, “Shame they'll probably slaughter him in the arena.”

The male stylist hummed in thought, his hands occupied with scrubbing a tool at Kieran's heel. “Hm, I'm sure Lila wouldn't have minded working with the other guy whose name was actually called.” A sly smile crept onto his face, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Oh, that one?” The green-skinned stylist's lips flattened into an unimpressed line, eyes rolling. “Eh. What was his name again? Something with an L, I think.” She tapped her forefinger to her chin, her tongue at the roof of her mouth as she forced her memory to process the name.

“Lukas Randall?” Kieran offered.

“Yes, that's it! Lila was absolutely taken with him when she watched the reaping,” his female stylist giggled. “I don't know why, really. He's got nothing on you,” she winked down at him. “I thought he was just okay looking, right, Orpheus?”

The male stylist—Orpheus—shrugged his shoulders, his focus maintained primarily on the work before him. “Don't let Lila overhear that. I think a part of her is actually disappointed he's not the Tribute that's here today.”

Kieran frowned. “Well, that's comforting,” he murmured half-heartedly.

“Oh, don't you worry,” Eurydice said, turning her attention down to her Tribute. “Lila is the sweetest thing in this whole city. She'll absolutely love you just as much.”

“Maybe not as much as the city will if you win,” Orpheus remarked. “The Capitol won't have a hard time putting you to good use after the Games, at least. I'm sure there'll be dozens who would love to pay for just one night with you in their beds.”

Kieran's skin bristled at his stylist's words,  the implication of it registering into his head, understanding dawning over him. His stomach churned at the meaning. His brows met in consternation, the hushed tones of overheard gossips from weeks ago entering his mind, his role as the archivist providing him the perfect camouflage in a town brimming with information:

Have you heard what happened with the Tenth District's Victor's kin? Taken and executed right from their homes. Guess the Capitol finally got fed up with her not complying with their… erm… requests.

Sounds like what happened with our very own Victor here at the Eleventh. Poor Oliver. It's a bit sick, right? The Capitol forcing Victors to whore themselves, I mean, and then taking them or their families if they don’t.

Doesn't seem like they have much of a choice. Not if it means losing family or your life as a result of their defiance.

Eurydice looked up at her partner, a finger to her lips. “Sshhh,” she whispered. “We're not supposed to talk about that.”

Orpheus shrugged his shoulders again. “You said it yourself. He'll probably get slaughtered in the arena anyways, so it probably won't even matter to him.”

I'm right here. I can hear what you're saying, Kieran almost voiced, only for the throbbing in his temples advising him against it.

He’d already expected to give himself to the rebellion’s cause and, by default, he’d known he’d lose more of himself—his free will—to the Capitol, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this of all things. His thoughts trailed back to the 10th District’s Victor, a young woman barely in her 20’s, sweet and attractive, and absolutely adored by the public. Each year, television stations would cover all her licentious affairs with Capitol celebrities and even politicians of all genders, young to old, her romantic endeavours always in the public eye. It seemed, though, those endeavours and affairs were anything but romantic or consensual. Now, here she would be at the Games, acting as a mentor to her Tributes, pretending to be the salacious lover that the Capitol had painted the image of her, all the while needing to suppress the grief she was undoubtedly experiencing at the loss of her loved ones by the Capitol’s hands.

Would that be his life after the Games, too? He’d already begun sculpting that picture of the alluring boy from the 11th District. It would only be a matter of time before the Capitol took advantage of what he was already feeding them, and used his image however they wished.

He pondered curiously at whether or not the rebellion would have aided him in ensuring he wouldn’t meet that kind of fate, if they cared enough to keep him from living in that kind of cruelty in exchange for his own sacrifices. 

He had his doubts.

Being the rebellion's champion did little to ease his mind for what his future would be should he be victorious in the Games, and it helped even less knowing that winning the Games would only be one step into whatever plan the rebellion had for him, not the end—a plan he himself had little to no further knowledge about.

The less you know, the better, they’d told him. He hadn’t fought those words, knew there would have been no point. Kieran was conscious enough of the fact that should anything go wrong, should he go down for any mistake and be taken into custody by the Capitol, the rebellion could at least rest peacefully knowing that their secrets were safe, for they were never with him.

Still, that didn’t stop the curiosities of what his future would be if he managed to stay alive for the next coming weeks should he be the Victor of the 20th Scythe Games. In any normal circumstance, he would be the new mentor alongside Oliver March, guiding the future Tributes of the 11th District for the future Games, returning to the Capitol every year for every Scythe Game for as long as they existed. That much would be inescapable. The point of the Games, after all, was to act as a reminder of the wrongs the people had committed decades ago against the country. And what better cherry-on-top to the dreaded reminders than to include the fact that even the strongest amongst them—the Victors—still held no power against the Capitol, that they were perpetually bound to the Capitol’s desires and the Games?

That’s why the rebellion has been so desperate for a champion, Kieran reminded himself. To prove the Capitol wrong.

He could only hope that his appearances for the Capitol would stop there, going no further than the expected mentorship or the idolized icon that Victors were so often venerated as. He refused to allow himself to imagine what he would do in a similar situation as the Victors already living through the illicit ventures thrusted upon them against their will.

For once in his life, Kieran was thankful he had no one else left, no one for the Capitol to use as leverage against him, no one they could use to hurt him.

***

When his prep team had finished wrapping up their final touches, his body groomed to the standards of beauty the Capitol possessed, and Eurydice and Orpheus had exited the space leaving only Kieran behind, a head of strawberry blonde curls appeared behind the open doorway not a moment later, an excited glint in the owner’s honey-colored eyes.

Kieran wrapped the robe he now donned tighter around his body as he jumped off the table with careless grace, his hand extended out to the new visitor who he assumed to be his stylist.

“You must be the lovely Lila Desroses,” Kieran greeted, taking Lila’s hand in his and giving the back of it a chaste kiss. Lila was a petite young lady, almost a whole foot smaller than he was even with the heels she wore on her feet. With her glowing porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, and tinted round lips, her frilly dress covered with bows and ribbons, her soft curls bouncing elegantly with every motion of her head, Kieran likened her appearance to that of a china doll—which he was certain was the sort of appearance she had intended to mimic.

Lila beamed, an amused twinkle in her eye. “Eurydice was right, you are quite the flirt,” she responded, retrieving her hand and cupping it to her cheek.

Kieran chuckled. “Guilty.”

“If you’re hoping you can flirt with the whole Capitol to gain more sponsorships, you can stop here. Stylists aren’t even allowed to bet on Tributes.”

Kieran gave her a wide, coy grin. “I wonder if you’d be saying that exact same thing if it were Lukas Randall here instead of me.”

Lila’s eyes widened, the existing pink tint on her cheeks becoming redder. “Wha—Um—of course—I—” A loud exhale of breath escaped her. “Oh, those two…” she mumbled under her breath.

A resounding laugh emitted from Kieran, evidently amused by his stylist’s embarrassed demeanor. “I apologize,” he said. “I think your assistants may have let a few things slip about your… erm… feelings… towards a certain would-be Tribute.”

Lila sighed. “Unfortunately, my assistants have a habit of letting their mouths run.”

“Hm. Yes, I’ve noticed,” Kieran responded, lips pursed, the conversation from moments ago re-entering his mind. He shook away the prep team’s words, placing his focus back on the girl before him. “So, what color are you painting me today? Silver? Gold? Bronze?”

“Oh, no. We’re not doing that this year,” Lady Desroses tittered. “Neyra has something a little more tasteful planned out. Please, this way,” she directed, her hand gesturing back to the door she had just entered, the sitting room waiting just beyond the threshold. “Neyra has been working on your costumes for the parade since last night here, and I’m so thrilled for you to finally see them for yourself. I'm sure the Eleventh will be the most memorable and talked about District tonight and tomorrow,” Lila continued as they made themselves more comfortable around the seats that surrounded the bright room. The orange hue of the sky streaming from the glass floor-to-ceiling window told them both it was nearing late into the afternoon. The colors of the sunset bounced off the white of the walls while the shadows of the furniture slanted along the surfaces around them.

A set of warm bowls of food—Where was there not food in the Capitol, Kieran thought, unnerved by the never ending amount of nourishment everywhere he went—china cups filled with steaming water, and compressed blocks of tea on small plates sat on the coffee table awaiting to be consumed.

Sitting back on one of the red sofas across from Lila Desroses. Kieran pressed his chin between his finger and thumb, and eyed his stylist curiously. “Okay, I’m intrigued. Do continue.”

Lila reached for a cup of tea and began to stir the small spoon inside, her expression seemingly lost in thought for a small second. “‘A diamond in the rough’,” Kieran heard her mumble.

“Pardon?”

“You’re originally from the Sixth, correct?” Lila asked, looking up at him from her tea cup.

“I… Yes, I am,” Kieran answered, taken aback by the question. His mentor knowing where he came from was one thing. Having someone from the Capitol know of his origins was another; a fleeting sense of panic coursed through him, unsure of where she was leading with the inquiries.

Lila continued on, his momentary anxiety going unnoticed by her: “And the Sixth is known for mining coal and the Eleventh known for making fine jewelry like diamonds, correct?”

Kieran nodded.

“And where do diamonds come from?” she asked.

“From… coal.” Kieran smirked, comprehension finally settling in. “So what?” he asked, a teasing sound to his voice. “Are you planning to put me under high levels of heat and pressure in the hopes I come out like a diamond?”

“No,” Lila replied. “We’re going to turn you into royalty.”

***

His costume—if one could even call it that—was stunningly simple and simply stunning.

Kieran turned in different angles to get a better view in the full length mirror of the suit Lila had dressed him in, the color as dark as an abyss, absorbing any light that hit the soft fabric. The round crystal buttons that trailed in pairs down his torso shone like a series of moons reflecting on a dim ocean under an inky sky. The long, black capelet, with its padded shoulders gave him the appearance of a broader yet lean man, the hem skimming just above his ankles, his arms slipped through the vertical opening along the seams at the front. Gleaming black vertical beads strung together of varying lengths were woven into the capelet, the appliques scattered throughout areas of the front and back of the overgarment, their shapes on the fabric reminiscent of rain spilling to the Earth in the night. With his hair tied in the back in a low ponytail, a thin, circular crown of gold sat around his head—the jagged, yellow halo on his dark hair like the rising sun glowing to vanish the darkness in its wake.

Lila circled around him, a finger to her lips as she scrutinized every detail about him and his costume. “It’s missing a little something,” she murmured. 

Her eyes scanned about the room as if in search of something he couldn’t see. Her eyes landed on the crystal vase sitting on top of a corner table, the contents of which were filled with the royal flowers—purple hyacinths. 

“That’s it!” she cried out. Grabbing one of the flowers, she snipped a portion of the stem, and pinned it to the front of the capelet, just above his heart. “Perfect,” she said.

Kieran took one last glance at his reflection, nodding in agreement, the purple flower adding just the right touch of color to the deep foreground.

“So where does the diamond part come in?” Kieran asked, turning his head to his stylist.

“You’ll see,” she grinned, her excitement almost palpable as she teetered with glee. “Neyra will explain it once we reconvene with her and your District partner.”

Oh, right. His District partner. A part of him had been so distracted with his prep team and stylist that he’d almost forgotten about Lauren Sinclair. He hadn’t spoken to his temperamental fellow Tribute since his debacle with her the previous day on the train ride to the city. He’d hardly given her so much as a glance, had refused to speak to her directly, had, in essence, simply avoided her when he could. Being around her seemed to conjure up a series of mixed emotions like a swirling pool of anger, uncertainty, and, above it all, confusion; confusion as to why, despite knowing how she truly felt about him, he was still somehow eager to help keep her alive when the Games came, confused as to why he was still willing to continue considering the absurd proposal her uncle had made for her life.

Maybe because you care about her, his subconscious remarked. 

He told his subconscious to shut up.

Smoothing his hands over the front of his body, he responded to Lila, “I look forward to it.”

Lila smiled appreciatively. “Ready to go then?” she asked. 

Kieran nodded, taking a quick deep breath. “Ready when you are.”

With that, the pair exited the room, the elevator awaiting them just outside the doors, and beyond that, the entire Capitol.

Lauren could feel the eyes of the other Tributes on her. Filling the space on the ground floor of the Remake Center—the starting point of the parade—were the pairs of Tributes and their respective designated chariots, the horses already attached to the vehicles, everyone lined up in order of descending District numbers, the large doors that would lead them out to Nightingale Park for the parade up in front of them. As a member of the 11th District, Lauren stood third from the front, just behind the 12th and 13th Districts’ chariots.

She shifted from one foot to the other, attempting to push the burning gazes away from the back of her neck, her senses tingling at the attention. She patted at the crown of braids that encircled around her head, pinned tightly to her scalp, a gold tiara tucked in between her locks of red hair, before her hands shifted to the skirt of the ball gown that made up her parade costume.

“You look fine,” Neyra commented beside her, sensing her unease.

“They’re all looking at me,” Lauren responded, a hand to the back of her neck.

Neyra offered a warm smile. “As they should,” she told her with confidence, though the compliment seemed to be directed more towards Neyra herself rather than to Lauren. “I think I did a pretty decent job for my first ever design as a stylist.”

Lauren snickered at Darcy’s self-praise, but agreed nonetheless. The dress Lady Darcy had created for tonight’s occasion was well deserving of such acclaim for it wasn't just a beautiful piece of work. It was exquisite. The elegant, black ball gown she currently wore truly did achieve the intended idea of mimicking the look of a princess—No. A queen. A queen of the night.

Your District has close ties to the Capitol and royals, right? Neyra had asked when she presented the dress to Lauren. Since that's part of your culture, I wanted to include that with these costumes.

It would be adequate to say Neyra Elena Darcy accomplished just that.

The black gemstones that dotted the surface of the bodice sparkled in a multitude of black stars and constellations against the dark expanse of the galaxy that was the black of the dress. The stones twinkled and trailed downwards into the skirt—layers upon layers of taffeta, tulle, and silk—the appliques raining down and scattering into nearly every space it could fill. If her dress was the vast universe, then her hair and crown were the sun lit aflame against the darkness, the centerpiece of the solar system in which all revolved around.

But why pure black? Wouldn’t it be difficult to see in the dark at night? Lauren had asked her.

Neyra had only winked in response, saying, You'll see.

Lauren's eyes scanned around the vicinity, taking in the costumes and attire of the other Districts. It was plain to see that despite the talents of the other stylists, their efforts were incomparable to what the 11th District had to offer. 

There were the 10th District’s Tributes only a few feet behind her, their garments making them seem like a desecrated Roman canvas—plates of armor cascaded down the body of the female, while the male was left bare at the torso, the armor apparent only from his waist down, a red cape flowing down his back, tied at his neck; the galea helmets slipped on their heads contoured and masked their faces, defeating the purpose of making the Tributes’ faces distinguishable. Though effective at showcasing the District’s industry for masonry, it failed to allow the Tributes themselves to shine forth. On her other side, another few feet away, were the Tributes from the 12th District—the District of transportation—dressed in gaudy blocks like pieces of a dismantled train that were clipped onto the Tributes’ shoulders, head, and thighs, the male Tribute’s legs wrapped in rings of small rubber tires, the female Tribute in a black unitard with broken yellow lines going down from her neck to her navel mirroring that of a city street.

Further down from the 12th District, Lauren could make out the female Tribute of the 13th District dressed appropriately like a serene siren, the aquatic motif fitting for the Tribute of the fishing District. Hanging from the girl’s waist was the kaleidoscopic stream of colors of teals and blues that made up the skirt, the waves of color like light dancing on the surface of the ocean as you stared up from the bottom of the sea. Against her chest were two simple shell-shaped ornaments meant to keep her breasts from being exposed, leaving the rest of her abdomen and back completely revealed. Strings of pearls wrapped around in tiers of white beads around her slim neck, her pink hair styled in loose waves, her locks flowing gently in the breeze. The girl was an image ripped from the pages of a fairytale book.

Lauren looked up from the girl’s attire, her gaze meeting Belladonna’s face, the other girl's expression anything but the graceful character she was meant to embody. With a narrowed glare her way, eyes as sharp as daggers and as venomous as a snake’s bite, her pink brows meeting in the middle, a snarl on her lips, Belladonna appeared as menacing as a shark rather than a delicate mermaid. 

Lauren's own face was quick to contort to a similar expression, a quip almost on her tongue before the movement beside her made her pause. From the corner of her eye, Lauren watched as Neyra raised her hand in greeting, her fingers wiggling as if waving to Belladonna, her violet eyes fixed on the pair of narrowed orange irises feet away from her. 

Belladonna wasn't staring at her, Lauren realized, but at Darcy. Neyra's lips tilted into a smirk at the upset girl, clearly unbothered by the frustration she was conveying.

“Please, excuse me,” Lauren's stylist said to her, patting her on the arm, before she strolled down towards the front of the line of chariots in the direction of the 13th District.

Lauren hadn't even had the opportunity to respond before Neyra was gone from her side.

What was that about? Lauren wondered, now momentarily on her own. Her mentor was currently doing business elsewhere, her stylist’s attention was occupied with someone else, and her own District partner was still absent—not that she was looking forward to his presence anyhow.

Lauren stood around, ears perked at the various conversations occurring around her, all the while keeping her distance from everyone else, resigning to keep herself glued by her chariot.

She could almost hear Oliver March's firm and commanding voice ringing in her head, disapproval evident at her lack of social interactions,  his words reprimanding her: “You need to make allies, not enemies, Ren.” 

Lauren released a huff of breath. That was easier said than done.

She pushed March's voice aside, choosing to tune into the surrounding noises around her: the murmured words between Tributes and mentors, the horses neighing by the chariots, their reins clanking against the metal, the cheers of the Capitol outside as the people awaited their presence in Nightingale Park, and… an odd crunching sound somewhere behind her?

The crunching permeated her hearing, her attention on it making the sound grow louder and louder in her ears. 

Crunch. Crunch… Crunch!

What is that? Lauren wondered, moving around the space by her chariot, trying to follow the trail of crunches, the nerve in her head almost popping with every beat of the sound.

“What the—” Lauren stopped mid-movement, peering deadpan at the girl crouching—or rather hiding—within the shadows of the 11th District’s chariot, the set of familiar blue hair tucked hidden underneath a straw hat, her mouth mid-bite into… a watermelon slice? Where did she even get that?

The culprit looked up, their eyes meeting for an instant.

“Ahhh! What are you doing here?” the other Tribute cried out.

“Says the person hiding behind my chariot!”

The other girl looked around quizzically, as if realizing her location for the first time, eyes blinking in confusion. “Huh. Oh, right,” she laughed. “Sorry about that.” Beaming, she jumped up from her spot like an uncoiled spring, hand saluting to her head, the hat on her head nearly flying off at the motion. “I’m Kym Ladell, by the way. Third District.”

Lauren raised a brow, responding, “Lauren Sinclair. Eleventh District.” She swiveled her head around, trying to understand the current scene before her. “So, uh, care to explain why you’re over here instead of over there?” she asked, thumb pointing behind her towards the back of the line. “Hiding away from trouble?”

“Always!” Kym grinned. “Except I’m hiding from my stylist this time. She’s been trying to find me so she can put makeup on my face, so I bolted,” she shuddered. Then with a pout on her face, eyes pointed to the side, she said: “I tried to convince her she should’ve dressed me up as a watermelon for the parade this year—it’s what my family grows back home—but she just brushed me off, and put me in this dumb farmer’s overalls they’ve been dressing us up in for, like, the past five years.”

Lauren chuckled—an actual laugh resounding from her, clear and melodic—genuine amusement flooding through her. “I don’t think a giant, human-sized watermelon would have fit into these tiny chariots anyways.”

Kym scoffed, her arms crossed above her abdomen. “That’s what Harvey also said,” she muttered. “Sooo… Mind not alerting them yet that I’m here?”

Lauren shrugged. “Sure. You do you. I’m sure they’ll find you sooner or later anyways.”

“Hopefully later!” Kym snickered.

With Kym Ladell keeping her company for the time being, the two found themselves falling into easy conversation, laughing in between stories, Lauren’s own worries from the past day escaping her mind even if just temporarily. It almost seemed impossible not to get along with Kym Ladell. Her energetic personality was infectious, and Lauren certainly appreciated the placid peace Kym Ladell unknowingly brought with her. For a moment—just for one short moment—it made Lauren forget the reason they were in the Capitol to begin with, forgetting the possibility that, in just a few short days, they would be forced to meet in the arena, possibly fighting to the death against one another. Lauren hoped, against all odds, it wouldn’t have to come to that.

The chime of the elevator arriving on their floor, and the creaking sound of its doors sliding open, drew both their attention towards the back, a pair of shadows rounding the corner from where the elevators were located, their outlines coming into better view as they entered into the space by the rest of the Tributes.

A long whistle resounded from Kym, her hand coming up to fan her face. “Wow. Who’s the hottie?” she swooned.

Lauren’s face fell into a grimace as she turned her attention to where Kym’s eyes were watching, her own bottom lip between her teeth as the two figures approached closer to them. Kieran White and a petite woman, who Lauren presumed to be his stylist and Neyra’s assistant, strolled leisurely in the direction of where Lauren stood. His pace slowed as he drew closer, until he was barely a few feet away from her, his eyes meeting her face for a fraction of a moment, the first time in over 24 hours that he’d acknowledged her existence. His lips parted, like a comment wanting to be said, only for the words to fail to come out. His lips closing in a tight line instead as he averted his gaze aside.

“You look lovely, Lauren,” his stylist commented, her elbow tapping against Kieran’s ribs, eyes darting between him and Lauren.

Lauren smiled politely at her, muttering a thank you, before Lila Desroses—after introducing herself to Lauren—excused herself to seek out Oliver March.

“Hi, I’m Kym Ladell,” Kym greeted, breezing in between Lauren and Kieran. Her eyes sparkled more than the glint of the light on their crowns as she leaned forward towards the man in front of her, the back of her hand extended out to him.

“Kieran White,” Kieran responded, taking her hand, a warm smile on his face as he pressed a soft kiss to the back. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ladell.”

Lauren groaned inaudibly. Not you, too, Kym!

“Oh, no, the pleasure is all mine, Mister White,” Kym replied, the pitch of her voice growing higher. “And please, call me Kym. We really must get more acquainted some time, don’t you think?”

Kieran chuckled, lips trembling at the corners. “If time permits it, I would love to.” It was almost imperceptible, but Lauren could have sworn she saw his eyes flash with distress at her as he spoke, just briefly.

“Ahh, Lauren,” Kym sighed, the hand Kieran kissed fanning her face, her other arm wrapping around Lauren's shoulders. “You’re so lucky to have this handsome man for your District partner.”

Lauren snorted, her eye twitching. Not how I'd put it, she silently retorted.

“Okay, Kym,” she said aloud, removing herself from Kym’s hold. “I think it’s time you started heading back to your place now. Looks like even your own District partner is looking for you.” She tilted her head in the direction of Harvey Wood who had been wandering around the area, asking the others near him if they'd seen signs of his fellow District mate.

Kym’s eyes softened, her lips thinning into a downwards line, a dejected look appearing on her face as her gaze traveled to Harvey. 

“Oh, Harvey...” she mumbled. “He’s not supposed to be here, you know. It… it wasn't supposed to be him.” She sighed, shaking her head in the same way a mother would to a child. “Well, what can you do?” she asked aloud, though it was evident the question was for her own self.

It didn't take much longer for Harvey Wood to finally spot Kym Ladell, his arms above his head, waving towards her, frantically gesturing for her to return to their own positions.

“Well,” Kym began to say, her arm extending to return Harvey’s wave, the fleeting moment of solemnity passing. “Guess that's my cue to leave.” She turned, crashing into Lauren as she lunged her arms around her body, squeezing her so tight, Lauren could feel her soul leave her body. 

Is this what death feels like, Lauren wondered, wheezing for air to return.

“I’ll see you soon,” Kym bade. “And Kieran~” she sang, leaning her face near his. “Don’t be shy. Come stop by anytime you like. You know where to find me,” she said as she winked his way.

“Ahahaha…” Kieran cringed through his laughter. “Of course.”

Lauren watched as Kym Ladell skipped away, squeezing through the growing crowds of people, ever the lively spirit. The warm smile Lauren hadn’t realized she’d had plastered on her face faltered as realization dawned on her that she was left alone with none other than Kieran White. She glanced his way, his head turned in the other direction away from her, arms folded in front of him.

Ignoring me again. Of course, she seethed quietly.

She took a deep breath, the silence between them growing to a deafening ring. It seemed almost masochistic to think that she preferred the shared jeers and snipes between them over the lack of words and silence. Had she really struck a nerve that much with him?

She opened her mouth, lips trying to form a coherent string of words, grateful for the interruption that soon followed.

“Look at you two! You both look amazing!” Oliver March’s words rang through the space, proud and boastful. He approached his two Tributes, Lila Desroses trailing just behind him. “You and Darcy certainly did not disappoint,” he commented to the stylist.

Lila giggled behind her fingers. “Aw, thank you, Oliver.”

Lauren’s eyes fell onto Kieran’s ensemble of clothing, taking note of the full-black attire he had been dressed in, the similarities to her own theme not going unnoticed. They were matching again, she realized—the black colors, the crowns, and beaded stones strewn over their garments—but this time, she couldn’t find it in herself to be enraged by it, only mildly annoyed.

She voiced as much.

“Putting us in matching clothes, though? Seems a bit corny, don’t you think?” Lauren joked.

“Considering how over the moon the Capitol was yesterday at the sight of you two, I’d say it’s the right choice,” March responded. “No doubt, you’ll both be the jewels of tonight’s Ceremonies. Err— No pun intended. Neyra did a great job with these.”

“Where is Lady Darcy anyways?” Kieran asked. “I thought she’d be with you if not with Sinclair.”

Lauren glanced away from him as she answered, “Last I saw her, she was making her way down to the Thirteenth’s chariots. Something tells me she’s got some acquaintanceship with a certain Miss Belladonna Davenport.”

“Hm. Seems like everyone’s making friends around here,” Kieran remarked. “Even Miss Sinclair here made a new friend with the girl from the Third.” Snickering, he added, “Got quite chummy with her even.”

Lauren’s mouth gaped just the slightest at Kieran’s comment. Strange how he could have the nerve to give her the silent treatment all day, all the while easily talking about her and shifting the subject to her.

“Ren, that’s great!” March lauded. “Honestly, that’s a lot more than I could have expected from you.”

Lauren shrugged her shoulders, corners of her tinted lips tilting into a smirk. “Well, I may have been chummy with Kym Ladell, but I wasn’t the one here who was on the verge of proposing to her,” she jabbed, her face turned to Kieran, seeing his cheeks turn a soft shade of red.

“Excuse you?! If anything, she was the one about to propose to me,” he retorted, clearly aghast.

Lauren pressed her lips, a hum vibrating on them. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

“You clearly need to get your pensive eyes checked out because you’re obviously blind.”

Lauren bristled. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me.”

“How dare you—”

Their voices began to blend in various volumes, each one trying to speak above the other as their banter slowly transcended into a full blown argument.

Lila’s soft laugh cut through their words, unheard by the bickering duo. “Oh, my. You truly are a ladies’ man, aren’t you, Kieran?”

March’s head tilted side-to-side as if in consideration, lips pursed. “I’m just glad they’re talking again,” he mumbled. “Even if it’s like… this.” He gestured with his hand at the heated pair.

When March clapped his hands to get both Lauren and Kieran’s attention, strands of hair had already come undone from Lauren’s braid from pulling at her head in frustration, Kieran’s breathing had become heavy and jagged, almost like he was out of breath. Neyra Darcy had apparently returned to the group at some point, as well, not that either Lauren or Kieran had noticed, both too focused on trying to outwit each other.

They turned their heads towards March at the sound of his thunderous clapping, the ferocity in their eyes diminishing. “Alright, you two,” he said. “You can save going for each other’s throats for the arena. For now, we need to get you both ready for the parade.” He turned to Neyra, gesturing for her to come forward, taking a small step backwards as she passed him by.

In Neyra’s hand were two small remotes, one solitary button on each device, hand held out to the pair. “For you and for you,” she said, placing one remote in each of Lauren and Kieran’s palms. “When your chariot is completely out the gates—and no earlier than that—just press those. Then just watch the magic happen.”

Both Lauren and Kieran nodded at the stylist’s instructions, their bodies moving to board their chariot as the time for the Ceremonies’ start neared, hands careful not to accidentally set off their devices. March offered his hand to Lauren, assisting her with climbing up the vehicle in her weighted dress while Lila and Neyra worked to smooth out the ends of the gown. Kieran climbed in just after her, standing to her left, careful to not get too close to her despite the limited space. The round, voluminous shape of the gown allowed for a few inches of space between the two, but it also made for a tight spot within the compounds of the chariot car.

“And make sure to smile,” instructed March, looking up at the two from the ground. “Remember, you want people to like you, so don’t be afraid to show some teeth. And not in a, ‘I’m going to bite your head off’ kind of way, please.”

“Don’t worry, March. Should be simple enough,” Kieran responded, though Lauren knew that the latter half of March’s words weren’t meant for him.

After only a few moments, the enormous doors that led to Nightingale Park finally opened, the loud symphony of the music blasting from the outside permeated all sound around them in addition to the wild and hysterical cheers and roars of the citizens awaiting them in the stands that lined the edges of the park.

The horses of the 13th District trotted forward immediately at the sight of the doors opening, the cheers only growing louder as Belladonna Davenport and Harry Anslow rode into view. The 12th District soon followed in the procession only a moment later, and not long after, the horses for the 11th District stepped forward on cue, carrying with them Lauren Sinclair and Kieran White.

Lauren gripped at the railing of the car as it began to move, her heart thrumming viciously in her throat. She sucked in a deep breath, the lights of Nightingale Park blinding her eyes for just a second, as the view of the Capitol beyond the doors consumed her vision.

Kieran White could feel Lauren Sinclair tremble beside him, her gripped hands on the railing causing a slight tremor in the chariot car. He looked down at her, brows furrowed in concern, as he took in her apprehensive appearance. The same expression of hesitance and fear that consumed her the previous day, when she had boarded the train, had now returned on her face. She looked like she was going to be sick.

Without thinking, as if his hand had a mind of its own, he reached for her left hand on the edge of the rail, her knuckles a pale white as his hand covered hers. He could feel her stiffening at the contact, a tension forming in her shoulders. Believing she’d recoil, he withdrew his hand off hers instantly.

The sudden tightness around his fingers startled him, and it took him a fraction of a second to realize the cause as he looked down at his hand. Lauren’s fingers were now curled around the top of his knuckles, having released her earlier hold on the edge of the chariot.

His gaze went up to her face, eyes widening, unsure if she herself realized what she was doing, meeting only the side of her cheek as her eyes were averted away from him, a small flush coming up her neck.

His face softened. “Hey, you’re going to be okay,” he murmured to her. He lifted her hand into his so that their palms were touching, hands clasped together in a more comfortable position. He could feel her release a silent sigh, the tension from her shoulders loosening.

The gloating voice of his subconscious echoed within his skull, the words reverberating within his mind, I told you you cared about her.

He quickly silenced the voice.

“Should we press the buttons?” he heard Lauren murmur a moment later. The horses were quickly approaching past the threshold of the doors, the Tributes of the 12th District already feet ahead of them.

He nodded, taking the remote device Neyra had given him into his left hand—the one not holding Lauren Sinclair’s hand—as Lauren did the same.

“Watch the magic happen,” Neyra had said. And magic it was.

As soon as both he and his District partner pressed down on the devices, Kieran finally understood what Lila had meant with her ambiguous explanation of coal and diamonds.

The black colors of their costumes seemed to diminish like a flow of black ink spilling down into a void, like viewing past the night sky into the chromatic galaxy beyond as the pastel gradients of a brand new day emerged to take its place. Where the black colors had been were now the iridescent, glowing colors of soft blues, purples, pinks, oranges, and whites, the colors radiating as if each shade was fighting for dominance against the fabric. One moment there was a flash of pink, the next a flood of purple, then blue, and so on. The gemstones on his District partner’s gown only helped to amplify the beauty of the colors, adding a profulgent twinkle from every angle, the tips of each sparkle ranging from all shades of the spectrum. They were quite reminiscent of stars blinking against the backdrop of an astral sky, reminiscent of diamonds. Kieran looked down at his own garb, seeing the same wondrous effect glow on his own body, the shine almost blinding. The purple hyacinth Lila had pinned to his chest blended complimentary with the soft hues of his suit.

There was no doubt the audience around them were as in awe as they were, if not more, at their costume’s beauty. There were many in the stands leaning forward, trying to get a better view of their clothes, some getting up from their seats to see what it was the 11th District had done, fingers pointed in their direction. The cheers and roars grew louder, screams of hysteria resounded among the crowds. Even some of the Tributes ahead of them had turned their heads to see what it was the audience was so dazzled by.

Kieran raised his left hand, waving and smiling to the crowd, catching small glimpses of himself on the screens that were poised around the park, his face attempting to mirror the excitement of the audience. His glance returned to Lauren Sinclair, her hand still within his, her face completely blank and unamused as her initial awe faded, her eyes pointed forward with the exception of a few lame waves of her free hand here and there, the undeniable electricity radiating from the excitement around them futile on her.

He knew she must abhor this, knew she must be petrified and infuriated, and he understood that, understood how she felt. Oliver March had told them to smile before they trotted off into the streets of the Capitol, but Kieran couldn’t ask that of her. She had every right to feel the way she did, and being surrounded by those who were eager to watch them die certainly did little to aid her feelings.

But still, Kieran continued on with his own motions—catching roses thrown their way, returning air kisses to the crowd—the same way he’d done since the reaping, wondering vaguely how they must look posed against one another, one so visibly overjoyed on the surface, the other a miserable, colorful shadow.

The procession continued on its straight path, the larger space of the Royal Circle nearing ahead of them, the towering structure of the castle growing larger and larger with every stride forward. Entering the opening, the horses began to loop around the Circle, the wealthy onlookers from the surrounding manors coming into view in every window and balcony as they watched the show from the comfort of their own homes. The horses slowed to a halt, one after the other, until all pairs of Tributes were facing the gleaming wall of the royal castle, white walls shimmering in the spotlights directed on the building. As the final chariot came to its stop, the climactic crescendo of strings, percussions, and brass reverberated against the walls, the symphony concluding with a flourish.

A bright light flickered on from the balcony of the royal castle, a podium and microphone set front and center by the edge of the concrete rails. The four figures that occupied the space came into clearer view, the spotlights landing on the veranda drew all eyes to them.

The first figure came forward to the podium—a lean, middle-aged man, a goatee around his mouth and chin, the tuft of brown hair by his forehead moving ever so slightly in the summer breeze, deep green eyes staring out into the crowd. A red cape flowed from his shoulders, his jacket coated with a series of different medals pinned to the fronts by the lapels. Kieran couldn’t be certain, but he could have sworn there was a flicker of anguish in his green eyes as they landed on the 11th District’s chariot before they darted away. The man started with the same, old welcome he gave every year to the country before veering off into other matters regarding this year’s Games.

Kieran winced at the sudden pain in his hand as a strong pressure clutched tighter onto it, squeezing hard. He’d nearly forgotten that his hand was still holding onto Sinclair’s, their fingers somehow having interlocked without his noticing during the procession. Lauren’s breath hitched at the appearance of the figure now speaking at the balcony, his words resounding around the Circle and throughout the park. Lauren’s body began to tremble just the slightest, teeth gritting, jaw tightening.

Kieran eyed her curiously, and she turned her head to meet his gaze.

“He’s my godfather,” she whispered.

His brows shot up towards his hairline, lips forming a small ‘O’. He turned his attention to the speaker, their Head Gamemaker and right-hand to the king, Dakan Rhysmel.

“Yeah…” she responded upon seeing his reaction.

It became abundantly clear then as to why Lauren Sinclair had the sudden visceral reaction of anger at the man’s appearance. Her own family—her godfather—was out to kill her.

But still… The words of Tristan Sinclair echoed in his mind, the words he had spoken to Kieran just a day ago  inside the small room of the Justice Building coming into memory: “But much like you, I, too, have some… friends… who may be able to assist us.” Kieran couldn’t help but wonder if Dakan Rhysmel would prove to be an enemy and adversary or if there was the slightest possibility he would turn out to be the opposite.

“Without further ado, please give a warm welcome to His Royal Majesty, King Philip Aevasther of the Ardhalis Union,” Lord Rhysmel concluded his speech. The Capitol roared with applause, whistles, and cheers as the king stepped up to take Rhysmel’s previous place at the front, some of the Tributes clapping politely at their royal ruler. The queen and their son, the crown prince, stepped by the podium, flanking the side of the king. The queen’s eyes peered down at the royally-clad Tributes, a smirk on her thin lips.

King Philip raised an arm, the gesture causing the immediate silence among the thousands of exuberant civilians, all sound ceasing with the one motion.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the king started, “we gather here tonight both in celebration and remembrance. This coming fall will be the twentieth anniversary—two decades—since the tragic loss of my father, the late King Edward Aevasther, and the loss of our people of the First District. We honor their memory with this year’s twentieth celebration of our beloved Scythe Games, and we thank you, our Tributes, for your courage and sacrifice. For our people here at the Capitol and those in our Districts, please continue to show your love and support for those in the Games this year, and we look forward as we continue on with our celebrations and continue to never forget those we have lost.”

Kieran rolled his eyes, the irony not surpassing him. A celebration to honor the dead by hosting a game to the death, he thought spitefully.

The king concluded his speech with the usual greeting, “Happy Scythe Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!” before the national anthem’s melody began to blast through the speakers around the park, and the horses began to trot off in the direction they came from, this time the 2nd District at the front with the 13th District at the back.

Lauren pressed on the remote device for her dress, the inky black flowing back upwards into the space of the fabric, returning her back to the image of a queen of the night. Kieran did the same with his, the iridescent pastel colors dimming into the dark.

A prickle of heat met the back of his neck, and it was apparent that Lauren must have felt the same thing. Simultaneously, both turned their heads, eyes moving past the Tributes behind them and staring back at the castle, their heads tilting up to look towards the balcony, the royal family still present on the veranda as they waved to the audience and cameras. But even with the king and queen’s smiles and gleeful expressions, there was a flash of a shadow and flicker of a grimace in the eyes of Queen Lizbeth, her slim and pointed face peering down at them for a simple moment before her eyes glanced swiftly away.

Kieran didn’t know what the cause of such a look aimed at them was for, but one thing was clear: they were in no way within the good graces of Her Royal Majesty.

Chapter Text

Within the late hours of the night—or by this point in time, the early hours of the new morning—after the people of the Capitol were long gone, the festivities of the night had died down, and there were no more cameras within the vicinity to capture his current distress, Dakan Rhysmel stalked with a heavy pace through the dim halls of the royal castle.

Anger and frustration were barely enough to describe his current state of emotions. No words in the common tongue could truly convey the overwhelming pain and indignation that was consuming him—he was like a powder keg ready to explode and burn all that stood before him.

Fists clenched, teeth gritted, he pushed open the doors to his personal office with more force than necessary—a resounding thud echoed within the room as the doors met the walls forcing the crystal chandelier that hung above his bureau to rattle with the clinking sound of glass meeting glass, portraits that hung on the walls shook just the slightest at the tremors.

God, what a mess, he thought to himself furiously, slamming his hands on the desk. This was never supposed to happen.

His eyes hadn't deceived him. She really was here in the Capitol. Lauren Sinclair was in the Capitol, and she was now a Tribute about to be sent into the Games. Seeing her name called on live television was one thing—he had allowed himself just the smallest ounce of denial—but seeing her in flesh and bone just a few meters beneath him within the space of the Capitol was another thing. That much he could no longer deny, could no longer delude himself to believe otherwise.

Dakan sat down behind his desk, and buried his face in his hands, the image of his goddaughter creeping behind his closed lids. The look on her face when he had appeared before her caused his heart to wrench and ache far more than he wanted to admit—the outrage, dread, and contempt so clear on her face. The knowledge that she would be in the arena fighting to survive lingered in his mind, knowing that the image of her lifeless body would inevitably join the collection of ghosts that haunted him every night, cursing his very existence.

What had everything he had sacrificed and lost been all for if he was going to lose Lauren Sinclair, too?

Gone already were the late Alexander and Rachel Sinclair, the memories of their deaths always a heavy burden on his shoulders, their image never failing to surface as faded wisps in his nightmares, a never ending movie looping on an eternal replay—but now he was bound to lose Lauren soon enough, forced to ultimately witness her death in the same way he had witnessed her parents’. It would only be a matter of time until the last remaining people he held close were inevitably seized and taken from him, for his retribution to reach its peak, and if his adversaries could have it their way, it would be sooner than later.

Groaning with a heavy sigh, he reached for the crystal bottle of amber liquid from the corner of his desk, pouring a full glass to the brim, consuming it in its entirety in one swig. Each gulp an attempt to try and swallow the pain and anguish into a void he himself wished he could disappear into, to be devoured whole into the abyss, away from the godforsaken world he lived in. 

Was condemning him into the role of Gamemaker not torment enough? Was being in the position in charge of puppeteering the deaths of his own people not gratifying enough of a punishment? How many more souls—children—needed to be reaped until they were satisfied?

He poured himself another glass and downed the beverage in a matter of seconds, small drops trailing down the corners of his mouth in his rushed consumption, the questions remaining unanswered as they’d been for the past two decades, never forgotten.

They’d always made sure he would never forget.

 “A little early to be drinking at this hour, don’t you think?” a female voice asked, breaking the silence that surrounded him, interrupting the noises within his head. Her voice rarely, if not never, failed to carry the same tantalizing timbre she possessed when her words were aimed at him, taunting and abundant with animosity.

Dakan placed the glass down on the wooden desk, one hand wiping at the rogue drops of alcohol on his chin, the other clenched around the cylindrical glass, as he turned his face forward where the slender frame of the voice's owner was leaning against the door’s frame. Though the front of her body was shrouded in the darkness of the office—the lights of the room still disengaged—the faded light from the sconces in the hall from behind her darkening her form, he could still make out the exact identity of his present visitor. With her arms crossed at the front, shoulder against the doorframe, a gratified glint gleaming in the shadows of her eyes, she looked at Dakan with an unnerving lopsided grin.

Queen Lizbeth Aevasther. Speak of the devil.

“Your Majesty,” Dakan greeted, his tone flat and uninviting. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Lizbeth hummed as if in thought, responding with the natural, ragged coolness of a winter storm, “Hm, well, my excitement for the Games has made the past few nights difficult to sleep through. There’s always so much to look forward to at this time of the year. Plus,” she sneered, “the loud noise you just so ungraciously made certainly did little to help.”

Dakan frowned, knowing full well that any sound made in this section of the castle could barely be heard from the wing of her royal chambers. No, she was here, awake, for another reason, her actions always calculated and precise, planned to a tee. Something told him his evening would only continue onwards its wretched path, fated to get worse with the queen’s sudden presence. Still, he responded in kind, “Right. Of course. I apologize for the disturbance.”

Lizbeth scoffed, the sound subtle but audible, something like disappointment reverberating from it. “And what of you? What has our dear Gamemaker awake at this hour, as well? Excitement for the Games, too, I presume?” The gleam in her eyes seemed to shine brighter, like the sun would after appearing behind an overcast sky. She pressed her eyes further into his face, a sense of anticipation seeping from her pores, eagerly awaiting his response.

He narrowed his eyes towards her, returning the look with convicted restraint, knowing all too well what she wanted to see from him—to see him squirm, to see him struggle like a mouse caught under a cat's paw. He refused to give her the satisfaction of witnessing his unease, his practiced indifference taking over instinctively. “Something of that sort. I wanted to ensure all preparations for the Tributes’ training sessions were settled for this coming morning.”

“Ah, yes, the Tributes.” The queen’s lips tilted into a smirk, her face lighting up with an odd, perturbing elation. Her words were light and airy as she spoke, yet the weight of them pounded down on him, growing into a suffocating pressure. “Such a wonderful parade we had this evening, don’t you think?” the queen continued. “Such gorgeous costumes from our wonderful stylists, and even more than that were the beautiful Tributes in them. 

“However,” the queen's smirk twisted into a sneer, her eyes bringing a sudden chill as she brought them down to peer into his face, “the two from the Eleventh were quite something else though. Dressing the way they did, crowns on their heads, making a mockery of the royals like that.”

Dakan's brows furrowed, confusion sweeping through him. “I'm sure that wasn't the intention, Your Majesty. Seemed like it was a mere homage to the monarchs more than anything else,” he responded.

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Lizbeth scoffed again, her sneer deepening. “Of course,” she bit sarcastically. “Two Tributes dressed as the royals certainly holds zero connotations at all. No implications what-so-ever of the image of us monarchs being the ones sent into the arenas, making a show for the rest of the nation instead. Acting as if a pair of Tributes could ever be on par with us.

“I think it would be best,” the queen continued, smirk returning to her face, “if your goddaughter were to keep a better eye over her shoulder and know her place.”

Dakan flinched, nerves tingling with heat at the queen’s words, heart thrumming quicker against his ribs. She was baiting him, he realized, manipulating the conversation into the direction she wanted, as always. Without a doubt she’d been waiting for the opportunity just to bring Lauren into the conversation, and it unnerved him how much she knew of his relationship with her.

“I will admit, however, that she is quite an interesting girl,” Lizbeth said, the remark snide and condescending on her tongue. “To openly display such distaste with no hint of shame. Her gown may have been exceedingly attractive, but her handsome face was anything but.” A perturbing grin replaced the smirk on Lizbeth’s sharp face, the edges of her lips cold and callous. “You know, there is someone she does remind me of though…”

Dakan’s scowl deepened, the dread of uncertainty flooding over him as he listened more intently to Lizbeth’s words. Where was she going with this?

“Someone with similar golden eyes…”

Dakan skin bristled, hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Oh, that’s right! She looks just like—”  

No, Lizbeth, don’t you dare say—!

“—her mother,” she jeered.

Dakan pushed his seat back, feet planting firmly on the floor, his body reacting automatically. “How dare you—”

“How dare I what, Dakan?” Lizbeth cut him off, her voice sharp and piercing.

No! This is exactly what she wants, he berated himself. Don't fall into her trap.

Dakan swallowed thickly, his tongue heavy against his dry mouth as he considered his words carefully. “Might I remind you that it is the stylists and not the Tributes who choose what is worn in the parades?” he asked, voice returning to its flat and monotonous tone in an attempt to disguise the shakiness he could feel against his throat. “It’s not as if Lauren Sinclair nor Kieran White chose their attire with the intent on mocking you and your family.”

Lizbeth blinked at him as if his words were still taking a moment to register. Then she laughed—a roarous, unsettling cackle—the would-be joyous sound ringing so sinisterly from her lips, it hurt to hear. Dakan stared at her, face twisted in confusion.

“But of course,” she said mockingly. “How could I possibly forget?” Then pursing her lips, she added, “Not that I trust that stylist of theirs either. She’s fortunate her father has quite the connections—landing herself such an esteemed position despite having no prior experience.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” Dakan pointed out, blankly.

“With good reason,” Lizbeth remarked, voice low. “You don’t come out at the top by trusting people. Life is full of those who will only betray you. You, of all people, should know that by now.”

Unfortunately, that I do, Dakan remarked, trying with much futility to ward off the flashing visions of his ghostly past. “I see nothing wrong with Lady Darcy or Lady Desroses,” he commented aloud. “Be careful, Your Majesty, your paranoia may be your downfall.”

Lizbeth smirked, face expressing the words she didn’t need to say: We’ll see about that.

“I’ll be keeping quite the close eye on our dear Tributes from the Eleventh. They’ll certainly be the showstopper this year, I’m sure,” she said, motioning to exit the room. “Oh, and Dakan,” she turned her head just ever so slightly, the shadows on her face looking deeper as she angled her chin up to him, her face half in the dingy light of the hall now. “If you even so much as think about playing favoritism and manipulating the Games to see that goddaughter of yours win, I’d think twice about that. After all, if we can catch on to you and your lover’s little trick with keeping that girl’s name from the bowls, then we can easily catch any little scheme of yours to keep that girl alive.”

A small grin crept onto her face, the expression conveying her malicious thoughts: Though, I’d like to see you try.

Dakan, his face as straight and deadpan as he could make it, replied, “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “However, what then if she does win?”

Lizbeth’s lips pressed into a lopsided, coy smile. “Then I’d have to offer you my sincerest congratulations,” she answered. “How nice it must be that she will be in the Capitol for every year of her existence for every Game. To think that she’ll become a new mentor for all future Tributes while you work as the Gamemaker, both of you fulfilling your duties for the betterment of our great nation. Quite a jovial reunion, I’d expect.”

Dakan shut his eyes, nostrils flaring in a fury at the underlying message. It’s up to you which fate is worse: her life lost, or her life wasted and bound to the Games forever. You decide.

“You must be so happy that we were able to bring her here to see you this year,” he heard her say, the unnerving thrill in her voice clear and palpable. “We made sure of it. Now, have a good night, dear Gamemaker.” 

The echoes of her footsteps filled the corridor, the light taps of her footfalls dominating the quiet that followed her farewell, until they silently faded away, leaving Dakan Rhysmel alone with his thoughts.

***

Returning once more to his seat, Dakan let his head fall to the back of his chair, eyes fluttering to a close. His mind raced at every word Queen Lizbeth had just said to him.

There was one thing he was sure of: Lauren’s name being reaped was not an accident, that much Tristan Sinclair had relayed to him, and Lizbeth’s implications only confirmed such suspicions. Without a doubt in his mind, both the queen and Stefan Hawkes had conspired to send young Lauren Sinclair into the Games, their way of reminding him of his dreadful duty, of his perpetual punishment for past errors against the crown, and their way of reminding the Sinclairs of their—the royals'—power.

Running a hand over his face, his barely sober mind swayed into the sullied corridors that made up the labyrinth of his past, like a forbidden hallway he’d always been too afraid to trespass, the doors he’d tried for so long to remain locked and closed somehow always ajar in the deep corners of his mind. Now here he was, treading into that dark corner, the echoes of anguish and desperation coming from the other side of that unshut door as tangible as they were three years ago.

Alexander Sinclair and Rachel Sinclair on their knees before the king and queen. A troop of Capitol guards flanking every angle at every side.

Dakan’s own voice seemed to climb out of his throat, his lips mutely forming the same words he had cried out then as he had begged for their lives: “Your Majesties, have mercy! Turn them into Avoxes if you must, but please. Let. Them. Live.”

But it was all for naught. 

“They’re traitors, Dakan. Traitors against the people, the nation, and the crown. It must be done,” Dakan had been told in response.

The pale bodies of Alexander and Rachel hazed behind his closed lids like a flare of faded light. His friends—his family—long dead and gone, dragged into the confines of these very walls, executed before Dakan’s very eyes, betrayed by someone they’d trusted, someone they’d almost considered family—Stefan Hawkes.

The disparaging feeling of guilt and remorse coursed through Dakan’s body, the burden of blame he carried like the world on Atlas’s shoulders weighed down on him. He’d been too late to do anything to help—too late to realize the 11th District’s then Head Peacekeeper-now mayor’s strong loyalties and ties to the crown, unable to fully see Hawkes’s eagerness to appease the king and queen for the sake of his own ambitions, and his willingness to betray his own cohorts to the point of arresting them from their own homes, the act thus leading to the downfall of Alexander and Rachel Sinclair. He’d been too late in warning Tristan Sinclair of their family’s impending demise, of informing him of Hawkes’s order to seize the pair, too late to help save them from their deaths, and now he was too late in doing anything to save Lauren Sinclair from her own tragic fate.

How could someone with his titles and position be so damn helpless?

No matter how desperate he was to save his goddaughter, what was there that he could possibly do? Anything he could think of—any idea, any plot, any gambit—all seemed beyond impossible, especially now with the knowledge that the queen would be scrutinizing his every action, his every move, more so than she already was. 

They were like players sitting across the board from each other, moving pieces of a chess game across the black and white spaces, capturing pawns, rooks, and bishops at every turn. Dakan couldn’t help but feel like he was on the verge of losing this war, the time on his ticker rapidly running out, the pieces on his side sparse and waning while Lizbeth possessed a full army made of nothing but queens, her pieces closing in on his king, trapping him into a corner until he had no more moves left.

If you even so much as think about playing favoritism and manipulating the Games to see that goddaughter of yours win, I’d think twice about that, she’d said to him. He turned her words over again and again in his mind, the warning sounding less precarious at each reiteration in his mind, something like a ploy slowly forming at the top of his head, a lightbulb clicking on.

The memory of his conversation he’d had just the night before with the 11th District’s Head Peacekeeper surfaced into his consciousness, the information and revelations relayed to him in confidentiality now appearing to be the much needed solutions to their current predicament, their Hail Mary. He’d thought the man’s proposal for Lauren’s survival was almost nonsensical at first glance, but perhaps the idea was absurd enough to just work itself out in the end. 

Hm. Maybe he did have some moves left after all.

He prayed he’d be right.

Alright, Your Majesty, he thought, his lips turning just slightly upwards into an almost smile. I won’t be playing favoritism then. I’ll do just the opposite.

As Head Gamemaker, it was inherently in his job description to manipulate the Games, that much he’d be unable to avoid performing. But, he’d listen to Lizbeth for once in his life, and restrain himself from executing actions in the favor of his goddaughter’s victory. No, instead he would do something even better, something that would appear innocuous enough to the public, and more importantly, to the royals.

But first, he’d need to speak to Tristan Sinclair.

Chapter Text

Her eyes were the first set of suns he saw the next morning. As if both Helios and Apollo had conjured up the bright star and split it in two pieces, embedding them into the irises of Lauren Sinclair. And with the glow of the rising sun ascending through the floor-to-ceiling window behind her head, her russet hair blazed like a fire against the gradients of navies and violets that still hung over the canvas of the fading dusk sky, each strand a brush stroke against her pale skin.

Kieran blinked his eyes rapidly, stopping abruptly mid-step at the sight of his District partner silently sitting on her own, heedful of his own movements so as to not disturb the picturesque portrait he had stumbled upon. His mind reeled, unsure if the ethereal sight before him was an image that had followed him from his states of unconsciousness, if his mind was currently lucidly dreaming the human embodiment of dawn that was currently sitting on the dining room table, a mug of what smelled like a freshly brewed cup of coffee cradled between her fingers.

Her gold eyes stared off into the distance, evidently in contemplation about something; and though she sat mutely, accompanied only by the ascending light and diminishing shadows, her thoughts echoed loudly against the walls that surrounded them like white noise against a static screen. He could almost hear the indecipherable mesh of different words and voices that exuded from her mind, too muddled together to form a coherent interpretation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” his own voice broke through the clamorous quiet.

Lauren Sinclair’s gaze slid to his direction by the opening of the hallway, the umbrage he knew she reserved only for him dimmed the illumination that her irises had just held.

She raised a brow as if provoking him with the simple action. “Why? Because that’s all you can afford?” she quipped.

Kieran scoffed at her response, rarely ever expecting anything less than snide comments from her. “Well, sorry for not being born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you, princess.” He stalked closer to where she sat, noticing the pointed glare she threw his way, and with it the hollow circles that surrounded the bottom flesh beneath her eyes. He raised a brow in her direction, taking in her clearly fatigued features. “Gees, did you even get any sleep? You look like shit.”

“Still better than you,” she snided, not missing a beat. She took a sip of her drink. “And, no, I didn't. What’s it to you, anyway?”

Kieran peered down at her from where he stood, an avalanche of answers coming to mind at her question. Because your uncle asked me to keep an eye out for you. Because believe it or not, Miss Sinclair, I do care about you. Because you deserve to take care of yourself. He was sure he could list a hundred more reasons, but instead, with a small shrug, he replied: “We start training today. Wouldn’t want my District partner embarrassing me by passing out in the middle of an exercise.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Wow. Don’t I have just the most caring District partner ever. Don’t worry. You don’t need me there to embarrass you. You do that well on your own just fine.”

He shot her an affronted look, mouth hanging in astonishment. “You wound me, truly.”

Lauren chuckled, the sound almost novel to Kieran’s ears—he was sure he could count on one hand (probably on one finger) how many times he’d ever heard her laugh. 

“I can do worse than just wound you if you like,” she commented.

“Hm, unfortunately, I don’t doubt that.”

“You’d be smart not to.”

Kieran placed the ceramic plate he had grabbed from one of the bars against the walls, its contents filled with the freshly cooked breakfast of the morning—English muffins, eggs, and sausage, amongst other foods—and pulled out the seat directly in front of Lauren Sinclair.

He could see from his own peripheral vision her eyes following each of his movements warily, her lips pressed in a tight line, yet she made no protest to his actions save for the quizzical look she aimed his way. Paying no mind to the look, he settled into his seat before digging in languidly at his meal, a lulling silence falling between them—at least as silent as their own raucous thoughts would allow.

Lauren repositioned herself, turning to sit almost diagonally in her seat, and returned to her contemplative—pensive—demeanor from earlier. She took the occasional sip of her drink, throwing brief glances his way, looking away when he'd catch her eyes on him. Her lips would part every so often as if to speak, only for a small sigh to replace what would have been words.

This was the first time either had ever been in the same room, alone, on their own together, he realized, since arriving in the Capitol, and perhaps she noticed that, too. No mentor, no chaperone, no stylists, and not even the silent servants—the Avoxes, Kieran had learned they were called—were present in their current vicinity.

Was she uncomfortable with him being the only person present near her?

Kieran swallowed thickly. “Lauren—” he started to say.

“Kieran—” she’d let out at the same time, their names colliding simultaneously.

They both paused, looking at each other with mirrored dumbfounded expressions.

“No, you go first—”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“What were you going to—No, it’s okay—”

“It can wait—It’s nothing—”

“No, Kieran, just say—”

“I wasn’t trying to be—”

Lauren groaned. “I just wanted to say thank you!” she half-yelled over the raised volume of their voices.

A hush fell between them at her remark, and Kieran blinked in bewilderment, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. They looked towards each other, having abandoned their seats as they both leaned forward across the table, their faces somehow inches apart now. So close was she that he could discern the faint amber musk on her skin and the dark, bittersweet scent of her coffee wafting lightly from her slightly parted lips.

Lauren crossed her arms and straightened her back to gain a bit of distance from him before she repeated herself. “Thank you,” she said again. “For last night...”

For last night?

The image of two Tributes clad like royalty, riding through the sea of people within the summer night, entered into the surface of his memory—their hands clasped together, fingers intertwining. He recalled the evident tension and anxiety that had emanated from Lauren Sinclair, all of it seemingly vanishing at the touch of their hands, and now she was thanking him for it. He’d be lying if he said her sudden sincerity didn’t take him by surprise and almost leave him stunned.

So, unaccustomed to this meek and genuine side of the young Sinclair girl, he did the only thing his mind could think to do: deflect. 

“Be careful, Miss Sinclair,” he said, flashing her a smirk. “People may get the wrong idea about what you mean with those words.”

Her brows furrowed, seemingly confused. “‘Wrong idea’—?”

His smirk widened.

“I—Oh my God!” she groaned, heat rising to her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant! You—Ugh! You are positively abhorrent, you know that?”

Kieran laughed. “Yes, so you’ve told me hundreds of times before.”

“I hate you,” she muttered under her breath, falling back into her chair.

“That, too,” he chuckled, following her movements and shifting back into his own seat. “But, hey...” he said, voice lowering. Lauren turned to look at him at the sound of his voice softening, the jest in it fading into a more somber tone. “... you’re welcome.”

“Uh-huh.” Lauren brought the cup to her lips, appearing indifferent with her motions and flat eyes, but the upwards curl tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her true feelings, the smile concealed only by the mug she held in her hands.

Something in his chest lurched with awe at the sight, and he found his own lips mirroring her smile on its own volition.

If only it didn’t take being sent off to our deaths for us to be like this, Kieran thought, the smile faltering at its edges, the realization dawning over him that the current amity between them was inevitably short-lived.

The beginning of the Games was fast approaching, and whether he liked it or not, they’d be competitors and opponents—Lauren Sinclair would never see him as anything but. Or, at least, that’s what he had originally thought. If one were to have put Kieran White and Lauren Sinclair in the same room together weeks ago—or just simply days ago—even for just one minute, the probability that peace would be an option was usually zero to none. But now here they were, sitting in placid calm, in each other’s company, and it felt nice. Kieran never would have thought that possible, wishing only that this camaraderie between them could have existed outside of their current circumstances.

Maybe it still could, his mind told him. Maybe there’s still the chance you both can win. Together.

He pondered over the thought, uncertainty flooding through him. Yeah… maybe…

“Hey, Lauren…” he murmured, her eyes meeting his at the sound of her name. The brief nod she gave him urged him to continue. “Have you given thought to what you’ll do when the Games begin?”

Her face fell slowly at the question, the smile on her lips turning into a flat line, a grimace now replacing the amicable expression she had held mere moments ago. 

“No… Not as much as I should be,” she admitted, brows furrowing in consternation. “I feel like I’m still experiencing the shock of everything where I can’t tell if any of this is real or just some nightmare. I’m not like you who wants to be here for the Games. Never wanted to be.”

I don’t want to be here either, Kieran confessed inwardly.

“Yeah, I gathered as much,” he muttered.

“It’ll be some miracle if I make it out alive,” she sighed. “I doubt I’ll be one to gain many sponsors, if at all, outside of my uncle or best friend, and I haven’t exactly been one to support the notion of making allies. I’m not really one to trust people so easily...” her voice trailed off, head turning away from him.

“You seemed to get along with Kym Ladell yesterday,” Kieran commented.

Lauren scoffed. “For the most part, I suppose. But she’s a Career. Career Districts typically ally with one another, and I don’t think I’d fit well into that group. And besides, no matter how nice she is, I hardly know her.”

Kieran glanced downwards, humming mutely in thought. “Then what about me?”

He could see from the corner of his eyes, Lauren Sinclair peering at him, an incredulous look on her features. “What about you?”

“Well, we are from the same District. Wouldn’t it make sense for us to ally with one another and help each other win?”

“Why would you want to ally with me?” The crease between Lauren’s brows deepened, dimmed eyes narrowing at him, evidently bewildered by his suggestion. 

“Why does that surprise you?”

“Why are you responding to my question with more questions?”

“Why do you?”

Lauren let out a frustrated groan. “Look, I know March wants us to team up and what-not, but I’m not entirely sure what your angle here is.” She paused, glaring at him with suspicion. “Unless, of course, that’s your way of getting me out of the way faster.”

Kieran scoffed. “You really do have trust issues,” he replied flatly. “And no, it’s not.”

“So why then?”

Kieran crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against his seat, the legs of the chair rocking backward. “Ever thought maybe I just want to help you?”

“Ha,” Lauren barked, “So what? Am I just your charity case then?”

It was Kieran’s turn to groan in frustration now. “Fine, then what if I said I’m only using you because you're the Head Gamemaker’s goddaughter? Does that make you feel any better? Does that fit whatever self-serving image you have of me?”

Lauren sneered. “Of course. I share something personal like that with you, and you use it against me. For the record, even if you did mean that, I doubt that’ll help you anyways. Because from my experience, people never actually have as much power as they think they do.”

That certainly made Kieran pause in his tracks, the weight of the truth in her words hitting him with more impact than she probably realized. Lauren was right. From members within the rebellion to those with supposed authority, power was always subjective, always finite, and never truly possessed by the common folk. The only ones in their country who held such power were the same ones sending them into an arena to fight for their survival, for their lives. How much did Lauren Sinclair who had lived in comfort and privilege all her life know of the limitations of power of those around her?

“Is that so?” Kieran tried to goad. “Care to elaborate?”

Lauren crossed her arms over her torso and drew in a steadying breath, head shaking wearily as she spoke each word: “My uncle is the Head Peacekeeper back home, and even there was nothing he could do to keep me from being here, to keep me from being reaped, from being a part of the Games. Even when I begged him to help me, there was nothing he could have done.”

Kieran hummed in contemplation. “It’s not as if he didn’t try though. His efforts just backfired on him,” he said, the words slipping out of his mouth without thought.

Lauren stilled, head flinching back, seemingly taken aback by his comment. She tilted her head towards him curiously before asking, “What are you talking about?”

Kieran looked back at Lauren, his mouth hanging open, barely comprehending what sensitive information he himself had just practically shared with her. 

Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.

Tristan Sinclair had had two requests. One: keep Lauren safe. Two: ensure she knew nothing of the rebellion that had been operating in the shadows for as long as the Games themselves if not longer. Why was he failing at both ends so terribly?

Coughing into a fist, Kieran turned, averting away from her scrutinizing gaze. “I just mean your uncle strikes me as the sort of person who would turn the whole world upside down just for you. That’s all.”

Kieran could feel the heat of her eyes against his skin, the natural flames she held in her sun-like orbs now burning holes into his flesh.

“Right. Of course,” she eventually responded, unconvinced. “Anyhow, I can only assume the same with my godfather. I’d rather not rely on my chances of winning on other people who may not be able to actually help.”

“And what makes you so sure that Lord Rhysmel is in the same position as your uncle?”

“Because…” Lauren sighed, a sense of hesitation resounding in the way she breathed. “My best friend would still be alive if Dakan really did have that sort of power. Hell, more Tributes from the Eleventh would still be alive if he could help it.”

“Best friend?” Kieran questioned playfully. “Didn’t think Mr. Hawkes was already dead. Have I been seeing ghosts this entire time?”

Lauren’s eyes slid towards the ceiling, an exasperated exhale vibrating in her throat. “I’m allowed to have more than one friend, you know.”

“That’s fascinating coming from someone who apparently has issues trusting others.”

“Yeah, well, Will and Dylan are… were... different.” There was an almost imperceptible crack to her voice as she spoke, yet she continued as if it had never happened, as if she were hoping he hadn’t noticed her slip up at all. “I grew up with them, and we were all practically inseparable since day one. Dylan… He died in the Games last year. And, well, I’ve never stopped thinking about it since. He’d definitely still be alive if Dakan had any say in it, but as you can see, that's not the case here.” She looked down at the remains of her drink, swirling the contents around mindlessly.

Odds weren’t exactly in our favor last year, and I lost him in the Games. The words echoed distantly into the forefront of Kieran’s memory, and the bright colors of flowers and the various floral aromas began to penetrate his nostrils, the vision of the shopkeeper and his sullen words becoming clearer and clearer.

“Any chance your friend’s name was Rosenthal?” Kieran asked.

The wide-eyed look that dawned over Lauren's face was a sufficient enough of an answer for him.  “Yeah, it was,” she responded. “You must’ve really paid attention to last year’s Games if you remember his name that easily.”

“No, I met his father on the day of the reaping. Nice man. Sold me a bouquet of hyacinths that day.” Kieran smiled fondly at the memory, despite the minute sensation of unease flowing through him. Strange to think how that moment could feel like it had happened decades ago when it had only occurred two days prior. “I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”

“Yeah…” Lauren mumbled, voice trailing off. Her gaze lingered on him with something like amazement and disbelief mixed into one expression. She cleared her throat, eyes darting away. “Should come as no surprise as to why I’m not quite keen on placing my life in the Gamemakers’ hands. At the end of the day, their jobs are to entertain the public, not save lives. There’s no exception to that.”

Kieran pondered over her response, realizing suddenly how much he had underestimated the Sinclair girl. She was perceptive, far more than he had ever given her credit for, in addition to the wit and brains he had always known she’d possessed. And he was loathed to admit that her surmise about her current disposition despite her relationship to the Head Gamemaker was most likely accurate. Even if Dakan Rhysmel cared for Lauren Sinclair, the unfortunate truth was that he still had a duty to fulfill in the name of the Capitol, bound to their rules just like everyone else.

“Alright,” Kieran said. “That doesn’t stop the fact that I know that you’re more than capable of fighting. I should know from first-hand experience, I might add.”

“Hm, didn’t think the night we met would be so memorable to you.”

Kieran chuckled. The night they met—or rather, encountered—each other was not an easy night to forget. They say first impressions are the most important, and in the case of Kieran White and Lauren Sinclair, no saying could come closer to the truth. Their relationship had gotten off on the wrong foot—literally—from one (maybe two, maybe three) misunderstanding(s). All it had taken was a moonless night, two figures converging by fate in the shadowed alleys of the 11th District’s Town Square, a grab with one hand to the other’s shoulder, a kick to the side of one’s head, a snarky remark from both parties, and wounded pride for Lauren Sinclair to decide that Kieran White would be no friend of hers.

“You’re memorable to me,” Kieran said.

Lauren snorted. “Right. Sure.”

“You left a literal mark on my face that night. Hard to forget that,” Kieran added.

“In my defense, I thought you were some creep following me in the dark.”

“I was getting off from work!”

“Yeah, I know that now, obviously. But you don’t just grab people in the dark like that.”

“I thought you were lost!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

“Yeah, I know that now, obviously!” Kieran echoed. “I was only trying to help; didn’t think grabbing your shoulder to ask if you were okay would’ve warranted a foot to my face.”

“In my defense, it was self-defense,” Lauren jabbed. “And you didn’t have to fight back. Imagine me coming home to my uncle, and having to explain why I had a sudden gash on my arm.”

“In my defense, it was also self-defense,” Kieran responded in kind. “And the cut was on you for falling backwards.”

“Yes, thanks to who?” Lauren raised her brow incredulously in his direction.

Kieran clicked his tongue, raising his hands up before him in surrender. “Alright. Fair,” he chuckled. “But...” Sitting forward in his chair and leaning against the table between them, his arms folded on the surface, he eyed Lauren with curiousity. “...if you can fight like that, why doubt your chances of winning?”

Kieran watched as Lauren glowered at the question, disdain written on every crevice on her face. “I may be able to fight,” she responded, the timbre of her voice low, each word she spoke deliberate, “but I don’t think I’d ever be able to bring myself to kill. It’s nearly impossible to win this thing without taking the life of another, and I don’t think that’s something I can bring myself to do.”

“And here I was fearing for my life expecting myself to be your first victim,” Kieran jested, a wry grin tugging at his lips.

The scowl she gave indicated to him how little amused she was. “Can you seriously tell me if you’d be okay with killing other children just for the sake of winning?”

The grin faded from Kieran’s lips almost immediately. He stared directly into her eyes, now cold and steady on his face, as she awaited his response. He could almost hear her shout words of contempt through the one look, filled with derision and disgust. You’re nothing but a monster! the words she’d cried out mere days ago roared in his ears.

“No, I’m not,” he said simply, holding her gaze with the same ferocity. He licked his lips, hesitating to continue. “But some of us have to do what we need to in order to survive. I didn’t volunteer to be here to become a murderer. I volunteered with the hopes of obtaining a better life.”

Lauren continued to hold her hardened gaze on him, the shadow between her brows darkening as the creases deepened. Whether whatever feeling she had towards him was anger, hatred, or contempt, he wasn’t sure. Possibly all of the above, he considered. Then, with a deep exhale, the look she held vanished as quick as a flicker of light, her hold on him relenting into something imperceptible and tenuous. She turned her head away from him, silent and unresponsive, as a hand crept to the base of her neck. The only sound that surrounded them now was the movements of the rising city coming to life beyond the windows and the echoes of their own thoughts within their heads.

Kieran motioned to stand from his seat, practically ready to remove himself from the room, certain that their conversation had concluded in the usual tension that lingered between them. That was until the sound of her voice broke through the barrier of the sullenness, the words she spoke causing him to halt in his movements.

“You’re right,” she said, looking up to face him directly. “I have no idea what you’ve been through and how you got to where you are now.”

Kieran blinked at her, lost at the meaning of her words.

“You said as much on the train,” she clarified, noticing his perplexed expression. “And it's true… I’ll never understand what you’ve been through, and I know I may never go through anything similar to what you’ve probably faced, so your intentions for being in the Games will never be something I’ll completely understand much less support. All I know is that you have your own reasons that brought you here, whether they be for selfish or benevolent reasons or for something else entirely.” 

Lauren pursed her lips, her piercing hold on his face becoming sharper as though she were provoking him to refute her statements. He didn’t. Kieran stood mutely instead, patiently waiting for her to continue.

“You don’t need me to win,” Lauren said in a matter-of-fact manner. “And I’d rather not entangle myself with you and whatever means you intend to take to achieve your goals. Being in this game that kills children is hardly worth the price that you’re fighting for, and I want no part in it.”

Kieran gave no response or reaction at that because she was right. He knew she was right. And she probably wasn’t even completely aware of how accurate her presumptions truly were. To her, Kieran was only participating in the Games for wealth and delusions of grandeur. And while Kieran had deluded himself enough to believe that he had allowed himself to become a Tribute in the Games for the greater good, for the sake of the rebellion, his voluntary association with the rebels had still been for the main purpose of obtaining their promise of luxuries and a pretty lifestyle. And, in truth, that reason had barely changed. 

He couldn’t blame her for being wary of his motives. Especially if the Games would only allow one of them to stay alive.

Kieran breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. “What if I told you there’s a chance the both of us could leave the arena? Alive,” he asked, each word spoken conscientiously, knowing the risk at hand if he exposed too much information.

Lauren stared at him with an incredulous look about her face he expected to find. She tilted her head in his direction, still trying to register what he had just said. Then she scoffed. “Right,” she drawled, brow raised, clearly skeptical. “And how exactly is that possible?”

Kieran's eyes trailed about her face before faltering to the surface of the table. “I… don’t know...” he slowly responded, the words getting caught in his throat at his admittance. 

It wasn’t as though he were deliberately withholding the information from her. He sincerely didn’t know. How the plan for both he and Lauren to escape the arena was supposed to be executed was a mystery, even to him. With vague and ambiguous instruction relayed to him by Tristan Sinclair, there wasn’t much that Kieran could comprehend for his end of the plan.

I need you to get Lauren to, at the very least, trust you and agree to work with you, the Head Peacekeeper had said to him. When the time comes, you’ll be provided with additional information on what you two will need to do and when to carry out your roles.

And what pray-tell is the final objective of this scheme? Kieran had questioned. How do you intend for both your niece and me to win the Games together?

Tristan Sinclair had heaved a sigh, turning his gaze aside and saying, It’s too soon to tell. It’s not as if this was something I’d expected to deal with nor think I would ever have to arrange. And considering the complicated matters regarding the Capitol and the Games, this will take some time to fully flesh out and execute. For now simply help Lauren live as long as she can. You will learn the details soon enough.

Some help that was, Kieran inwardly grunted, reeling back into the present, frustrated at the lack of information. He wondered vaguely if the Head Peacekeeper’s plan would bother to truly include ensuring his life, or if he’d be discarded once Lauren’s life was secured, if there was indeed a legitimate plan to save them both and not just one.

Kieran shook his head at the notion. It didn’t matter.

Regardless of whether or not Tristan Sinclair’s plan included them both or not, Kieran was determined to save his own life, and if he could save Lauren, then even better.

“Great. That’s incredibly informative,” the girl in front of him sniped, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Kieran sighed, a nerve in his temple beginning to pulse. “Look, I don’t have all the details, but I just know that there’s a way.”

Lauren barked a harrowing laugh. “Care to explain?”

Kieran looked down at his hands splayed on the wooden table, pondering for a brief moment what in the world he was going to tell her. Explain to her that her uncle had ties to the rebellion, that he was planning some method to get her to somehow stay alive, all the while cause Kieran to possibly rope her into the very thing her uncle had asked him to ensure she stayed away from, thus further complicating their already complicated circumstance? Better yet, should he, himself, admit that he also had ties with the rebellion and inform her of the role that he had been assigned to take and the resources he had been given in preparation for the Games?

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

“I can’t,” he finally answered. “Not yet, anyways.”

Lauren stayed silent as though considering whether or not it was worth her effort to retort against his remark. She pushed back from her seat, her feet planting on the floor, her eyes meeting his level. She peered up at him from across the table, not with anger or frustration, but with something else, something that resembled closer to what felt like disappointment. Somehow, that felt worse than her fury.

Lauren released a slow, indignant breath. “You know, most people have kept secrets from me my entire life. My family included. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise to me that you’d be one of them.” 

Kieran could feel his breath hitch in his throat, a mixture of guilt and pity coursing through his veins. He knew this, was well aware of the depth of the dark she had been kept in for so long, and here he was knowingly pushing her further into it. “Lauren, I—”

“I think we’re done here,” her voice cut through his own. With the finality resounding from her words, she turned, stalking away from the table and away from him.

He considered calling out to her, stopping her, and asking her to hear him out, but any attempt died on his lips, her name stuck at the base of his chords. It wasn’t as if he could say anything that could rectify their situation, anyways. She had already given him that chance just now, and he failed to provide any form of sufficient answers.

So, he watched her exit the room, leaving him in the shadow and cold, the summer sun on the other side of the window ineffective at providing the same light and warmth she’d unknowingly provided.

Stubborn woman, he cursed wordlessly. What more did it take for her to finally relent and put some trust in him? Kieran could only wish he could attain even the vaguest idea to this question.

Moving to sit back down on his seat, he pushed aside the plate now filled with cold food, his elbows resting  on the surface of the dining table while his head rested upon his interlaced fingers.

With little to no knowledge on how to proceed, Kieran was at a loss, an impasse. What if by the time he would finally be able to gather the necessary details for his and Lauren’s survival, they’d both be close to Death’s door? Was it worth playing his part in this obscure plan when he couldn’t even pass the first task of obtaining Lauren’s trust, especially if their survivability relied on it?

I can’t just sit around and wait, he thought with conviction. There has to be something else I can do.

But what exactly, he had yet to know.

Chapter Text

Her District partner was hiding something from her, that much Lauren Sinclair was absolutely certain of.

Secrets. 

Nearly everyone seemed to have their secrets.  And it seemed Kieran White was no exception. Though, by this point, Lauren knew she shouldn’t be surprised. 

In the past two days since their arrival to the hell they called the Capitol, there was much about Kieran White that she couldn’t quite comprehend, facts about him that she couldn’t quite piece together. Her suspicions that had bloomed from the moment she learned he hailed from the 6th District had only blossomed even more following their conversation in the morning, not unlike pieces of a puzzle she’d realized that she couldn’t force into place.

She angled her head in his direction ever so slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, observing his posture seated on the opposite end of the circular seat of the living area as his eyes stared forward and fixed on the screen before them. The recap of the parade from last night played on the wide monitor pressed against the mantel wall, the voices of the hosts sounding from the broadcast. Their stylists and mentor chatted with one another, their eyes fixated on the screen, each person sharing their opinions on the other Districts’ attire and parade garb; while Kieran, on the other hand, appeared to have his thoughts focused elsewhere, his eyes seeing but not necessarily watching. There was a distant, distracted gaze in his eyes that Lauren couldn’t help but notice, a mundane expression to his face that no one else seemed to recognize. Only when either March or Lila Desroses would address him or ask him a question would the usual spark flicker back to his eyes, and he would respond with a comment so natural and easy, it made Lauren question at times if she were simply imagining his blasé demeanor.

Lauren‘s teeth gnawed at the inside of her cheek, unnerved by the way it was like second-nature to him, an instinctive response, to display that alluring front of his. She’d always considered him to be a narcissist and hated him for it. She’d refused to see him as anything but, petulantly believing him to be nothing more than a bane to her existence. But now, that caricature she had built in his image no longer seemed to mirror the person that sat across from her. Like a canvas whose oils and colors were beginning to melt with time, there was a new picture taking its place, distorted and somehow simultaneously recognizable. She was starting to realize that his front was just that: a front. That there was more to Kieran White than she had allowed herself to see, realizing how much she hated the person he acted under his pretenses, but hated less the person he allowed himself to be around her.

And it made Lauren realize how little comprehension she had for how she was supposed to feel about him now.

Did she hate him?  But did she trust him? That part, she had yet to figure out.

A part of her wanted to humor the possibility of him earning her trust, regardless of how foolish she felt for even considering the notion. When he’d made those claims earlier in the morning of their joint survival, Lauren knew she should’ve just brushed his words aside, should have thought them to be nothing more than a failed attempt at his end to entice her, yet, even now, she found she couldn’t.

But that begged the question of what he knew and what she didn’t know.

Even as the goddaughter of the Head Gamemaker, she knew it was impossible for more than one Victor to remain alive. The fight between the final two remaining Victors was always the climax of every year’s broadcast, and should she and Kieran be those last two, they’d be expected to combat until the other was dead. There were no known exceptions to that. That had always been how the Games were played, ending only when one sole survivor remained. Always. And yet, Kieran White seemed to have other ideas concerning this condition, and Lauren couldn’t pinpoint how or why he’d have such a belief.

What did he know? 

Or…

Who did he know?

It’s not as if he didn’t try though. His efforts just backfired on him. Those words, he’d let them slip when she had brought up her uncle. If she were to surmise a theory based on those words alone, she’d deduce that not only had her uncle attempted to keep her from the Games somehow after all, but Kieran was aware of it. Aware of her uncle’s attempt and aware of the consequences it had brought.

The unfairness of having Kieran White possessing more knowledge of her own uncle’s actions and secrecies than she did herself crushed down onto her, igniting a blaze of frustration within her. She had asked her uncle directly to his face for answers, and yet he had refused to give her an honest response, withholding what Lauren strongly believed she had a right to know. Meanwhile, a stranger to their District held more information than Tristan Sinclair would ever willingly share with her. How a man from the lowest District managed to make such a move to the 11th District remained a mystery to her still, as well. Lauren had a feeling there was more to her District partner’s likely association with her uncle than met the eye, vaguely questioning if Uncle Tristan or some other person with a similar position of power had brought this stranger into their home. 

But for what reason and why Kieran White, Lauren wasn’t quite sure yet.

Surely, it wasn’t just to represent the 11th District in the Games or simply work in the menial position as the town archivist, a job so insignificant in the grand scheme of things that hiring from outside the District made little to no sense when anyone could have fulfilled the vacant role. She could understand the desire of someone from the 6th District wanting to uproot their lives and make a better living in the 11th, but it wasn’t as though the 11th had much to gain by bringing in someone from the outside, especially if there were those struggling for life within their very own District that could have been hired.

Lauren shifted her eyes to the side once more, catching the profile of Kieran in her peripheral.

Who are you, Kieran White? And why are you here?

Lauren gave a sigh of resignation, knowing quite well that her questions would continue to be left unanswered. Any attempt to seek the truth through him would most likely be met with denial or rejection as they were wont to be.

Her gaze trailed upwards to the screen and its glowing colors that bounced around the room, letting the scene before her distract her from her resentment even if only by a small amount. On the screen now were the departing chariots being pulled by the horses, trotting to the opposite direction of the castle and towards the Remake Center. While the cameras had tried to fairly cut to each District, allotting each pair of Tributes sufficient screen time, there was a clear bias to the pair of Tributes still clad in their prismatic colors, the gradients of blue and pink and purple shifting like waves receding back and forth across the shore and sea, or that of a borealis curling in the north sky, twinkling lights gleamed in sparkling bits of crafted jewels on their bodies. The crowns on their heads glistened with gold from the light surrounding them.

“Such an incredible parade this year,” rang the host, Viscount Redcliff’s, voice through the speakers. “The stylists truly went above and beyond this year for the twentieth anniversary of the Games.”

“I suppose they were decent at best. Much better than last year’s, I would say, though not as spectacular as I could have hoped for,” his co-host replied, the shot of the two hosts sitting side-by-side behind the news counter panning into view.

“Well, that may be true for some of the Districts, but I’d say the Eleventh exceeded many people’s expectations. They’ve especially been the talk of the town since last night, and I can see why. They’ve dazzled the crowd and, I’m sure, the whole country with those costumes of theirs on top of that charm. Don’t you think so, Hugues?”

Hugues Hermann’s lips pressed into a thin line, shrugging his shoulders haphazardly in response. “In a way, sure,” came his deeper timbre. “At least the boy is. I wouldn’t really call the red-head charming so much as I would disagreeable.”

Lauren rolled her eyes at the remark against her, her lingering frustration towards her uncle and District partner now being aimed at the co-host. She’d perhaps feel more insulted if Hugues Hermann wasn’t known for his blunt and dry commentary. She supposed that’s why the television network kept him around, to act as a foil for Redcliff’s more sophisticated critiques.

“And what exactly is the Eleventh supposed to be?” Hermann continued. “The purpose of the whole color changing mechanic is lost on me. Were their stylists trying to go for a fancy rainbow or something of that sort?”

Lauren could hear Neyra exhale in annoyance beside her, the stylist muttering something that sounded like, “What an ass,” under her breath. Lauren couldn’t help but smirk in agreement.

“A rainbow doesn’t really look like that though,” Kieran said, drawing Lauren’s attention to him. “Though I can’t say there isn’t something reminiscent of the sky in the black and colors.”

“In what way?” Neyra asked.

Lauren looked up at the screen, watching the footage of the iridescent maps of her dress and Kieran’s suit dissolving back into the black. During her many bouts of sleepless nights back home, when the insomnia was too strong to fight and sleep failed to consume her, she would look out the window of her room, staring up into the darkness of the sky, the only light that penetrated the black being the lunar orb that hung against the backdrop of the astral skies. There were nights when the shades of the light from the moon shifted almost as much as its phases and shapes, colors glowing in beams of orange or red or grey or yellow or blue. 

The moon. It reminded her of the moon from home.

Ardhalis always had a beautiful moon, but something about seeing it from the 11th made it all the more striking. It seemed that, in addition to the intended motif of her District’s industry, their parade costumes reflected home in more ways than Lauren had initially realized.

She must have voiced her thoughts aloud unknowingly in some form because all heads were turned her way now, some looking at her with confusion or as though she was a lunatic for the comparison.

Everyone except for Kieran. He turned his head towards her direction, and based on the amused tilt on his lips and the curiously raised brow, he seemed to have a sense of understanding in what she was attempting to express.

“Princess of the Moon…” the words clicked off his tongue as if foreign in sound and taste. “I think it’s fitting for a night owl like you.”

Lauren scoffed, squinting her eyes his way. “No.”

“Aww, I think it’s lovely,” Lady Desroses’s soft voice chimed. “Though don’t you think princess is a tad much?” she added turning to Kieran.

Lauren pursed her lips. “Yes, I agree. It is,” she said, eyes narrowing still at the boy seated across her. Kieran flashed her a smirk in return.

“How about Lady of the Moon then?” Lady Desroses suggested at the same time Neyra commented, “You know, I kind of do see what you mean with the moon colors.”

“Or Maiden of the Moon?” Kieran added, eyes never leaving Lauren’s, his smirk widening into a grin.

“Ren, the Moon Maiden,” March drawled, apparently partaking in the fun. “It has a nice sound to it.”

Lauren’s eyes narrowed furthermore towards Kieran who only seemed to be taking even more amusement at the expense of her dignity. She slid a finger across her throat menacingly at him to which he only responded with a low chuckle. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned back against her seat, redirecting her gaze back to the screen and whatever criticisms Hermann was now giving the other Tributes. Though, she’d be loath to admit, she detested the new moniker less than anything Kieran had ever called her.

***

It was half an hour before 9 A.M. when Lauren had stepped out of her suite, her teeth cleaned, hair combed and tied up in a high ponytail, and body dressed in the styled athletic attire that Neyra had placed out for her. She’d pursed her lips at the sight of her District partner in the hall, taking in how his identical attire mirrored her own apparel. The blue of his fitted sweater stuck out vibrantly along the ridges of the underlying muscles of his arms and torso, the shade darker yet as electric as the blue in his eyes; the opaque grey of his joggers produced a soft contrast to the faint golden tones of his skin, cool on warm pressed against his body.

Kieran tilted his chin down at her, as though registering the same thing she had, his expression reflecting her own in the same manner as their informal uniform. 

“I like to think I wore it better,” Lauren snickered, folding her arms over her abdomen.

He angled a brow down at her, eyes scanning over her person. “Can’t argue with that,” he responded, hands resting on his hips. “Though I have to admit, I’m curious as to why they’re still dressing us up in matching clothing.”

Lauren shrugged and turned her head in the direction of the common area where she knew Oliver March was currently awaiting them. “I’m pretty sure this is less of their idea than it is our mentor’s,” she scoffed.

“How so?”

“I imagine it’s March still trying to get us to team up.”

“Huh. Well, you can’t blame a man for trying,” Kieran replied. Lauren knew he’d said it in jest, but her senses told her there was an underlying implication behind his words, as though he wasn’t referring to March but to himself.

At that moment, an understanding of what had been consuming his mind during the parade’s recap dawned on her, and Lauren realized that she wasn’t the only one who’d been dwelling on what had transpired over breakfast. It was apparent that Kieran possessed more stubbornness than she’d thought him to have, and Lauren dared to guess that he hadn’t given up on his endeavours to persuade her to accept his proposal. She glanced his way, and she knew without a doubt that he was aware she’d caught onto his meaning. The lingering tension that had never fully dissipated from the morning became more and more difficult to ignore, the heat of their turmoil growing red in the small space between them.

There was a pregnant pause that soon followed, and it seemed for a brief and fleeting moment that Kieran was on the verge of bringing up their conversation from earlier in the morning, as if there could be anything he could say to her that would make her change her mind despite all that she’d already explained to him. But if he was indeed considering breaching the subject, he had apparently changed his mind.

“We should go,” he eventually said. “March is waiting for us.” There was a solemn sound to his voice as he spoke, all too similar to the way he’d spoken around her upon their arrival to the city, concealed only by the small, genteel smile he forced on his lips. He stalked away from her and into the common area they’d occupied just moments ago, leaving Lauren to trail behind him.

She unfurled her fists, unaware they had curled to begin with and released a breath she hardly realized she’d had trapped in her lungs. She took another deep breath, forcing down the hostility, and silently cursed how easily she let herself allow him under her skin.

She followed him into the next room where March greeted each of them as Lauren and Kieran took their usual seats on the opposite ends of the sofa, both Tributes attempting to maintain their composure.

If the tension between Kieran and her were noticed by March, he made no comment on it, saying instead, “Before we begin, would either of you prefer to be coached together or separately?”

“Why would you coach us separately?” Lauren asked.

March scratched at his chin, contemplating on how to explain. “It’s only an option in case one of you would prefer to strategize independently. For example, let’s say you have a special skill that you don’t want the other to know about, or maybe a secret strategy you might be thinking of, we can discuss privately about a game plan without the other knowing.”

Lauren thought for a quick moment, exchanging a brief glance with Kieran. He was already aware of her combat abilities as he’d so kindly reminded her earlier, and outside of shooting firearms (which, to her knowledge, were still banned from the Games), she had no other skills that she felt were relevant or useful in the arena or at least in training. And, in turn, she knew of Kieran’s abilities to fight and defend as well, having frustratingly been on that receiving end on the night they first met. She shook her head at March, replying, “No, you can coach us toge—”

“Actually,” Kieran interrupted, speaking slowly and warily. “If you don’t mind, can we be privately coached instead?”

“Sure, if that’s what you prefer,” March answered.

Lauren whipped her head towards Kieran, taken aback by his inquiry.

“Really?” she asked him.

Kieran met her gaze and replied plainly, “Yes. Really. There are some things I’d prefer to discuss with March in private.” 

Like what? she almost asked, but she refrained herself from the question, seeing no point in voicing it. If he wanted her to know, he wouldn’t have been making such a request.

She didn’t know why she was surprised by this decision. He had every right to ask for it. They weren’t partners or teammates, that much she had refused to be. But she just couldn’t understand how the person who was incredibly eager to have her as his ally was now making a decision that worked against that intent.

But, maybe it was to be expected. If they weren’t going to be allies, if she’d continue to reject that notion, that only left the alternative of them being adversaries, and this was how adversaries were meant to play the Games. Kieran would need to start worrying about himself and his own personal survival, and it was apparent that was starting here, and Lauren needed to start doing the same.

He met her stare, his eyes telling her that he was waiting on her to either refute or comply with the request, and so she nodded.

“Yeah…” Lauren murmured, being the first one to break their eye contact. Then louder, “Yeah, of course. You can go first. I’ll go wait in my room.”

She stood up from her place, and sauntered back to the suite she had just returned from, turning her head over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of her District partner and mentor once more, before she disappeared into the hall leading to the bed chambers. As soon as she was out of their sight, the quiet murmurs of their discussion began, though the words were too muffled by the distance now for her to understand what they were saying.

Betrayal. That was the best word Lauren could use to describe the feeling in her chest as the knots began to form behind her ribs, like her heartstrings being pulled and plucked into ribbons. Lauren knew it was ridiculous for her to feel betrayed in any sense, especially by her District partner. She’d known from the moment that they became Tributes that they would be competitors in this fight to the death. And yet, simultaneously, regardless of having that knowledge, she’d allowed herself to toy with the concept of placing an inch of her trust in him, going as far as to say she was perhaps even comfortable being with him. She wondered now if all that was a mistake; wondered if she, too, had fallen into his trap and been charmed by him just like he did everyone else.

She shook her head, and with the motion also shaking away the emotions and convictions she had towards him. She needed to focus on the Games and the arena, not on her District partner and whatever ploy he had. Too bad that was easier said than done. She hadn’t noticed how much he’d been consuming her thoughts until she realized she needed to stop concerning herself with him.

She needed to focus on training and turn her attention to the fact that for the next three days, she would be in the same room with all the other 23 Tributes, each one learning how to fight and survive, each one showcasing the different ways they could kill and potentially win. Lauren needed to figure out a way to prove to them that there was more to her than met the eye, and more than that, she wanted to prove that she wouldn’t need Kieran’s help to live.

***

It had taken about thirty minutes for Kieran to eventually knock on her door and inform her that their mentor was ready to meet with her. She’d only given him a cordial nod at the message and a small thank you—refusing to meet his eyes or any part of his face for that matter—before she traipsed past him to return yet again to the common area of the penthouse. There, she found Oliver March seated at the dining table having moved from the sofa of the living room, and she pulled out a seat directly across from him on the other side of the table where a steaming cup of coffee seemed to be waiting for her.

She looked at it questioningly, wondering if it was meant for her or simply left behind.

“It’s from Kieran,” March answered her silent inquiry.

Lauren scoffed, but took a sip of it nonetheless. She was going to need it with how long the day had already been for her, not caring about the intent of her District partner’s small present. If it was his way of trying to get her to soften up to him or apologize for pulling a one-eighty on her, he was going to have to try harder.

“Well, Ren, I know this hasn’t been the easiest past two days for you,” March started off, his voice carrying the same collected and firm tone it always held when he played the part of mentor. “But, as you may know, the training sessions are going to be the most integral and maybe even the most brutal part of the Games aside from the Games themselves.”

Lauren hummed in understanding, knowing already what the next three days held for them. Three days of training within the gym facility of the Training Center, three days of learning how to kill and survive, three days to hone whatever skills they already possessed; all leading up to the afternoon of the third day when the Tributes would each be individually evaluated by the Gamemakers themselves. An evaluation score would later be broadcast to the whole country the same night in a show to display who in the group of 24 Tributes would be deemed the strongest and who would be deemed the weakest, all for the sake of allowing sponsors and anyone else with money to place their bets on who they think would die and who may come out as the new Victor. As one would expect, the highest scoring Tributes were usually the ones to gain the most sponsors, but also the same ones to become the most targeted in the arena by the other Tributes.

March continued to speak, “I have a feeling your uncle has at least taught you a thing or two that’ll end up being useful in the arena.”

Lauren cocked her head in a small shrug, responding, “I have some experience in hand-to-hand combat. And, well,” she paused for a short second, adding then apprehensively, “I know it’s technically not legal, but he also taught me how to shoot, you know…” She made a sideways L-shape with her forefinger and thumb, unnecessarily wary that saying the word gun or firearms aloud casually while in the Capitol would put a bounty on her head.  

March practically barked out a laugh at that. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the questionable legalities of your training. I’m sure there are more questionable things within our District than that. Besides, it’s not as though you’d be the first to be brought up that way; not if you consider how Career Tributes come to be and how everyone turns the other cheek at their training methods. However, I’d be willing to bet their training is nothing compared to yours.” He chuckled softly. 

Lauren couldn’t help but laugh softly in response. “That’s quite the praise.”

“Well, I’d expect nothing less of Tristan and his upbringing of you. Leave it to the Sinclairs to know how to bend and twist the rules somehow. Your parents were no different when it came to knowing how to do just that, too, you know, and it seems they’ve passed that onto you.”

Lauren’s lips curved into a gentle smile, the mention of her parents and uncle bringing the comforting warmth in her chest that they each had always managed to bring to her. She placed a light hand to her breastbone, willing the warmth to stay longer as the cold horror of the fact that she would never see her parents and possibly her uncle ever again crept onto her, fueling the dread and fear of her remaining days on Earth. The grim image of the last time she’d seen her mother and father forced its way into the forefront of her mind, striking her like a lightning bolt that sent chills down her body.

“Well, I guess they didn’t know how as well as they thought they did,” Lauren mumbled, her grip of the mug within her hand tightening, threatening to shatter the ceramic with just enough force. “Not if it meant them getting arrested and me losing them forever.”

March sighed sympathetically at her comment. “I’m sorry, Ren. I shouldn’t have mentioned them.”

“No,” Lauren shook her head, a trembling breath coming from her lips. “It’s okay. I just—I just really miss them. But I’m sure you already know the feeling… Having lost people you’ve loved also. It’s hard trying to let go, isn’t it?”

March looked down at his hands folded on the table, nodding in response. “Yes, it is. But we all have to let go at some point, right? And even if you do, that doesn’t mean having to forget them, just like missing them doesn’t mean having to live in the past just to keep their memory alive.”

“Yeah,” Lauren breathed, clearing her throat and willing the moisture in her eyes to stay put. “Yeah… I know. But it’s been hard to move on when I never got the closure of losing them forever, or never learned why they were taken from me. The last time I saw my uncle, I tried asking him for answers, but even then he couldn’t tell me anything—refused to tell me anything. Now I’ll probably never see him again, and I’ll die without knowing the truth.”

March examined her closely then asked, “Ever consider that if you played the Games just right, you might be able to return home and see him again?”

“Ha,” Lauren mocked more derisively than intended. “That’s easier said than done.”

“It certainly is,” her mentor agreed. “But I’m hoping you can use the anger and wrath I already know you’re capable of into a drive to fight for yourself instead of letting it be something that hinders you.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Lauren looked at him curiously. “Turning your anger into your drive?”

“Something like that. I guess you can say that I’ve learned to turn the pain and frustration from losing my wife and daughter into a special kind of passion; a passion for focusing my efforts into helping my District and helping my Tributes, a passion for trying to help you kids stay alive even when my own family couldn’t do the same.”

Lauren gave him a tightlipped smile. “I mean, it is your job, so you don’t really have a choice,” she joked.

“You got me there,” March chortled. 

Lauren couldn’t help but reciprocate a laugh herself. “But about Annabelle…” she began to say after a minute, their shared laughter fading into the air. “Do you know why she was taken by Peacekeepers?”

“I do,” March answered. “And if you’re about to ask if I know anything about your parents’ arrests, I unfortunately can’t say that I do. Besides, that’s a conversation you’d need to have with your uncle, not with me.”

Lauren sighed. She figured he’d respond as much.

“Sure, if I manage to make it out alive,” Lauren mumbled.

“Well, you can start by making sure that you do by focusing on your training,” March advised, leaning forward on his elbows against the table.

“Okay…” Lauren drawled. “And what exactly do you propose my game plan be?”

“We can start by honing some other skills that should help you. Hand-to-hand combat is great, but it won’t be much help if you’re up against someone with an actual weapon in hand.” Lauren almost snickered at the advice, hearing the same message she’d told her uncle being echoed from her mentor. “Ever shot an arrow or thrown a spear before?”

Lauren shook her head.

“Well, your ability to shoot may give you a bit of an advantage for aiming, but pulling an arrow from a string and a bow is going to be vastly different from pulling a trigger, so make the time for those stations today. Though be careful not to show too much and draw attention to yourself. Wouldn’t want to have a target painted on you already if any of the Tributes, especially the Careers, see you as a threat.”

“But won’t I just look like an even easier target?” Lauren asked, unabashedly insulted by the concept of trying to make herself appear less than competent. “If they think I’m incapable, they’ll just see me as an easier bone to pick.”

“Careers are brutal people, Lauren. They’d much rather weed out the bigger competition than worry about the smaller people. Best not to try and make it seem like you’re trying to outdo them and give them a reason to place you at the top of their list.”

Lauren glowered down at her hands, fingers curled around her mug. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Do you know anything about setting traps or snares? Or even fishing or hunting?” March went on.

Lauren shook her head again. Having come from a wealthy household, she’d never had to worry about obtaining a meal with her own bare hands, never had to fear the notion of being anything less than well-fed. There was never any worry about where her next meal would come from, and she winced as Kieran’s remark about her way of living, the words he had thrown to her face in a fury on the train, came into her mind: You condemn the Capitol and what they do, yet you parade around in your own privilege, unaware of the people struggling around you in your own home.

How ironic it was that her own privilege now would play a role in her potential downfall.

She thought of Dylan. She thought of his family and how they must have lived back home in the 11th, coming to terms of how wholly unaware she was of how vastly different their worlds were despite living in the same District. She thought of Kieran and what he claimed to be fighting in the Games for, and despite the possible falsehoods in his reasonings, she hoped there’d be a slice of truth in it, hoped he’d use his winnings—should he come out of the Games alive—to actually help the other citizens in their home.

“No, I don’t,” she responded to March’s questions. “And I’m assuming you’ll want me to visit those stations, too?”

March gave a nod of confirmation. “May as well take the time to learn some camping skills while you’re at it, too. Maybe even learn how to forage fruits and other plants for sustenance. Your friend Dylan was really good at that.”

Lauren smiled proudly. Of course he was. Didn’t hurt that Dylan had a florist for a father who had passed on his knowledge to his son. She’d only wished now that she would’ve asked him for more of the same information for the sake of her survival, wished she’d had the better foresight to expect her life to lead her where she was now. “I don’t have the same repertoire of flora that Dylan had, but I remember a couple of things about some plants he taught me when we were kids, like what’s edible and what’s not, or what can be used to treat wounds and injuries.”

March smiled in approval. “Well, that’s definitely something. It’ll definitely be useful assuming the arena does have plants that can be utilized this year and isn’t some desolate desert or barren frozen wasteland.”

Lauren swallowed the thickness forming in her throat, recalling those years and the sufferings each Tribute was forced to endure just to find food, shelter, and water. She gulped audibly, realizing abruptly how she was currently only days away from possibly experiencing the same trials if not similar, the sudden dread of the Games heavier at the realization the Tributes weren’t going to be her only opposition for her survival and life, but the arena itself, too; how the land around her would play a role in being another obstacle.

“Alright, Ren,” March called, drawing her attention to him, his eyes on the watch that hung on his wrist. “Sad to say that’s all the time we have for today. I don’t want you kids to be late. If you have any questions, we can always pick back up tomorrow. For now, make sure you and Kieran meet with Lady A at the elevator in about three minutes. She’ll take you to the training facility downstairs.”

Lauren grimaced at the mention of their chaperone, hoping the mug she held to her lips, the last drops of her drink in her mouth, hid her distaste sufficiently enough. She motioned with her head in acknowledgement to her mentor’s instructions, and began to stand from her seat.

“Oh, and Lauren. One last thing,” March called before she was even halfway to her feet. “You and Kieran, I want you both by each other’s side for the next three days. Anytime you’re both out in public, anytime you’re at any training station, even during lunch, I want the two of you together.”

Lauren’s face twisted in confusion, thoroughly in disbelief by what she was hearing. “What? But he doesn’t even want to work with me!”

“Regardless of whether you believe that to be true or not, this is for both your sakes.” Mainly yours, Lauren could hear the silent implication. “Look, you haven’t exactly made the best impression on many people since your arrival, but at least the city loves it when the two of you are together. You may as well use that as a tool while you still can.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “No, they’re in love with him, not me.”

“And now they’ll love you, too.”

Lauren opened her mouth to object, silenced only by March holding up an index finger to prevent her response. “No buts,” he said. “Now go. I don’t want either of you to be late.”

Lauren groaned inwardly, very much like a petulant child told to sit in a corner, and began to make her way in the direction of the front door. She mutely cursed her mentor and his shameless tactics in trying to push her and Kieran together, wondering if she was the only person who acknowledged their differences and incompatibility. If anyone else did, it appeared no one cared.

She exited the penthouse, the elevator just a few strides across the front door, and met with her escort by the metallic sliding doors. Lady Arthingham spared no time pattering on about the parade that occurred last night, chatting about all the attention she herself had gotten as though she had been the one who’d ridden in the chariot and been shown off to the world like a prized trophy, acting as if she wasn’t only receiving the supposed attention due to her association with Lauren’s District. Lauren only half-heartedly listened to the exaggerated comments made by the woman, her own mind reeling over all of March’s advice.

“Are you always this absorbed in your thoughts?” the smooth and deep timbre whispered in her ear. Lauren jolted in surprise at the voice, mustering all her restraint to keep her fist at her side and not collide it into the voice’s owner’s face.

She glared pointedly at Kieran, her heart racing against her chest with heated aggravation—initially from being startled close to her grave, but now at the sight of her District partner and the reminder that she’d practically be joined at the hip with him for the foreseeable future.

“And are you always this annoying?” she retorted.

“According to you, yes.” He shot her a smug smile, all too accustomed to her sharp tongue. “But I’d say it’s one of my many quirks.”

With a roll of her eyes, Lauren quipped, “And now apparently, I’ll have to deal with this quirk of yours even more now that March is ordering me to stick with you for the next three days.” She sent him a sideways glance, adding, “I can’t imagine you’re too thrilled about that though.”

The humor in his face faded slightly at the mention of their mentor’s instructions, his shoulders haphazardly shrugging. “I expected it, but I don’t mind it. What makes you think I would’ve been opposed to the idea?”

Lauren blinked up at him, all too perplexed by his question. Was this not the same person who’d requested separate coaching for the sake of keeping her at a distance? She struggled to comprehend why he wasn’t objecting to the notion of being forced to be by her side more. She’d thought he would have shared the same amount of apprehension or frustration as she did instead of being indifferent to, if not accepting of, it.

She hadn’t gotten the opportunity to voice her questions out loud before their escort clapped her hands together and instructed the pair to enter the elevator that had finally arrived, her palms pressed against each of their backs, shoving them into the space with more strength than either thought she was capable of possessing.

With the speed of the elevator, the ride itself to the bottom most level of the Center was expected to take no more than one whole minute, the training area just below the ground level of the building. Lauren leaned against the glass of the back wall, the view of the city just behind her, while Kieran made small talk with Lady Arthingham who enthusiastically conversed animatedly with him. Lauren couldn’t push aside the feeling that he’d only allowed himself to be their escort’s conversationist so as to save Lauren herself the torture of the woman interacting with her, suspicious of the idea that it was another effort or favor by him to appeal to her much like the gesture with the coffee had been.

Lauren pursed her lips, questions of his intentions flooding her mind, wondering what exactly it was he believed he would be getting out of all of this.

The elevator eventually reached its destination, and the doors slid open to reveal the gymnasium’s entrance hall and also epicenter. If Lauren had expected the gym in the Capitol to be anything like the gyms they had in the schools within the 11th District, she would have underestimated the sheer size of the room alone if one could even call the facility a room. The gym stretched in every direction as far and wide as Nightingale Park just directly above them, and Lauren wouldn’t have been surprised if the facility was indeed fitted to reach as far as the royal palace situated across from their current building. The walls that made up the perimeter of the center loomed above them in staggering concrete and brick barriers, spanning upwards into the high ceiling as the mountains outside would towards the clouds. And much like the mountains, embedded into portions of the wall on one end in a large corner were oddly shaped rocks that crept up the entire length of the walls which Lauren assumed were most likely used for climbing and scaling exercise. Crevices and cliffs were artificially carved into the faces in an effort to mimic the real thing. On another end of the facility were bars, raised platforms, and posts that made up the obstacle course; and on another end were multiple stations; some for what seemed like fire making or for similarly related survival necessities, and others made of varying weapons stacked on high racks and stands. The pointed ends of the different blades from knives to swords to spears and arrows seemed to glisten clean and unstained in the white light of the room, and yet how easy it was to envision the rivers of red trailing down the ends, the droplets falling into puddles of blood much in the same way those exact weapons had been wielded and drenched with crimson time and time again after taking the lives of others. Lauren shook away the gory image, refusing to allow her apprehension tamper with her psyche, careful not to allow herself to be so easily intimidated.

Lauren’s eyes scanned around the room, catching sight of the other Tributes who had arrived early, unsurprised by the fact that all the other pairs wore non-identical wear, leaving only her and her own District partner to be the outliers. On the backs of each person were square cuts of cloth, numbers of what could only be meant to identify which District they hailed from pinned onto their tops. Lady Arthingham pressed the square piece that held the number 11 on both Lauren and Kieran’s backs, before she bade a farewell to her two trainees, wishing them that the odds be ever in their favor.

Left to their own devices before the formal start of training, Lauren and Kieran made their way to the cluster of other children near the center, standing around until 10 A.M. would finally arrive to mark the start of their sessions. Lauren idly looked around, catching the familiar faces of the Tributes from last night; most of them standing around, wearing looks of either detachment or trepidation on their faces, evidently as unsettled by their current location and disposition as Lauren was. The Career Tributes from the 6th and 13th Districts had arrived not long after, quickly forming their own little clique. They stood and conversed with each other, a certain swagger projected in the way they stood tall and smug. Bearing no hint of uneasiness on their faces, they wore their sharp grins of arrogance, easily conveying not only their willingness to be where they were but also the thrill running through their spines at the thought of the Games.

Lauren frowned at their easygoing attitudes and turned away, both from disgust but also in fear of attracting their attention with her stare. March was right. She definitely didn’t want to get on the Careers’ bad side.

The sound of laughter above them tugged her gaze upwards, landing on the balcony platform that overlooked the entire room, the area filled with what almost seemed like an audience to their show. Each spectator adorned a purple robe of undeniably expensive and lush material, some twirling flutes of bubbling drinks of reds and whites despite the hours of the morning—Lauren supposed the Capitol always partied whenever they could, the time of the day being of no concern to them—as laughter and crackles of excitement radiated from them. Lauren caught sight of one particular audience member in the group, his attention on the person conversing with him, his brown hair a slight mess despite knowing his position in the Capitol required him to look his finest at all times, rings of lamely concealed dim circles that reminded Lauren of her own surrounded the bottom flesh underneath his green eyes.

Dakan Rhysmel. And with that realization, Lauren surmised that the other spectators were none other than the crew of Gamemakers.

“Looks like some people are already starting their fun,” Kieran remarked beside her, his own attention on the balcony, as well.

“They’re the Gamemakers,” she replied, voice thick with acid. “I imagine this entire thing is their fun.”

Kieran gave a soft hmm at that and motioned with a tilt of his head at the Head Gamemaker above them. “Do you think that sentiment applies to him, too?”

Lauren shrugged, brows creasing in thought. She wanted nothing more in that moment to answer bluntly with a No, it doesn’t, but she knew with the tightness in her chest that she herself didn’t wholly believe it. She didn’t doubt that there was good in Dakan, never doubted his love for her, and never doubted that she loved him as much as she loved her own blood family. She knew that her uncle would never love a man who would take pleasure in slaughtering children for a living. But despite her familial adoration for him, the fact remained that he was still the Head Gamemaker, and Lauren could never rest easy knowing the amount of deaths he’d been responsible for whether directly or indirectly, guilty by association if not more.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Even if he doesn’t actually enjoy any of this, that doesn’t change what he does and what he’s done. He may not be the one in the arena, but that doesn’t mean there’s no blood on his hands.”

Lauren could feel Kieran’s eyes shift away, no longer observing the balcony and its pretentious group of Capitol citizens. She caught sight of his expression deep into consideration at her answer, and he met her gaze as he felt her eyes on him, a wry grin tugging at one corner. “You have an incredibly complicated family,” he said.

Lauren stifled a laugh. “Believe me. I know.”

But as those words slipped past her lips, the question entered her mind: But you probably know more about that than I do, don’t you? She imagined if he was ever to be honest with her, he would tell her that he did indeed.

***

As the time drew closer to ten o’clock, more and more of the other Districts’ Tributes began to file into the facility. A loose circle had formed around the epicenter of the gym, some of the Tributes chatting mildly with one another while others stood around in tense silence. The Tributes from the 3rd District had been the last to arrive, making it to the gathering point with only four minutes to spare with Harvey Wood profusely apologizing for their tardiness. No one seemed to mind or notice their lack of punctuality, and no one seemed to acknowledge his apologies. Kym Ladell had casually strolled in behind him with a steaming paper cup of coffee in one hand, the other hand waving in the air vigorously as Lauren and Kieran came into her view. She chugged down the drink, evidently unbothered by the burning temperature it must have been, and threw the cup behind her without any thought. Lauren’s jaw went slack as she watched the container miraculously land into a nearby trash can.

“Ayyee! Lauren!” Kym greeted fervently, brown eyes glimmering and mouth spread wide in a childish grin. In a flash she was in the air, a blur in the corner of Lauren’s eye and before Lauren could register what was happening, the sudden weight on her back and the arms wrapped around her neck were the only answers she needed.

“Hello to you, too, Kym,” Lauren wheezed, her knees shaking and threatening to give way at the weight of the fifteen year-old clinging to her.

“And hello to you, Kieran,” Kym purred as she leaned forward on her palm, her elbow on Lauren’s shoulder.

“Good morning, Miss Lade— ahem! I mean Kym,” came Kieran’s reply. Although Lauren couldn’t see the girl’s face, she dared to guess that a pointed look from Kym had been effective enough in running Kieran’s memory to her preferred name.

Kym slid off Lauren the moment Harvey Wood appeared not a minute later to give his District partner her square number much to Lauren's relief as her knees found their gravity. And as though on cue, when the clock struck ten, a young woman appeared at the center of the group of Tributes, easily attracting the attention of all those in the room with a series of taps of the staff she held in her hands.

Introducing herself as the head trainer Athena, the woman wasted no time in getting straight to business as she addressed the room, her voice booming with an intensity that made it difficult to draw one’s focus elsewhere; with her striking blonde hair, bright violet eyes, and deep red robes draping over her body, she easily drew all gazes to her appearance as much as the sound of her voice did. Athena started with a summary of their schedule, informing them of how long they were expected to be training and even the times expected for their lunch breaks for the coming days. Tributes were free to travel from each different station on their own accord, an instructor would be based in each one to assist with teaching and training each technique, all experts in the field they acted as a guide in. Athena continued to provide a nearly overwhelming amount of additional details to the different courses and modules available to them, from fire making stations, archery stations, fishing stations, knot-tying stations, and so on. Combat with one another was strictly prohibited—“Save it for the arena,” she’d said—although the alternative of sparring with the other training assistants was offered as an option instead.

“However,” Athena spoke, “I do recommend each of you focus on other skills and lessons outside of combat. Your chances of survival in the arena will depend more on your ability to find food and shelter than it will on knowing how to kill one another.”

Lauren recalled March’s advice he’d given to Kieran on the train, his sentiments then being echoed now through the head trainer. The 11th District may not have been one with the most victories, Lauren thought, but she couldn’t deny that March certainly knew how to give advice. Now if only she’d be able to follow them well enough to survive.

With a flick of her wrist, Athena dismissed the group, and everyone began to disperse to all corners of the gym. To no one’s amazement, the Tributes from the Career Districts had run head first to the weaponry stations, grabbing at the mass arsenal at their disposal, ready to intimidate the playing field immediately. Even Harvey Wood had made his way to one of the ax throwing stations, snaking past the dense group of Tributes, fumbling with his own two hands to grab at any of the blades.

As for his District partner, she’d merely yawned and mumbled about something along the lines of going to find the tent making station with the hopes of taking a nap inside it, and walked languidly off towards what Lauren was sure was in the opposite direction to her aforementioned destination. Lauren cocked her brow at Kym’s exit, curiosity filling her at the girl’s true nature. Was Kym Ladell truly as talented and skillful as Lauren and March had presumed? Or was she nothing more than just a child, too young to comprehend the severity of her situation?

Don’t underestimate that one, that’s for sure, March’s voice echoed a reminder behind her ear.

Lauren opted to believe in the former. There was always more than what met the eye as she’d come to learn more recently.

“So where to, Moon Maiden?” Kieran asked tauntingly beside her.

Lauren rolled her eyes with a scornful huff and turned around to face Kieran, a quip already on her tongue. “Your choice, Flower Boy.”

“Oh, Flower Boy? You know, in some cultures, that’s equivalent to calling someone pretty.”

“Too bad that doesn’t apply to you,” Lauren smirked.

“You’re right. I’m more dashing than pretty,” Kieran gleamed. He ran a hand through the mess of his hair, loose strands joining the stray locks on his forehead. Lauren sent him a deadpan face; he brushed her off. “But why Flower Boy?” he asked.

Lauren hummed a nonchalant I don’t know. “Just remembering what you told me earlier about Mr. Rosenthal and the flowers, I guess,” she said. “And I figured if my dress makes me the Moon Maiden, then your suit can make you Flower Boy,” she added, recalling the hyacinth that had been pinned on his lapel just above his heart.

“Hah. Fair enough, I suppose. I’ll stop calling you Moon Maiden if you stop calling me Flower Boy. Deal?”

Lauren pressed her lips into a grin. “Deal.”

The pair found themselves ultimately deciding on the knot-tying station first—electing to stay out of the Careers’ way and their menacing intent to conquer the more brutal activities—and veered towards the other side of the gym away from the weaponry stations. 

Lauren’s fingers fumbled through the different knots she’d no idea even existed until that moment, frustration beginning to consume her as each attempt left her feeling incompetent. It helped less that their instructor, Zephyr, had started her off with what he considered a level one knot (she grimaced at what anything higher than a level one knot could be). He demonstrated the loops to Lauren once more, the thick rope in her own hands nothing like the one in his. She groaned inwardly, undoing her work and trying again, wondering why she thought she'd have some success in this activity. The flower crowns she could never tie and braid well enough as a child should have been an indication of her lack of skill in that department.

Kieran had glanced at her both with concern and curious amusement, and she had no greater desire in that moment than to wipe the growing humored expression from his face.

“Here, like this,” he suggested as his hands came up to meet hers. He took her fingers with his, guiding her through the motions of each loop and each snake of the rope’s ends, each motion of his hands smooth and simple. Lauren tried to protest, but stopped as she watched her hands work through the machinations of the knot, led by his own on hers. The familiar calluses of his fingertips and the roughened surface of his palms against her own skin were like blankets of asphalt covering her fingers as the textures grazed her knuckles. But with the coarseness she felt also came the accompanying tenderness of the flesh beneath and the warmth of the blood in his veins with its heat radiating from his pores, his hands as much of a paradox as his character: quick and slow, simple and complex, soothing and daunting.

She wondered how an archivist like him could have developed such blemishes, refusing to believe that filing books and documents in the Justice Building could have been sufficient enough at creating such hardened skin. She stored the thought away under her mental file she’d titled The Mysteries of Kieran White that she hadn’t realized she’d produced until this morning.

When he released his hold, she looked down at the rope still entangled in her hands and found the shape of the loops and knots finally mirroring the one Zephyr had shown to her.

“Hm. Not bad,” she murmured, refusing to give Kieran the satisfaction of an actual compliment. Her gaze traveled to the multiple ropes Kieran had laid out before him, each one a more complex shape than the one before it, and her brows shot up in surprise as her eyes skimmed from piece to piece. It appeared that in her struggle, Kieran had managed to keep himself occupied with not just knots but snares and nooses, different traps and nets made of rope, intricately woven and shaped. Most if not all would have certainly been under what their instructor would consider a level five if not higher. 

Zephyr nodded in approval at Kieran’s work, and gave a polite Good job to Lauren’s mundane attempt.

“I have some… experience… in this,” Kieran commented upon seeing Lauren’s expression. 

“Yeah. Figured,” she mumbled, hardly surprised by the information. She’d realized by that point to continue expecting the unexpected from him, and it appeared that wasn’t coming to a stop anytime soon.

They migrated onto the adjacent station afterwards, this time a lesson on how to identify plants for both nourishment and medical use. Grateful for her younger self’s curiosity and the rain of questions she’d used to ask the Rosenthals, Lauren found some gratification at having some familiarity in that field. Even Hecate, their instructor, had been pleasantly surprised at her ability to differentiate between identical looking plants and the differences in their effects and uses, even commending her for her knowledge. Though, it did come as no shock to Lauren as she learned that Kieran, too, held a similar grasp of information, nearly as well-versed as their instructor. She mentally swore that her District partner may as well be the one running classes in place of the actual Capitol trainers there, apparently just as qualified as they were.

“Let me guess, you have some experience in this, too?” she asked him, an eyebrow raised incredulously towards him.

“What can I say?” he responded with a grin that exuded nothing but cockiness. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Lauren could only find herself sighing exasperatedly in response before she decided she was done with plants, and abruptly moved to the next station, leaving Kieran to catch up with her.

And that was how they spent the first half of their training session; roving from station to station, picking up on new skills—or at least Lauren did; Kieran was hardly shy at showing her his numerous expertise in just about everything they tried much to her chagrin—before Lauren found herself growing more and more aggravated at her inability to escape her twin shadow. Not that she hadn’t tried. She’d hoped that with the enormous space of the facility and the number of trainees and trainers surrounding them, she’d have the ability to at the very least get through one station without him by her side. She’d even gone as far as to brazenly try and slip away from him, sneaking away like a teenager after curfew when his attention would be elsewhere or at the task at hand. But with each attempt of her escape, he’d never failed to appear by her side, acting as though he wasn’t aware of her increasing frustration towards him.

Why he was incredibly adamant on following March’s orders was lost on her. Had his intentions for requesting private coaching sessions with their mentor been for the sake of keeping his massive repertoire of skills and talents a secret from her, then he was failing at continuing to keep those concealed. He’d taken nearly every opportunity at each station to showcase his proficiency in each instruction, had impressed each trainer, and even the Gamemakers who had been observing each Tribute throughout the day. Lauren had caught a few Gamemakers more than once keeping their eyes on Kieran and her—mostly Kieran, she assumed—with Dakan Rhysmel being of no exception to being a part of their watchful audience. With a stylus in their hand and a tablet in the other as though taking notes, they’d continued to keep a keen eye on the duo, so much so that even some of the Careers seemed to take notice of the attention the 11th District had been receiving much to Lauren’s disdain (so much for trying to prevent unwarranted attention from their deadliest competition). It appeared that not only was her District partner hell-bent on continuing to show off to her, he was just as determined to inadvertently emphasize her own lack of skills in front of their judges and peers by simply being that good.

Was that his game plan? Lauren considered. Was it his intention to make her look incapable and to undercut her accomplishments as part of some ploy? Lauren couldn’t decide if he meant to help her or to hinder her (or if he simply only meant to help himself), but regardless, she despised the feeling of being considered less than what she truly was.

She couldn’t have expressed her relief enough when the chime rang on the speakers to announce the beginning of their lunch period, eager to take a break from the lessons and from her District partner and from the attentive eyes of every other person present in the room.

All 24 Tributes were immediately escorted into the dining area adjacent to the gymnasium, Athena instructing them all to form a single-file line to await their turns to grab at their meals. The cafeteria was a large mess hall full of glass tables for dining, the tables and their accompanying seats spread around the floor; a hub of food stalls dominated the center space, each counter filled with warm foods and baked sweets originating from each of the 12 Districts. The aromas of the varying cuisines swam around the cafeteria—salty grilled seafood, juicy red meats, tangy spiced soups, freshly sliced fruits, and colorful bubbling drinks—and there was a near audible chorus of grumbling stomachs at the scents and sights of the food. It hadn’t occurred to Lauren until that moment that many of the children around her had most likely never been as well fed as they were currently being, had never seen so much food in one area, a majority of them presumably hailing from impoverished homes as most Districts were known to be. 

As Lauren looked at the faces and bodies of those around her in line, she noticed the sharp cheekbones of some of her fellow Tributes, most with their eyes sunken in the hollows, too many with frames thin as the bones in their bodies, and even a few with their skeleton virtually jutting out from skin. Last night their costumes and make-up had allowed them to appear less malnourished, but now in their plain clothes and simpler faces, their candid bodies and their lack of health were far more apparent. Their appearances were enough to send gooseflesh up Lauren’s neck and arms, while a swell of guilt and pity began to bluster through the pits of her stomach. Her appetite no longer present (if she had had one to begin with), she stepped out from the line, giving Kieran some excuse about wanting to find a table when he asked her what she was doing.

The Careers were the first to be in line to serve themselves, grouping together at the table closest to the food counters, their chatter and rowdiness becoming more and more voluminous and obnoxious as they each sat down with one another and dug into their meal. The only missing member was a certain energetic blue-headed girl; even her freckled District partner had astonishingly found himself a spot as a Career Tribute alongside those of the 13th and 6th Districts’, while she, herself, seemed to be lacking the same invitation.

Lauren skimmed the room as she meandered in between the tables, her eyes pointed forward and away from the Careers’ glances roaming her way, their faces wearing expressions of derision (Lauren could only question what kind of face they’d make towards Kieran who actually possessed useful abilities and held a chance at winning the Games). Her eyes landed on Kym Ladell seated on her own on one end of a table, only her plate of what seemed like triangular slices of watermelon atop a slew of other foods keeping her company. Lauren’s eyes darted between the table of Careers and that of the 3rd District’s female Tribute, wondering why Kym Ladell, another Career herself, appeared to be keeping her distance from said group of people (or perhaps it was vice-versa).

“Is this seat taken?” Lauren asked as she approached the girl.

Kym looked up and beamed at Lauren’s sudden presence. “Not at all! Sit. Sit,” she insisted happily through a mouthful of food, and Lauren did just that. Then, noticing Lauren’s empty hands, Kym asked in bewilderment, “Are you not gonna eat? Do you want some of mine?”

Lauren waved her hand to decline politely, and smiled warmly. “No, I’m fine. I guess I’m just not hungry.” 

“Can’t relate,” Kym tried to say in between spoonfuls, the words coming out as muffled sounds of potatoes and corn. It took Lauren a split second to catch what she’d said as the clamor of voices from the other side of the mess hall overshadowed Kym’s voice, the Careers’ rambunctious conversation forcing Kym and Lauren to turn their heads in their direction.

“So how come you’re over here and not with them?” questioned Lauren, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder to the boisterous team. “I mean, even Harvey managed to join them and he doesn’t exactly strike me as…” Her voice trailed off, unsure of how to describe Harvey Wood exactly. As a cold-blooded killer? As the type to be as callous and ruthless like the rest of them? Harvey Wood wasn’t a small person by any means, but he only ever seemed to radiate a meek and awkward demeanor, as if almost too afraid of the sound of his own voice, always seemingly smaller than his nearly six-foot stature should have allowed him to be.

Kym mindlessly swirled a fork around her plate and shrugged, eyes downcast on the table. “They’re not exactly my type of people, Career or not. And Harvey, well, he…” she paused, her chest rising and falling in a silent sigh. There was that same dejected look from last night on her face again, uncharacteristically crestfallen for someone usually so sprightly.

Lauren squinted at Kym with an odd sense of foreboding. “You mentioned yesterday about how Harvey’s not supposed to be here. That was about the reaping, right? Him becoming Tribute instead of the other volunteer?”

“Yeah…” Kym replied softly, her eyes coming up to glance at her District mate then to Lauren. “Our District votes on who they want as Tribute for the Games, and the candidates were already decided months before the reaping, but Harvey insisted on volunteering anyway despite knowing that.”

“And you’re upset about him being here?”

Kym shook her head gently. “I’m not upset. I feel more bad for him if anything.” Lauren gave her a mystified look, and so Kym elaborated, “From what I know, his grandfather’s been really sick. Medicine in the Third isn’t exactly the best or the most affordable so—”

“—so Harvey volunteered with the hopes of winning for his grandfather,” Lauren realized.

Kym nodded. It made sense. A lifetime of riches and money when one became a Victor would certainly be more than sufficient in Harvey’s situation.

“He’s Harvey’s only living family,” Kym added, her voice a low rasp, thick with despondence. Her gaze traveled once more to the gang of Careers where Harvey sat at the corner-end of the table, the young Tribute practically unnoticed by the others in the group. “But he shouldn’t have come here. He—he’s not gonna make it in there… They’ll kill him off if starvation or the cold don’t get to him first. And he’s not gonna be any use to his grandfather if he’s dead. I wish there was someway for him to win and care for his family without the rest of us needing to die for that to happen.”

Lauren’s brows rose ever so slightly at Kym’s comment. Maybe Kym Ladell was quite aware of the gravity of their disposition, after all; maybe she was much more conscious of the Games’ savagery than she was willing to let on behind her lively demeanor.

“But”—the pitch in Kym’s voice rose as she clapped her hands with the word, the weight in the air diminishing almost instantly. She perked up like an inflated balloon as her lips curled into a smile, the line too thin and flat for Lauren to fully believe it truly stemmed from authentic optimism—“we’ll find out sooner or later how Harvey does. Who knows? Maybe he will survive and go back home, right? So even if I die and he wins, at least it’s still a win for my District, so there’s that. And then they’ll still get all the— Oh, hey, Kieran! ”

Kym’s rambling ceased at the sight of the approaching figure, but that didn’t stop Lauren from staring at Kym in slight bewilderment, too taken aback by her easy going manner at the prospect of losing not just the Games but her life to even notice Kieran taking a seat at the table.

The plate being slid her way jolted Lauren out of her stupor, and her eyes instinctively glanced down at the dish of meat and grain and sauces. She turned her head in Kieran’s direction with a puzzled crease forming between her brows.

“You need to eat,” he answered her unspoken question. “You’ve had nothing but coffee all day.”

She eyed the plate, scrutinizing its contents, before she pushed it back towards him. “I’m not hungry.”

Kieran scoffed as though he’d expected that exact response. “If you don’t eat, you’ll definitely pass out. And I’m not carrying you back to your room when you do.” He returned the plate to Lauren’s side, shoving it gently away from him.

Lauren snorted, the image of being held by him in that fashion making her lose her appetite even more. She swatted at his hand, and shoved the plate back towards his direction. “Good. Because I wouldn’t have asked you to anyhow.”

Dodging her slap, Kieran tried once again to force the dish of food her way. “Will you stop being such a child and eat?”

Lauren barked a harsh laugh. “Oh, and what are you now? My mother?”

Kieran drew in a breath, his fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, eyes tightened. “Dear God, you are the most stubborn person I have ever met.”

“And you’re the most infuriating person I have ever met,” Lauren retorted, a beat not missed.

The slurping sound of liquid being drunk from across the table drew both pairs of gold and blue eyes to the source. Kym leaned forward with her head in the palm of one hand while she held a glass in the other, the straw between her teeth. “Wow… Are you two always like this?” she cut in.  There was an amused twinkle peeking through her lidded eyes, a grin stretching from ear to ear as she eyed Lauren and Kieran as though she were watching them as one would a spectacle.

One “Yes!” and one “No!” instantly came forth simultaneously in response. Lauren and Kieran sent glares towards each other just as quickly.

Kym cackled. “You guys are adorable. You two would look soooo cute together,” she tried to say in between her laughter. “You’ve even got the matching outfits, too! How romantic~”

Lauren flinched, immediately appalled. Her nose wrinkled and she fought the urge to gag, grateful she’d forsaken her lunch. She hoped despite knowing better that she did not just hear Kym say what she thought she’d heard. Kieran coughed out from beside her as he thumped a fist against his chest, droplets of water he’d failed to swallow streaming down his chin. Lauren grimaced. By his reaction, Lauren was sure she’d heard correctly.

“Please, excuse me,” Kieran said through ragged coughs. He grabbed a handful of napkins and dabbed them on the dark blue spots that had appeared on his sweater, his chair now pushed back as he stood and made a beeline for the washrooms.

Lauren turned to Kym with a scowl, a tinge of warmth threatening to bloom on her own cheeks. “You were joking, right?”

Kym merely shrugged, her grin still curled on her lips. “Maaaybee,” she drawled teasingly. “But I wouldn’t be wrong; you guys really would look cute. And I’m willing to bet you my dessert that Kieran wouldn’t disagree with me either.”

Lauren’s scowl only continued to deepen at the insinuation behind such a wager. She waved away the words, and pushed aside Kym’s childish taunt, and changed the subject matter altogether, not wanting to ask for a clarification when it would only continue to feed the flame that would burn only her. She and Kieran were simply cohorts, two people originating from the same home, brought to their current location by a sick twist of chance, nothing more. She saw him as nothing more (if anything, she typically saw him as something less than that), and she knew with confidence that he either shared the same viewpoint or that he already saw her as an adversary.

***

When their lunch period had been called to an end and the Tributes were escorted back to the gymnasium to resume their training, Kym had pulled Lauren by the arm and taken her—or, rather, dragged her as Lauren would argue—back into the facility as fast as their legs could take them. Lauren could have sworn she’d simply floated above the floor as Kym lugged her around the gym until they found the exact destination Kym had been searching for (they most likely would have reached it sooner had Kym not gone around in circles, walking by the station at least twice). Kieran appeared beside them half-a-minute later.

Now, Lauren stood before a display of bows and arrows, the dark grey of the steel weapons shining matte and dim against the white light. Her feet stood just behind the line of red horizontal tape, and approximately twenty or so meters ahead of her rose the tall, dark board. There was another one board positioned in each shooting alley, each board a good ten feet or so apart from each other in their own respective lanes. From her distance, Lauren could make out the human silhouettes drawn into the surfaces of each board, the person facing forward with its arms lingering to the side and legs placed together. Layers of red, thin, oval rings were etched over the front torso, the size of each oval growing smaller and smaller towards the center where the stomach would be.

“I’m glad we beat the other Tributes here!” Kym exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “The girl from Six has been hogging this station all day.”

Probably because you scared them off by growling at them, Lauren thought, the bewildered looks of frightened Tributes still fresh in her mind. 

Artemis gave the group a brief introduction to the archery course, her energy and enthusiasm in the sport only matched by that of Kym Ladell who eagerly watched the instructor describe the variety of different bows—longbow, recurve bow, flatbow, compound bow, even a crossbow—before she moved onto a demonstration with the weapon itself. Lauren watched as Artemis held one of the curved instruments in her grip, the tail of the arrow nocked against the string, taut and steady. As easy and swift as the flow of air, the arrow flew from her hand and charged straight into the target ahead, the point meeting and piercing the center torso in a blur. Another arrow soon joined right below, and another just beside right after.

Lauren turned to Kieran and tilted her head towards the direction of the figure with the arrows protruding from its body. “I’d like to see you beat that.”

Kieran snickered. “I’m sure you would. However, I think I’ll pass on archery. Shooting isn’t exactly my—preference.”

“Oh? Have I finally found something you aren’t experienced in?” Lauren hardly tried to conceal the gratification in her voice, the smile as evident in how she spoke as it was on her lips. “I’m a little disappointed.”

“Hey now. That’s not what I said,” Kieran replied, faintly affronted. “I just prefer other methods for—erm—neutralizing.”

Neutralizing. Lauren sneered at the euphemism, feeling as bothered by his word choice in the same manner as she would if he’d thrown an insult her way.

“And what methods would those be?” Lauren inquired provokingly, though genuinely curious.

Kieran’s gaze moved about the gymnasium, looking from station to station, until they landed on the training room a little further down; through the glass walls, a figure moved and leapt about, her pink curls flying every which way as she whirled and flipped against her opponents with nothing but a sharp dagger in her hand and an even sharper grin on her face. Belladonna Davenport seemed like she was having the time of her life.

Lauren focused her eyes onto the person within the small space of the private training room, seeing the hard-light holograms of human shaped assailants speed towards the girl. An enthused light shone behind Belladonna’s naturally bright orange eyes as her grin crept wider, teeth bared. Belladonna Davenport hardly hesitated as three of the humanoid holograms lunged at her. With a quick step to the side and a twirl of her body, she swiftly dodged each attack coming her way and narrowly avoided any hits. She swung her arm wide outward, the hilt of the dagger still clutched in her hand. The blade penetrated through the waist of the first figure, slicing through its body, then continued to drag the weapon in consecutive quick slashes through the rest of its limbs until the blade met the other two figures in the next second. In a blink, all three holograms combusted into dusts of light, obliterated.

“Like that,” Kieran answered as he nodded his chin towards the 13th District’s female Tribute.

“A blade and some fancy footwork?”

“Blade, yes. Fancy footwork”—Kieran hummed in consideration for a split second—“more or less.” He turned his attention back to Belladonna who was now exiting through the glass door and back into the rest of the gym, clearly satisfied with her work. Kieran pursed his lips together. “She’s not bad. Technique could be cleaner though.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Well, now that you’ve spent the whole day flaunting in front of me and degrading me, why not go bother her next and show her what you think she needs to work on?”

Kieran glanced down at her, brows furrowed as though he hadn’t completely understood what she’d just said. “Degrading you? What do you—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, please,” Lauren interrupted. She sent him a hardened look, jaw taut, and eyes leveled on his, daring him to try and object again. “That’s all you’ve done today.”

Kieran’s face softened while his shoulders sagged in surrender. “Listen, Lauren. That wasn’t my intention. I hadn’t realized I was doing that, so I’m sorry for making you feel that way.”

The lines and creases on Lauren’s face relaxed at the sound of his apology, but her eyes maintained their steady hold, scanning his face. So what had been the point of his blatant flaunting if not for the purpose of demeaning her?

She lifted her chin up and stuck up her nose in acknowledgement to his words, not bothering with an actual response, and turned her attention back to Artemis’s instructions—or the end of it, at least. 

The bow and arrows were no longer in the instructor’s hands but within the grip of Kym Ladell’s, her spine straight and poised, a quiver hanging comfortably on her hip, as she nocked the arrow to the bowstring and pulled her bent elbow back. Then, she released her hold. There was a fluidity to Kym’s movements that told Lauren this was likely not the first time Kym had ever held a bow and arrow in her hands. The fluency within her body movements, her unyielding concentration, and her natural speed all flowed and reconvened in the motions performed. When Lauren had had the realization that Kym Ladell was presumably the best representative her District could have offered, when March had warned her not to underestimate the Tribute, she still hadn’t expected what she was about to witness.

Before the first arrow had even met the first target, Kym twisted her body and a second arrow was already soaring into the air, before a third joined the first two mid-flight. The chest of the first target—the same one Artemis had launched her own arrow towards—was soon pierced by the initial shot, directly against where the breastbone would have been on an actual human body. But the next two arrows would find themselves elsewhere. Lauren watched as the second arrow hit the chest of the target in the adjacent alley to the right, the arrow evenly parallel to the first, the third meeting the chest of the target in the alley to the left—all three projectiles lined perfectly straight and lateral with one another, three arrows shot in flawless synchrony.

Lauren hardly registered her eyes widening and her jaw softly falling.

“I guess I didn’t need to beat Artemis, after all,” Kieran spoke up. “Looks like Ladell managed to do that on her own.”

The only response Lauren could muster was a small hum of acknowledgment, unable to form words.

From behind her, there was a snide murmur and a snicker not too far from the archery station, their tones filled with both derision and reverence. Upon facing the source of the sounds, Lauren found herself catching the two Tributes from the 6th District whispering amongst each other by the edge of the obstacle course, their eyes set on Kym Ladell still nocking arrows and shooting with clear precision. Their looks darted between that of Kym and Kieran, not a glance spared towards Lauren as they glazed over her in favor of her companions—not that she minded nor cared, though there was a slight sense of uneasiness settling over Lauren as Beatrice Blakesley and Tim Sake’s attention seldom wavered from Kym or Kieran, their sneers sounding more vicious the more she focused on them.

Lauren arched a brow with squinting eyes, curious and wary as to the details of their commentaries.

 “Woo! That was fun!” Kym’s exclamation drew Lauren away from the peering eyes of the pair, and reeled her attention back to the archery station. Kym held the bow out in offering before her, waiting for her to take the item. “Your turn, Lauren!”

Lauren attempted an airy laugh, grabbing at the bow then the refilled quiver. “You’re gonna be a tough act to follow.”

Kym beamed endearingly while a hand came up to rub at the back of her head as she chuckled stiffly. She turned towards the three small holes on the chests of each board. “I guess I may have gone overboard a bit. But you’ll do fine! Give it a shot—pun intended.”

“I’ll try not to let that intimidate me,” Lauren joked as she stepped forth by the red line.

The jeers from the pair of 6th District Tributes appeared to grow louder as she raised the bow in front of her, more voices—undoubtedly the other Careers joining them—joining to the mixture of murmurs. Lauren tried to ignore them, denying them the pleasure of seeing her falter by just their attitudes, and willed herself to focus. She was sure Kieran could hear them now, too, as his gaze turned to the group behind them, his arms folded and face irate.

“Just leave them be,” Lauren muttered to him. “They’ve been watching us all day, and I’ve found it best to just ignore them. Wouldn’t wanna draw their attention even more than we already have.”

Kieran pondered over this for a short second, and simply nodded in response.

Lauren closed one eye and concentrated on her target within her line of sight, the rest of the room blurring in her peripheral vision. She pulled the arrow against the bowstring until she felt the string tug at its limit. With a swift inhale, she released the arrow, and watched it fly forward, the tip piercing the edge of a pelvis.

Artemis made an optimistic comment on her first attempt, but Lauren could barely make out the words as their audience of Careers continued to snicker, much louder this time, a chuckle coming from some of their lips.

She pulled her attention away from them and willed her ears to stop listening to such distractions. She nocked another arrow and lifted her arms into position again.

“Why are they with her anyways?” a higher-pitched voice said too audibly, as if wanting to be heard and no longer caring for secrecy.

Lauren bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to focus.

“Ladell is from the Third. She should be with us, not with her,” a deeper voice said just as clearly. “Hey, Wood, what’s wrong with your District mate? Does she not like you or something?” Even that earned a scowl from Kym, listening as intently as much as Lauren was.

A sultry, feminine voice: “I don’t care if White is also from the Eleventh. She’s wasting his time.”

Lauren’s grip on the bow arch tightened; her knuckles around the arrow’s tail clenched, turning pale white. What? she wanted to cry out. I’m wasting his time when he’s the one following me around? Her teeth grit down against her cheek in an effort to keep herself silent, the taste of iron on her tongue.

“Think she probably paid them to be her friends?” a fourth voice rasped through a stifled laugh, the sound a grating scrawl to Lauren’s ears. “She’s just some spoiled princess from the Eleventh. Wouldn’t surprise me if she needed to pay people just to like her.”

The others laughed at that. 

Like a marionette on strings, Lauren’s body slowly swiveled at an angle of its own accord, bow and arrow still in her hands, her temper threatening to flare as her eyes met the group of Careers still chatting away carelessly.

“No, really,” Tim Sake continued in between his chuckles. “She’s obviously just a brat too stupid to take care of herself. Poor princess will probably die in the first minute without her servants’ help. How much more helpless can she get?”

Lauren was sure she’d become possessed by this point, her fury and ire her puppet masters pulling at the strings on her limbs. Blinded with rage, the heat bursting in her veins, she lifted her arms and pulled against the string. If anyone had shouted for her to stop or cried out a question for what she was about to do, they fell deaf to her ears; the only sound she could perceive being the thud of her pulse within her skull. She almost wished someone would have stopped her, someone to have talked some sense into her. Because as soon as she released the arrow in one abrupt and reckless motion, it didn’t fly towards the shooting range and down the alley towards the human silhouettes. 

No. 

Lauren watched as though the world slowed in its rotation, as though time had slowed its ticking, allowing her to watch with clarity and regret what she had done. Watching as the arrow flew in the direction of the group of loud-mouthed idiot Tributes, and watching in horror as it darted directly towards the 6th District’s male Tribute, grazing the skin over Tim Sake’s shoulder.

Oliver March released a weary sigh that one could only identify as stemming from both exhaustion and disappointment. “So, yesterday could have gone—better.”

“Understatement, but sure,” Kieran replied. He folded his hands in front of him, elbows rested on the wooden sheen of the dining table as he eyed his mentor expectantly. 

“I guess we should consider ourselves lucky that Lauren only grazed some skin and didn’t shoot him in the head,” March remarked, though it was clear to see he was anything but optimistic.

After the events that transpired following Tim Sake’s injury at the hands of Kieran’s District partner, it was a wonder how Lauren Sinclair had been allowed to keep her head on her shoulders and not have it immediately decapitated as punishment for her actions. Once Sake’s injury had been attended to, she’d merely been ordered to return back to her room, not unlike a child being disciplined and grounded, and nothing more. Kieran had half-expected in chilling fear for her to be dragged away by Peacekeepers in front of all the other Tributes and be dealt a harsh beating for breaking the rules, grateful that such a penance never happened in the end.

Perks of being the Gamemaker’s goddaughter, Kieran supposed.

 Kieran hadn’t seen her when he’d returned to their floor at the end of training the previous evening, not at dinner that night, nor had he seen her during breakfast this new morning either. He’d contemplated on knocking on her door and inquiring about her well-being, only to resist and stop before his knuckles could graze the door. He was probably the last person she’d want to see anyways.

“Any word from Lauren?” Kieran asked their mentor instead.

“Haven’t spoken to her since yesterday, but Lady Darcy did check up on her this morning. She seems to be holding up, but it’s clear how terrified she is.”

“If it’s the Careers she’s afraid of, I can take care of them.”

“It’s not just that,” Oliver said with a gentle shake of his head. “She’s worried for her family back home. She’s more scared they’ll do something to her uncle or even to the Hawkes family for something that she did.”

Kieran contemplated the possibility of these consequences for a quick second. Knowing the Hawkes’s relations with the Capitol, he doubted the likeliness of them being harmed for a Sinclair’s mistake. But that also meant the higher likelihood of her uncle becoming the target of her punishment instead, regardless of his position as Head Peacekeeper.

“Well, has anything happened to her uncle at all?” Kieran questioned.

His mentor shook his head again. “And frankly, I wouldn’t be too concerned over it. Tristan Sinclair is a resourceful man, he can take care of himself. And punishing him for another Tribute being hurt would make little sense and only be a waste of the Capitol’s time. I’m more willing to believe the Capitol would enjoy the drama of what went on in the Training Center more than they would to condemn it.”

“Right,” Kieran muttered bitterly. “All they want is a good show, after all.”

“Won’t stop Lauren from worrying over it though—considering all the people she’s lost, it’s understandable she’s afraid.” Oliver drew in another breath, the sound filled with dread and worry. “That does still leave the issue of the Careers though.”

“What do you propose we do for training today?”

“Essentially the same plan as yesterday: stay together and continue putting in the effort to win her trust,” March advised. “How’d that go yesterday for you two?”

A pained, hoarse sound resounded from within Kieran’s throat. “I know the plan was in the hopes of trying to show her how I can be of use to her, but I think I may have—possibly—overdone that.”

Oliver cocked a brow in question at Kieran.

“Let’s just say that I should consider myself fortunate that she didn’t put an arrow through me instead. Pretty sure she despises me more now than she used to, and that’s only going to grow worse the more we’re forced to be together.”

Oliver stifled a laugh, knowing full well the extent of Lauren’s temper. “Looks like we’ll have to rethink this approach of getting her to eventually trust you, and how we can keep the Careers from wanting to kill her off before they even reach the arena.”

Kieran hummed in agreement. “Actually,” he started to say, carefully. 

A ludicrous thought had crossed his mind the moment the arrow had skimmed the skin off Tim Sake, a plan that he knew would hardly win him any favors with Lauren Sinclair. But, at the very least, it would get him off her back—something he knew with certainty she craved—and it would allow her some protection against the five Tributes who were now out for her blood. Was this what it felt like to want to protect someone one cared for? Willing to sacrifice yourself for someone else’s well-being? 

He looked over at Oliver March, blue eyes unwavering and brimming with decisiveness. “I might have an idea.”

Her mentor berating her was to be expected, and Lauren knew she deserved it. She was a fool who’d lost control of her temper yet again, and a few words of discipline was hardly a sufficient enough of a punishment. She was sure there would be more to come; this was the Capitol, after all. Brutality and punishments were their forte. 

She had tossed and turned all night in fear of the knock appearing at her door and the Peacekeepers barging in to take her away much like her parents had been. She tormented herself with thoughts and worries about her uncle and fretted over the possibility that he’d be the one forced to take the punishment instead of her—the Games still needed a female Tribute from the 11th District, and if they couldn’t harm her, she was sure they’d harm the person closest to her.

But none of that happened.

When she’d gathered her strength and recomposed herself enough to exit her room—stomach empty, face red and swollen, head lighter than a balloon filled with helium—and proceeded to meet with her mentor for their private training session, she’d fully expected a worse comeuppance than a lecture.

“Just don’t go around making any more enemies, Lauren,” March said as though she needed some reminder. “And about your uncle and friends, they’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Just focus on training. Nothing bad is going to happen to you or to them.”

Lauren smiled gratefully at the affirmation as he explained the unlikelihood of her fears coming to fruition, knowing how miniscule the Capitol truly cared for their Tributes and how much they’d relish in the suspense and tension such a mistake would bring into the arena for their entertainment.

She wasn’t thrilled at the notion of such an attack being considered under a positive light, but she’d exited the penthouse with a sense of calm or peace nevertheless. Not even the knowledge that the Careers would most likely want her dead bothered her anymore. Even if she were to die, she would do so knowing her loved ones were safe and not paying for her errors.

She strode to the elevator doors where her chaperone was already waiting for her, and the doors slid open upon Lauren’s arrival as though it sensed her presence. Lady Arthingham shooed her inside the compartment to which Lauren obliged without question, and stepped into the small transport. It wasn’t until the doors had slid shut and the elevator began  to move downwards immediately did Lauren realize the oddity of their current arrangement.

“Wait. What about Kieran?” she asked.

“Oh, Mr. White left earlier,” Lady Arthingham explained.

That certainly took Lauren by surprise. “Oh, did he now?” Lauren mumbled, skeptically. 

Just the previous day, Kieran had refused to leave her side, eager to follow directions; now, he’d left on his own without her. Maybe he’d given up on his endeavours. He hadn’t tried to leave her small gifts this time around either, no cup of coffee or something of that kind this morning. Lauren knew she should have felt some sort of relief, a sprinkle of freedom, but the nagging feeling in the back of her head told her this victory was going to be short-lived, as if she knew it was too easy.

She stepped out of the elevator a minute later, and instantaneously caught Kym leaning against the wall, her neck craned towards something Lauren couldn’t discern yet from where she stood, Kym’s attention apparently absorbed quite heavily by it.

“Look who came in early today,” Lauren jabbed. 

Kym jolted at Lauren’s voice by her ear, hands coming up to her face in a defensive stance before dropping in relief. “Ah, hey, Lauren! There you are. I saw Kieran come in earlier and wondered where you were. Figured you two must have had another lovers’ quarrel or something”—Lauren’s nose scrunched at the word lovers—“but whatever happened between the two of you must have been pretty bad if his new friends are anything to go by.”

Lauren blinked, Kym’s words taking its time to register. “‘New friends’?”

Kym pursed her lips. She looked at Lauren with concern slanting her brows as she motioned with her head at the something she had been scrutinizing just moments ago.

Across the epicenter of the gym were the usual heads of the Careers: Belladonna Davenport with her perfectly styled curls and waves, lips tinted red as though permanently stained with crimson; Tim Sake with his perpetually raw scar slashed across his face, a white wrap covered around his left shoulder, splatters of red seeping through from his fresh wound; Harry Anslow and Beatrice Blakesley gathered near their partners, conversing casually with each other, while Harvey Wood munched on a muffin, choosing to listen rather than join the discussion. There was a new member to their group, his presence around the bunch both novel yet not unforeseen—he hovered above the other Tributes with his height greater than the rest, ebony hair tied back in his usual style, his parted lips in a laugh that made his angular jawline sharper than cut glass. He chatted with Davenport and Sake as if he were conversing with lifelong friends and companions, as though he hadn’t acted miffed by their behavior just the prior day. 

Then, he looked up—gleeful eyes turning morose as his blue met her gold, water meeting fire, his expression changing from mirthful to sullen at the sight of her.

At that very moment, as she felt her fist clench and nails dig into her palm, as the blood in her veins froze, Lauren understood.

Kieran had joined the Careers.

Chapter Text

In fairness, perhaps it shouldn’t have taken Lauren Sinclair by surprise that Kieran White had had a sudden change in allegiance.

He was from the 6th District. Tributes from the 6th District were part of the Careers. Therefore, to an extent by that logic—maybe even by default despite which District he was representing—Kieran was a Career, as well.

That didn’t mean Lauren had to like it.

Looking down at the handiwork of twine wrapped between her fingers, Lauren attempted to block off the jovial gossip and laughter stirring from the opposite end of the gymnasium, the sounds emanating from none other than the very group of Tributes that she knew basked in her misery and frustrations—the Careers. She weaved the rope as best she could, but her struggles to ignore their conversations proved to be a difficult task when not a single person from the group seemed to care enough to simply shut up. Lauren’s jaw clenched, her focus wavering in and out with each word and chuckle passed between them. It mattered not the topic or subject to her, not the choice of words, but rather the owners of the voices themselves. Specifically the owner of the smooth, baritone that Lauren found herself despising more and more by the second, the very same voice that belonged to the partner she now called a traitor.

Her teeth ground together, much harder than what should be healthy for her enamel, at the reminder of his existence, the sudden bite as piercing as their shrieking cackles that punctured her ear drums. Her brows pinched tight enough to practically touch one another in a failing struggle to ward off her wrath. Too lost in her irritation, she could barely suppress the flinch of her shoulder when a gentle hand came upon it, though her startled reaction only made the hand press itself firmer onto her person, comforting and consoling. Lauren glanced up and met Kym’s concerned face. 

Lauren released a slow breath, the knot in her shoulders releasing from her body at the sight of her companion.

“You okay?” Kym asked softly. She knelt beside Lauren and gave a soft squeeze on her bicep.

“Yeah, fine,” Lauren answered, though the edge she failed to keep out of her voice said otherwise. 

Kym’s eyes darted from Lauren’s face to the raucous group of Careers ahead of them. There was a question in her brown eyes that Lauren had no desire to answer—did not even have a confident answer to—Why is Kieran with them?

Lauren cleared her throat and lifted the knot she’d been working on towards Kym’s line of sight. “Just getting irritated with this,” Lauren said. She plastered on a small smile that she knew could hardly mask the swell of bitterness and turmoil raging within her, but she pressed on with her lie nonetheless. “Though you gotta admit it didn’t turn out too bad. I think I’m actually getting better at this.” That part at least was partially true. Her knot-making skills had improved since yesterday, and the level three piece of work in her hands was indeed decent enough to get Zephyr’s nod of approval a moment before. 

Lauren tried to steady the tilt of her smile, her lips waning into a disgusted grimace as it occurred to her that a portion of her success in this skill was owed to her District partner’s teachings the previous day. The thought of the knot around said former partner’s neck, though, did help ease the smile back into place.

If only the Gamemakers could see her and her progress now without him, but the balconies above them stood empty and vacant, not a single audience member in sight. It seemed that the Capitol citizens they’d had observing them the day before only cared enough to grace them with their presence that one day.

Kym looked at the twine in her friend’s hand, a small grin sweeping across her face. “Better than your archery skills,” she joked. “But after yesterday’s events, I’d say even those aren’t so bad.”

Lauren could hardly stifle the incredulous snort that came from her. “Oh, really? I don’t think Tim Sake over there would agree. Or I guess, at this point, I should call him Mistake.”

“Yeah, well, your Mistake probably should have kept his mouth shut and not insulted you.” A mischievous glint appeared in Kym’s eye as she leaned closer, her hand playfully concealing the side of her mouth as though spilling a secret. “Between you and me, I think no one’s that upset at what you did yesterday. If anything, I think the other Tributes are grateful for you handicapping him.” Kym swept a hand around the room and indicated towards the other Tributes around them. Lauren had to admit the tension that had been present among them the previous day had alleviated like a knot unwound.

“I’d say you’re welcome, but that wasn’t exactly my proudest moment. Now the Careers probably want me dead more than ever, and it’s a miracle I’m even still alive.” For now, she added wordlessly.

Kym turned her head back in the direction of the Careers, the group now gathered around the knife throwing station and climbing course, practically shoving the others out of their path to reach their destinations.  “I wonder if that’s why he’s there with them,” she murmured more to herself than to Lauren. 

Doing her best to conceal her confusion and irritation, Lauren slowly followed Kym’s gaze. “So that Kieran can join in the fun of getting rid of me?”

“So that he can keep them away from you,” Kym said, swiveling back to meet Lauren's face. 

Ever thought maybe I just want to help you? Kieran’s words from the morning before came back to her in a surging crash. Lauren’s scowl softened at the memory as she considered Kym’s words, but disbelief drew back her frustration, her head shaking with incredulity.

“I just have a hard time believing he’d just join the Careers for any other reason,” Kym rushed to say before Lauren could refute her. “I don’t understand how he could go from caring about your well-being one second to changing teams the next.”

“Isn’t that how these Games work, though? Isn’t that how alliances work?” Lauren questioned. “You ally yourself with people who can help you survive, and then you stab them in the back or leave them at some point. It’s not as if there are other ways alliances can end in the arena.” 

There was a quick flash of shock in Kym’s eyes that Lauren hadn’t anticipated to come across her face. As though Kym was just now realizing that their current friendship was a temporary acquaintanceship.

Kym didn’t respond to Lauren’s question directly. Instead she asked: “And you think that’s what Kieran is doing?”

“Well, now that I’m sure he’s realized I can’t provide him anything, he’s turning to them for his survival.”

Kym pressed her lips into a thin line and crossed her arms, unconvinced. “He doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to need help from anyone. If anything, they’d benefit from him more. What other reason would he have?”

Lauren sighed, no longer carrying the mental capacity to continue this conversation. She’d wondered the exact same questions as Kym the moment she saw Kieran getting comfortable around Belladonna and Sake despite the fact he’d shared the same frustrations as her towards them until recently. The only explanation that appeared the most comprehensible was that of his lack of need for her, and the benefits he could reap from the other Careers. And yet, even that didn’t seem to be as strong of a logical reasoning as Lauren tried to make it be. Kieran was already aware of her limitations when he’d shadowed her at every instance yesterday and when he’d tried proposing an alliance with her that same morning. And yet he’d done all those things regardless. Why, now, was he suddenly changing his mind? And worst yet, why did it bother her so much?

He only followed you around so he could undermine your abilities, Lauren reasoned with herself. You were never a real candidate as an ally for him.

But another voice entered her mind, full of doubt against those words. If Kieran is so capable on his own, for what purpose would someone like him need to undermine anyone else, especially you?

Lauren supposed there was none. She replayed his apology from a day ago, recalling the genuine regret on his face when she’d expressed her frustrations towards him. His face filled with surprise and realization, quick to say sorry instead of invalidating how she felt. Had she misunderstood his intentions during their training then? Had there truly been no ill-intent on his part? But even if she had mistook his actions for something other than genuine care, it hardly assuaged the anger she still had coursing through her at the thought of him. He was still a Career, another competitor in this game of life and death, and he was an adversary to her more than ever.

“I don’t know, Kym,” Lauren murmured defeatedly. “What does it matter? He’s made his choice. There’s no point in trying to figure him out when he has nothing to do with us anymore. If what he’s doing is really for my protection, then it doesn’t make sense for him not to tell me that.”

Kym remained silent, considering Lauren’s words. “I guess so…” she eventually relented.

“Anyways, I think I’m done at this station,” Lauren said as she got up and shook some feeling back into her numb legs. She extended a hand towards Kym to which the other girl gladly took and hauled herself up. “What do you say we go over to the tent-pitching station? I’m curious to see if you could show me how to make a tent good enough to take a nap in.”

Kym grinned. “Now that’s an activity I can easily get behind.”

It was difficult for Kieran to deny that being surrounded by the Careers was much different from being with his District partner. Not necessarily better or worse—just different. When Kieran would steal a glance towards the forthright Lauren Sinclair, it was easy to note the constant tension and stress she’d been carrying on her shoulders since they’d both stepped on the stage in front of the Justice Building. The strain of it all kept her body taut and the air surrounding her charged with a constricting energy. She was a matchstick ready to be lit—one motion could set her aflame and turn her into a raging inferno that he knew would devour him whole.

Being with the Careers, on the other hand, felt like being in a pool of water—all-consuming and at times suffocating, the threat of being pulled under by their weight continually present. But in them, like staring into the surface of a lake, he also saw a reflection of himself. And of what it really meant to be in these Games.

They were here to win. To kill. To survive.

Just like him.

Wasn’t he here in the Capitol for the very same reason as the other Careers?

The Career Tributes had each volunteered their own lives to bring honor to their names, to help those who were struggling to simply exist back in their own Districts, all with the expectation of bringing home with them the hope of a better life no matter how temporary that victory would last. They were willing to do whatever it took to come out victorious, regardless if it meant getting their hands bruised and bloodied. 

Was that really any different from why Kieran himself had volunteered for the Games—why he’d agreed to be a soldier in the battle between the resistance and the royals, all in the efforts to fight for those constantly torn down by the country’s tyranny, lies, and corruption? Was that any different from what he’d admitted about himself to Lauren just the morning before? Kieran supposed it wasn’t.

But they’d all made their choice, all six of them who had allowed themselves to be brought into this forthcoming game of death. And it was too late to turn back now. At the end of the day, the only true winner in these Games was the Capitol, never the Districts—never the people who sat on the board but those manipulating the pieces. But he was going to change that.

They would have to play the roles they had been assigned, do whatever was necessary to be the one that left the arena with their life. Any notion of camaraderie between the Careers was a well-acted façade, and he would play his role in this show just as well as they did theirs.

And yet, why did the idea of eliminating the Careers, his biggest adversaries, make him feel incredibly uneasy?

You expect to keep your humanity but you’re allowing yourself to do such monstrous deeds, a voice slithered silently into his ear from the shadowed precipice of his mind. Its dissonant voice cracked a chill along the nerves of his spine, like frigid wind penetrating through to his bones. Kieran could feel his breath hitch and fingers curl into his palm as it spoke. How long until you accept that your humanity will be the price you pay for your actions?

“You know, Kieran, it was such a nice surprise when you came and approached us this morning,” a young female voice said endearingly, startling Kieran from his reverie. The voice slid away from his mind, its exit he was sure would be a temporary respite. Kieran looked down to find Beatrice Blakesley, the petite girl tilting her head up at a sharp angle just to meet his line of sight. “No matter how much we wanted to have you join us, you seemed really attached to your District partner, so no one bothered to ask you.”

“What was it that Sake was saying yesterday?” Anslow chimed in, a finger to his chin. “‘He’s like a dog on a leash with that girl’?”

Kieran chuckled humorously. “Yeah, well, it was my mentor’s ridiculous idea to follow her around. Something about building teamwork between us, or some bullshit like that. It took a while, but I managed to convince him that I could prove myself to be of use to the rest of you, even if I’m not from any of your Districts.”

It was the truth in essence. It had taken a bit of effort to persuade Oliver March to allow Kieran to align with the Careers, and Kieran did truly believe he could be of use to the Tributes before him. Why else would the Careers have welcomed him with such enthusiasm if the latter held no truth? But the reasons for his interest in them couldn’t be further from the reasons they assumed.

“Are you sure about this, Kieran?” March had asked him earlier that morning. “I know you’re more than capable at handling yourself around the Careers, but there’s a lot at risk if they end up seeing right through you.”

“I’m sure, March,” Kieran had responded with certainty, no hesitation in his voice. He was more than aware of what he was jeopardizing—his mission with the resistance included—but he’d made his choice. He was going to see this plan through. “I know what’s at stake, but she’ll be even more at risk if I don’t help this way. I know Sinclair doesn’t need protection, least of all from me, but if it means keeping the Careers off her, I’m willing to do it.”

March hummed in considerable thought. A good minute passed before he gave any other reaction. Then he shook his head; not out of disagreement, but out of perplexity. He laughed mirthlessly but not unkindly. “You know, you two are the most baffling set of Tributes I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. One second, you’re both at each other’s throats, and the next… Well, now you’re practically laying your life down for her. Be careful, Kieran. Whatever is going on between you and Lauren, it could be your downfall.”

“Your skills are quite formidable for not coming from a Career District,” Blakesley lauded, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m glad you managed to convince your mentor to allow you to join us.”

“Yes, indeed…” Belladonna Davenport’s voice cut through their conversation. All heads turned towards the 13th District’s female Tribute as she sashayed her way towards them, the young woman having just completed her training in one of the private rooms, moisture beading on her forehead. The sweat on her skin would have made any other person look unkempt, and yet somehow on her complexion, it seemed to glisten against the light like the rays of the sun rippling against the surface of the sea and illuminated her cream colored skin. 

Belladonna reached into the rack of throwing knives beside her and held up a blade to the light, examining it like one would examine a precious jewel for its authenticity.

“So, Kieran,” she began to say. “What exactly made you decide to switch sides to us? As happy as we all are to have you here, I can’t deny I’m a little curious as to what made you want to abandon that little red-headed partner of yours.”

She spun around towards him. The glint in her eye and wry smile made Kieran all too aware that any response he’d give her would need to be chosen wisely. She looked at him with more than blatant curiosity in her eyes; a sense of conjecture seeped through her bright gaze, and she looked at him with eager anticipation. It was abundantly clear in that second that Belladonna Davenport would take more convincing than the rest of the five Tributes to believe in his sudden interest in them, no matter how amicable she could make herself appear to him, if only at her convenience and for her own gain.

Kieran shrugged nonchalantly and lifted his chin, peering down at her. She returned his stare through the narrowed slits of her eyes, the grin on her face never wavering. 

“Like I was saying,” he said, “it wasn’t my idea to work with her. It was forced on us by our mentor, but since she proved herself to be a hazard, I couldn’t find a reason to stay with her any longer. Unless, of course, you’re asking because you prefer I’d have stayed with her?” Kieran cocked a brow and held his head on a fist as though he were considering that very notion.

Belladonna contemplated his words. The soft hmm emanating from her lips was broken only by Harry Anslow nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. 

“What are you doing?” Anslow hissed at his District partner. “Are you trying to get him to leave?”

Belladonna rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. “Relax, Harry, dearest. I was simply asking out of curiosity.” She turned and grabbed Anslow by the chin, the wince he gave made it clear she hadn’t done so gently. “Stop acting so desperate; it doesn’t suit you. If White over here is truly serious about being a part of us, a simple question wouldn’t be enough to chase him away. Right, Kieran?” She released her grip on Harry Anslow and swiveled on her heel back to face their new addition. She glared daggers at the rest of the group, mutely daring anyone else to try and question her actions.

Kieran stood unmoving, his face blank and devoid of any reaction. Belladonna twirled the knife in her hand as if it weren’t a sharp object that could puncture her flesh, and flashed him a look that seemed to appraise him. 

“Of course,” Kieran said. “And anyway, I’ve no interest in working with Miss Sinclair at all, so you all have nothing to worry about. Her skills are quite lacking in a lot of areas, and a partnership with her would only cost me my life if I stayed with her in the arena. She means nothing to me.”

Belladonna took a step closer to him, the shine in her eyes gleaming brighter the closer she approached. She rested the handle of the blade between her fingers in one hand, the other hand petting the sharp edges as though it were a cat rather than a weapon. 

“She’s certainly not lacking in the looks department though, is she?” Kieran’s face remained stoic, but something in his expression must have given because Belladonna grinned. “Don’t even bother denying it. Even Harry here wouldn’t shut up about her—what was it you’d said?” Her brows furrowed and she snapped her fingers in an effort to jog her memory. “Her ‘golden, pensive eyes’?”

Kieran suppressed the laughter that threatened to escape. He could only imagine Sinclair breaking out another arrow again, this time piercing Harry Anslow through the head instead.

Belladonna continued. “Even I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d managed to charm you, too, just like she has with quite a number of people here. Not even the girl from Third has left her side since yesterday.

“And she seems too close to Neyra for my liking.” Belladonna’s bitter mutter was fainter than a whisper, and Kieran would have easily missed then had his proximity to her been further than it was. 

He raised a quizzical brow. What did their stylist have to do with anything? 

Brushing off his curiosity, he gave Belladonna a small snicker and an incredulous shake of his head. “It’s going to take more than a pretty face to win me over. Skill and talent being among the top of that list. Hence why I’m here and not over there with her.”

“Hm. If that’s the case…” Belladonna drawled, the corners of her mouth slicing through her face. “You’ll have no problem helping Timmy dispose of her then. He’s been awfully upset ever since what she did to him yesterday, and he wants nothing more than to see her suffer tenfold.”

Kieran lifted a shoulder as if he couldn’t care any less. “Sure. But why waste your time on a girl like her? She’s not worth your effort, not when there are worse things to deal with.”

Belladonna’s head tilted to the side as she measured his words. “My, my. You sure do seem defensive about a girl you claim doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Call it pity if you want. Her life is already a tragedy. But, fine. If you want to get rid of her so badly, by all means, I’ll help you. However, I do think it’d be in all our best interests to wait until we’re in the arena instead of trying to do anything to her now. You’ll get better opportunities there than here.”

Belladonna scanned his face while Kieran merely looked down at her as if she were a bug he wanted to flick as far away from him as possible. Her hand stopped its motions on the blade, keeping the weapon still between them, its tip angled just beneath his chin. One bob of his throat or one swallow of his saliva would easily leave a clean gash at the area by his throat. 

They stood frozen in time for that brief moment, neither one willing to make any movements, both appraising the other. Then Belladonna exhaled, the sound bleak and filled with disappointment.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to stir more trouble before the Games begin,” Belladonna eventually said as she withdrew the blade. In one smooth flip, she had the silver blade swinging between her forefinger and thumb and the handle pointed towards the floor. “And like I said, we’re all happy to have you with us, honestly. And we really are looking forward to working with you. Despite the fact that only one of us will make it out, that doesn’t mean we can't all be friends here. And friends are supposed to stay loyal and don’t betray one another, isn’t that right? So, as your new friends, we’ll have your back and you’ll have ours.” 

She twisted away from Kieran quicker than he could blink, the blade lifted to her eye level. 

“And anyone who gets in our way will have to suffer the consequences.” The words dripped with every bit of venom Belladonna could muster. 

One moment the blade was in her hand, then in the next, her arm had swung out, the weapon gone from her hold. It breezed past Harvey Wood who’d been practicing at the knife throwing station, and in an instant it was lodged deep into the chest of the human-shaped target boards yards away from them.

Belladonna smirked when she turned back to face Kieran. If she was expecting a reaction out of him, he refused to give her the satisfaction. Kieran knew a threat when he heard one, but he’d be damned if he let it show that she’d struck closer to his chest than he wanted.

Lauren was grateful for the uneventful morning. If it weren’t for the harrowing fact that she and all the other children around her were there for grim reasons, she’d have probably allowed herself to go as far and say she might have been enjoying herself going through the motions of training and learning. No one paid Kym and her any attention, not even the Careers who seemed too distracted by their new member to act upon their undeniable grudge against her. For now. She refused to dwell on the perspective that her former partner was to thank for that.

She and Kym made their rounds through the various stations, the archery center being a frequent stop of theirs much to Artemis’s chagrin. The archer was more than ecstatic to assist Kym and provide no less than positive feedback to the young trainee, but had refused to allow Lauren to partake in their exercises, the reason unsaid but as clear as the sun on a cloudless day. It was an understandable response, and Lauren couldn’t fault Artemis for her wariness. Lauren simply nodded in understanding before deciding to stand in the sidelines and observe her friend fiddle with the shooting instruments, the crossbow being today’s weapon of choice.

When lunch passed, Kym had suggested they take their chance on the rock climbing course, her enthusiasm in the exercise palpable, matched only by her excitement in archery. And as soon as Kym began her ascent on the wall, Lauren understood why.

Lauren knew Kym was a swift person, but seeing her scale along the face of the rock climbing course only helped to solidify that fact. She was agile in her movements as each placement of her hands and feet on the rock-shaped pegs, and each leap and bound to reach the next stone, led her higher and higher against the wall and towards the top. When her hand came upon the ceiling, Kym looked down at Lauren, her thumb protruding up in pride and satisfaction.

Lauren watched as Kym slowly descended from the top of the wall and back towards the earth. Kym unhooked herself, holding onto the rope to ensure it didn’t reel away skyward, and beamed up at Lauren.

“Too easy!” she exclaimed. “I used to climb trees harder than these back home, some even as tall as these walls. And we didn’t need these dumb belts to do it either.”

Lauren’s lips tugged upward in amusement. “Pretty sure they have us wear these so we don’t fall to our deaths before the Games even start.”

“Meh. Safety is for weaklings. And it’s not like they’re gonna have all this equipment for us in the arena. We should be practicing how to actually maneuver through these without all this stuff to get a real feel for what it’ll be like in there. Sucks they don’t have bouldering here.”

Lauren couldn’t deny Kym had a point there. Still, she grabbed the hooked end of the rope from Kym’s hand and clipped it to her belt loop at her navel. She positioned herself against the wall before taking a deep breath, and then she began to climb. She let her limbs take her up higher against the carved angles and jagged crags of the cliff-like course, her hands leaving a trail of white chalk in her wake.

Although the 11th District was located within the valleys and basins of the mountainous landscapes of their country, the residents of her home weren’t quite known to be expertise in rock climbing or of climbing of any sort. The mountains that surrounded the 11th were beyond the boundaries of the fences that prohibited any person from stepping past those points, access only granted to the miners who worked in those stations and to the Peacekeepers who guarded the areas and the workers. But even then, climbing the faces of the mountains wasn’t a part of these job requirements, not when technology allowed for easier transports to the caverns and mines.

But Lauren had learned to climb on her own in a different way. 

When the silence of the nights was too much to bear, when thoughts of her parents and lost friends would fill her mind with the reminder of their passings, and the beams streaming from the moon beckoned to her like an enchanted siren song, Lauren would find herself gazing out in the dark as she perched on the rooftops of whichever building she’d scale that evening. She’d lose herself listening to the sounds of birds fluttering among the trees beyond the borders of her town, and watching the lights against the river ripple and dance with the breeze. 

Her uncle acted as if he were none the wiser of her unusual habit, but Lauren knew in the unique ways he’d inquire about her evenings, in the way he’d ask the staff to leave some of the windows ajar regardless of the temperature outside the house, and in the way Peacekeepers never seemed to question her late-night rendezvous that he was more than aware of her excursions. Those were the only moments of solitude that she had in which she’d allow herself to mourn and grieve those she had lost, and she appreciated her uncle for allowing her the space to work through her emotions on her own in her unique way.

Lauren looked below her in an attempt to gauge how far she’d already traveled as she reached for another peg. From the 30 feet she had managed to ascend, she could catch a good view of the gymnasium around her and of the trainers and trainees going through with their own motions. On the ground, she found Kym watching her and yelling out her support, her friend cheering her on; while further down she caught sight of the other Tributes meandering around the facility, traveling in between the various training stations and practicing the various activities.

And then, like one end of a magnet being pulled towards its opposite half, her gaze gravitated towards the figure of the last person she wished to see.

Kieran stood facing away from her, the 11 on his back the only visible indication of the person she was looking at from afar, a weapon she discerned from her distance as a sword held in his right hand. The trainer facing him held a similar item in both of her hands, the two of them circling each other with wary steps, not unlike two wolves assessing an opponent. Before Lauren could register the attack, the trainer lunged at Kieran with a loud cry, her sword clashing against his with a series of resounding rings and grunts as Kieran blocked each arc and sweep of her sword. 

They were a blur of movement, the sound of metal meeting metal like a symphony of clanging percussions resonating around them. Each swing of the trainer’s weapon was met with an equally strong counter. She swung towards his knees, her low swipe swiftly dodged by Kieran’s quick feet jumping off the floor and landing on the elevated platform behind him. In the next beat, he was bounding back down towards the swordswoman with his weapon raised above his head and arcing downwards, his attack blocked by the trainer’s sword coming up to ward it off. She pushed him away with a good amount of force, but his sudden forward roll had him returning near her in a second. He leapt to his feet just behind her, and with a twist of her upper body, she swung her arm outward, her sword meeting Kieran’s as his weapon moved to block it.

Lauren watched the scene with more interest than she would have liked to admit, having forsaken her current task for a spare minute.

It was the first time she’d seen his combat skills since the night they’d first met, but back then he hadn’t been armed with a weapon, and he hadn’t been fighting against her to cause harm at the time. Yet, it came as no surprise to her that him knowing how to wield one was another part of his skillset—he had said as much yesterday that he had experience with a blade, and it was apparent he did indeed.

As though sensing her gaze on him, Kieran stilled in the midst of his fight and turned suddenly. It only took one swivel of his head for his eyes to lock onto hers as if knowing precisely the source of his unease, and it felt like the world melted away for just one second as she clung with one hand and foot on the wall, and he lowered his sword to face her.

It was as if time and space froze into solid ice around them, and the pigments of the world faded into a monochromatic hue of black and white—the azure blues that made up his irises being the only color she could see. The air grew heavy and thick, almost suffocatingly around her as she stared down at him. Even with the distance between them, the glimpse she caught in his eyes spoke of words she couldn’t decode, the words she knew he longed to say. The confusion she’d felt earlier brewed once again within her chest, and Lauren was sure she was going to be sick from the turmoil churning inside her.

Why can’t you just tell me the truth? she wanted to ask.

Then, in an instant like a light switch flickering on, like the ice melting into a puddle, the world resumed back to normal.

Kieran’s momentary lapse from the world had been a mistake on his end as his trainer swung her sword towards his shoulder blade, the dulled edges of the blade meeting across his back like a whip. Kieran returned his attention back to his trainer, hands held up in a gracious admission of defeat before stalking off without a second glance at Lauren. Lauren, meanwhile, continued her own excursion, not giving what she’d just felt a second thought—or, at least, she tried not to. She loathed her inability to erase his existence, both physically and mentally.

When she returned to the ground, Kym gave her a curious quirk of a brow but said nothing as Lauren fumbled with the rope. Lauren could feel the bothersome twitch in one eye as she struggled with releasing herself from its hold, fingers aching as they failed to remove the bonds of the rope to her belt, trying and slowly failing to control the frustration building up inside of her. She needed an outlet—immediately—to discharge her growing resentment somehow, lest she take it out on the wrong person again, and taking her anger out on the climbing equipment was currently doing little to ease such feelings.

She glanced in the direction Kieran had just stood moments before, then turned her attention back to Kym.

“How would you feel about doing some combat training?”

A loud, mocking guffaw from Tim Sake had Kieran looking up from his current task in curiosity. Placing the paintbrush on the floor beside him, Kieran stood up on his feet, attention turned towards the section of the gymnasium Sake was staring at. Sake’s upper lip curled in both revulsion but also interest, a spark lit in his eyes. In the center of the facility, hands wrapped in gauze and tape, her red hair tied up in a ponytail, was an all-too familiar figure.

“I can’t believe they’re letting Sinclair do combat training,” Sake snickered towards the group. He leaned back against the wall behind him, and motioned with his head for the others to take a look at what he was observing. “Let’s see who she sends to the infirmary this time.”

“Probably herself,” Belladonna said, and she cackled at the sight of their red-headed adversary approaching the combat instructor. Lauren’s wrapped hands and forearms came to a stance by her face, her knees bent just at the right angle with her feet placed firmly on the ground in a fighting stance. “I can’t wait for the trainer to teach her an actual lesson.”

“I’d wager she’ll quit in the first thirty seconds,” Anslow added. He turned to the brunette beside him. “What about you, Beatrice?”

“First fifteen,” Blakesley answered. “With tears on her face, too.” She laughed at her own quip harder than the rest of them—the only exception was Harvey Wood who simply smiled awkwardly as a response. 

Kieran shifted his attention to his District partner, his interest piqued and his mind reeling at the familiarity of her movements. She was light and airy with a faint bounce to her movements, moving on the balls of her feet and toes. When her opponent swung first, the fluidity in Lauren’s motions allowed her to shift to the side in a swift dodge. She quickly retaliated with a sharp right hook to the trainer’s gloved hand followed by a side-kick to his padded abdomen, the force of both hits strong enough to make Kieran cringe in second-hand pain.

The sharp intake of breath from the Careers around Kieran told him they could feel the same thing, their spines tensing and bodies stiffening with the daunting realization that perhaps they’d erred in their judgment.  Despite the erratic movements of her limbs and the superfluous and sloppy way she moved about and attacked, the power and strength Lauren possessed was on full display in every punch and kick she made. The Careers’ eyes followed her every move, their eyes narrowing  and jaws clenching as they continued to observe the girl they’d just mocked not a minute ago.

A smirk crossed Kieran’s lips, concealed only by his head turned away from his comrades. There was undoubtedly some satisfaction to be had in seeing the Careers be taken aback and by surprise by someone, moreso by the one person they’d critically undermined. If this was their reaction to seeing Lauren Sinclair in action just in a training setting, he was certain they’d be in for quite the treat should they encounter her face-to-face when she truly meant to cause injury. Kieran knew all too well the power within Lauren’s rage, the feeling of phantom bruises now crawling up his own skin at the memory of when he’d been on the unfortunate end of her wrath so long ago. 

But the satisfaction was a short-lived feeling, the sensation screeching to a halt as anxiety took its place. Had Lauren possibly just made herself a threat to the wrong people? Had she just wounded the ego of the very group of Tributes who needed no extra pushing to make her their victim?

Sensing their growing  consternation, Kieran turned his attention towards his companions.  “Why so tense?” he spoke up. An amused chuckle rumbled in his throat in the hopes that it would hide the tremble that threatened to break.  “You’re all looking as though you’ve never seen a girl fight before.”

“And you’re looking as if you have seen this girl fight before,” Sake retaliated.

Kieran shrugged. “I’d no more call it ‘fighting’ as I would ‘flailing about.’ Don’t tell me that you’re suddenly worried now that you’ve seen her throw her hands and legs around. What is she going to do? Kick you to death?” His chuckle darkened. He stretched out a hand towards Lauren, brow perked up. “Just look at her. If that’s what you call fighting, then I’m concerned about what your standards are.”

“Yeah, Timmy,” Belladonna taunted, her eyes rolling skyward. “She shoots an arrow to your shoulder and suddenly you’re so scared of her? Get a grip. If anything, I think the Games have gotten even more interesting now, wouldn’t you say?”

“In what way?” Anslow asked.

“Well, what fun is a kill when it’s too easy? Not only will we get to have some fun with our new challenge, but people at home will get to watch a great show. It’s a win-win. In fact…” She turned her gaze towards Kieran, a sly smile spreading on her lips. “...I think it would be even more fun if Kieran were to receive the honors, don’t you think?”

“The honors of what? Disposing of her?” Kieran laughed. “Sounds like you just want me to do all the dirty work for you.”

“Nonsense,” Belladonna waved him off. “You offered to do so earlier, remember? Unless, of course, you didn’t mean it?”

All eyes turned towards Kieran, each Career silently asking him the very same question. They truly were like a hivemind.

“I offered to help, not do all the work.” Crossing his arms, Kieran let out an indignant sigh as he met their gazes. “And I was under the impression that Sake here was already slated to carry out that task.”

“Yeah, Bella. What gives?” Sake swung his head towards his ally, clearly aggravated.

Belladonna simply lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, unbothered by Tim Sake’s grievance. “It was never exclusive to just you, Timmy. Anyhow, with Kieran’s earlier display with his sword on the floor, I think it would be even more fun to see the two partners go head-to-head. Just think about it. Wouldn’t it just be more entertaining to see that? The two Tributes of the Capitol’s favorite District going at each other to the death?” She enthusiastically clapped her hands together, her grin never leaving her lips. “Of course, we already know who’d win, but that’s beside the point.”

“No offense, Tim, but Kieran is a better fighter than you,” said Beatrice, earning her a glare from her District partner. “What? It’s true.”

“See?” Belladonna motioned towards Blakesley. “It’s all fact. So, Kieran. What do you say to a chance to get rid of that pesky partner of yours and help with Timmy’s vindication?”

Kieran met Belladonna’s eyes with a hardened glare, but her gleeful expression stayed in place. He knew what she was doing. If he were to say no, it would only further her suspicions of where his loyalties truly lied. He knew Belladonna would bring his allegiance into question, and should the other five Careers see through his ploy, both Lauren and him would be in danger of having painted targets on their backs, the chances of their survival decreasing exponentially. And yet, if he were to say yes, Lauren’s life would be in his hands. How long would he have before they expected results and her head served on a silver platter? Could he stall her death long enough until the Careers ceased being a threat, until he could eliminate them? It would be a challenge… 

… But it wasn’t impossible.

Taking a deep breath, Kieran turned away from his so-called ally, bringing his gaze to his partner as she continued her impressive display of skill, her throws landing with more power with each combination. 

Lauren Sinclair would be a force to be reckoned with, and he’d already committed himself to keeping her alive and seeing her through the Games. There was no backing out for Kieran now. He’d need to see this through.

“I’d say I’m up for the challenge.”

***

Kieran braced himself as he lifted his hand and knocked on the door before him.

Bewilderment was the first fleeting emotion he caught in Lauren’s eyes when she opened the door, bitterness followed immediately afterward and then resentment. She shoved the door of her suite forward, intending to slam it shut, but a quick step with Kieran’s right foot kept it propped open.

“We need to talk,” he said in a rush. Then gently, almost pleadingly: “Lauren. Please.”

“If you think I’m letting you inside my room, then you’re crazy,” Lauren snarled. “And if you think I’m letting myself be alone with you, then you’ve definitely lost your mind.”

Kieran sighed. He’d expected as much from her. 

He placed a hand on the doorframe, angling himself to better face Lauren as she leveled him with a glare. “I wanted a chance to explain what happened today. And to tell you about the Careers.”

That seemed to pique her interest. The creases between her brows softened and her eyes widened for a fraction of a millisecond as she registered what he’d just said. There was turmoil Kieran could sense warring within Lauren, her desire for information battling against her loathing of him.

Turning his head in the direction of the living room, Kieran caught the shadows and movements of the two Avoxes going about their nightly chores in the common areas. He supposed it would have to do. He’d need her to trust him and everything he was going to tell her, and in order to do so, he’d need to abide by her terms. Tilting his head, he motioned for Lauren to follow him. And to his pleasant surprise, she did follow suit, keeping her distance as she placed herself on the opposite end of the dining table from where he seated himself.

“Anything to drink?” Kieran offered.

Lauren leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed as she thought over the offer. “Coffee. Black. A gallon,” came her succinct response.

“A little late for coffee, don’t you think?”

“A little late to be getting on my nerves, don’t you think?” Lauren bit back.

Raising his hands up in surrender, Kieran slowly got up from his chair. “Coffee for the lady it is.”

With Grace’s assistance, Kieran had the mug of caffeine placed before Lauren in record time, the heat of it matched only by the warmth of Lauren’s fingers brushing against his as she retrieved the container from his grip. He pulled his hand away in an instant as though burned by a flame, the sensation reeling him to the very night she’d allowed him to comfort her as they were paraded through Nightingale Park for the country to see. To the morning before when his hands came upon hers to aid her in her struggles during their shared day of training, a piece of rope between them. How they’d gone from a sense of companionship to this strained relation in the blink of an eye was almost staggering. 

March was right. They were indeed a baffling pair of Tributes.

Lauren took a long pull of the drink before she spoke. “So what did you need to tell me?”

Kieran leaned forward on the table, his arms folded on the clear surface. “The Careers want you dead.”

Lauren’s face wrinkled in confusion, eyes blinking. Tilting her head, she commented, “That’s it? I figured that was common knowledge by this point.”

Kieran shook his head gingerly. “Things have managed to become a little more—err… complicated—on top of that. When the Games begin, they’re expecting me to be the one to… get the job done, so to speak. It seems to be Belladonna’s sick way of proving my loyalty while getting rid of you at the same time.”

Lauren brought the mug to her lips, taking another pull. Her face remained unmoving, unconcerned—or so it seemed on the surface. There was a near indiscernible tremble to her hands as she placed her drink back on the table, her lips faintly pressed into a line.

“So why are you telling me this?” she asked, her voice as steady as she could make it sound. “Why are you divulging information about your allies and their objectives to me?”

“I’d no intention of truly being a part of the Careers. My alliance with them was a spontaneous decision to help detract them from wanting to harm you.”

“Didn’t work very well now, did it?” Lauren mocked.

“Nothing’s set in stone yet. There has to be some way out of this.”

Lauren considered his words, a furrow between her brows appearing as the cogs in her head spun and churned. “What I can’t comprehend is that, if this is all true, why didn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t you tell me the truth about what you were doing with the Careers from the beginning?” 

In spite of her words, the spark in her eyes told Kieran Lauren did have at least a vague idea of his reasonings.

“I think you do know why,” he prompted.

Lauren’s eyes darted to his face, gaze scanning his features as though the answer were printed across his nose. “Because you needed them to see us divided,” she replied. “To look as though we truly were on opposite teams.” She released an exacerbated breath. “You telling me all this now kind of defeats that though, doesn’t it?”

Kieran shrugged. “I think telling you about the figurative bounty on your head was more important.”

“Hmm…” Lauren’s lips pursed down, a sense of turmoil still evident in her demeanor. “Which makes me wonder—why does it matter to you, Kieran? Why do you still care?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Lauren lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Because we were never truly allies. I’d thought I’d made my position about working with you perfectly clear the other day, and yet you’re still trying to help me. I just can’t wrap my head around why you’re doing all this and all for what? What’s in it for you?”

When Lauren glanced into his eyes, Kieran found himself unable to keep his gaze on hers, his body shifting awkwardly in his seat, his arms crossing against his chest in an attempt to find something to do with his hands. In truth, he couldn’t find the words to verbalize the reasons behind his actions, why his desperation for her to live was as tremendous as his mission to prevail through the Games. He knew he wanted to help her, and at some point—when exactly, he didn’t know—he realized even without Tristan Sinclair’s request to keep his niece safe, he would have helped Lauren Sinclair regardless. But why the urge to keep her alive was as strong as his own need to survive, he couldn’t provide a reasonable answer to that.

So, in response, all he could find within himself to say was, “I just want to help you. That’s it.”

Lauren stayed silent, as though she were waiting for him to say more. When she eventually accepted that that was the only answer she would receive, she blew out a breath and turned her attention to the dark depths of her drink, peering down into it as if it might provide her with a better explanation to her question than Kieran himself could give.

“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re trying to help me,” Lauren began to say, attention still held towards the now-cooling sludge of caffeine. “And I should be grateful also for the fact that you’re providing me with this information. That you’re trying to keep the Careers off my back.”

“But…?”

“But I don’t want to get roped into whatever it is that you have planned, not if it’ll demand blood, which all this will inevitably lead to, either when or if the Careers figure you out, or you doing what it is you will need to do to win the Games. And I—I honestly don’t know what to believe in and who to trust and what I’m supposed to even do with this information. You propose an alliance one hour, make me question your intentions the next, join the Careers the day after, and now you’re telling me that that was all because you’re still looking out for my best interest?” Lauren shook her head, fingers at her temples, eyes squeezing shut. “It’s a lot to take in, Kieran. For all I know, this could be a ploy to let my guard down around you. And if it’s not, does it make a difference? You’ll still be playing friends with the Careers, acting out whatever part you’re playing with them. And since I’m assuming, at this point, it’s too late to turn your back on them without them hunting you down next, you’ll have to keep your alliance with them even if you change your mind about your plans to help me.” Lifting her head, Lauren peered into his eyes, the intensity in the look strong enough to force Kieran to hold her stormy gaze. “Regardless if you identify as one or not, Kieran, you have become an actual Career. Congratulations.”

Kieran swallowed the dryness in his throat, lips struggling to shape a response. “You know, as much as we may detest and even fear the Careers, they’re not as horrible as you make them seem. They’re just trying to survive this world just like the rest of us who didn’t get to grow up in wealth and luxury like you did. If it weren’t for their aggressive tactics, I might even go as far as to say what they’re doing by volunteering themselves to be in the arena might be considered benevolent and honorable.”

The thunderstorm that Lauren held within her gaze dissipated at Kieran’s words. She turned her head away from him, something like pity entering her features instead. 

“Did you know Harvey volunteered to save his ailing grandfather?” she asked. When Kieran shook his head, Lauren continued. “Kym mentioned as much yesterday,” she said, a hollow, wry smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Said that Harvey was hoping he could win to help his last remaining family member. Kym said it like she was okay with the prospect of losing—of dying—if it meant Harvey could return home instead of her. And I get it. I understand why the Careers are here. I understand why you’re here—or at least why you claim to be here—and the more I see the other Tributes, the more I begin to understand how small my world in the Eleventh has been, how fortunate my quality of life has been compared to theirs, and the measures people will go through just to survive. To live. In other words, I don’t disagree with you. But you can’t ignore the biggest difference between the Careers and the rest of us. You all chose to partake in the bloodshed, you knew what you were signing up for the moment you threw yourself on that stage. I refuse to believe the sacrifice of others—that our humanity—should be the price we have to pay just for the Capitol to provide us with the right to live.”

She’s right, Kieran. Your humanity will be the price you pay, and you know it, the distorted voice returned full of acid, its tongue sneaking its whispered words into Kieran’s ear. It snaked and wrapped its way around his head from ear to ear, its hold on him inescapable. How long until you accept that? How long, Kieran? 

Kieran’s nails dug into the palm of his hand, knuckles pale as sand. He wanted to believe that what he’d sold himself for was for the sake of humanity itself. That when he agreed to join the rebellion and accepted their money and fed his own desire—that even though his inductment had initially been to help himself—he had still done so with the delusions that he would be of use to them, and that he could help change the broken government whose hand had oppressed them for far too long. That even if the path to liberty would be paved in red, it would lead them all into a new world nonetheless. And yet…

Will all that you’ve worked for be worth the price in the end?

“Do you…” Kieran wet his lips as he tried to grasp for words. “Do you think there’s anything worth that price at all?”

Lauren’s face scrunched, her distaste for his question written in the lines between her eyes. “No, I can’t say that I do. Our lives are not currency, Kieran,” she seethed. “The rewards you reap should never be worth the deaths of others, spending lives like they’re replaceable, like they’re expendable.”

Kieran flinched at her words, his own voice coming out strained as he asked: “Not even if the reward could lead to the dismantlement of the Capitol’s entire system? To potentially stopping the Games permanently?”

“What?” A deep crease formed between Lauren’s brows, her eyes narrowed in perplexity. An abundance of questions she yearned to ask blazed in the golds of her irises. “How—?”

Kieran abruptly shook his head. “Forget I asked. It was just a… hypothetical inquiry.”

A raise of Lauren’s brow sufficiently conveyed her skepticism, but she pursed her lips and voiced none of it. She surveyed his face for any unspoken answers, her fervent tenacity unwavering in the way her eyes roamed about his person. 

After a moment, she responded curtly with: “It would be a pyrrhic victory.”

“Pardon?”

“A pyrrhic victory,” Lauren repeated. “A victory at such a great cost that it feels as though it’s no victory at all.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what it means and the story of the king the term was named for.”

“You asked if it would be worth the price, and that’s my answer,” Lauren said, her tone clipped and brusque. “I don’t think you’ve fully realized the cost you’re about to pay to reach your goals, whatever those may really be. I need you to understand that I want no part in your ploy to obtain your true goals, so please do me a favor. Leave me out of it.”

“Not even if it’s for your benefit?” Kieran asked. Or the benefit of the rest of the nation, for the Districts who would celebrate the Capitol’s downfall?

Lauren shook her head in disbelief. “Do what you want, Kieran. God knows you’ve been doing just that even without my knowledge. Just don’t let whatever blood you get on your hands get on mine also.”

Kieran gave her a curt nod. “I… I understand. But Lauren, please know it was never my intention to get you tangled up in any of this. I have only ever had good intentions in mind.”

Lauren remained silent at that, most likely assessing his statement, debating on whether or not she thought it to be true.

When she gave no response, his gaze turned downcast, a hand creeping up to rest at the base of his neck. “Also, I hope you know that my offer from before still stands. If you ever change your mind about an alliance, all you have to do is ask. I mean it, truly.”

“Right. Thanks… I’ll keep that in mind,” came her terse reply.

They sat in tense silence before eventually bidding each other a good night, Kieran and Lauren ultimately going their separate ways—Lauren to her room and Kieran to his. 

Kieran crossed the space of his chambers from the door to the glass walls that overlooked the vivacious city below, his attention drawn to the exuberant world before him like a parched man seeking reprieve in an oasis revealed to only be a mirage—and perhaps that wasn’t too far off from the truth of his situation. Perhaps he, too, was merely another man chasing after an illusion that existed only in his head, birthed by desire. An illusion of a future in which peace and justice existed, and death no longer ran rampant in each corner of the country.

Was the resistance just fighting in an unwinnable war? What more would they be forced to lose and sacrifice along the way until they reached the end? And how many more lives would be stolen only for each loss to be in vain?

Would everything he had done and would do also be in vain?

A wave of searing nausea struck Kieran in that instant, and he reached out in front of him in an effort to steady himself. The world beneath him swirled and swayed in an array of indiscernible shapes and blinding flashes of colors while the edges of his vision blurred and sharpened almost concurrently like he was looking through a kaleidoscope he couldn’t remove. His eyes trailed up, searching for something—anything—to ground his sense of sight on, only to land on the most abhorrent sight before him. The castle with its numerous spires and pillars loomed above him, cloaked in the inky shadows of the night sky, the tops of the roofs shrouded in the darkened heavens that whirled above like that of a massive maw of oblivion. The jagged shapes that made up its entity bore its rugged spikes like the fangs of a behemoth waiting to consume him whole, a gaping orifice that grew wider and wider the faster his heart beat and the higher the heat in his chest soared. The building scrutinized him, taunted him, watched him in his disassociated state, his mind unable to distinguish what was reality and what was fiction. The world around him turned to black, his breathing became ragged and quick, the light faded from his eyes, and then—

Crack!

Kieran’s hand throbbed against the glass wall, and he reeled back as the flash of mania that burst forth retreated, his knuckles pressed against the cold surface of the glass. The skin around his hand stung and he was sure a bruise would soon appear in purple and blue blotches come dawn, and yet all he could feel was numbness and an emptiness crawling up his arm and into the space where his heart would be. He dropped his hand to his side, an imprint of his knuckles marked on the transparent window, the shape obscuring the sharp lines of the castle. And at the sight of it once more, fury sweltered and roared within him.

How he hated—abhorred—this city and its royals, detested the entire nation that called itself a union, and despised how it basked in the misery of its people like a flower basked in the sun’s warmth. He hated the country for its lies. For its inauthenticity. For its ignorance.

He detested the reminder of how they were granted the fortune to live such pleasant lives while he himself had had to take such drastic risks and accept arrangements at the cost of his own freewill just to have a sliver of what they were fortunate enough to have on a daily basis—shelter, warmth, food, life.

And who was there to blame for the disparity present in the country if not the very people who governed them—the royal family? 

What he wouldn’t give in this moment to trade places with the civilians below. For them to live through the same injustices as he had, for them to have grown up in poverty and starving, anticipating death more than one anticipated the new day, for them to have been abused and tormented by Peacekeepers for being disobedient while turning a blind eye to others’ infractions.

But Kieran White hadn’t been born so lucky, and he couldn’t find it within himself to even consider himself lucky to be born. Not when he’d been brought into this world on the most unfortunate end of the spectrum, and now bore its weight on his back.

Perhaps it didn’t matter the cost of his goals at all, he realized. Because what was there left for him to lose?

That night, dreams eluded him. Only a black void of nothingness, of emptiness, existed within the premises of his unconscious state. And when morning came, Kieran could feel his grip on his destiny beginning to crumble, a string he could no longer grasp on to.

Chapter Text

It appeared to be a daily routine by this point for Lauren Sinclair to somehow find herself pondering over Kieran White’s existence as her thoughts strayed to his strange queries from the previous night. There were too many questions yet not enough answers to satisfy Lauren’s need for the truth, and it seemed that reading in between the lines of his words would be the only way she could yield some explanation of his motivations.

By this point, she’d formed the conclusion that his voluntary inclusion in the Games hadn’t been for the sole purpose of providing aid to those in need, or at least not in the way he’d claimed it to be. 

Not even if the reward could lead to the dismantlement of the Capitol’s entire system? To potentially stopping the Games permanently? His words resounded within the confines of her mind.

Were those the reasons for his arrival to the Capitol? To destroy it and its debauchery so as to liberate the people of their country? 

The only answer that Lauren could come to was a blatant Yes. No matter how Kieran pressed that it was a hypothetical inquiry, the desperation in his voice spoke of a hope that such ends could justify the means. And as she continued to contemplate these questions, Lauren found herself ruminating over the very same thing. 

If it were possible to stop the annual harvesting of children to play in a game to the death, could she condone whatever means were necessary to end it all once and for all, even if such means meant the deaths of others?

But how? How could such a feat of demolishing the Games be possible?

That seemed to be the most significant question of all. 

What on Earth could Kieran White possibly do that could cease the Games and dismantle the very regime they were ruled by? And what relevance did partaking in the Games and winning it have with such intentions?

Lauren pushed her fork around her plate and sighed, the brown gravy coating all the uneaten contents of her lunch creating an unappealing mixture of brown and green as she continued to mindlessly swirl the utensil about while her other hand came up into a fist for her head to rest on.

Lauren had refused to believe the notion that the loss of a life could be an acceptable cost for any victory. But as she envisioned what a nation delivered from the Capitol would be like, a country in which the Scythe Games were eradicated and her friends no longer collected for the means of dying for another’s entertainment, she could feel her ideals beginning to wane and shift like a tide under a full moon, wondering if perhaps some sacrifices could be acceptable if such a world could be obtained.

Lauren shook her head in disbelief and in disgust of herself. 

Kieran was right. She truly was a hypocrite.

“My, my, Lauren. Your eyes are looking especially pensive today.”

Lauren flinched at the words as she swiveled in the direction of the source of the comment. A scowl creased her features, but Kym simply flashed her a toothy grin in return.

“Please don’t make me stab you with this fork,” Lauren said, turning back to her plate.

A mirthful giggle slipped through Kym’s lips. “Sorry. I heard Anslow say it some time ago and thought it was pretty funny and also accurate.” She playfully nudged her shoulder against Lauren’s as she sat down, forcing her to draw her attention back to Kym. “But seriously, what’s on your mind?” Kym’s smile slowly faltered as she kept her focus on Lauren. The levity dissipated from her voice as concern mixed with curiosity threatened to take its place.

Lauren sighed and shook her head. “Just a lot on my mind. Nothing to worry about. Not with the evaluations and scoring happening right now, anyways.”

Lauren’s eyes scanned the room. The dining hall was much quieter today than it had been the past two lunches as Tributes were gradually called one-by-one back into the gymnasium where the Gamemakers awaited them. Belladonna Davenport and Harry Anslow had been the first two to disappear back into the training facility, never returning upon their completion. The girl from the 12th District had been called afterwards, and the boy from the same District had made his way through the doors minutes ago as he was called in for his private appraisal. 

Lauren’s stomach had slowly clenched as she had watched the doors close behind him, dread and anticipation causing perspiration to form at the base of her neck, her lungs suddenly feeling as though it’d forgotten how to capture air. Soon it would be her turn, and the thought of being before the Gamemakers and of seeing Dakan Rhysmel among them made her want to hurl whatever contents she’d consumed back up. Although the concept of the evaluations was for the Gamemakers to judge the abilities and strengths of each Tribute, in reality, she and all other Tributes were not too dissimilar to that of circus performers putting on an act for the ringleader and his crew. It was a mere taste of what was to come, an idea for what it would be like when all twenty-four of them would soon be dropped into the arena for the whole country to judge and place their own wagers on, to mock and ridicule, to watch for their own sick enjoyment.

“Are you nervous?” Kym broke through Lauren’s thoughts, her attention held firmly on the gym doors.

Giving a half-hearted shrug and pushing her growing anxieties away, Lauren’s gaze flitted to Kym—then she halted. She’d expected to be met with Kym’s typical easygoing smile and the usual nonchalant and brazen attitude she had grown familiar with within just a few days, and yet in place of those instead were the tremors caused from the way Kym bounced a knee against a bar on her chair and the constrictions in her pupils as they stared at the exit ahead of them. It hadn’t occurred to Lauren until that moment that Kym was capable of feeling dread or fear, that not even she could be an exemption from such emotions, a reminder that her younger friend was a human being much like anyone else in the room despite her impeccable talents.

“Feels like I should be asking you that,” Lauren replied as she shifted her weight to face Kym, giving her a once over before she asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Uhm… Fine? I guess?” came Kym’s wary response. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Lauren quirked a brow. “Well, for one your knee”—she pointed to Kym’s leg—“hasn’t stopped bouncing since you sat down, meaning you’re fidgeting, an indication that you might be feeling uneasy or even nervous. Your pupils have also shrunk drastically which can happen as a result of your body reacting to stress or fear. And your face is looking pale enough to blend into the white of your shirt like you might be feeling sick or anxious. It doesn’t take much of a genius to see something’s not right, so what’s wrong?”

Kym silently gawked at her, evidently quite stunned if not impressed. “Sheesh, were you a detective or something in a past life? I’m starting to feel like I’m being interrogated over here.”

Lauren snorted. “I may have considered following in my uncle’s footsteps and becoming a Peacekeeper once or twice as a child,” she confessed. “I’m not trying to be intrusive, but are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Kym fidgeted where she sat for a short second, eyes trained back on the door. There was a distant, uncharacteristic tremor to her voice when she answered, her tone much lower and more resigned than what Lauren was used to from her. “I guess so… Truth be told, I think it’s just finally hitting me that after today, it’s only a matter of time before the Games begin. What if neither Harvey or I make it out and we let our District down? I don’t care if it’s Harvey who makes it out instead of me, but if he doesn’t survive, then it’s all on me. And I feel like—I’m worried that—It’s just…” Kym stammered as she searched for a way to verbalize her thoughts.

“…A lot of pressure?” Lauren supplied.

Kym released a pained breath as she nodded, her hands coming up and covering her face as she inhaled deeply.

Lauren’s heart clenched at the sight of her friend’s distress, and—at a loss of what to say without feeding Kym lies and false hope much like her uncle and mentor had done to her—she reached out to place a soothing hand on Kym’s shoulder. Kym’s predicament and her conflicting feelings toward it were to be expected of someone in her position, having been voted by her own people to represent them and fight for their means of survival. Lauren could scarcely comprehend how they expected a fifteen year-old to carry such a burden of providing for her entire District, and yet Kym Ladell had been shoved with that responsibility nonetheless in spite of her youth. All were unfortunate byproducts and acts of desperation in their corrupt system, and Lauren’s detestation and repugnance for it all was only subdued in that moment by the sympathy that clenched at her chest for Kym.

Dragging her hands down her face Kym groaned, releasing the tension from her shoulders and trying to regain her composure. 

“Sorry about that. It is what it is. And I really am fine,” she said, the chipper tone returning in her voice, albeit forcibly. “I didn’t mean to lay all that out on you. Please forget I said anything.” She airily waved a hand between them as though in doing so, she would brush away the past few minutes, before she turned her focus to whatever bits of food were left on her plate.

But Lauren couldn’t move on. She frowned as she watched Kym grasp for something else to gossip or joke about, but her growing concern at Kym’s attempt to minimize her situation as if it weren’t an issue between life and death made it impossible to understand anything she was saying. Taking Kym by both her shoulders gently, she turned the younger girl around until their eyes were leveled and Kym’s attention was fully on her. Kym’s eyes widened at the motion, but understanding registered immediately after, and her face fell sullen as her gaze slid away.

“Kym, listen to me,” Lauren began to say. “You have nothing to apologize for. I need you to know that it’s okay if you’re not actually fine, not with what you’re going through. Anyone else in your position wouldn’t be okay either.” I know I wouldn’t be, Lauren realized implicitly. “I can’t say if you will win or not, but if there’s one thing I can say for certain, it’s that you’re not gonna make it easy for anyone to take you down. And the Gamemakers would have to be morons to give you anything less than a perfect score today.”

Kym stared up at Lauren with gaping eyes. The corners of her lips began to quiver just the slightest when she tried to speak.

“But even Daena—”

Ding ding ding!

A ringing chime on the intercom resounded throughout the dining hall, cutting off Kym’s words. 

Lauren forced the bile threatening to escape down as the short melody played. Kym and Lauren looked at one another before inclining their heads to look up at the source attached to the ceiling just as the speaker on the other side began to call for the Gamemakers’ next prey.

“Lauren Sinclair of the Eleventh District,” a sickly sweet voice bellowed, the tone so incredibly blithe and robotic, Lauren hated the sound of her name coming from it. “Please make your way to the main gym for your evaluations. Lauren Sinclair of the Eleventh District, please make your way to the main gym for your evaluations. Thank you.”

Click.

“Looks like you’re up next,” Kym remarked. She removed Lauren’s grip from her shoulders as she did her best to give her a supportive albeit stiff smile that only served to highlight the roundness of her cheeks and remind Lauren of Kym’s juvenile age.

“So it would seem,” Lauren muttered, her throat tight and feeling suddenly quite raw. “But you were in the middle of saying something? Something about Dae—?”

“It can wait,” Kym interrupted. Something in her expression made it clear to Lauren that Kym was no longer interested in revealing what it was she had almost said. “For next time,” Kym insisted.

Lauren peered at Kym, her concern for her still on the forefront of her mind. But with time ticking and the Gamemakers waiting on the other side of the doors, Lauren was left with little to no choice but to concede and leave.

Giving a firm nod to Kym, Lauren said, “Right. For next time.” Whenever that may be.

“Good luck. You got this,” Kym cheered, two thumbs sticking up.

Lauren’s lips pressed into a thin smile as she removed herself from her seat and began the walk to the dining hall exit that connected to the main gym. She hoped that the prickling sensation as though many pairs of eyes were watching her was merely a trick by her mind caused by her nerves and anxiety, but when she allowed her gaze to scan about the room as she made her way out, she found a good number of her fellow Tributes taking a peek in her direction and observing her. Closest to the buffet was the table typically reserved by the six Careers, and there, to no one’s surprise, were the predatorial glares of Tim Sake and Beatrice Blakesley. The looks they sent her were all too similar to that of a hawk eyeing a mouse it wished to feed on, ready to strike at any given moment. Harvey Wood’s attempt at sending her a contemptuous scowl fell flat on his round face and large eyes, but Lauren understood the intent nonetheless. 

Only Kieran White remained stoic and apathetic as she passed by, half-heartedly sparing her a glance before turning about in his seat away from her. 

Lauren eyed him curiously.

Of course he’d returned to his charade of indifference and distance towards her. It was times like this that had Lauren fuming with frustration at her inability to pinpoint which version of him was sincere, was trustworthy, and which was a character he portrayed for the people around him. In the day, it appeared he was her enemy, and at night, he was almost—dare she say it—a friend. 

There was a sliver of her being that couldn’t deny the rationale behind his words as strongly as she would have liked. No matter her efforts to try and disprove his claims, she found her own logic failing to negate his. Maybe he did care for her, but was that reason enough to put himself in situations that could inevitably place his own life at risk? Was caring about her enough of a cause for his persistence and numerous attempts to gain her trust?

She mentally cursed at him. Why did he have to be just as stubborn as she was?

Having no more time to mull over these questions, Lauren redirected her attention from him and to the task before her. She took a deep breath that failed to calm her restlessness as she approached the doors, then stepped onward to the other side.

***

Seeing the gymnasium empty of all its previous occupants made the facility feel colder and all the more massive than the last few days Lauren had set foot inside of it. The Gamemakers chatted about on the veranda they had populated on the Tributes’ initial day of training, and much like that morning, they were just as loud and boisterous with their conversations and laughter, sipping on their flutes of champagne as they sat about in their private space. Lauren could smell the aromas of roasted pork and freshly baked desserts wafting through the air around them, the sounds of silverware clinking against porcelain dishes. It was just as she’d speculated. These evaluations of their talents and skills were no more than a spectacle to be viewed for them; private previews of the Games for these Capitol citizens made all the more enjoyable by a banquet of delectable foods—dinner and a show, so to speak.

Lauren made her way to the epicenter and stood before the judges, her shoulders rolled back, hands folded behind her, and her chin held high as though to say she was unafraid of anything. She caught sight of the Head Gamemaker—her godfather—amongst the purple robed figures above her, and unlike the first day she saw him on the platform, he gave her a quick acknowledgement. Not a greeting, but merely a brief indication that she was free to begin her demonstration when she liked.

Immediately, not wanting to stay any longer than she needed to, Lauren moved from her spot and crossed to where a pair of boxing gloves hung from a rack and proceeded to put them on. A reflex bar for sparring stood beside the rack, its height a few inches taller than Lauren, its shape made of a steel vertical pole, the bottom half of its body covered in a thick, synthetic, cylindrical bag. A third of the way from the pole’s top, a short bar extended horizontally on one side, while on the opposite side, a few inches beneath the bar was a long prong bent downward at a ninety degree angle with a tear-shaped punching bag at its tip. At the very top of the pole was a balloon shaped bag that mimicked a human head, and at the bottom of it all was the base that held the figure up.

Lauren pressed her fists against each other, suppressing any remaining nerves, and strode towards the equipment. Her eyes combed over it before she pressed a few light punches against its dense body, testing its durability. Then with an inhale deep enough to cause her chest to flare, she struck the horizontal bar causing it to spin instantly like a vane amidst a typhoon. Lauren could scarcely react before it made contact with the side of her skull—hard. She’d underestimated its speed and now she’d made a fool of herself for it, in front of her evaluators no less. Lauren winced, a throbbing sensation beginning to rise where she’d been hit, and lifted a hand to her head to alleviate the pain. No blood came away on the glove when she looked down at her hand, but the pain continued to linger beside her ear.

Shake it off, Sinclair. You can do better than this, she reprimanded herself. Now is not the time to be inept.

Forcing the pulsing ache to subside, she took a stance before her inanimate opponent, determined to try again. This time, when she took a jab at the horizontal bar, she ducked just beneath it as it spun, allowing her to avoid another strike and hit the bar once again as it came towards her when it swerved from the opposite direction. Her forearm came up to block the bar’s next attack, her other hand extending out to hit the head. She leapt backwards, kicking at the spinning bar—once, twice—before she bent forward to land another few well-coordinated punches on the body, and a kick to the angled prong’s bag.

Lauren found a rhythm in her movements, a dance to the music of thuds and thumps conducted by her fists and feet, her steps continuing on for a good while. Her actions were lithe and airy but packed with power, ready to take aim or evade when necessary, her reflexes no longer failing her. 

Punch. Punch. Evade. Punch. Leap. Kick. Kick. Punch. 

She thought she was doing quite well, perhaps even doing an impressive presentation of her sparring abilities for some time, until she heard a loud, obnoxious yawn come from above her, the person to whom it came from clearly unbothered by his own lack of manners.

“Are you nearly finished there, girl?” A man bellowed from amongst the Gamemakers.

Lauren stumbled through her next kick, taken aback by the question. Placing both feet on the floor, she stepped away from the equipment to properly face the veranda where she was met with a man peering down at her, a lethargic look on his face and a sag to his lids. A hand came up to slick back his dark, flat hair, a goblet in the other. Lauren inferred from the drawl in his voice and the hiccups emanating from him that the man had had a little too much to drink and was more inclined to take a nap than to continue sitting through the rest of the evaluations. It took all of Lauren’s might not to send him a scathing glare and a string of carefully chosen expletives.

“Hush, you,” a woman piped up before Lauren had a chance to speak. The female Gamemaker turned her cobalt eyes towards the man, her pursed lips conveying her irritation. “It’s barely been three minutes. She’s barely started.”

The man took a long pull of his drink before he replied with, “And you expect the rest of us to sit through another twelve minutes of this? This is taking far too long, and I’m getting immensely bored. Is there not something else we can do to spruce things up a bit? I don’t think I can sit through nine more Districts of this aridity.”

“And what precisely did you have in mind?” Dakan chimed in. “It’s not as though we can feed her to the wolves at this second.”

The other man’s expression brightened at the idea of Lauren being feasted upon by canines, and he reveled in the idea with a leer in her direction. “Don’t tease me, Dakan. You know I’d enjoy that tremendously if it were a real option.” 

“Unfortunately, it is not for the time being. Though, in the arena”—Dakan shrugged contemplatively—“who’s to say it may or may not be?” The female Gamemaker sent him a curious look but made no sound. 

Turning to Lauren, Dakan bellowed, “Do tell. Is there more you’re capable of doing? After being given the most elite training in the whole country, surely you must have learned something else. You can’t seriously expect to win the Games by just hitting people.”

Lauren blinked rapidly and gawked, unsure of how to respond to the first man’s righteous and irksome attitude, and now Dakan’s remarks and questions. She’d never been spoken to with such insolence before, much less by a member of her own family, and she could only feel the weight of her tongue as she tried and failed to form an answer that wouldn’t result in its removal in the midst of her indignation.

No, but I’d like to see any of you try to win the Games, she craved to shout.

“Well?” The Head Gamemaker went on. “Have you not been taught some lessons on any weapon usage?”

Not since I nearly killed Tim Sake with one. But it appeared that slight detail had yet to cross their minds.

Lauren swallowed through the constrictions in her throat, and found her voice. “Only with a few,” she said, more meekly than she’d liked.

Dakan nodded and hummed an approval. “Excellent. Then why don’t you show us what you’ve learned?”

Lauren had thought he’d meant for her to pick up the aforementioned weapons she’d trained with and showcase what little physical training she’d received, but Dakan’s approach to a series of panels on the wall beside him gave her pause.

A series of slanting, orange lights rained down from the ceiling and walls, and surrounded Lauren. She squinted towards the beams flashing and gathering in multiple directions like spotlights moving around a stage, when suddenly an image in the rays began to take shape. Her heart crept into her throat as understanding dawned on her. Without a second thought, she vaulted forward as a spear of hardlight soared towards where she had just been standing, barely missing her head.

She knew that the dense bits of light couldn’t maim her, much less kill her, but that knowledge didn’t stop Lauren from feeling the panic and alarm from rising inside her. She looked around to find more shapes forming, humanoid figures spawning from every angle, some form of a weapon held in their grips.

What was Dakan thinking? Was this what evaluations were supposed to be like, with the Gamemakers putting them through these trials akin to death? Were they so impatient for the real Games to begin that they needed to satisfy their bloodlust this instant? She didn’t have the time to consider an answer as the human-like figures began advancing towards her.

Lauren lunged towards the nearest rack and threw off the gloves from her hands, taking the first thing she could grab instead.  She rolled behind the display as a means of cover, crouched down, and took the short second she had to analyze the gear she’d picked up—a crossbow. Lauren bit down on her bottom lip. She hoped that her observations of Kym’s lesson with Artemis on the item would be enough for her to understand how to use it. She vigorously inspected its mechanics, taking note of its sleek, black steel design; the thick magazine at the top; the cocking lever on its underside; and the trigger mechanism attached to the handle. If not for the arched metal peeking out from either side and curving to the front with a string running through both ends of the arches, Lauren could have easily mistaken the weapon for that of something else. 

Like that of a… Gun!

Relief surged through her at the prospect of being able to use something she might be remotely familiar with. The weight and mechanics would need a little acclimating, but it was the best option she had. Lauren pulled down on the cocking lever then clapped it shut, the arches and strings tightening inward with its loaded projectile. She peeked her head from behind her hiding spot, aimed her weapon, then fired within the next half-second. The arrow struck against the torso of one figure, causing it to burst into bits of light. She cocked the crossbow again and aimed for the next figure—the humanoid shape gone in another bright flash.

Lauren bounded away from behind the weapons rack as one of the figures dashed towards her, a massive club held high above its head, the weapon splintering through the rack before it became whole once more in the attacker’s hand. The figure swiveled towards her just as Lauren leveled the crossbow and pressed on the trigger. A projectile pierced through its chest and another burst of light exploded at its defeat.

Needing to put more distance between her and the rest of her approaching opponents, Lauren charged towards the area that had been previously used for the Tributes’ combat training and obstacle courses. Varying levels of platforms surrounded her, with the monkey bars, rope ladders, and hurdles adjacent to them. 

Sweat trailed down Lauren’s forehead and neck as she hopped onto the base of a towering structure, jumping and at times climbing from one step to the next until she reached the topmost level of the column, now standing at nearly fifteen feet above the ground. Settling down on one knee on the square-shaped space, she used her vantage point to scout for her adversaries, discerning that four opponents remained. She watched as the onslaught curved around the obstacles and dashed towards her in haste while she silently prayed to whatever deities that may exist that no more would spawn upon their defeat. She cocked another arrow and pulled the trigger towards the nearest figure that had reached the base. With one shot to the head, it was gone. Another flash of light burst forth again as the figure next to it met its end with two arrows piercing its pixelated body.

Lauren scanned the floor beneath her in search of the remaining two, adrenaline coursing through her blood and her heart pumping in anticipation. She located one opponent sprinting around the edges of the course, a spear in its hand. She followed its trail with her eyes, and released an arrow, only to watch it collide with nothing but the air as her opponent dashed forward, narrowly avoiding the attack. Lauren muttered a curse. She cocked her weapon and released another arrow soon after. With hardly a glance, the figure side-stepped the projectile, lunging behind a wooden climbing wall, dodging the attack and taking cover.

Lauren could seldom take a moment to groan in irritation as the corner of her eye caught a thin glint of light slicing through the air towards her head. Panic overcame her, forcing Lauren to fling herself off the side of the platform, her fingers clinging to the edge saving her from the drop while she held onto the crossbow with the other hand. She looked up to find the other opponent standing on an opposite platform a few yards across from her, a longbow of hardlight in its grip while it nocked an arrow against the string. Then it released its projectile.

Lauren’s breath caught in her throat as her fingers released their hold from the edge, and she slid her body down the vertical column just as a splattering of light rained down on her like glittering snow as the arrow shattered against the platform above her. She winced as she felt the burning sensation from the abrasion of the column’s plaster against her skin, her stomach dropping at the falling sensation. She grit her teeth at the shock of pain on her soles when they met the earth, but forced her feet to move as another arrow cut through the space in her direction. All the while the silhouette of a person had come charging at her from around the bend of the column, a spear raised in both its hands. With no time to spare, Lauren flung her body to the floor to escape the double assault. Flipping herself onto her back, she swung the crossbow like a bat, just in time to thwart the pointed end of the spear arcing towards her. The weapon broke into dusts of light before her eyes, and with her current opponent incapacitated, Lauren released an arrow through its stomach, effectively causing the figure to evaporate.

Six down, one to go.

Leaping to her feet, Lauren swiveled in the direction of the final figure and loaded her weapon. 

As though mirroring her motions, her final opponent lifted its bow, the tip of the arrow pointed at her chest.

Lauren released her arrow.

Like a reflection, her opponent did the same.

A blast of light exploded in Lauren’s line of sight, and shattered bits of orange swirled in the air above her, replacing the space on the column the human-shaped figure had just occupied.

But something wasn’t right. 

Lauren frowned as a soft, dull discomfort spread throughout the center of her chest. She watched as orange dust floated upwards in the air before her face, the specks grazing the tip of her nose as it rose, its proximity too bright and too close to come from the defeated figure that had been yards away from her. And as she dropped her chin to look below her, gooseflesh rose throughout the entire surface of her skin, her blood curdling into crisp ice.

The shape of the tail end of a shaft and its fletchling dissipated against her sternum. The sight of it was all she could see before the edges of her vision began to blur and blacken. Like the disappearing arrow, realization and horror had struck her then. 

She’d been hit. The arrow had successfully hit her. 

Had this happened in the arena—had this happened with a real bow and arrow—Lauren Sinclair would be dead. 

Her mind reeled at the mortifying thought. A deafening ringing resounded within her ears, broken only by an applause permeating through the gymnasium. With a slight tremble, Lauren tilted her head up to find the Gamemakers applauding her, some whistling, and some on their feet giving a standing ovation; but whether the acclaim was for her accomplishment at completing the trial or for their own enjoyment at witnessing her would-be death, she couldn’t say.

Only one man on the stands held a different countenance. A shadow overcame her godfather’s green eyes that conveyed his trepidation and unease, eyes that widened with distress, as though the same feelings of horror Lauren possessed churned within him as well. There was nothing but anguish dominating his face for just one single moment, but then in a blink, it was gone. The haughty demeanor of the Head Gamemaker returned like Jekyll becoming Hyde as he waved her away and permitted her leave, no other exchange of words beyond that.

Confusion washed over Lauren as she stalked to the elevators, her mind failing to comprehend her godfather’s uncharacteristic behavior and treatment of her. How could the person she’d known to be loving and supportive also be the very same man who had tried to humiliate her just moments ago? How could this same man who snickered at the idea of her being devoured by wolves be the same person who’d become overwrought with worry over her mock death? Had he not just put her through an arduous trial for the purpose of entertaining a colleague who had found her dull and lacking?

Lauren breathed in deeply as she felt her chest constrict and tighten. She’d known from the start that despite her familial relationship to the Head Gamemaker that she would receive no special treatment, knew that she would be of no difference to the other 23 Tributes brought into the Capitol. And yet, she hadn’t expected such harshness from him. There she was, forced to be in a city she despised, forced to become a player in a game she feared to play, and somehow the only family member within this side of Hell she couldn’t escape seemed to repudiate her.

Lauren considered the possibility that she didn’t know Dakan Rhysmel as deeply as she believed to, after all. That perhaps he was just like the rest of the Capitol citizens who reveled in their torment and pain. But that thought was soon contradicted by the vision of his grief stricken face blazing to the forefront of her mind, her perplexity swelling as she tried to grasp who he was exactly and failing to do just that.

But, as Lauren ascended to the eleventh floor to return to her suite, she wondered if it even made a difference as to his character and the type of person he was. She decided that, regardless of their familial ties and history, it didn’t. The only thing of import was that Dakan Rhysmel was the Head Gamemaker, and she, much like all the other Tributes, was at his mercy.

Since the first day of training, Kieran White had already possessed a plan regarding what sort of show he would put on before the Gamemakers for his evaluations. His skills with the blade were undeniable, and he knew it would be an impressive display of his prowess to the Gamemakers. But, as he stepped into the gymnasium and he caught the abrupt silence that surrounded him as he entered, their attention falling onto him; as his eyes met theirs, some with an insatiable hunger while others contained only lechery in their gazes that made him nauseated as they roamed his person; he knew he’d be taking a far different approach than he had initially planned.

An approach that would likely send him to the gallows under other circumstances.

The Capitol won't have a hard time putting you to good use after the Games, at least. I'm sure there'll be dozens who would love to pay for just one night with you in their beds. Orpheus’s words entered his mind, their truth clear and evident in the glances he continuously received from the Capitol citizens around him.

There was a boldness bordering on recklessness that pumped through his veins as he felt the heat of their eyes following him, a torrent of lava that surged higher and higher and threatened to erupt outwards at any given point, outrage and resentment having filled in the hollow hole in his chest that had persisted overnight and refused to leave until fed and satisfied. There was a wanting within him to see terror flash in the eyes of any Capitol citizens, to see horror replace the lust they held, even if for only a momentary instance.

What would his superiors from the rebellion say should they learn of his forthcoming actions? What would they think when they’d see his appraisal score and find it less than the perfect number they expected from him?

Kieran decided he didn’t care.

Because Lauren was right in her response to him. Should the very thing he and the rebellion were working for be achieved, it would be a victory that would become no true victory at all. They would make decisions at the cost of others’ lives regardless of ally or enemy in the name of the greater good, all for the purpose of starting a revolution that would inevitably continue the incessant cycle of vengeance and penance. And Kieran knew with little uncertainty that they would be incapable of escaping it. Should he die instead, another pitiful soul would simply take his place, replaced much like all the previous rebellion's champions before him had been, just another human shell used as a tool for the cause.

With only agony and then death as his only outcomes for his life, Kieran realized that it mattered very little what his actions would be. Choice was an illusion, and he was finally beginning to see through the false curtain.

So with spite and a desperation for some semblance of control driving him, Kieran strode to the center of the room, and he smiled his sweet, blinding smile that had some of the Gamemakers grinning back and fanning themselves. He all but rolled his eyes at their predictability. How easy it was to play them in the same way they played Tributes like a token on a checkered board, to let their guard down with a simple flash of his teeth and have them believe he was nothing more than a willing participant in their torturous ways.

When Dakan Rhysmel gave his indication for Kieran to start, it was the knot-tying station that Kieran found himself heading towards first. It took hardly any time for his fingers to begin working as they wrapped a long twine of rope around itself, a large loop at the end accompanied by twists of rope closed off with a sturdy knot. He could hear the hushed tones above him accompanied only by clinking glasses and utensils, voices speculating what he was doing, others just simply admiring the movement of his hands and arms with each weave and braid. 

Once the first piece was completed, he began working on his second creation, twisting a shorter length of twine together this time until they curled into a circle the size of a cranium. And then, laying the circle flat on the surface, he worked to attach prongs into the nooks of the twine, angling them until ten small triangles were formed, each one evenly spaced into the rope until they formed the desired shape: a crown.

Grabbing his two items, Kieran set aside the first rope, hanging it on an elevated bar by the exercise equipment and securing it until the looped end dangled in place. Then taking the crown, he nestled it atop a nearby training dummy’s head before walking away and returning a minute later with containers of dyes of yellow, red, and blue in his arms, and a throwing knife against his belt loop.

An odd, cold tension crept into the room as a foreboding sensation must have begun to overtake the Gamemakers, interest turning into suspicion, a wariness in their gazes as they watched him work. Kieran played his ignorance, whistling nonchalantly to a soft tune while his fingers dipped into the paints and he began his artwork on the dummy. Yellow covered the top of its head, swooping up and towards the back like hair, the dummy becoming blonde with its golden set of flat tresses. Two sapphire dots were added underneath, the colors of its eyes and its resemblance to a certain monarch beginning to become undeniable as Kieran continued to work in the detailing to ensure the shade matched its reference. Then, with his hand coated in the thick red dye, Kieran slathered the color generously onto the dummy—its head, torso, neck, and shoulders dripping with sanguine ink by the time he was finished, Kieran’s own shirt tinting into the same crimson from the splatters against him.

The heat in the room surged, the tension spiking to new heights and becoming far more difficult to ignore. Yet, no one aside from Kieran made a sound. He knew, in spite of their better judgment and fear, there sat a morbid curiosity to understand his intentions, to see the final product of his work regardless of the alarms that were surely ringing within their heads. Kieran’s whistling soon turned into a hum as he lifted the dummy’s body and pulled its neck through the looped end of the noose, Kieran’s hands tugging against the rope to tighten the body into place. His forefinger moved against the dummy’s chest, two words spelling against the russet ink in fine print, the words clear and legible even from a distance: The Capitol.

As a final touch to his masterpiece, Kieran removed the throwing knife from its holster on his hip just as he took a five long strides away from the dummy in order to examine his work. With hardly a glance in his target’s direction, he swung his arm out, sending the knife flying through the air.

The sounds of chairs being pushed back and feet hitting the floor of the veranda resounded around him. Sounds of glass goblets shattering against the floor rang around like a crystalline orchestra. There were gasps and murmurs of indignation trailing from the Gamemakers’ lips, a palpable swell of confusion and mortification. A crooked grin pulled at Kieran’s mouth as he bent forward in the direction of the Gamemakers in a mocking bow, his eyes straying upwards to catch a glance at the horrified expressions on each of the judges’ faces. There was a series of wide eyes and gaping mouths above him, their stunned expressions and discomfort plastered on each of them.

All except one.

Lord Dakan Rhysmel stood in the back of the veranda, an indisputable glint twinkling within his eyes as he looked down at Kieran. The Head Gamemaker smirked, not a hint of unease to be detected on his features nor a trace of concern. In place of where Kieran had expected shock was instead amusement and even an odd sense of gratification emanating from the man, a crinkle to the older gentleman’s eyes as he viewed the dangling imitation of the king. With a small tilt of his head, Rhysmel gave Kieran a subtle nod before turning away and requesting the rest of his subordinates compose themselves while he gave Kieran permission to leave.

Kieran made his exit then, a rush of satisfaction and retribution coursing through him, his heart pumping fast with triumph of what he had just accomplished, head light with disbelief.

But more than the euphoria was a bizarre wave of puzzlement cresting over him as the vision of the Head Gamemaker’s delighted expression flashed into his mind. The smirk across the man’s lips. The nod he’d sent to Kieran in one brief motion as though in approval of his performance. 

It was certainly a strange and unexpected reaction, and yet Kieran couldn’t find it surprising in the slightest. From the moment Dakan Rhysmel’s eyes had landed on Lauren Sinclair during the Opening Ceremonies, Kieran had had his assumptions about the man’s own agenda regardless of Lauren’s own doubts and misgivings. It was evident in the sorrow and heartache he’d caught on Rhysmel’s face that night that he cared for his goddaughter, but more than that, he feared for her life and was undoubtedly tormented by her presence within the city and her participation in the Games. Kieran understood then that the man shared not the same perspective or enjoyment of the Games as the rest of the city did, taking no pleasure in them despite being the man in charge of the event. And Kieran knew with certainty now that Lord Rhysmel, too, must share a loathing for the Capitol in a similar respect as he did.

However, that only left Kieran with two curious questions: What was a man who hated the Capitol doing as the Head Gamemaker of the Scythe Games? And what did that mean for them in the arena now?

It was dinner time when Lauren was reunited with her mentor and District partner, the three of them joined shortly by their stylists and escort as the women gathered excitedly around the table.

There was some mild chatter that went deaf to Lauren’s ears, not truly caring for the arbitrary subject of discussion of some celebrity or public figure Lauren knew not the name of being discussed among them. She knew none of her companions were as interested as they pretended to be in the gossip surrounding the aforementioned person and his new husband; knew they were simply easing the direction of the conversation to one specific topic that they were ardently longing to speak of, choosing to act too gracious in her and Kieran’s presence than ask either Tribute directly about it: the private evaluations.

Lauren absentmindedly consumed the bowl of chowder before her, providing little to no responses to the voices in her vicinity. If neither the Capitol members or even her mentor were going to ask about it, she had no reason to broach the subject of her private sessions with the Gamemakers. She would be far more content forgetting the whole ordeal that occurred in the Training Center than to share the mockery she had undergone, content to never mention the humiliation she experienced under the Gamemakers’ scrutiny and Dakan’s test, content to simply erase from her memory the arrow that had virtually pierced her center and the harrowing reminder of the timer on her life.

Lauren reached for another bread roll from the basket sitting at the center of the dining table, her fingers brushing against a hand as she did so as the person seated across from her moved to pluck a roll at the same time. Both hands froze.

“Sorry,” Kieran murmured quietly. He grabbed a piece and turned his hand over, offering it to her instead.

Lauren peered down at the food between his fingers, her eyes squinting as she caught sight of some sort of material under the tips of his fingernails. Dirt? From the shine on his damp hair, the strands clinging to his skin, and the scent of the vanilla and sandalwood soap that radiated from his body, it wasn’t hard for anyone to deduce that Kieran had just recently bathed; and from the varying tones of blue, red, and yellow she recognized under his nails, she surmised then that her guess was incorrect. So if not dirt, what was it then? Paint?

Grabbing the offered piece, Lauren mumbled an inaudible thank you as she placed it on her plate. Tearing at the doughy material, she slid her gaze towards Kieran, catching him shifting awkwardly in his seat, undoubtedly having noticed how her gaze had lingered on his hand and was now on his person.

“You have something under your nails,” Lauren told him by means of explanation.

Kieran brought his hand to his face and examined said portion of his skin. He merely shrugged, unbothered by the splotches of color on his flesh. “Hm, so I do. I got some paint stains on my hands during the evaluations. I tried to wash it off, but no amount of scrubbing has gotten it out from under my nails. It’s fine. It’ll come off eventually.”

“I see…” Lauren said, unsure of how else to respond. An awkward silence soon followed. “And, uh, what exactly did you need the paint for?”

Kieran lifted a brow in her direction, an amused gleam entering his eye. “Any reason why you’re asking? You know if you’re trying to get information out of a competitor, you’re not doing a very good job at being subtle about it. Isn’t there some kind of rule where we’re not allowed to share this sort of thing?”

Lauren groaned. He wasn’t technically wrong in his remark, though it mainly pertained to the general population and not to Tributes like them. The public, irregardless of status, was forbidden from being privy to the events that transpired within the Training Center, the evaluations most of all. Such information was considered highly confidential, meant to be kept only between the Gamemakers, Tributes, mentors, and by extension their escorts and even stylists, as well. And due to the limited information the public would be allowed to receive, the evaluation scores, since its incarnation, have acted as a window as to the potential of a Tribute and the level of their skills. But even if such restrictions didn’t necessarily apply to either her or Kieran, it didn’t mean they were required to share the details of their sessions.

“Forget I asked,” she said, returning to her bread, the unfortunate piece of baked good becoming the victim of her annoyance as her shredding became exponentially more aggressive.

Kieran chuckled softly. “Relax. I promise not to report you to the Peacekeepers for prying. If you must know, I created quite the artwork for the Gamemakers. A real eye opener.” He paused, as though in thought. “Though, in hindsight, I hate to admit it might have been a little extreme…”

That certainly piqued Lauren’s interest. What in the world did he do?

As if answering her unspoken question, Kieran leaned forward towards her, the gleam in his eyes brightening as she met his gaze, and murmured in a low voice, “I painted the king’s face on a dummy, and hung it on a noose.”

Lauren’s jaw dropped.

There was a sharp gasp on the opposite end of the table, and a shrill, “You did what?” as their escort’s voice pierced their ears. It seemed he hadn’t spoken low enough apparently, their eavesdroppers no longer concealing their pretense.

Both Lauren and Kieran swerved their heads in the direction of their stylists and escort. Neyra Darcy and Lila Desroses eyed Kieran with an expression that mirrored Lauren’s reaction almost identically, their eyes wide with disbelief and lips ajar. Lady Arthingham, though, appeared to be taking the news less amicably as she held the back of her hand to her head and a palm to her chest, seemingly ready to faint at any given moment. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, eyes misty and face flaming pink with her ire and stupefaction.

“Mr. White, please tell me you didn’t actually hang His Royal Majesty!” she shrieked.

“Unless the dummy held some kind of Voodoo powers, or I’m a magician, I think it’s safe to assume the king should still be alive and relatively healthy,” Kieran quipped. “Unfortunately,” he muttered underneath his breath. Lauren choked on a laugh.

 “This is hardly humorous, Mr. White,” their escort berated. “Nor was what you did appropriate in the slightest!”

Kieran’s lips pursed tightly, his arms folding before him. “Would this be a bad time to add that I also coated its body in red and threw a knife through its chest?”

From Lady Arthingham’s next reaction, one could have thought she had been the one who had been stabbed through the chest. She swooned with a trembling moan, her head nearly meeting the floor had it not been for Neyra Darcy catching her as quickly as she did. Lila assisted the hysterical woman out of her seat, guiding her through the halls and towards an available chamber, the two women disappearing from view.

From the head of the table, March gave a disappointed groan, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he was wont to do when upset, and he let out a breath of dismay. Neyra, on the other hand, simply sent Kieran an amused glance, her lips failing to contain a smile, visibly finding the sequence of events more comical than concerning. 

March dropped his hand onto the table, and leveled Kieran with a stern look. “I really hope you have a good explanation as to why you decided to do that.”

Kieran gave a small shrug, replying, “Oh, you know, just thought I would try and showcase my knot-tying skills, painting abilities, and knife throwing skills all in one go.” When their mentor’s face only hardened with consternation, Kieran sighed and begrudgingly straightened his posture, adding, “Look, I know what I did was rash and impulsive. I’m not denying that. I just…” He trailed off, searching for the right words to form his answer.

“Wanted to piss off a bunch of Capitol people?” Lauren supplied.

Kieran clicked his tongue. “Honestly, yes.”

Neyra’s immediate laughter at his response was infectious, a snort coming from her lips in such an unladylike fashion, it had Lauren snickering beside her.

March’s complexion, in contrast, turned a burning orange as his disappointment in his Tributes only grew, his hands pressed against his face while he attempted to process this ludicrous logic.

Lauren, too, had to admit there was a sensation of heat blossoming within her chest. Not out of fury like their escort or mentor had been, though. But rather from a strange sentiment she never would have thought she’d be capable of feeling towards Kieran White of all people—admiration. If only she had thought of such a plan. A desire for vindication coursed under her skin. She felt its flame amplify the scornful wrath she’d carried all afternoon, but as a realization burst forth, it came to a sudden halt as concern shortly replaced her zeal, a question on her lips.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll get in trouble though?” she asked. “Or that maybe your family will? What if something happens to them because of what you did?”

Kieran turned towards her, a crease forming between his brows. “What family?”

Lauren blinked rapidly as the implication settled in. Oh.

“I wouldn’t fret over such things,” Neyra chimed in. “If they wanted to punish him, they would’ve done so already. Besides, he’s probably the last person they’d want to remove from the Games.” She cocked her head in Kieran’s direction, a tilt to one corner of her lips. “From what I’ve heard around town, you’re quite the popular Tribute. I’m sure the Gamemakers are planning on milking your image as much as possible for higher viewership if nothing else.”

“That, or they’ll make his life a living hell in the arena,” March remarked. “Or worse, both their lives.”

“Not like they’re not already planning on doing that,” came Lauren’s strained response. If her evaluations were any indication of what the Gamemakers were capable of outside of the arena, she could scarcely imagine the horrors that awaited them within its confines. She shuddered at the thought.

“That may be so,” March replied, “but that doesn’t mean either of you should go around getting the Gamemakers all riled up. You both have too much on the line to be making such brash decisions.”

“Oh, Oliver, they’ll be fine. Have some faith in them.” Neyra waved away his words. There was a light illuminating behind her violet irises as she spoke, a mischief entering her voice. She leaned against the table, her body practically teetering off the edge of her seat as she looked Kieran squarely in the eye. “Now Kieran, tell me. What were their faces like? I can’t imagine any one of them took it well at all. Please tell me you caught a glimpse of their reactions.”

“You did miss quite a show, Lady Darcy,” Kieran said, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Their terrified faces were quite a sight to behold.”

“Ahhh,” Neyra sighed with contentment. “If only I could have been there, too. What I wouldn’t give to have been in that room. I should have applied to be a Gamemaker instead if I knew you were going to be putting on such a show for them.”

Lauren cast a brief side glance to the woman beside her, amused but also bemused by her stylist’s response. How different this noblewoman was to what Lauren had envisioned other members of nobility in the Capitol to be like, so very dissimilar to her escort and to the Gamemaker’s Lauren had encountered earlier. It was certainly peculiar to find Lady Darcy be thoroughly unfazed by Kieran’s story, seeing her take pleasure in  the thought of her fellowmen’s disturbance and horror, instead of being mortified by Kieran’s actions much like Lady Arthingham had been. Yet Lauren could only find a sense of appreciation for her stylist, to realize that there was at least one person born of this city who enjoyed the terrors of Capitol citizens more than they did the Tributes’ demise.

“Enough of this, please.” March’s plea came out in a ragged sigh. He removed his cap to scratch at his unruly hair before motioning in the direction of his female Tribute. With only weariness in his voice, he said, “Lauren, please tell me your evaluations went better than Kieran’s.”

Lauren blanched. A chill traversed through her spine, her face draining of all color as the memory she’d fought to suppress peaked into the center of her mind. 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she murmured. “Besides, why would I want to share in front of someone who’s my competitor?” she added, echoing Kieran’s earlier remark.

March’s lips thinned into a line, skepticism etched into the look he sent her way. “That bad, huh?” 

Lauren averted her gaze away from her mentor’s, the weight of his eyes on her face as heavy as her heart that had plummeted from her chest and into the wells of her stomach. 

“We’re bound to find out just how badly you did eventually once the results are revealed tonight,” March continued. “You may as well tell me sooner or later what happened during your session.” Then as an afterthought, he said, “And you can tell me privately, too, if you truly prefer that Kieran not be there.”

Lauren shook her head. She had an inkling March was all too aware that Kieran’s presence was hardly a factor in her reluctance to share. And, as loathed as she was to admit it, a part of her did want him to know, if only to even the playing field now that he had freely shared the events of his private session with her, Lauren supposing it was only fair.

“I honestly don’t know what to make of my evaluations,” she confessed. “It was bizarre to say the least. I”—Lauren breathed in deeply, her fingernails leaving crescent indents into her palm—“I think I died?”

That statement certainly brought upon a disconcerting expression on each person’s face. Their bewilderment conveying the question on their tongues before any could find the means to say it out loud: What the hell do you mean?

“You know, I always did find your pallor to be concerning at times, but never did I think you were actually a ghost,” Kieran teased. “Good to know there’s life on the other side once we’re done here.”

Lauren groaned exasperatedly, eyes darting upwards. “Obviously, I’m not actually dead if I’m right here in front of you.” She sighed.

Forcing herself to maintain the stability in her voice, Lauren recounted her private session with the Gamemakers. Her volume rose with intensity and perplexity as she described the remarks and comments she had received from her judges, specifically that of the Head Gamemaker and the exchange that had led to the horde of weapon-carrying opponents pursuing her. Her audience listened with rapt attention as they followed the details of her trial and the attacks she faced, a mixture of astonishment and wonder in their features as they attempted to comprehend the events that had occurred to her; even Lila Desroses upon her return had become just as engrossed in spite of pieces of the story she may have missed, listening just as intently.

Red was all Lauren could see as a medley of shame and revulsion seized at her chest as she recalled how horrified she had felt when she’d realized the final arrow had struck her, recounting to her audience the conclusion of her evaluations and the detail of the demise she’d faced.

When Lauren asked if what she’d experienced was a standard for these private appraisals, Oliver March simply informed her that no, it was not. Lauren couldn’t find it in herself to be surprised. She had figured as much. How ironic it was to her that the special treatment she was receiving for being the Head Gamemaker’s goddaughter was anything but ideal, the complete opposite of what anyone would assume she’d be given in spite of her relation to him.

“I guess Dakan just really wanted to entertain that colleague of his,” Lauren seethed.

“Could be,” March considered. “It’s certainly not uncharacteristic for a Gamemaker to simply want to do so. It is his job, after all.”

“Even at the cost of my dignity?” She looked her mentor hard in the eye, ensuring he thoroughly understood her question. Even at the cost of family?

“Oh, Ren. I’m sure you already know the answer to that.”

She did indeed. She’d voiced as much aloud before, that despite her godfather’s position in power, it did not make him powerful. He had a role to fulfill, and she would be used as the Gamemakers pleased just like any other Tribute thrown into the Games. She only wished she could understand why. Why had he chosen to be in this occupation despite the cruelties he would be encouraged to perform? Was that the type of person he truly was?

“Try not to let it bother you too much, Lauren,” March advised just before he took a sip of the chowder in front of him. “If anything, consider the trial Lord Rhysmel put you through as a learning experience for what could happen in the arena if you aren’t careful enough.”

“Besides,” Lila’s crystalline voice chimed in, “despite how your session ended, I still think you did really well. You were able to show off your fighting skills and hold your own adequately. Some of them must have been at least impressed.”

“Lila’s right,” said Neyra. “As unconventional as your evaluations were, Dakan was at the very least able to get you to showcase more than what they’d expected of you, and proved yourself to be more than what they’d initially thought.”

Lauren considered their words, unexpectedly finding a shred of consolation in their praise. Despite the aching feeling of betrayal she still retained, Lauren had to wonder if there was maybe a silver lining to be found after all.

“Hmm. I wonder if that’s the real reason why he did all that…” Lauren caught Kieran’s faint murmur, a comment made more to himself rather than a contribution to the conversation. When he lifted his eyes and found her surveying him, Kieran gave her a brief shake of his head as if to ask her to dismiss what she’d heard. Lauren sent him an inquisitive raise of a brow but asked nothing.

She returned to her own meal then, hardly giving Kieran’s vague statement another thought. The weight in her chest had lifted only by an ounce, but it was enough to make her feel as if she were floating, and she wanted to savor the sensation before concerning herself with more worries and mysteries.

The two stylists found themselves falling into conversation with Oliver March, questioning him of his guesses on what scores he believed his Tributes might receive, to which March only responded by saying he could only hope for the best for either of them, the circumstances they’d been placed in or had placed themselves in making it difficult to assume their grades. Lauren hadn’t fully given much thought to her own scores, having believed prior to tonight that she’d hardly have a chance at making an impression, much less win against her rivals. But the notion that she might be granted something passable had her feeling a smidgen of confidence for the first time ever since arriving in the city. What if Lila and Neyra were right? What if she had left enough of an effect on the Gamemakers? Would it be sufficient enough to be given a score that could provide her a better chance at surviving? At gaining support and sponsors?  A chance to live without relying on Kieran’s aid even with the threat of the Careers after her?

It occurred to her then that she was merely getting her hopes up—counting her chickens before they hatch, as the old saying goes—but for one short second, Lauren wanted to relish in some semblance of optimism before it would undoubtedly be taken away from her.

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, the orange glow on the horizon had melted into deep shades of plum and navy as the sky darkened into the night. The group moved to gather in the living room, just as a puffy-eyed Lady Arthingham emerged from her room and rejoined them at the very same moment the Games’ host appeared on the enormous screen and greeted the viewers in his typical extravagant manner.

“Good evening, one and all!” the host began, his teeth beaming in the bright spotlights that surrounded him, graphite-colored eyes wide and brimming with enthusiasm. “I am so incredibly honored to be here to present to you the thrilling scores of our incredible Tributes this year. We are in for a wonderful treat tonight, so without any further delay, let’s get to it!”

Providing the customary exposition regarding the significance of the evaluations, and a concise breakdown of the scoring system, Redcliff wasted little time diving into the first set of scores.

An image of a young freckled, dark-haired Tribute appeared on the screen, his name flashing underneath his arrogant face.

“Harry Anslow,” introduced the host. “A score of seven.”

The familiar intimidating image of  the 13th District’s female Tribute replaced Anslow’s the next moment. Her red lips curved in her sharp grin, the corners of her eyes pinched as though peering down at Lauren through the screen with her inanimate glare.

“Belladonna Davenport,” Redcliff’s voice resounded through the screen. “A score of… Eleven!”

The high number of the young woman came as absolutely no surprise to a single soul in the room—if at least one person were to obtain a double-digit score, Belladonna was unquestionably one of them.

Lady Darcy snickered at the sight of the eleven on the screen below the pink-haired girl’s face and name. “Of course she did,” she mumbled, scarcely louder than a whisper, an upwards slant to her lips. Casting a quick glance from the corner of her eye towards her stylist beside her, Lauren recognized an unexpected emotion dancing in Neyra’s eyes before it faded away in a split second—pride.

A cresting curiosity spread through Lauren as she tried to comprehend the source of Neyra’s adoration for the Tribute. She supposed she should have known the two women were familiar with one another, the interaction between them that Lauren had witnessed before the Opening Ceremonies parade should have been an indication of that. But now it had Lauren wondering just how well acquainted the two were, and more-so how a noblewoman from the Capitol could know this young woman from the 13th District.

Yes, that is very much unlike the Thirteenth District, then. That’s the only other place I’ve ever been to outside of the Capitol. Darcy’s words from the first day Lauren had met her came into fruition in her mind, a small answer to a larger question, one she would have to ask Darcy when given the chance.

The scores for the pair of Tributes from the 12th District followed that of the 13th District’s thereafter, their numbers expectantly low-to-mediocre. And in the next moment, it was time for Lauren and Kieran to learn their scores.

“Now, the Eleventh Distri—” The host stopped abruptly mid-announcement, his brows furrowing as two fingers came up to the device within his ear. “Hold on, folks. I am getting a message right now. It seems…” He paused again, his attention focused on the words being spoken into his ear, head nodding as he responded to the message being relayed to him. “Hm. It seems we shall be skipping the scores of the Eleventh District’s Tributes for the time being, and will be moving onto the Tenth District next. Now then, the Tenth District…”

The viscount’s words trailed off from Lauren’s ears, and she was certain she wasn’t alone in the anxieties the sudden decision to pass over her District had brought. The atmosphere in the room shifted with an unsettling air, shared looks of confusion and concern passing through each face.

“They’ve never done that before, have they?” asked Lauren.

Oliver March shook his head. “Not to my recollection.”

“Should we be worried?”

March released a deep sigh and shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out later.”

Lady Arthingham’s chest rose and fell in a frantic speed, her eyes turning hazy. “Oh, heavens. I believe I’ll need to lay down again,” she cried as her body tipped to the side. “I’ll never be able to show my face out in the city anymore. How humiliating this will be for me and my reputation! How could I have let these Tributes make such a mockery of our royals. This is horrible!”

“Relax, Lady A. For all we know, it could be good news that they’re saving for the end,” Neyra said. “Maybe they’re saving the best for last?” Though the words came from her own lips, not even Lady Darcy seemed as convinced in herself as she was attempting to make Lady Arthingham become.

But Lauren hoped she was right anyways. 

She met Kieran’s gaze from across the space, a derisive remark held in her scowl. You just had to go and cause trouble, didn’t you?

Me? Kieran frowned. I’m not the one related to the Head Gamemaker. What if this has something to do with you?

Lauren rolled her eyes. I’m not the one who hung a mannequin of the king!

Oh, please. Even you found it amusing just moments ago.

Yeah, that was earlier. This is now!

Kieran grunted as he fell back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest as he turned his attention away from her and to the flashing images on the screen above them.

Lauren’s nails dug into her palm as she fought the urge to throw something—anything!—at his head in her frustration, the presence of their mentor and guests being the only thing stopping her. She leaned against the back of the couch and attempted to place her focus on the faces and the accompanying list of names and numbers appearing on the broadcast.

The scores for the Tributes from the 10th to the 7th District each resembled one another, their numbers ranging in a similar manner to that of the 12th District’s scores.

When Tim Sake and Beatrice Blakesley each scored an seven, the reception had been lukewarm. Impressive but not as tremendous of a score for all their talk about being great and vicious, especially for two Careers who boasted of their skill all the while mocking others they viewed to be below them.

Viscount Redcliff continued through the scores of the 5th and 4th Districts before coming to the Tributes for the 3rd District. Lauren leaned forward as she watched Harvey’s face appear, then his name, fixated on the upcoming score. But as she heard and saw the six upon the screen, a wave of dismay coursed through her, a slight disappointment. Even if the boy was by all means a competitor and a Career, she had hoped he’d have performed well enough to receive an outstanding score, hoping it would help alleviate a fragment of the pressure Kym had been carrying, that she’d no longer feel the need to place the burden of her District solely on herself. That perhaps Harvey could have a chance to instead reunite with his family and accomplish the very goal he had come to the Capitol for.

Then Kym Ladell’s image appeared before her eyes on the screen, her friend’s face devoid of its beaming grin and wide eyes, a far too lethargic expression for someone Lauren had come to know to be incredibly lively.

“Kym Ladell,” came the host’s voice. “With a score of”—Lauren held her breath—“a ten!”

Lauren gaped at the sight of the number flashing beneath Kym’s name, not out of surprise, but out of immense pride and joy. A hand came up to her chest as she felt a growing warmth spread through her body and her heart flutter beneath her fingertips with elation for her friend, the sensation allowing her to forget her worries for this short measure no matter how temporary.

“Told you not to underestimate that one,” March said, a smile on his face.

“Ha. Never doubted her for a second,” replied Lauren, her own face beaming with delight in return.

In the next moment, the scores for the 2nd District were being shared soon after, the grades for its pair of Tributes paling in contrast to Kym Ladell’s. And before they knew it, the host was shortly circling back to the very District he had been instructed to skip until now—the 11th District.

Dread replaced the glee that had overtaken Lauren, its arrival both daunting and familiar. It pooled in her stomach as she watched the viscount arrange the papers before him until he found the very pages he’d been searching for, a glint she couldn’t decipher shining in his eyes.

“The Eleventh District,” Redcliff announced. “First, Kieran White.”

Like twin reflections, the two Tributes’ heads turned in each other’s direction, a shared look between them from across the sitting area as anticipation rose in their midst. Kieran leaned forward towards the screen as his image flashed before him, while Lauren could only watch with bated breath as Redcliff spoke the next few words, a restlessness for why they had been forced to wait until the very end to hear their scores roiling inside her.

“With a score of…” The viscount grinned. An unnecessary dramatic pause that had Lauren gritting her teeth and feeling more irritated than amused at his tactics.

The host leaned into his microphone. “... A twelve!”

All breathing ceased in the room. Nothing but silence filled the entire penthouse. Then—

“Congratulations, Kieran!” Lila Desroses cried out. “That’s incredible!”

Kieran turned towards her, his own expression in disbelief, too stunned to respond or even acknowledge the congratulatory pat March was giving him on his shoulder.

“Ah, Mr. White!” Lady Arthingham squealed. “I had nothing but faith in you the entire time! How wonderful you are!” She wrapped her arms around his neck as tears streamed down her cheeks in trails of black mascara ink.

Lauren chuckled with amusement as she watched him attempt to peel the older woman off from him. “Guess your three-in-one plan worked,” Lauren said through her laugh.

“Told you they were saving the best for last!” Neyra exclaimed.

The thick air of apprehension that had fallen over them now dissipated as an insouciant aura befell them in its place. The bodies in the room became more lax as they settled in their seats, simply relieved of the stress-inducing anticipation. 

But it wasn’t over yet. 

They had one more score to witness.

Lauren’s attention was drawn back to the screen as her own face stared back at her, steely glare facing forward in the image, jaw taut and rigid.

The mischievous demeanor from Viscount Redcliff diminished as he peered down at the page before him. His lips pursed while his eyes scanned the paper’s contents, then with an audible sigh, he addressed the camera and bent towards his microphone.

“And finally,” the Games’ host began to say. “Our last Tribute of the evening. Lauren Sinclair.” There was a languid beat in the way he spoke, as though deliberately delaying the information he was revealing. Lauren frowned as she sensed the shift in his mannerisms, the pauses he was taking different from the ones he had staged for Kieran’s score revelation.

“With a score of... One.”

Another silence followed the announcement. But Lauren knew there would be no exclamations of felicitations and congratulatory commendations for her afterwards.

A one?

Lauren considered the possibility of there being an error in her score or the likelihood she had misheard. But as the singular number flashed on the screen, she knew it was no mistake. 

She had gotten a one for her training evaluations.

As a heavy load pressed into her lungs and moisture began to collect in the corners of her eyes, Lauren finally understood why her District had been the last to be revealed.

They hadn’t just been saving the best for last. They had also been saving the worst.

Chapter Text

The first feeling that coursed through Queen Lizbeth Aevesther was surprise. Before it turned to skepticism. Then suspicion. She peered at the screen before her, the faces of each of the Scythe Games’ Tributes now lined up in neat rows, their evaluation scores beneath each name. But of the twenty-four Tributes, there was only one specific pair that caught her eye, her gaze focused on their unique scores.

A twelve and a one. How interesting…

Since the incarnation of the Scythe Games, not a single Tribute had ever managed to obtain scores from either end of the grading spectrum. Yet, here they were, twenty years later, with two Tributes obtaining the scores from each extreme. And how intriguing it was that they both should be from the 11th District’s Tributes.

“A one, huh?” her husband voiced from beside her on the settee. “Somehow, I thought she would have done better.” Disappointment laced his tone, and Lizbeth understood why. It was certainly not the score either royal had expected the young girl to receive, not when taking into consideration who her parents were and the unforgivable crimes against the monarchy they had committed. And more so, not when the Head Gamemaker was her godfather. Awarding such a pathetic score was akin to a death sentence in the Games, and neither Queen Lizbeth nor King Philip could understand why Dakan would willingly give it to her. It was too simple of a win for them.

Perhaps Dakan Rhysmel had finally taken her words to heart, the queen considered. Perhaps the words exchanged between them that early morning after the Opening Ceremonies had been enough to cut through his confidence, leaving him with the fact that nothing he could do would save her from her sordid fate. Or perhaps the girl truly was just that weak and her death would mark a new victory for them. But, surely, it couldn’t be that easy…

Lizbeth leaned against the armrest, her cheek resting atop her hand. Their dear Head Gamemaker had something up his sleeve, that much she had to consider. She knew it would be naïve to believe otherwise, to think for a minute he wasn’t planning something, to allow their guards down regardless of whether or not the girl truly earned the feeble score. Yet, there was a rush of satisfaction that she couldn’t quite shake from her shoulders.

It was almost a shame, really, that Lauren Sinclair should perish so easily. That she wouldn’t live long enough to become imprisoned in the mentorship position, forced to see future generations pay for the sins of her family, to see her own progeny in the arena and fight for their lives like she soon would. But the thought did little to lift the gratification Lizbeth was reveling in, simply all too pleased with the notion the Sinclair girl would pay with her own life for the ones her parents had taken away. That justice should be served so poetically.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as the chill of a memory ghosted over Lizbeth—heat licking her skin as the world around her burned like the ninth circle of Hell, coral and crimson skies bleeding through the atmosphere as though submerged in the sun, grey plumes of smoke curling and rising in massive puffs, filling each lung with ash and soot. Bodies scattered, limbs detached, catastrophic destruction all around, and lives gone. It was a memory that she rarely allowed herself to dwell upon, but one that, for the last two decades, had fueled her ire. A reminder she often used with her husband to reason with him during his moments of weakness—moments when he’d question the use of the Scythe Games as punishment, their treatment of the other Districts, the choices they made as governing rulers—to remind him as to why they needed to rule with the iron fist that they did. Because if they didn’t, then only tragedy would befall them just as it had during the war’s worst days.

A shiver crawled along Lizbeth’s flesh, effectively snapping her out from her own thoughts while sweat dotted her brow. Needing to turn her attention away from such memories, her gaze shifted in the direction of the dark-haired boy’s photo beside the Sinclair girl, her eyes squinting at the screen as the twelve flooded her vision. As equally peculiar as Lauren Sinclair’s score was that of her District partner’s. 

How had someone from the 11th of all places managed such a monumental achievement? One that not even Tributes from the more uncouth Districts had ever obtained? 

They’d heard of this Kieran White, of course. Had watched him volunteer in place of the boy who’d been reaped, had heard the gossip travel from one noble to the next as they spoke of their fascination and infatuation with the young boy who’d winked and blown a kiss their way during the parade, and had listened to the way the Gamemakers discussed their observations of him from the first day of training. As it would seem, even their Gamemakers had become besotted by this new Tribute.

In that moment, Lizbeth knew this young boy would be one they wouldn’t be able to ignore. They’d need to keep an eye on him just as much.

“Even so,” Lizbeth began to say in response to Philip‘s earlier comment, curling comfortably beside him, “this may be the most intriguing Games we’ve had in some time. I’m quite enthralled to see where this goes.” The king peered curiously at his wife before he grunted in agreement, his arm coming around to rest on her shoulders.

Queen Lizbeth gave little thought then to the machinations of Dakan Rhysmel, allowing her own mind to wander into the depths of her current state of tranquility. No matter what the Head Gamemaker had planned, she took comfort in knowing it would all be for naught. After all, he had tried and failed before, and she was confident this time would be no exception. Rather than concern herself with his meager plots, she decided she’d much rather sit back and enjoy the show that would soon be his and his family’s ruin.

If Lauren’s world hadn’t been thrown off its axis before, this night surely felt like the tipping point.

Seated in one corner of her room, Lauren wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin atop her bent knees, her side pressed against the cool glass wall that overlooked the Capitol. The blanket around her shoulders slid off as she shifted, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care enough to adjust it back around herself. In truth, there was little she could find herself caring about anymore, warmth and comfort included. After all, with the Games less than two days away she may as well grow accustomed to being without such luxuries. And if her score was an indication of anything, it was that she’d be without them for some time—sponsors would most likely turn the other way when it came to her, and Lauren could hardly say all her lessons and training from the past few days would be enough to keep herself living in comfort.

Lauren tilted her head to the side until her left cheek was now resting on top of her folded arms. She peered across the darkened skyline, squinting as though that would help her see past the royal castle that sat across from her, past the mountains that encased the city, and into the 11th District where her uncle and best friend were surely filled with confusion and worry over her. Her thoughts strayed to them and to everything and everyone she’d left back home. How deep did their disappointment run its course at the sight of her score—at the one that had crossed their screen with her name and face beside it? Were they just as surprised as she was? Though, looking back on the events that took place during her evaluations, Lauren supposed she shouldn’t have been as taken aback as she had been when her grade had been revealed. She had failed her trial the moment the arrow had virtually pierced her. And even before Dakan’s trial, she had left such a mundane impression on the Gamemakers during her initial demonstration that they had put her through a horde of adversaries just to feel some kind of twisted excitement. She should have known better than to have let her hopes up and expect a decent score; she should have expected the abysmal number from the second she stepped foot away from the gymnasium.

She wondered now if there was a single soul left in the country who truly believed she still had a fighting chance at surviving the Games. By this point, even Uncle Tristan must have come to terms that she didn’t.

A pang of guilt hit Lauren. If she lost—if she died—Lauren knew that she would be leaving the man alone, all by himself. She had told him she would try to survive, had desired nothing more than to live and return home to him, and although Lauren had given her best effort, it appeared that she would be failing to uphold her promise to him. His brother and sister-in-law were now gone, and his niece would soon follow, and Dakan… Well, Lauren wasn’t sure anymore what to make of him. Would he be there to console Uncle Tristan should Lauren meet her end in the arena; if he would in any way feel responsible for her death, if he would grieve for her? She could only hope he still had enough of a heart in him to be there for the remainder of their family. It was the least he could do.

And William—poor William. Although her best friend was skillful at concealing his pain and negative emotions, Lauren was just as skillful at seeing through his exterior—the visible tension in his jaw when someone would mention his missing brother, the light dissipating from his eyes when Dylan had died, that innocent shine that used to radiate behind his blue irises never having returned since. She wasn’t sure just how many more losses her friend could take, and she had no interest in learning what his limit would be.

A sharp pain ignited in Lauren’s chest as the guilt bloomed into an inferno. Lauren knew all too well the pain that both carried from their losses because she, herself, carried them, too. She wanted nothing less than to be another memory that would only bring about sorrow to those she loved most, another face in the back of their minds that reminded them of better times in the past and worser times in the present and future. 

Releasing a heavy sigh, Lauren allowed the tears she’d been holding back fall, letting the moisture touch the corner of her lips before she wiped them away. She leaned back until she felt the cold press of the wall’s cement on her shoulders behind her, her head rolling to the side to catch one last glimpse of the view beyond the window to her right. Her eyes fluttered shut as she felt the gravity pull down on her eyelids, the events of the past day weighing down on them.

One final, lucid thought crossed her mind before her exhaustion took her into its hold and the world melted into a haze of blue and black—a thought that had her falling deeper into desperation and her trepidation: What was she to do now?

***

It was the gentle pounding on her door that stirred Lauren from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered as consciousness began to creep in, replacing the blank slate of her empty dreams, but she fought against it, the tugs of sleep still pulling onto the edges of her mind. Distantly, she could hear a voice hoarsely say, “Come in,” and it wasn’t until she registered the sound of her doorknob turning and the scent of fried bacon and salted egg did she realize that the voice had been hers.

There was a clunking sound of metal against wood on a nearby surface, followed by the tread of footsteps sauntering down the floor that grew more audible the closer the approaching figure came. A tentative nudge of a finger pressed on her shoulder then. The sound of her name broke through the haze of sleep, and it was at the realization to whom that voice belonged to that Lauren jolted awake.

She winced at the stiffness in her neck and spine as she sat up, a regrettable reminder of where she had allowed herself to fall asleep. 

She spun towards Kieran, finding his face a mere few inches from hers, and she scowled. “What are you doing here?”

Kieran tried to force down the smile pulling at his lips, but it only made his expression all the more smug. “Dang, someone’s cranky when they wake up. It’s no wonder you live off of only caffeine.” He pushed himself up from his bent position on the floor, and held out a hand for her to take. “And, for the record, you let me in.”

Lauren stared at him, ready to call him out on his lie, only for the retort to die on her lips when she realized that he was right. She grabbed his hand and heaved herself up from her makeshift bed, avoiding his gaze as she did so. “That still doesn’t answer my question,” she said instead.

Kieran crossed to the bedside table near her bed’s headboard where a silver tray lay waiting with small platters of food and a glass of water set on top. “Since you missed breakfast, I figured I’d bring it to you,” he answered.

“Missed breakfast…?” Lauren blinked in confusion at him. Her eyes scanned her room, finding the opacity of the yellow light that bathed her room and made the white walls appear aflame in gold. Then she lifted her head to the upper corner where the projection of the clock was. 

10:13 A.M., the red digits read.

Lauren’s heart tripped, eyes widening, as she processed the numbers. How had it gotten so late?

“You should come eat,” Kieran’s voice broke through her panic. “Starting in two days, food won’t be that easy to come by anymore, so may as well take as much as you can right now.” He motioned for her to sit on the untouched bed, but Lauren stood where she was as she eyed him through curious slits. “I swear I didn’t poison the food if that’s what you’re worried about,” he groaned exasperatedly with an eye roll.

“No, that’s not what I’m concerned about. Why are you here?” She held out a finger, effectively stopping him from retorting. “And don’t say it was to bring me food. Breakfast was two hours ago; I should have been done with my mentorship with March earlier; and with how much Lady Arthingham loves punctuality, I’m sure she’s not happy with how late I managed to sleep in this morning. She’s probably pretty irritated that our scheduled sessions with her for the interview rehearsals are being delayed right now. And yet, I’m only being woken up now?”

At the hardened look she was giving him, Kieran’s breezy façade began to melt until he revealed to her a seriousness that lay underneath. Lauren raked a hand through her hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutinizing gaze. There was a wavering emotion in his eyes, a question or comment behind them that seemed as if he wasn’t sure how to voice it aloud.

“What is it?” Lauren pressed.

“I was—we, I mean, as in March and I—we were just concerned about you. When you didn’t show up for breakfast, we figured it was you needing your space. But when a few hours passed, and you missed your coaching with March like you mentioned, and when you still hadn’t made an appearance even after that, I figured I’d come and make sure you were okay.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine,” Lauren replied, trying to brush off his worries, still unsure how to feel about his constant conveyances of concern for her. “I was just more tired than I expected. It’s nothing to worry yourself over.”

She hoped that would have been a sufficient excuse, but Kieran remained unconvinced. “It’s okay if you’re not fine, you know,” he said, taking a step towards her. Lauren frowned. She loathed hearing such similar words to the ones she’d spoken to Kym yesterday come from his mouth. “After the past few days and the scores—”

“It’s fine,” Lauren reiterated. “I’m fine. What’s done is done. Besides, it’s not like I should have expected better. I got what I deserve.”

Kieran’s brows shot upward, and he eyed her as though she’d just spoken an alien language. Slowly, he asked, “You don’t really think that, do you?”

Lauren’s arms folded around her torso, her eyes trailing to the floor. She shrugged, a weak attempt at looking indifferent. “Sure, I was confused at first, maybe even embarrassed. But, looking back on it, it makes sense. If you recall the fact that I failed my trial during the evaluations, a one is an appropriate score for what happened.”

Through her lashes, she caught sight of Kieran’s astonishment, a twist to his expression that said he wasn’t sure what to make of her words.

“I think you should have deserved the twelve,” he finally said after a beat, “and I should have gotten that one.”

“Yeah, right,” Lauren scoffed, lifting her head to face him.

Kieran settled himself at the edge of her bed and peered up at her. “Don’t you think it’s strange that I insult our precious monarch before the Gamemakers, before the noblemen and women of the country, yet I end up scoring the highest; while you were forced to single-handedly fight off how many armed opponents—successfully too, might I remind you, in spite of what you may think—but somehow you end up scoring the lowest?” He shook his head. “There are Tributes here who are far less skilled than you who managed to score higher. It’s not adding up.”

There was a pause as it began to dawn on Lauren the peculiarity of it all—from the evaluations, to the Gamemaker’s acclaim of her, to the score she was dealt in the end.

Maybe Kieran was right, she thought. Maybe there was some merit to his suspicions.

She recalled what Kieran had shared over dinner about his private appraisal with the Gamemakers, how he had hung a gory figure of the king, and how he had caused quite the visceral reaction in the Gamemakers. At the time, she’d attributed his high score to his advantage of being the Capitol’s favorite Tribute, had simply accepted that, regardless of what he did, Kieran would always land on top. But to perform such an offensive feat—one that had even the very people who admired him reacting in terror—and still be rewarded in the way he had been, perhaps it didn’t make much sense, after all.

But still, it troubled her. Why had Dakan chosen to give the scores that he did to them? Lauren’s tucked fists clenched at her sides as her mind reeled from one question to the next.

“Well, I hope Dakan has a good reason for why he chose to manipulate our scores, why he chose to make my chances of surviving even slimmer,” she remarked, the graze of her godfather’s betrayal grasping at her chest.

Kieran placed a finger to his lips, his gaze distant as he, too, tried to comprehend the recent turn of events. “I wonder if that’s the real reason why he’s doing any of this because I question if that’s his real intent.”

Lauren glanced towards him, finding some familiarity in what he’d just said, certain this wasn’t the first time he’d spoken words of that nature. Over dinner, his response to what Lila and Neyra had said when Lauren had shared the events of her evaluations mirrored his comment now, and she recalled the way he’d soundlessly asked her not to pry over what she’d heard him say. She took in his present contemplative demeanor, knowing for certain there was more that he knew than he was letting on. There was always something he was aware of that she wasn’t privy to.

If Dakan’s intent isn’t to hinder me, then what else could it be? Lauren pondered.

“You think he’s trying to help me,” she voiced aloud as the thought occurred to her. The words sounded nonsensical on her lips; because how could obtaining the lowest possible score be in any way advantageous for her in these Games? “That’s also what you meant last night when you were questioning why Dakan did what he did.”

To Lauren’s surprise, he didn’t deny her assumptions. “Last night, I wondered if your godfather put you through that trial to make you more appealing to the other Gamemakers, a means of showcasing your strengths to them. But…” His brows formed a deep V as he tried to verbalize his thoughts and theories. “But I think Rhysmel must’ve had a rude awakening when he witnessed you get shot by the arrow, and it scared him to see that happen. It’s possible that that’s why—”

“—why he gave me a one?” Lauren questioned disbelievingly.

“In the hopes of making you less of a target,” Kieran confirmed. “Not necessarily because you did a terrible job during the evaluations.”

Lauren struggled to comprehend this logic. Dakan’s mortified face entered her mind, the expression of horror he’d worn at the sight of the arrow impaling her. Was that the moment he’d enacted this idea?  “This… This is…” she trailed off at a loss for words on how to explain how absurd she thought the concept to be. It all felt so… conspiratorial.

However, Kieran only shrugged at her perplexity, saying, “You’re still right about why you received a one because of the arrow striking you, but just for a different reason than what you thought. And with the Careers already after you, it might not be the worst thing for him to do.”

Was it really just the Careers, though, that Dakan was trying to protect her from? Did he deem them such a threat to her survival that it warranted this reaction from him?

Lauren wrapped her arms around her middle. “Easy for you to say. You’re still the one who got a twelve, still most likely to gain the country’s support.”

“Truthfully, I don’t think the twelve is as great as you and everyone else believe it to be. It could be Rhysmel rewarding me for what I did, or the other Gamemakers punishing me for it and trying to make me the biggest target.”

It hadn’t been lost on her that he’d separated Dakan from the other Gamemakers. If the Gamemakers had indeed been provoked by his demonstration, intending for Kieran’s score to place a target on his back, wouldn’t Dakan be as vindictive as the rest of them? 

“Why would Dakan be rewarding you?” she asked him.

Kieran stiffened. Lauren had an inkling he was racking his brain for a way to deflect from her question as she watched his hand reach for the back of his neck, his face turning away from hers.

“Don’t bother lying, Kieran,” she demanded. “Just tell me what you mean.”

Slowly, Kieran turned his head towards the door as if making sure it was shut completely, before turning back to her. “I don’t think your godfather is as loyal to the Capitol as you think him to be,” he said. “In fact, I think he holds a hatred for the royals just as much as you and I do.”

Now it was Lauren’s turn to stare at him as if he’d spoken in a language she couldn’t comprehend. “What in the world makes you think that?”

“I mentioned to Lady Darcy last night about how terrified the Gamemakers had been after what I’d done. But there had been one person in that group who hadn’t reacted in fear, but rather had seemed like he approved of what I did.” Kieran lifted his eyes to look at Lauren. No, not at her, but past her, she realized. His focus fixed beyond the window on the lustrous, royal structure on the other end of Nightingale Park. His eyes flicked back to hers, dark and unwavering. “Does a nobleman who smiles at the image of his dead king sound like someone who’s loyal to him?”

For a moment, all Lauren could do was listen to the rapid thudding in her chest, unable to answer Kieran’s question. Her mind reeled, and suddenly Lauren was thirteen again, darkness engulfing her as she watched her mother and father being taken away by the troop of Peacekeepers. Then she was sixteen once more, riding upon a chariot with Kieran as horses pulled them off into the night, a scorching sensation on her neck as the queen’s glacial eyes burned a hole through her skin. Lauren hadn’t pondered much over the grimace Queen Lizbeth Aevesther had sent them the night of the parade, but now Lauren wondered if such animosity was connected in some way to her family.

Hope flickered dimly like a dwindling candlelight in heart. Perhaps Kieran was right—if the royals held any acrimonious feelings for her family, then surely that extended to Dakan Rhysmel, too. Half of her yearned for the hope that her godfather’s love for her family—their family—would be stronger than his loyalty to the Capitol; that the loss of Rachel and Alexander had instilled within him a resentment towards their rulers much like it had within Lauren. And yet, the other half of her found it difficult to believe it to be true. Because why had Dakan remained in his position as the king’s right-hand after all these years, even after her parents’ deaths?

“That can’t be right,” Lauren countered, though there was a lack of conviction in her voice. “Dakan has worked with the royals before either of us were even born. He used to serve as the right-hand to the previous king before the war, is serving that king’s son now, and who knows. He might even serve the next king if this pattern is anything to go by. Even if he hails from the Eleventh, the Capitol has pretty much been his home for over two decades. I don’t understand how he can be the right-hand and Head Gamemaker, a resident of this city, while simultaneously hating the very people he’s served for generations and those who rule his home.”

“I’m not sure how to make sense of it either, but I’m sure about this, Lauren. There may be more to the king’s right-hand than either of us knows of, even you.”

Lauren was already well aware of that fact, a reminder that just about each person in her life never appeared to be who they truly were. Rather than feeling any reprieve at the prospect of Dakan trying to help her, at the prospect of her godfather possessing something less than undying support for the royals, she could only feel her own understanding of him declining while the coil in her heart only tightened. Did it make a difference to them whether or not the Head Gamemaker detested the royals, too? She decided that if it still meant he was willingly sacrificing the lives of children in the royals’ name under the king and queen’s command, that if it meant he would continue to serve the very people Lauren held responsible for the deaths of her friends and parents, it didn’t.

“I’m not sure that it makes it any better that he hates the royals,” Lauren’s voice came out as a weak croak. “Not while he still serves them, not when he’s still going to be in charge of trying to find ways to kill the Tributes in the arena because of them. 

“I hope you reap the benefits of his reward to you, because while Dakan may be deterring other threats from me, he’s also successfully deterred any support for me from the rest of the country.” A sliver of Lauren had hoped that she could still count on her uncle to sponsor her, but reality told her there was only so much money the Sinclairs could spend before their own funds diminished. And though she knew William Hawkes wouldn’t hesitate to help her, she couldn’t put that burden on him—a teenager—either, especially knowing who his father was and whatever loathing he had for her. Even then, their charity could all be for naught, and Lauren would rather her loved ones not spend a single pence on what would be a losing cause.

“You know, it’s not impossible to still gain sponsors,” remarked Kieran, his eyes on her and undoubtedly sensing her internal struggles. “You might not like the how, but it could work if you played it right.”

An uneasy feeling prickled across Lauren’s skin, and she looked towards him expectantly.

With some reluctance, Kieran elaborated: “You could play the role of the helpless damsel and use the Capitol’s sympathy towards you to earn their support.”

Lauren paled. He was right. She hated the idea.

She opened her mouth to tell Kieran how outrageous it was of him to even suggest such a notion, that she could never demean herself to such a role, but he held up a hand before she could start her tirade.

“Listen. Assuming that Dakan did give you a one to minimize the threats towards you, playing along could only help. I know you don’t want to make yourself look weak, but if you’re as desperate as you claim you are, you’d at least consider the idea before rejecting it.”

Lauren released a breath, her shoulders sagging as she regarded his suggestion. What other options did she have? If she couldn’t prove any longer to the public that she was better than they perceived her to be, was this really the next best choice—or rather the only choice she had? Feeling as if her legs were going to collapse, she slumped against the glass behind her and slid back to the floor.

“This is humiliating,” she mumbled into her hands. She slid the palms down the front of her face and looked up at Kieran still perched at the edge of her bed. “Just when I think the Capitol can’t demean me any more, now I have to do it myself.”

“Better than the alternative of not doing anything at all.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” murmured Lauren. She pressed her forehead to her knees, willing the throbbing headache that pulsed through her skull to vanish.

Had she inclined her head towards him, she would have caught sight of Kieran’s hand reaching out to her, eager to provide comfort and consolation for her worries, before the hand curled into itself, choosing to withdraw it at the last second before it could make contact with her hair. Instead, a silence lingered between them for a short time until Lauren felt Kieran move from his seat and heard the door’s hinges creak open.

“Just… think about it,” she heard him say. “Anyhow, you should finish your food. I’ll tell March and Lady A you still need more time. They’ll understand.” 

And with that, he closed the door behind him with a subtle click, leaving Lauren to ponder over the atrocity that would be her game plan.

***

The plan for the day revolved around preparing the Tributes for the televised interviews that were scheduled for the following evening. A last ditch effort at selling the Tributes to the public, it was another showcase of pageantry in which the Tributes would be presented to the whole country, dressed to the nines and dolled up in an effort to make another impression on the people, a final attempt to attract the attention of as many sponsors and supporters they could possibly gain before the Games began. And for Lauren, it was her last chance at proving she was someone worth their while. Now if only she could make herself believe that first.

When she had approached March later that morning, he had been more than delighted at her suggestion to take on the angle Kieran had urged her to try, so much so that Lauren suspected he’d had the idea already brewing in his mind before she’d said a word.

With Kieran preparing for the presentation aspect of the interviews with their chaperone, Lauren had been scheduled for her interview rehearsal with March for the time being. She and her mentor gathered in the sitting room adjacent to the living room, the hexagonal room giving a sufficient idea of the small space she would be in for the interview stage. Lauren sat across from March, a small side-table between them as he went through the motions of trying to converse with Lauren as if he were the Games’ host himself. She hadn’t expected much for their rehearsals, certainly didn’t believe it would take the whole four hour slot of their mentorship, and had only expected a practice on the back and forth that would mimic the questions and conversations expected to be discussed on the stage once she appeared before Viscount Redcliff. But the past two hours soon proved her wrong because it seemed there was always something Oliver March had to say about her responses to his mock questions.

“It’s not that you’re saying anything wrong,” he’d critique. “It’s more about how what you’re saying is kind of… flat. Detached. It’s too cut and dry.” Or, “It’s not an interrogation, Ren. Don’t be so tense. Like, I’ve been saying since the start, it wouldn’t hurt to show a smile here and there.”

Lauren groaned silently, feeling her energy drain like water down a sink with each question and criticism March gave her. She sat back against the lounge chair and rubbed at her temples. How was she supposed to impress the audience and viewers if she couldn’t even impress her own mentor?

“We need to give the audience a reason to sympathize with you, a reason as to why they should be invested in your life,” March’s voice broke through Lauren’s line of thought. “Something that’ll make them care.”

It took Lauren much of her self-restraint to not respond with, How about because I’m a human being? Because no one deserves to live and die like this? But she held her tongue. She knew March only meant well, and knew that in order for this approach to work, she needed a compelling story or some other method that would tug at the hearts of the Capitol (assuming they had one) and all other viewers. And, at present, they had none.

Aside from her score, there wasn’t much she could work with to garner the attention she needed from the public. And compared to the other Tributes, there was little about her character that she felt made her situation unique; she needed something that would make her stand out, to make her memorable and have those who saw her face on their screens feel only fondness and compassion. Her sob story was much like everyone else’s, if not less tragic and more fortunate. She’d lived a relatively decent life for the most part; she had a home and roof over her head, a family, food on the table each day and night, and fresh clothes on her back. It was certainly better compared to a majority of the other Tributes who had only a tenth of what she’d grown up with. Sure, she had lost her parents and many friends, but who in the Districts hadn’t experienced similar or worse strife?

“You tell me. You’re the mentor,” replied Lauren and winced. She had meant for the comment to be light, but it had come out more sardonic than intended, her contempt beginning to slip through.

March leaned forward in his own seat, too deep in thought to have noticed her tone. He pinched his chin between his fingers, the gears in his head spinning as he tried to consider what to do with her. When his eyes suddenly darted towards her as though a lightbulb had lit in his head, Lauren had the unsettling feeling that she was going to find herself hating this plan far more than she already did.

Straightening his back in his seat, March said, “If we want them to be invested in your life, we need to make them feel as if it’s their own life they’re about to see in the Games.”

“‘Their own life’?” Lauren repeated, the unsettling feeling growing into suspicion. Was he thinking what she thought he was thinking?

“Since the Eleventh District is known for their close relationship with the Capitol, we need to touch on that. Make the city feel as if you’re one of their own, as if it’s their own child they’re seeing enter the Games. And with your lineage, it could work.”

Lauren’s heart dropped. The color drained from her face. Yep, he was thinking exactly what she was thinking.

“My lineage?” Lauren cried out in disbelief. “You can’t possibly be referring to…” She trailed off at the sight of her mentor’s curt nod, and Lauren groaned as she realized more and more the kind of performance he expected her to put on.

“Come now, Ren. It’s not going to be as awful as you think,” March tried to soothe her turmoil.

The scowl on Lauren’s face deepened at his attempt of reassurance. “I don't think it’ll be as simple as you make it seem to be. Not when it was my father’s choice to leave behind his home and move to the Eleventh. His title was never passed down to me because of that decision, so it’s not as if I have any claim to it.”

“But you still have your ancestors’ blood in your veins, which should—in its own way—still count.”

Lauren raked a hand through her hair. How did March expect her to pull off such an act? “Even with that, how am I supposed to try and make myself seem more Capitol during the interviews?” she questioned. “It’s not like I can take their children and force them out of their homes to fight to the death.”

“No, unfortunately not,” she heard March mutter underneath his breath. Then much clearer: “But you know that’s not what I meant. You need to make a connection with the audience which you now have a tool to use to do so. You know that many of those from the Eleventh live a life that could almost rival that of the Capitol’s. As far as the people here are concerned, our District is the closest thing they have to an equal, viewed differently from the other Districts that they believe bear only barbaric swine who bite the hand that feeds, and only procreate to create more Tributes for their own pleasure. At least show them that the former is true, that the Eleventh District is really just an extension of the Capitol, and that your family’s title is proof of it.”

“But it’s not true! The Eleventh isn’t an extension of the Capitol,” argued Lauren, remembering the existence of Greychapel and the people who resided in that side of town, recalling how she herself had been blind to those who lived impoverished lives within her own home District. “They’re just ignorant of the other areas of the District that don’t fit that mold of sophistication that they like. The Capitol wouldn’t believe the Eleventh District is as civilized as them if they cared enough to see the truth.”

“I’m not saying the Eleventh is a carbon copy of the Capitol and all the luxuries it carries. But, at the very least, for the sake of this interview, you can act like it is,” March ordered. “I’ve been to enough dinner parties hosted by your family to know that you have it in you to smile and act as if you enjoy the company of the people you don’t like around you. So, for this one night, just pretend that you actually care about the people you’re trying to appeal to.”

Pretend? Bewilderment seized at Lauren. This was the exact reason she’d refused all other attempts to make nice with the Capitol, why she had scarcely cared to try and feign geniality and elation when the only feelings she’d been capable of harboring were despair and revulsion. The very thought of being someone she wasn’t, of trying to act like the very opposite of her character, appalled her. She wasn’t like Kieran who could easily disguise the loathing he carried for the Capitol and then continue seducing its people. She’d refused to stoop to that level and had refused to allow herself to lose her integrity, had believed she was incapable of it.

And yet, where had that gotten her? With Kieran at the top of the ranks and her at the bottom. It was her inability at making any effort to charm the public that she was now struggling to figure out how to do so this very moment. If she truly wanted to survive, she would need to make the decision and choose between her integrity or her life. 

The choice was fairly simple.

Steeling herself, Lauren gave her mentor a stiff nod. “Fine,” she gritted out. “I’ll try to do my best.”

“Excellent,” remarked March with a clap of his hands. He adjusted himself in his chair, an imitation of the posture Viscount Redcliff typically had when conducting his interviews, and said, “Now let’s try this again. From the top.” He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Lauren Sinclair of the Eleventh District…!”

Lauren breathed in deeply. The interviews were going to be much more challenging than she had anticipated.

Lauren had barely spared Kieran a glance as she marched out of the sitting room, a shadow of irritation and disdain shrouded on her face. And when she’d nearly collided with him, she’d simply mumbled an apology before going about onto the next portion of her rehearsals, this time with Lady Arthingham.

Kieran watched her stride away with a fury like a bomb ready to detonate at any second. He entered the sitting room and turned towards his mentor, a brow raised in question. “She doesn’t seem happy.”

Oliver March shook his head and motioned for Kieran to sit on the vacant chair across from him, responding wearily, “She’s struggling.”

“Aren’t we all?” Kieran muttered as he took his place on the seat.

“Her than most right now,” sighed March as he dragged a hand through his hair.

“Practice interviews didn’t go too well?”

March contemplated the question before replying, “Well, at least she answered all the questions.”

It was enough of an answer for Kieran to understand just how unwell Lauren’s mock interviews had gone. It certainly didn’t provide him much assurance on his District partner’s fate, and it nearly unsettled him just how invested he’d become in her survival, caring for it almost to the same extent he cared for his own.

It’s not as if she’d ever reciprocate the favor, the voice in his mind told him. But Kieran only brushed it off. She didn’t need to. He’d never expect her to owe him anything.

March grabbed at the crystal pitcher of water on the coffee table in front of him and poured himself a glass. He took a gulp, a rivulet or two dripping from the corners of his mouth before he spoke again. “While I’m confident she can win a good number of sponsors if she tried, I worry that her inability to put aside her hatred for the Capitol will keep her from doing her best. And if she doesn’t, well…” his voice trailed off, the silence telling. “I wish there was something that could be done to help her garner more positive attention, but even I’m at a loss right now. Hopefully I can rack up more support for her when the Games start, but it’ll all depend on how Lauren presents herself during the interviews and in the arena.”

Kieran reached for the pitcher and poured himself a glass, peering into the water as though it might reveal to him more options and choices that were buried in its surface. “What about her godfather? Can’t you get him to endorse her and have him show his support?”

“If only that were possible. There’d most likely be a public outcry of unfair advantage if he were to do that. Wouldn’t be a good look for him or the Games if he were to show his bias, not when he’s the Head Gamemaker.”

Kieran’s lips tightened into a line. “Right. Of course.” He swirled the liquid in his left hand while the other drummed its fingers on the chair’s armrests mindlessly.

His mentor finished his own drink before saying with a wave of his other hand, “Enough about Lauren. There’s still the matter of your interviews that we need to discuss. After yesterday’s events, I’d rather not be taken by surprise again by another one of your antics.” He leveled Kieran with a stern look, his dissatisfaction at his mentee’s demonstration during the private appraisals clearly still present.

Kieran supposed he should count his lucky stars that his own body hadn’t been mutilated like the dummy of the king he’d hung and impaled. That he should instead be the receiver of the highest score in all the Games, something he and his mentor had planned for, but they now—in a twisted turn of irony that Kieran had no one to blame but himself—dreaded. The motives behind why the Gamemakers had given him his score was a question that still hung in the air around them, bringing about a wariness and caution. It was easy to be blinded by the potential benefits it would bring him, easy to believe that the Gamemakers had overlooked his act of defiance and gifted him a 12 out of favoritism, but it was a thought they couldn’t afford to trust. For all they knew, a worser fate might be awaiting him in the arena than his head on a spike. Or, Kieran considered, Dakan Rhysmel might have a different plan for him altogether. Needless to say, the score Kieran had aimed for now only further complicated a handful of matters for him, adding to his already growing pile of concerns to deal with during the Games, and he’d yet to even step in the arena!

And with the recent events, there was little doubt that more complications would only soon arise.

“Look, I promise I’ll behave,” Kieran said, right hand raised in a mock swearing. “I’ve no intention of making things worse than they already are.”

“I could only hope not. One Tribute in hot water is already enough trouble as is. I don’t need another one.”

In spite of March’s request that they move from the subject of Lauren Sinclair, Kieran couldn’t prevent his own thoughts from straying to her. Partly from the compulsion of wanting to find a solution to Lauren’s dilemma, and partly as a means of compensating for the trouble Kieran had added to Oliver March’s full plate.

He pressed a knuckle to his lips, his mind whirring. If only there was another person in the city they could turn to whose influence would be enough to sway the public’s opinion towards his District partner. But it wasn’t as though they had any allies in the city aside from those within their own team who were paid to help them.

And yet, the feeling that there was still one viable person nagged at the back of Kieran’s mind.

Lady Darcy’s words from the night before crept into his mind, From what I’ve heard around town, you’re quite the popular Tribute.

Would his own current popularity be enough to persuade the people to not only support him but Lauren Sinclair, too, if he were to mention her and their affiliation? What could he possibly say about her that would invoke enough compassion and interest for her, that would incite them to rally behind her and gamble on her life?

Kieran’s swirling halted as did his tapping on the chair’s surface, the absurdity of a new solution forming into fruition. He turned his attention to his mentor. “I might have an idea for my interview that could benefit both Lauren and me. What if I helped endorse her during the interviews? What if…” His thoughts came out in a long string of words. 

March sat back, face pinched in thought, as he listened to Kieran explain his intentions: what Kieran would say in front of the cameras and each resident of this country, what he believed would be the outcome and reactions they would receive as a result. In the end, March gave an approval to his ploy, providing his own suggestions on cues of when to say such words, ones that would hopefully help make Lauren Sinclair the most sought out woman in the country. The rest of their rehearsal consisted of the mock questions, with a focus on practicing how Kieran would deliver his lines, and the more they cycled through the various methods, the more Kieran could feel his confidence in his plan grow.

Now if only he could feel as confident that Lauren Sinclair wouldn’t murder him for what he would be about to do.

The best thing about growing up as a socialite was being able to leave Lady Arthingham’s presentation training early. Having been taught etiquette since she was a child, the Capitol woman’s teachings were hardly anything new to Lauren who had been ingrained with such practices since she was younger. 

When Lady Arthingham had directed her to change her clothes in favor of the tea-length dress that would mimic the silhouette of her interview attire, Lauren had grimaced at the infinite layers of tulle that shaped the skirt and the frills that lined each end, but still had begrudgingly draped the dress on and slipped into the stiletto heels Neyra had brought out for her to practice her strides in. Lauren strutted across her bedroom from wall to wall, elegance exuding from her with each step she took.

“Good!” commended her chaperone. “If you manage to maintain all this poise and grace for tomorrow, you’ll certainly be the star of the night.”

Lauren could only pray the rest of the audience would share the same sentiment.

The afternoon dissolved into evening, then night, which eventually brought on the new day in bursts of sunlight as the summer grew as deep and hot as the dread that pooled in Lauren’s stomach. She pushed the sensation aside, forcing her thoughts to clear, and extracted all her willpower to make it through the remainder of the day. If she were to truly continue with the plan for tonight, she’d need to remain absolutely resolute about it.

Neyra had entered Lauren’s room after lunch a few hours later, a garment bag cradled in her arms and an ecstatic grin plastered on her face.

“Good afternoon!” she bellowed in a sing-song voice. “Happy interview day!”

Lauren smiled in return, feeling the child-like excitement radiate from Lady Neyra Elena Darcy like wisps of a cool breeze amidst a summer heat. Despite the turmoil she held, Lauren couldn’t deny her stylist’s enthusiasm was infectious, a welcome balm to her increasing anxieties. 

“Good afternoon, to you, too. You seem to be in a good mood,” greeted Lauren.

“The best!” Neyra exclaimed as she made her way to the wardrobe where a hook protruded from the top, and hung the garment bag’s hanger on it. She placed the other supplies she’d brought on the bed, her hands vibrating with glee. “I finished stitching up your dress for tonight, and I cannot wait for you to try it on.”

Her interest piqued, Lauren crossed the space to where her dress awaited her, eager to view what Neyra had planned for tonight’s event. Would it be another dress in which the hues and shades would change and glow in the evening, or did her stylist have another gimmick in mind? “Well, if the dress I wore during the Opening Ceremonies is anything to go by, I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”

Neyra beamed. “That parade dress will probably go down in history as my magnum opus. But don’t fear. I still managed to create something just as exciting for you tonight. However”—she took Lauren by the shoulders and turned her away from the wardrobe, leading her instead in the direction of the vanity at the corner of the room—“it’ll have to wait. We still need to do your hair and make-up first.”

With a nod, Lauren complied with her instruction. Over the next two hours, Neyra and her assistants worked through their process, enhancing Lauren’s appearance in an effort to transform her from the 11th District’s Tribute to the girl who could have been a child of the Capitol had she not been born in the Districts. From the start, Lauren knew there’d be far more work done than the last time she had been made up for the cameras. While her make-up and hair for the parade had been simple and light with the intent of highlighting her own natural features, tonight’s look had the intent of making her appear unnatural. Catching glimpses in the mirror here and there, Lauren could see the stark differences in her appearance—the bits of glitter dusted atop the chromatic shifting eyeshadow on her lids, her contoured cheekbones, and on the bridge of her nose; her lips lined and filled to appear fuller and rounder, painted in a deep shade of rouge, so dark it bordered black; ink lined the edges of her eyelids, the ends winged out towards her temples while her lashes had been fanned and elongated to such a length, she wasn’t sure how she was expected to see behind them. Her typically straight hair had been styled and twisted into voluminous curls down her back, rhinestones and gems pinned around the crown of her head, giving the impression of a multi-colored halo.

Lauren stared into the mirror, the figure that mimicked her movements an unrecognizable stranger. It helped little when Neyra had finally revealed to her the dress she’d designed; and donning it now while standing before the full-length mirror to absorb the entire image of the girl in the reflection, Lauren felt as though she were living in someone else’s skin.

She dragged a hand down her bedazzled torso, down to the sash wrapped around her waist, as though smoothing the silver fabric would smooth her nerves with each stroke. It’s just for one night, she told herself. Just one night. Her fingers grazed across the organza and taffeta skirt—a massive, poofy thing that reminded Lauren of a ballerina tutu; the off shoulder neckline helping to only emphasize the similarity—the soft material like water on her fingertips. She tried to mask her dissatisfaction at the sheer volume of the short dress, trying to at least be grateful it hadn’t been as exceedingly decorated with frilled trimmings like her rehearsal dress had been, but Neyra’s perceptive grin told her she wasn’t doing a good job at either.

“Before you judge, just know this is only part one of the dress,” remarked Neyra.

“Part one?” Lauren lifted a brow in the stylist’s direction. “What’s the second part?”

Neyra gave her a wink, saying, “Pull at the back of your sash and give the audience a little twirl later to find out.”

Lauren kept the advice in mind as she tugged on her heels and made for the door, too focused on the forthcoming interviews to think much on what surprises the dress would bring her tonight. With her stylist and the assistants in tow, they made their way out onto the hallway where they joined the rest of the 11th District’s team by the elevators.

Kieran’s brows had disappeared into his hairline at the sight of her, his lips quivering on one end and his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Without sparing him a glance, Lauren traipsed past him, seething out a, “Don’t. Not. A. Word,” as she entered the elevator’s compartment.

It wasn’t quite fair. While Lauren seemed as if she belonged in a production of Swan Lake, Kieran looked as though he belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Though a buttoned up blazer and matching trousers wouldn’t have been noteworthy on any other occasion, it was the fact that these were the only two pieces of clothing Kieran had been dressed in that made it so. Beneath the lapels of the fitted jacket revealed the warm shade of his skin and the toned muscles of his chest and nothing else. The material’s metallic sheen of blue like that of the twilights during the longest winters complimented well with the black of his hair and the bright skies of his eyes, a startling contrast that worked well in his favor. His hair lacked its customary tail or bun, the long strands left to hang loose and wavy against the pads of his shoulders. He appeared cool. Mysterious. Enigmatic. While Lauren appeared like… a doll. She supposed that was the point. At the very least, they were no longer dressed identically.

The rest of the team made their way into the elevator, Lila Desroses and Lady Arthingham sending their compliments to Lauren who courteously murmured a thank you, but said nothing more. The transport descended to the ground floor, and soon they were stepping out onto the evening breeze that blew pleasantly through Nightingale Park, the location of the live interviews. 

Upon exiting, they were met with the rear side of the temporarily constructed stage. Encased in a white half-dome roof, the stage and its blinding lights held an effect like that of a broken geode that revealed the dazzling quartz it carried inside. Metal barricades surrounded the perimeter of the stage’s premises, blocking off the restricted area and allowing only accepted personnel such as them to pass through. A series of electrical wires ran across the backstage floor like a pit of slithering snakes while crew members hastily sauntered back-and-forth as they prepared all the systems and cameras to ensure the live feed aired without a hitch. 

Lauren looked around as she walked, seeing the stands at the edges of the park filled to the brim with what felt like every living resident of the city; seats had been erected on the floor area of the park, allowing for more bodies to occupy the space, which meant there would be an awfully large live audience for the show. Much like during the parades, raucous cheers and fervent chatters rang all around, an electric energy sizzling through the air as they waited with anticipation for the program to start. 

The stylists and their assistants bid the Tributes a gleeful farewell and a warm good luck as they parted ways and made towards their seats by the front of the stage, Lila’s female assistant being more than friendly with them—or rather with Kieran. Lady Arthingham and Oliver March then guided the pair of Tributes to a small set of stairs, up into the stage’s right wing, before finally coming to a stop at a wall that made up the very back of the main stage and what would be their doors onto it. In this enclosed space were the other Tributes waiting about in a single-file line for the wall to part and allow them to take their seats; most stood idly while others interacted with the person next to them in casual conversation; it seemed some of the Tributes had made friends along the way during their three days of training. Lauren waved a quick hello to Kym who stood near the back of the line with Harvey Wood, only to have her attention pulled away when Lady Arthingham gave Lauren’s cheek a small pinch and bid her and Kieran an adieu. Lauren patted the spot on her face with disgust and turned towards March just as he began to give his Tributes one last piece of advice and some pep-talk before the interviews would commence in just a few minutes. His words had become trite at this point, the same instructions, the same encouragement, but Lauren nodded along anyways as did Kieran. Their mentor clapped each of them on one shoulder, gave a supportive nod, then made his exit just as the music from the anthem began to resound outside.

A booming cheer roared through the park as the Games’ host appeared on the stage beyond the wall, his greeting effervescent and vivacious, captivating the audience with each word that he spoke and each joke that he delivered. Having been the host since the Games’ incarnation, Viscount Redcliff had become a natural at the job, his wit and charm making him an ideal choice from the beginning.

In the wake of the laughter and cheerful hollers, a hush soon fell upon the crowd as the host continued to speak, a sense of anticipation building in every corner of the land and within every person in the vicinity. Lauren listened intently to the host’s words, her heart galloping against her ribs until she was sure it would rip itself out and fall to the ground before her. 

Their entrance for the show was soon to come.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Tributes of the Twentieth Scythe Games!” Redcliff bellowed.

The wall slid open before the Tributes, some squinting at the sudden brightness that invaded their eyes, while a thunderous round of applause and whistles welcomed them into the evening. With Belladonna at the front of the procession, she paraded past the open wall—an enormous screen on this side of the stage—with all the confidence in the world, Harry Anslow following suit, almost at her heel. The rest of the Tributes soon stepped forward afterwards, one by one, Lauren being the fifth in the line to make her appearance with Kieran right behind her. To her pleasant surprise, the cheers didn’t cease at the sight of her, the excitement in the crowd inextinguishable. 

The stage held an almost stadium-like set up, with the Tributes having their own stands in which they’d sit as they watched the show below them. Lauren strutted down the five steps at the base of the parted wall-now-screen, until she reached the landing where, below her, were the two arc-shaped, uneven platforms that curved down and around the center main stage below them, twenty-four seats located atop the descending levels with twelve chairs on each curve. Two chairs stood separately in the very middle of the main stage at the bottom, the seats in which the Tributes would be called to take their place individually for their three minutes under the spotlight. 

The applause and cheers erupted into its peak as each Tribute found their place and stood before their chairs, all twenty-four now present before the Capitol—the Tributes from the 13th District to the 8th District on the lower level while the Tributes from the 7th District to the 2nd District were positioned on the higher level behind them. A number of the Tributes  waved and smiled to the audience, before the viscount eventually asked each one to take a seat and the shouts died down.

Barely a minute later, the host was calling Belladonna Davenport down to join him on the main stage, the first interviewee of the evening. The applause resumed, cat calls and whistles now added into the mix, as the young woman stepped down to the stage. Dressed stunningly in a black lace dress form-fitted to her figure, with a hem that gracefully swept the floor, she garnered attention instantaneously, aided by the sheer material exposing much of her skin including her legs, abdomen, and the valley between her breasts. It was obvious what the approach her stylist aimed for had been; it’d been the same one made during the parade. Belladonna’s sexuality and sensual demeanor were weapons, and the woman knew how to wield it just as well as she knew how to wield her blades. And with the eleven she’d scored during the evaluations, it was obvious she’d be a fan favorite.

The viscount held no reservations making comments about her appearance which Belladonna more than welcomed. She’d laugh at his quips, tuck a loose strand of pink hair behind her ear, and brush her hand against his arm, letting the contact linger before retreating the hand to rest upon her cheek. And when Redcliff asked that she strut from each end of the stage as though she were on the catwalk, Lauren couldn’t help the nauseating sense that they were doing more than just gain the support of sponsors; it was as though they were auctioning her off for something beyond than just the Games. From beside her, Lauren could feel Kieran tensing with discomfort as if he too had had the same realization.

“I’m confident you’d make many people here in the Capitol happy,” commented Redcliff boisterously. “You’ve already won the hearts of many of us here tonight.”

Belladonna grinned, and for a second there was a slight falter in her sultry attitude, the deadly gleam in her eyes dwindling like a flame in the breeze for a brief second. “Actually, there is someone from this city I do hope to make very happy,” she divulged, an atypical sincerity in her tone. “Someone who has won my heart.”

The audience ooh’d in astonishment and curiosity, murmurs rippling around them as they attempted to place a guess on who the mysterious person could be with many wishfully wanting it to be one of them despite never having interacted with the Tribute at any point in time. Lauren’s eyes slid to the front corner section of the crowd that she knew was the designated viewing area for only the stylists; she had her own speculation as to who it could be Belladonna Davenport was referring to.

The buzzer rang out to signal the end of Belladonna’s three-minute interview then, much to the dismay of the audience who moaned with disappointment. “Well, as much as we’d all like to know the identity of this secret lover, we’ve unfortunately run of time,” Viscount Redcliff declared. “It seems you’ll have to win the Games if you wish to win over your intended then.”

Belladonna smirked. “I plan on it.” She took a bow and returned to her seat in the Tributes’ stands while her District partner stepped down for his turn with Redcliff.

Despite being a Career, there was nothing remotely memorable about Harry Anslow and his conversation with the host. His voice faded in and out as Lauren’s blood began to roar in her ears, and she fought the urge to bounce her knee as her nerves began to get the better of her the closer her turn approached. As far as she could understand, Anslow was simply recounting how the Games had always fascinated him, and that it was a family tradition to watch the Games since he could remember, and the more Lauren heard his life story, the less she found herself wanting to listen to more. How strange it was to simultaneously want Anslow’s interview to last forever and immediately end at the same time.

Anslow concluded his interview with a handshake with Redcliff before he returned to his seat next to Belladonna once more. The Tributes from the 12th District were the next ones to follow Anslow, with the female Tribute being the first to go. She was a meek, young thing, and Lauren’s heart lurched with pity as she watched the girl suppress her tears, her words coming out in stutters and stumbles. Her District partner was only a hairline better which wasn’t saying much. Sweat seemed to trickle like rain from his forehead while his ears turned into cherries the longer his interview continued. Lauren supposed their ongoing struggles were partially owed to their District never having procured a Victor, meaning they had no true mentor to advise them and prepare them, leaving the pair on their own. To Redcliff’s credit, he did manage to highlight whatever strength each one possessed, giving some meat to the topic of conversation in spite of their more reserved natures.

And before Lauren knew it, the fourth buzzer had gone off, signaling the end of the 12th District’s male Tribute’s interview. The boy needed no other urging to remove himself from the spotlight, but it felt as if Lauren needed all the urging possible to take his place at the very front.

“Next up, we have a very special Tribute. One who has caught our attention for a multitude of reasons. Please give a warm welcome to the Eleventh District’s very own Lauren Sinclair.”

The audience gave her an amicable round of applause, and Lauren inhaled deeply as she stood from her seat. Let’s just get this over with.

Redcliff extended out a hand for her to take as she stepped off the platform, and she placed her fingers against his palm as graciously as she could muster, even sending him a smile in gratitude. She wiggled the fingers of her other hand to the audience in greeting as she moved to the center stage. And with her hand still on the viscount’s, she bent down to give a small curtsy which, much to Lauren’s relief, the audience delighted in enthusiastically.

Lauren settled into the interview chair then, her hands folded neatly on top of her crossed knee, more to keep herself from fidgeting than it was for the sake of appearance. Stealing a glance out towards the park, she was grateful to find that the luminous spotlights that pointed towards them in the center made it impossible to discern a face in the crowd; the sight beyond the stage felt like looking out onto the endless expanse of the sea at night, and the only identifiable shapes Lauren could make out were the screens posted along the edges that broadcast the televised feed, her face magnified on each one. She imagined her friends and family in front of their own screens, watching the show and seeing the girl before them; would they recognize her at all in the way she moved and spoke tonight?

“—right, Lauren?” a voice asked, breaking through her stupor.

Lauren swiveled her head towards Redcliff, and she stilled in confusion at his expectant expression. Had he just spoken? 

Grasping at her composure, Lauren asked as sickeningly sweet as she could, “I’m sorry, what was that?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she attempted a smile, hoping to recover from her small, momentary stumble. She thought fast, adding, “It’s such a lovely evening out, I couldn’t help admiring how beautiful the city looks tonight.”

Redcliff gave her a polite smile. “And I’m sure the city is admiring you just as much, too. Isn’t that right, folks?” He turned to the audience who clapped in response. “I must say, you certainly had many of us turning our heads during the Opening Ceremonies, and right now is certainly no different. You’re practically glowing like the sun!”

Giving a flattered laugh to the host’s compliments, Lauren said, “Why, thank you. I don’t know if the sun is the right word I’d use, but…” Lauren took the skirt’s fabric in her hands and held it out under the stage lights shining above her. There was definitely a resplendent glow emanating from the glitter, rhinestones, and sequins sewed into the material. Colors that hadn’t been entirely visible in the simple lighting of her room now appeared much more vibrantly on the silver, gauze-like fabric of the organza; reflective shades of pinks, greens, blues, and purples peaking through like nacreous ripples that shifted with each motion. Lauren had thought Neyra had intended for her dress to imitate that of a pearl or molten silver, goods that were reminiscent of her District, but now all Lauren could think of was another celestial body altogether. Lauren all but rolled her eyes as the realization came to her. It was only an assumption, but Lauren was sure Neyra had intentionally made a reference to her earlier comment that week: The moon. It reminds me of the moon from home.

“I feel like I’ve been dressed like the moon with the size of this skirt,” Lauren joked. Redcliff laughed in agreement, joined in by the audience whose chuckles genuinely sounded amused and sincere. Then, remembering Neyra’s earlier comment about the dress, Lauren added, “But as with Lady Darcy, there’s always a surprise to be had with her dresses. Would you like to see?” she asked the audience.

Motivated by their shouts of affirmation, Lauren stood up then and took a step towards the front edge of the stage. Then, twirling in place, she tugged at the back of her sash and undid the bow. Like releasing a pin from a curl, the top layer of the skirt burst open from the waist as the sash floated to the floor. A bundle of the fabric spilled down from her waist like a waterfall as it poured down until the length dropped towards her feet. It was like watching petals blooming around Lauren’s knees as she continued to spin while the dress grew longer, the new material falling into place. No longer holding the roundness it had been shaped in seconds ago, the skirt had now transformed into the attire Lauren knew was more fitting of her style and frame, something slimmer and longer, far more elegant and refined. It was like transforming from a swan into a princess.

Applause and hollers resounded throughout the crowd as they gasped and cried in amazement at the change they had witnessed. Even through her dizzy stupor, Lauren understood why. The theatrics were precisely the kind of show the audience loved to see. It hardly mattered what the dress’s final outcome would have been, but to simply see such a spectacle was enough to keep their attention and bring them in a state of awe. Yet, it didn’t hurt that the floor-length gown that had been born of the shorter dress was a stunning piece of work. The new skirt flowed in the summer gust, revealing the calf of her left leg through the slit along the side, the effect of the billowing fabric like that of a pearlescent aurora and stars floating around her.

Redcliff appeared at her side, and taking his offered hand, Lauren allowed him to give her another small spin. The audience ooh’d and aah’d as they gave Lauren another round of applause before she settled back into her seat, her head light but no less aware. Redcliff, too, was clapping along with the audience, chuckling mirthfully. “What another fantastic dress from our very own Lady Neyra Elena Darcy,” he commended. “Hats off to her for another beautiful piece.” The screens shifted to a feed of Lauren’s stylist in her seat; Neyra waved serenely to the cameras, a hand to her chest as if to say thank you, clearly proud of herself and her work. 

“Now Lauren, I must say,” the host went on as a lull settled in, “I don’t think we’ve ever seen you so happy until tonight. It’s quite a nice change to see you smiling for once.”

Lauren beamed as brightly as her cheeks would allow her to. She knew precisely what he was referring to—all the times she’d shown nothing but resentment before the cameras since the moment she stepped off the train and into the Capitol, the stony look that people affiliated her with. But tonight was about changing that image. 

Making a show of brushing off his words, Lauren replied, “With so much happening, I think I allowed my nerves to get the best of me when I first arrived. But after having lived the last few days in the Capitol, it’s started to become a second home, and I’ve become much more comfortable being here.” She paused, then shook her head. “Actually, no, it’s not just a second home. It’s been just like home itself. So much of the Capitol reminds me of the Eleventh District—the people, the food, the culture—that I forget I’m here and not there sometimes.”

Redcliff hummed and nodded in acknowledgment. “It’s to be expected that there would be many similarities considering the history between your District and the Capitol. But, Lauren, tell me. How did you react when you saw your training score? I must admit, I was quite taken aback, so I can’t imagine you were too happy at that moment when you found out how well—or rather how badly—you’d done.”

The corners of Lauren’s mouth flattened as she allowed her smile to falter. She glanced away from the host, forcing tears to appear at the wells of her eyes for the much needed dramatic effect of unmistakable shame, the words she and March had rehearsed in preparation for this subject already on her lips. Fortunately, shame was one emotion Lauren didn’t need to feign, the humiliation she’d felt during the scores’ broadcast still stinging at her core. “Oh, yes, that. It’s true that I wasn’t too ecstatic,” she confessed, a subtle choke in her tone. “Truthfully, I was embarrassed. After you read my score, I felt so hopeless, but I suppose it was to be expected. It’s not as if I thought I could do any better.” She lifted her head and gazed vacantly towards the stands, her skirt’s fabric gathered tightly in her fingers on her lap. “I hope you all can understand that those of us from the Eleventh District weren’t bred to get our hands dirty. We’re not hunters or killers or foragers. We’re scholars, intellectuals, artists, musicians, and so much more. We’re known for our brains, not our brawns.”

Redcliff inclined his head to the side as he listened to her speak. “And yet your District partner still managed to get the highest score possible in spite of also being from the Eleventh.”

Technically, he’s not from the Eleventh, Lauren almost said, but decided against it. Redcliff could discuss the topic of her partner’s achievements during Kieran’s interview, not hers. Instead, she responded, “I’d consider him an exception to the rule. Besides, there’s something that Kieran isn’t that I am.”

Redcliff arched a brow. “Oh, and what would that be?”

“Unlike me, he wasn’t born from nobility.”

Although the bodies seated beyond the stage were mere silhouettes in Lauren’s vision, she could still sense their growing consternation as her remark cut through the night and understanding eventually dawned on them. It was just as she and March had planned, and a sensation of satisfaction blossomed within Lauren to see it be partially successful.

The very purpose of the Scythe Games was to be a punishment for the Districts for their crimes against the Capitol, while also simultaneously providing the Capitol with consolation and entertainment for the sufferings they had endured during the war. A war that had been enacted by the people of the Districts who had refused to obey their leaders and rulers any longer. But if the Districts were meant to be the target of such a penalty, then what was a young girl who had Capitol blood in her veins doing as a Tribute in the Games?

For the first time this entire evening, the smile that grew on Lauren’s lips was a genuine one. She listened to the soft buzzes of conversation that spread through the audience, their concerns and surprise rising. Eventually, Viscount Redcliff cleared his throat to draw their attention back to the stage, an odd rigidity in his voice when he said, “Ah, that’s right. There are a few families in the Eleventh District who still have roots in the Capitol. How very fascinating.”

“Just a few,” Lauren confirmed, acting as though the murmurs in the crowd hadn’t reached her ears or that she hadn’t noticed the shift in Redcliff’s tone.

As far as nobles in the 11th District went, in reality, it was just the Hawkes and Sinclairs. But the reasons for each family’s arrival to the 11th District couldn’t be any more different. While the Hawke’s family’s patriarch had been assigned a transfer to the 11th District during his Peacekeeper days, a command given by the royals to keep control over the people during the war and all that followed after, Lauren’s father and uncle had left the Capitol for their own personal reasons, no longer wishing to remain in the grand city in spite of the privileges and livelihood it had provided them. Lauren had never learned the specifics as to what had compelled her family to make the transfer, just a resentment for their home that they had ingrained into Lauren since the day she was born. She wondered now how much of her family’s hatred for the Capitol played a part in her parents’ deaths.

Lauren watched Redcliff stroke his chin as his pale eyes scrutinized her. “I must confess I’m not sure how valid your claim to such a title is considering you were born in the Districts and not here.” He let out a strained chuckle, and Lauren had a growing suspicion she’d somehow made him uncomfortable with her statements.

Lauren merely responded with a shrug and said, “It doesn’t change where my family comes from, nor does it change my upbringing and how I was raised.” Considering her best friend was held in such high-esteem despite being born in the Districts like her—so much so that his father deemed it possible that he could woo a noble like Lady Darcy and forge a spot for himself in the Capitol—Lauren didn’t see why just for this instance she couldn’t be considered in the same regard as him.

Maybe because William is the son of a respected noble while you’re the daughter of one that was arrested and most likely executed, a voice within her own consciousness answered for her. It was a truth she couldn’t ignore. She and William may have both been descendants of the Capitol, but it didn’t necessarily put them on the same societal status, that much Lauren should have already known. After all, she was the one sitting before the Capitol, making a self-indulgent fool of herself, while William was safe in the borders of their home District, protected by his father’s wealth and influence.

Lauren’s eyes slid towards the host, catching the way Redcliff’s jaw twitched as his lips thinned into an uneven smile. “Then it goes without saying that you’ll fit right in with the Capitol should you be fortunate enough to win,” remarked the viscount as cordially as he could. “Wishing you the best of luck in the arena, Lady Sinclair.” 

The buzzer went off then and applause echoed around for her. Lauren’s eyes creased at the corners as she stood to take one final bow before the audience, and sensing the host taking a step towards her, she turned towards him, believing he intended to give her one last twirl before she left the spotlight. To her surprise, he leaned forward instead towards the side of her face, giving her a slight start. To those watching, including those seated in the Tribute stands, the motion might have appeared as though the host had just placed a lingering, innocuous kiss beside her ear, a means of farewell as was customary in the Capitol and even the 11th District. But only Lauren heard the seething words he whispered, hurried but no less sharp. A frigid knot formed in her stomach and throat as she listened to his cold remark, and she stood, unbreathing, for a fleeting second as though she were carved from the very stone mined from her home region. Uncertainty cluttered her brain as she stared mystified at the viscount, his hand gripping her fingers like a vice.

Then, Viscount Redcliff took a step back and released his hold on her, gesturing animatedly with his arms towards Lauren, an indication for the audience to clap in her wake as she returned to her seat beside the other Tributes. Trying hard as she might, Lauren returned to her senses and forced her lips to steady its smile, refusing to allow her guise to break now, not when she’d upheld it this far. But it was easier said than done. She glanced at the host as the words he’d whispered in her ear reverberated louder than the applause that broke through the whole city, the knot within her growing until it felt like a suffocating noose.

Your father might have been born a noble, but he died a traitor. Soon, you’ll perish for what he did.

Kieran had reason to believe that there was something bothering Lauren Sinclair. Despite all her pleasantries tonight, the bleak haziness that dimmed the golds in her eyes only made the smile she wore on her face appear incongruous while lines formed between her brows, her jaw hardening in spite of all her efforts to school her features.

There was scarcely a second for Kieran to ponder over what could have brought an uneasiness over his District partner all of a sudden before Redcliff was calling his name and inviting him to join him at the center stage.

Kieran exhaled deeply though his nose. He would just have to check up on Lauren later.

The high screeches, screams, and excited hollers that erupted from the crowd as Kieran stood was enough to cause his eardrums to burst, and from the way some of his competitors brought their palms up to cover their ears, he knew he hadn’t been the only one. Kieran sent a lopsided grin to the audience as he stepped down from the platform, and met the host with a shake of his hand. Even the simple act of brushing his hair from his face caused a feral reaction, the crowd’s apparent furor unable to be caged as the volumes of their cheers increased tenfold with some of the voices sounding as though they were on the verge of tears. Even after he’d taken a seat and Redcliff had commenced his interview and began speaking did the hysteria continue. It was an odd sensation to be the cause of such extreme mirth. Kieran had to admit a part of it did feed his ego, to feel somewhat like a celebrity in a city filled with them; but the other part had him feeling bemused that they should feel such enthusiasm for him when he was nothing more than a sacrificial tribute who existed just to die, a stranger that they hadn’t known of until just a few days prior, but one whose attention they seeked and craved as though it were him and not them that held all the power.

Still, he allowed their support to boost his confidence, needing their attention to fulfill tonight’s goal, one that relied heavily on the Capitol’s affection for him.

He kept his tone light and jovial as he spoke with Redcliff, making quick remarks and witty responses, answering the host’s questions but withholding just the right amount of information about himself to fuel the audience’s desire to learn more about him.

“Your family back home must be so proud of you,” Redcliff would say, to which Kieran would casually respond, his voice devoid of the despair he truly felt on the subject: “If I had one, I’d like to think that they would be.” Or when Redcliff inquired about how he’d managed to hone his skill set, Kieran would answer along the lines of, “Life gave me plenty of opportunities to learn, and I took each one. Growing up, I realized early on what it took in order to survive.”

The host nodded to that as though he could completely understand the sentiment of survival and the necessities for its sake. But Kieran brushed it off, knowing it would do no good to dwell in the Capitol’s ignorance.

“Well, I see it must have paid off. I mean, a twelve? Just astounding. Am I right, ladies and gentlemen?” The host turned to the audience who erupted in a bout of applause. “You must share how you did it!”

Kieran made a zipping motion with his fingers across his lips and as they curved into a sly smile. “You know as well as anyone else that I can’t do that. But I think I can say with some certainty that I must have impressed the Gamemakers with my artistic talents.” He shrugged, leaving it at that.

“Artistic talents?” Redcliff echoed in awe. “Is there anything that you can’t do?”

Yes. Be free. Kieran elected to keep that response to himself. Instead, he pretended to contemplate the question before saying, “I suppose I’ve never been good at singing…?”

The crowd chuckled wholeheartedly at that as did the host. 

“Well, I guess we can’t have it all,” Viscount Redcliff said in jest with a clap to Kieran’s shoulder.

“Apparently not,” agreed Kieran, doing his best to appear sheepish and modest.

“Well, I hope your miss or mister back home doesn’t mind too much about your lack of musical talent,” commented the host.

Kieran’s smile sharpened, knowing precisely the statement for what it was—a bait. One that he was gladly going to take and allow himself to be reeled into, having hoped since the beginning that this very subject would be a matter brought up with him. The public possessed an apparent obsession over the romantic involvements of people whose businesses were irrelevant to their lives, and so it came hardly as a surprise that Redcliff would attempt a way to discuss the topic with him. And for the one and only time in his life, Kieran was glad for it.

Kieran tamped down any fleeting reluctance, refusing to shy away from the very plan he’d devised now as he set it into motion. He gave a gentle shake of his head in response to the host’s comment and dropped his gaze down to the floor. One hand crept to the back of his neck before he said, “Actually, I can’t say I have either a miss or a mister back home…” His admittance seemed to genuinely take the host by surprise, his brows rising up his forehead. A corner of Kieran’s lips perked up as he added, much boldly now, “Though, if I did, I’d like to think I could make up for my lack of a singing voice in other areas.” He sent a wink in the audience’s direction, the rising temperature amongst them having little to do with the summer heat.

“Is that so?” Redcliff inquired almost skeptically. “I find that hard to believe for even a second that there isn’t a single person waiting for you back home, or at the very least, somebody who’s caught your eye and attention.” The audience murmured in agreement though something in their tone told Kieran they wished for his statement to be nothing but the absolute truth, a sense of delusional hope swelling within them. Redcliff leaned towards him, looking upon him in earnest. “Come now, Kieran. Surely, there must be someone.”

Kieran tipped his head from side-to-side, theatrically acting as though debating with himself whether or not he should provide an answer. When it seemed as though the audience were on the verge of suffocation from the anticipation, he sighed. “Okay,” he breathed out. “There is this one girl. She…” He paused, wetting his lips. “Thing is though, I know she would never feel the same about me. She’s already expressed as much before.”

A chorus of sympathetic hums cut through the audience, and even with the spotlights above the stage making visibility difficult when gazing upon the park, he could still catch the silhouettes of the Capitol people with their hands clutching their chests as though feeling their own hearts shatter within them. The idea of unrequited love was one that Kieran knew even they could understand, and he relished in the small achievement that was their reactions.

“A one-sided love. How unfortunate,” remarked Redcliff solemnly.

“It’s okay, though,” responded Kieran. “Regardless of what others may think of her, I truly do believe she’s too good for me. I’ve only known her for a short amount of time, but I already know that she’s someone special.”

“Hm. Sounds like a motive to win the Games to me,” Redcliff said to which Kieran sent him a quirk of a brow. “She’s bound to see how special you are when you return home as the new Victor. Certainly she’ll find little reason to resist you then. And if she still does, then well…” Redcliff tilted his head in the direction of the audience, as though to say, There’s always them to pick from, and they sure as hell won’t reject you.

Kieran pushed the host’s unsettling implication aside, willing the gooseflesh that rose about his skin to subside, replying instead: “Sadly, I don’t think winning the Games will help me much at all here.”

The host sent him a puzzled look, asking him, “And why is that?”

A somber smile curled upon Kieran’s lips, bitter and wistful, and there was shred of him that would have to admit there was some sincerity to his emotions. His gaze flitted around Nightingale Park, moving on their own accord, roaming from one silhouette to the next, before he allowed his torso to shift just the slightest to allow his eyes to land on the person behind him, his District partner’s face consuming his sight. Lauren’s eyes creased subtly as she watched him, a look upon her features that seemed as though she were working through an equation in her head. Kieran supposed this moment was similar to an inscrutable chemistry problem, one with no true solution. He took a deep breath as he returned his gaze to the host, and he said—

“Because… she came here with me.”

Chapter Text

Every screen in view only held one image as Kieran’s statement sunk in. Lauren’s eyes moved from one screen  to the next on the edges of Nightingale Park, seeing her own face staring back at her in all its red glory, the sanguine shade engulfing her flesh a rival to her own bright hair.  

Because... she came here with me.

Incredulity swept through her, her eyes wide and unsure she was seeing and hearing properly. He can’t possibly mean me, can he?

But the longer Lauren’s face remained on the screens, the less she could continue being in denial that she, herself, had been the very person Kieran was referring to in his confession.

To the audience beyond the stage and all those viewing the broadcast, the heat crawling up her neck and spreading across her chest must have looked as though she were blushing from girlish flattery at Kieran’s words. An easy misinterpretation for how else was a person supposed to react to being the object of his affection? Only Lauren was aware of the answer to that question: with detestation.  

She knew all the eyes of the other Tributes were on her, but Lauren dared not to meet any of their gazes, her own eyes fixed straight ahead while she forced any hint of her true emotions from showing. After she’d already played her role as well as she could the whole night, she refused to let Kieran be the reason she’d falter now.

“Hm. That is unfortunate indeed,” Redcliff’s voice cut through the blood roaring in Lauren’s ears, his face replacing hers on the screens. 

On the stage, Kieran nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is.”

It took every inch of control over her muscles for Lauren not to scowl at him, not to stand up from her chair and storm towards him in a rage and ask him what in the world he was doing, what he was gaining from lying about her. She stayed in place as still as she could, silently allowing her disdain to boil to such heights that she could practically feel steam exuding from her pores.

She could hardly recall how much or how little time had passed before the buzzer had gone off to indicate the end of Kieran’s portion of the program, or when he’d made his way to the seat beside her again. All she knew was the pulsing desire to remove herself from his presence, or better yet, him from hers. But rarely did the universe indulge her with her wants, and this evening was no exception. 

For what felt like a torturous eternity, the Tributes and Redcliff continued on with the program, and the evening trudged on and darkened as if she were wading deeper and deeper in through a tar pit. Lauren hoped to distract herself by keeping her focus on the rest of the interviews, but the prickling sensation of attention on her made doing so a difficult feat. From a few seats down to her left, Lauren could see the 13th District’s Tributes looking her and Kieran’s way, as if they were a far more interesting spectacle than the interviews below them. Although she couldn’t see their expressions with the pair from the 12th in between them, Lauren was certain their scrutiny meant nothing positive. Beatrice Blakesley and Tim Sake had also each sent them looks of varying levels of curiosity and perplexity when their individual turns to be interviewed had arrived, one clearly unsure of Kieran’s motives and the other sniggering at Lauren as though he could sense her humiliation. Not even Kym Ladell had spared Lauren from the unwanted attention. The thumbs-up Kym had flashed in Lauren and Kieran’s way as she stepped past them towards the stage, and the triumphant I knew it she’d mouthed, had been enough to send another scalding wave across Lauren’s face. 

Wringing her hands, Lauren fought the urge to bury her face in her palms and hide away from the world. How much longer was she expected to sit through this torment?

Her foot began to tap in agitation as she watched the last remaining interviews drawl on and on, her patience thinning more and more as she counted down the minutes until she could return back to the penthouse and away from the public’s eye. 

She listened as Redcliff and Kym conversed, the subject of her evaluations score the topic of their conversation with Kym recounting the “hypothetical” story that led to her score of a ten; how she had “hypothetically” done a demonstration with a bow and arrow, and how she must have impressed the Gamemakers when she’d “hypothetically” shot an arrow in their direction, hitting the apple that had been in the roasted pig’s mouth, thus shooting the fruit past the Gamemakers and piercing it against the wall up in the balcony. Hypothetically.

“And that’s what may or may not have happened during my evaluations,” said Kym, mischief gleaming in her eyes.

The host and audience laughed, amused by her radical tale, thinking it to be nothing more than an exaggerated, outlandish story told by a child with far too much imagination. But Lauren knew Kym spoke only of the truth, knew of what Kym was undoubtedly capable of. A corner of her lips twitched into a wry grin at her friend’s audacity and nerve against the Gamemakers. It seemed Kieran wasn’t the only troublemaker the Gamemakers had to worry about. She could only hope that her friend’s gallant act was without its risks, hoping the Capitol would turn the other cheek to Kym’s actions as they did with Lauren’s Mistake and Kieran’s outward expression against the royals. She liked to think Kym’s score of a ten meant that they would, that she was too valuable of a Tribute in the public’s eye to be punished for it.

Shortly after, Harvey Wood replaced his District partner on the stage, his lanky limbs stiff in their movements as he walked, his face contorted in a strained smile, his pallor taking on an unnatural shade of sickening green. Despite it all, Harvey managed to sit himself in the interview seat and open his mouth without vomit pouring from his lips, answering the questions the host threw his way in a voice that suggested he’d practiced extensively for this moment.

His approach for the interviews was an emotional one, his words woeful as he spoke tenderly of his grandfather and his reasons for volunteering on reaping day, his desperation peeking through the cracks in his voice. If not for the fact that the boy was allied with Lauren’s biggest adversaries, she would have allowed herself to be more affected by his story, her heart already clenching on its own accord with some semblance of pity.

“I may not be the strongest or the fastest,” he said, his tone taking on an intensity Lauren wouldn’t have guessed him capable of, “but I am determined. And I’m going to put my all into these Games no matter what or die trying.”

Lauren would have been inclined to believe the latter was more likely to happen than anything else, that was until the series of sniffles that came from the audience reached her ears. It seemed that even Harvey might have managed to earn some support tonight.

The last remaining pair from the 2nd District eventually took their turns under the spotlight, and only when finally—finally—the buzzer sounded to indicate the end of the evening’s last Tribute’s interview, and the small boy returned to his place in the stands, did Lauren at last see the light at the end of the tunnel. Redcliff gave his closing announcement, and with a flourishing sweep of his arm, all twenty-four Tributes rose from their chairs and gave one coordinated, final bow. The audience roared with ardent cheers and applause as the Tributes waved and smiled in their direction, the booming roars drowning out the percussions and strings of the Capitol fanfare that played in the background. As the lights on stage dimmed, the twenty-four Tributes made for their exit and strode back through the screen they’d entered from. 

Now, concealed and no longer in the public’s view, Lauren’s smile fell, her lips barely more than a seething line of burgundy on her face. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor ticked in her ears like that of the ticking time bomb between her ribs that she knew would detonate at any given moment.

And there was only one person her explosive temper wanted to engulf in its flames.

Lauren’s eyes scanned around the growing crowd of people, a mixture of Tributes, their personnel team, the crew members, and groups of Capitol citizens cluttering the small space between the Training Center’s entrance and the backstage area, making it difficult to not only locate her own escort, mentor, and stylists, but to approach the doors of her would-be sanctuary. She wove through the tide, slipping past each body, doing her best to avoid others from tripping on the hem of her gown, until she eventually made her way past the entrance and inside the Center’s lobby.

One set of elevator doors had begun to close as she approached them, carrying within it a handful of passengers, including that of a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed Tribute. Lauren caught his eye through the slit of the doors before they shut in front of her—his expression unreadable. Somehow his devoid face—one that lacked any remorse for her humiliation—only flared her ire more to a higher degree.

Lauren stepped into the adjacent elevator compartment as it opened while the other rose, her pulse quickening and her fingernails biting into the lines of her palms, digging deeper and deeper with each floor level she passed. Her tension and wrath must have been written across every inch of her face, slipping into the air around her, because even the other passengers in the elevator looked at her warily, keeping their distance as much as the small space would allow them, and hastening their exit when they reached their respective floors.

In a blink, the number 11 on the elevator screen flashed crimson across Lauren’s eyes. Then, the doors parted open.

There, down the hall, was her District partner, one shoulder leaned against the wall by the penthouse door, arms crossed against his chest clearly awaiting her arrival.

“You!” Lauren’s voice resounded in the hall, booming as heavily as a clap of thunder. She crossed the space to him.

“Lauren, we need to talk—!”

A crack split in the air between them. Then a grunt. 

Kieran doubled over in a huff of pain, teeth gritting, a hand clutched to his ribs.

“Oh, do we?” Lauren shouted in response. A sharp shock shot up her leg from where she’d collided her knee to his body, but she ignored it, her anger and adrenaline numbing the pain. She clutched his lapels tight in her hands, saying in a voice that held nothing but heated contempt, “You better have a damn good reason for saying what you did on that stage!”

Her hand flew through the air, ready to strike. But, in a flash, Kieran’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist and with a shove backwards, her spine and head were pressed against the cool, glass wall, the cold biting into the exposed part of her skin. A gasp of surprise escaped her lips, and her eyes widened as she found herself now in a precarious position, her two hands pinned above her head and her chest trapped beneath the length of Kieran’s forearm pressing against her, effectively keeping her imprisoned beneath his hold. 

Lauren looked up, finding his face mere inches from hers, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“Let me go!” she snarled. She attempted a kick at him, only for her legs to fumble within the gown, her feet nearly stumbling as her legs floundered inside the long fabric. If not for Kieran pressing down on her like a force of gravity, she was certain she would’ve slipped to the floor.

“Not until you stop trying to attack me. I need you to hear me out.”

Lauren writhed under his grip, but his strength overpowered hers. “Like I give a flying fuck what you want! You can’t possibly—”

“Look, I know you’re upset,” Kieran cut in, “But just wait a minute! Let me explain!” She could feel his chest heaving with his own frustrations, so close that it lightly grazed her own.

“Explain what?” seethed Lauren. “Your reason for humiliating me tonight in front of the whole country? What, Kieran?”

“It was to help you!”

Lauren barked out a laugh, incredulity joining her fury.  “Of course, it was,” she scoffed haughtily. “That’s your reason for everything, isn’t it? When are you going to understand that I never asked you for any of this? That I never wanted your help to begin with?”

Kieran’s eyes bore into hers, neither malice nor disdain present in his expression like it was in hers, only a stern and unyielding adamance in those blue wells. “I’m sorry, Lauren. But if I know there’s something I can do within my power that can help you stay alive, then I’ll do it. I’d rather you live to hate me than not live at all.”

Lauren’s brows pinched in the center, uncertainty beating hard between her ribs. Why? she wanted to ask. Why does my life concern you so much? But she knew there would be no point in asking the same question she’d voiced before already. She was certain his response would be no different from the answers he’d given to her in the past, a redundant reiteration of him saying that he just simply wanted to help her and nothing more.

Instead, she bit out, “That still gives you no right to make me look like a fool.”

Kieran released a breath through his nose, his lips parting to retort.

A soft chime rang behind him, giving him pause, and both Tributes turned their heads towards the end of the corridor where a light on the wall indicated the arrival of the elevator. Swallowing his response, Kieran released his hold on Lauren and took a step back while she remained by the wall, her fists balling at her sides while Kieran’s arms folded across his center.

The chatter amongst their mentors and stylists ceased almost immediately as the doors slid open and their sights landed on the pair before them, their gazes darting between Lauren and Kieran as they stepped off the lift and into the hall. With a deep inhale, Lauren dropped her eyes to the marble veins of the floor, suppressing her ire and aggravation as best she could. In spite of such efforts, the tension between her and Kieran continued to linger, a palpable heat surrounding them, its presence extending towards their mentor and Capitol companions.

Oliver March was the first to break the terse silence as he regarded his mentees, wariness and concern lacing his words. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Nothing,” both Tributes hurriedly answered. 

No one was convinced.

“I see…” came March’s doubtful reply. The silence that returned was deafening despite the activity outside the windows, the city continuing to buzz with energy in the wake of the interviews’ conclusion.

“Uhm, shall we go and get some tea?” Lila Desroses’s dulcet voice piped up through the unbearable awkwardness that befell them.

Neyra Darcy nodded vigorously in answer, clearly as eager to escape the corridor as her colleague. “Yes, that seems like a brilliant idea. Come on, Lady A, let’s get a cup together.” She pulled the escort along with her by the elbow as she trailed Lila into the penthouse. The door’s click behind them was as loud as an explosion in the quiet.

An audible breath sounded from March, and Lauren lifted her gaze to meet his. “Did you know?” she asked, voice quaking at the edges.

“If you’re referring to Kieran’s ‘confession,’ then yes, I did know about his plan,” answered the mentor.

“Why?” Lauren’s lips trembled at the corners, a pressure growing inside her lungs. “How could you let him do that? How could you let him make me look weak! Neither of you had any right!”

“I let him make you look desirable!” March’s voice was harsher than Lauren had ever heard it, nearly taking her by surprise.

“You helped him look desirable, not me.”

“Do you think you’re not gaining anything from this?” questioned March. “You think being seen as the one person who Kieran wants but can’t have won’t bring you any attention? All publicity is good publicity, and that’s exactly why this works. Painting you as a noble may have helped gain you some support from the Capitol, but now you have the support of the whole city—if not the whole country—because of him. ‘The star-crossed lovers of the Eleventh District,’ that’s what they’ll be calling you two.”

Lauren was sure she was going to be sick. “But we’re not lovers! We’re not star-crossed anything!”

March rested his hands on his hips as he exhaled deeply and peered down at her. “Like any of them care what’s real and not real,” he said. “All they care about is having a good show. Public perception and your image is everything here, and so long as they think you are lovers, that you’re an object of his desires, then that’s enough. It’s all they need to create their own versions of your story and romanticize the situation you two are in.” A hand slid down his face before he went on, saying, “Listen, Ren. You were wonderful tonight on stage, and I’m glad that the whole nobility aspect is working out, but we needed something else just in case. Please understand that.”

Lauren bit out a sharp scoff. “Just in case what? In case I messed up my interview?”

A wince tugged at March’s lips. “Consider it a necessary precaution.”

Lauren shook her head, a twinge of betrayal piercing her chest. How these two men could scheme behind her back and expect her to be okay with it, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was becoming increasingly tired of being the last to know of anything—of her family, of the Games, of Kieran and March’s plans. All of it. “The very least either of you could have done was tell me instead of making me look like an idiot out there.”

“It wouldn’t have worked as well if we did,” replied Kieran. “We needed your reaction to be genuine in order to sell it.”

“Are you sure?” Lauren asked, a brow raised in provocation. “Or were you afraid of telling me because I’d disapprove?” 

Kieran shrugged. “Both?”

“Regardless,” March cut in, “you did sell it. Even with your training score, I expect a good number of sponsors will start lining up for you as soon as tomorrow. The both of you.”

A bitter laugh left Lauren’s lips. “Of course,” she muttered. “Whatever helps to keep us alive, right? Even if I have to play some airheaded noble and now a lovesick idiot for it.”

Kieran’s arms tightened around his middle. “It’s not as if there needs to be any sort of reciprocation from you. The people thinking I’m interested in you is enough and helps our plan just fine.”

“And yet, even without my reciprocation, I’m still being romantically paired with you by everyone else. Not exactly a position I want to be in but am now thanks to you,” Lauren sneered. She raked her nails down her scalp, exhaling slowly. “This is all ridiculous. Have I not been humiliated enough as is?”

“Lauren—” Kieran began to say, but the hand she held up cut off the rest of his words.

“No. Don’t,” she said, striding past him towards the penthouse entrance. “You’ve done enough. Just—just leave me alone. Please.”

With that, she opened the door, leaving her mentor and District partner in her wake.

***

Lauren had taken her dinner in her room later that night, her mood scarcely improving as the night drawled on. Not even a hot shower had helped her to clear her head, and now she sat on the floor with her back resting against the edge of her bed frame, several plates of food spread out in front of her, most of which currently remained untouched.

Beyond the walls and down the hallway from her door were the muffled voices coming from the screen in the living room as the interviews were broadcast once again. Distantly, she could make out the cheerful applause that burst from the crowd as the fanfare played in the background, of Viscount Redcliff’s introduction and of him speaking with the first set of Tributes from the 13th District, then the awkward stumbles of the 12th District’s Tributes that followed not long after. 

Lauren cringed as the next voice spoke, the sound of it on-screen so honeyed and high-pitched, so unlike her usual deeper tone that she nearly didn’t recognize it was her own voice she was listening to. Her tone during the interviews had held the same nasal lilt common in the Capitol, airy with an odd inflection at the end of most of her words. The tinkle of her forced laughter resounding through her ears had her grinding her teeth at the grating, frivolous sound, softened only by the reaction that stirred in the audience as she made her proclamation about her heritage.

I hope it was all worth it, she thought to herself as she stabbed at a carrot with her fork. I really fucking hope all this wasn’t for nothing. Then, another thought struck her: But was everything enough?

She rested the fork onto the porcelain, recalling the way the audience had sounded with shock and indignation upon their realization that she was of Capitol blood, as though angered at the notion that she could be a Tribute in the Games when her family was noble-born like them. But had she garnered enough of their pity to gain their support, for them to place their money on her life and bet on her survival?

Your father might have been born a noble, but he died a traitor. Soon, you’ll perish for what he did. Viscount Redcliff’s final remarks to her rang through her skull, her appetite receding as the knot returned to her throat with each word.

Who else in the Capitol held the same sentiment as the host, she wondered. Who else was aware of whatever treachery her family had committed and wanted her blood as payment for their crimes? The royal family perhaps? The scathing look she’d seen on the queen told Lauren all she needed to know of how Her Royal Majesty felt in regards to her, of the loathing she seemed to hold for her for reasons that Lauren could only assume.

If there were others out there who held even an ounce of resentment for the Sinclairs—if the royal family held even an ounce of resentment towards them—then perhaps Kieran’s ploy held more advantages than she’d initially realized. Maybe he had helped her tonight far, far more than he would ever know…

A fist clenched around her heart, a new sensation swelling in her breastbone that she’d never felt in regards to him before—contrition. Guilt.

As soon as the thought entered her mind, the smooth baritone of the next Tribute sounded from the screen, her hairs rising on end and her stomach curling as the applause and cheers surged to new heights, and Kieran’s voice broke through the rambunctious clamor. Even with the excitement from the audience and the conversation ringing from her team in the living room, his words on-screen still traveled with painful clarity to her ears. 

Her head reeled with each sentence she listened to as he conversed with Redcliff, each note carrying a new meaning now that she understood who he’d been referring to in his romantic declarations.

There is this one girl.

Regardless of what others may think of her, I truly do believe she’s too good for me. I’ve only known her for a short amount of time, but I already know that she’s someone special.

Because… she came here with me.

She envied how smooth the lies came from his tongue, sounding so natural she would have bought his statements as the truth had she not known that he’d been talking about her. That he was trying to help her yet again.

What had she done to deserve his unyielding determination in his pursuit to help her? In the span of a few days, he’d managed to provide her with an array of advantages in the Games, from allying with the Careers in order to keep them away from her to garnering support from the Capitol with the ruse he’d invented for this evening. And she’d managed to repay him with—what? A knee to the ribs and her ever present wrath? A wrath that she was beginning to understand had been unfairly misdirected towards him, towards someone she knew she’d be indebted to if she managed to survive the arena. All because he knew how to play the game better than she did. Knew how to wield his willpower more than she ever could.

Also, I hope you know that my offer from before still stands. If you ever change your mind about an alliance, all you have to do is ask. I mean it, truly.

With all she’d done and all she’d said to his face, would those words he’d spoken to her still be true now? Would he still consider her worth the risk in spite of the hostility she’d only ever shown to him?

“Am I actually considering an alliance with Kieran?” she asked herself as she tore into a slice of bread. “Have I really become that desperate?” She wasn’t quite sure yet if she was ready to accept the answer, choosing to bury it deep within the back of her mind.

I should apologize to him, at the very least, she considered. I should…

She released a sigh, leaving the thought unfinished.

Lauren consumed as much of the food as her stomach would allow her, the interviews’ rerun having concluded already by the time she’d stacked her plates and delivered them to the kitchen where Andrew retrieved them from her. The dining area and the connecting living room stood empty before her with the exception of the Avoxes, all members of her team most likely having turned in for the night.

She strode back into the hall that housed all the bedrooms of the penthouse, stopping at the room next-door to her own, the room that she knew Kieran had been residing in. Her fingers curled inward as she gathered her courage, her spine straightening. 

No time like the present, she told herself as she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles gingerly against the wood.

No answer.

Lauren waited half-a-minute before she tried knocking again, this time with slightly more force. “Kieran?” she called.

Still nothing.

When her final attempt yielded no response, she resigned to the fact that he was simply unavailable. And if he’d reverted back to his former behavior of acting as if she didn’t exist, she found she could hardly place much blame on him if that were the case. 

Perhaps she’d finally pushed him to his limits…

I’ll just have to speak with him some other time, she thought, pressing her forehead to the door’s mullion. Hopefully before it’s too late. Before the arena gets to either of us, and we—

Lauren choked on a gasp, an epiphany striking her in the chest, painful and all consuming.

The arena… Redcliff’s words… The queen’s hatred… Her parents… Her name being plucked from the reaping bowls… Her becoming a Tribute… Being sent to the Capitol…

Soon, you’ll perish for what he did.

Sudden realization seized Lauren by the throat, its grip tight around her airways. She shoved herself off Kieran’s door in a panic, bursting into her room and slamming the door shut with trembling hands. Leaning her head back against the wood, she tried to still her breathing, her thoughts arriving in waves of questions whose answers only amplified her terror.

What if…?

What if…?

What if…?

Lauren collapsed onto her bed, trying as best she could to string her disarrayed thoughts into coherent words.

What if me being reaped for the Games is not a coincidence? What if all of this had been planned from the start?

Sweat began to bead down her neck with each epiphany, her thoughts brewing and churning until they grew into a heinous monster of despair that she could no longer contain. She glanced at the clock on the glass wall, the red digits ticking by like a timer counting down her days. The walls around her pulsed to the beat of her frantic heart, their surfaces drawing closer and closer until she felt like a prisoner in a shrinking cage. She sat up and reached for the pitcher situated on the bedside table and poured a glass of water, gulping down each drop, the liquid doing little to aid her state of fear.

I need air, she thought in desperation as she charged towards her wardrobe and donned a robe over her nightgown. Now! Before I lose my mind.

Lauren didn’t know where she was going, but her need for oxygen had led her to the corridor outside the penthouse, the marble floor cool under the thin material of her slippers. In her stupor, she found herself entering the stairwell at one end of the hall, her legs climbing up the winding steps as she seeked the highest point that she could reach. The familiar feeling of yearning for the rooftop of a building sank into her, the habit she’d often found herself doing back home now following her here in the Capitol during her time of distress.

So lost was she in her daze—her eyes focused solely on her feet as she took each new step up—that she hadn’t noticed the person coming downwards from the upper floors, her shoulder nearly colliding with the stranger. Or whom she’d thought would be a stranger. She lifted her head, finding her stylist in front of her.

“Neyra?” cried Lauren.

 “Oh, Lauren!” The young stylist beamed at the sight of her. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

Lauren’s brows knit with confusion, eyeing the woman before her. “I should be asking you the same thing. I thought you’d have gone home by now.”

Neyra dismissed Lauren’s inquiry with a small wave of her hand. “I’m actually on my way home now. Just stopped by to see an old friend upstairs.”

Lauren’s face scrunched. An old friend? “Are you referring to—?”

“Have a good night, Lady Sinclair,” Neyra interrupted her as she sent a subtle wink in her direction, lips upturned into a lopsided smile. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Please make sure to get some rest, okay?”

Without another word, she brushed past Lauren, and continued her descent down the steps.

Lauren gazed behind her as she watched Neyra vanish around the bend, deciding to simply brush off her stylist’s clear attempt at avoiding her inquiries. Whatever questions Lauren wanted to ask her—questions mostly pertaining to the 13th District’s female Tribute—she would do so in the morning instead.

Continuing up the stairwell, she passed the thirteenth floor landing and climbed up the final flight of winding stairs that she hoped would lead her to her destination. Relief flooded her at the sight of the sign reading Rooftop Access in bold, white letters against a red backdrop, and reaching for the door, she found it unlocked and ajar. She pulled it open and stepped onto the rooftop.

Lauren hadn’t known what to expect when she arrived at the top-most level of the Training Center, but she sure hadn’t expected the grand botanical garden that was situated there, the area lush with greenery and various perennials all around her. Certainly, she’d entered into a new world altogether or perhaps the very verdant setting that her favorite childhood book had been set in as she absorbed the scenery around her.

An arched hedge welcomed her as she entered into the floral paradise, the wisteria resting upon it grazing the top of her head like a soft veil of petals as she passed beneath it. Stone tiles created labyrinthine paths around the shorter hedges with towering rose bushes peeking behind them in arrays of yellow, pink, red, and white, their perfumes being carried in the breeze streaming from the mountains in aromatic waves of thick musks that sat on her tongue like sweet nectar. Gold light illuminated the vicinity like drops of sunlight from the lamp posts along the perimeter, creating the otherworldly effect as though Lauren had stumbled into a folktale.

The light of the full moon shone high above her, and she basked in its glow like she were a wilting rose yearning for light and water. She strolled by at a leisurely pace, following the path to the end opposite from the entrance, taking a deep breath and allowing the fragrances around her to fill her lungs. 

The tranquility was short-lived, however, as her steps halted abruptly at the sight of the silhouette in the distance, his body lounging atop the length of one of the carved benches positioned against the balustrade that encased the garden, a pencil in his right hand and a notepad held against his propped knee by his left. Even backlit by the city’s lights beyond the perimeters, Lauren had no doubts who it was she was trespassing upon.

How ironic it would be that she’d been unable to find Kieran when she’d been in search of him, only for him to appear in the moment she’d started to seek solitude.

She hesitated, unsure whether to retreat and return towards the stairwell, or remain where she stood. As if on their own accord, her feet instead moved in his direction, slowly approaching him.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft against the clamor of the Capitol below, and yet seemingly loud enough to gain his attention.

Kieran looked up from his writing—not writing, Lauren realized as she caught a glimpse of the page, but drawing—his eyes locking onto hers. “Hey,” he said in return. “Come to break another one of my ribs?”

The clenching contrition Lauren had felt earlier returned in a flurry, remorse settling into where her ire usually resided. “No,” answered Lauren, her hands digging into the pockets of her outer garment. “I just needed some fresh air. Mind if I join you?”

With a tilt of his pencil, Kieran motioned towards the empty end of the bench, swinging his feet to the floor to allow her more room on the seat as he closed the notepad on his lap. 

Lauren wrapped her robe tighter around herself and accepted the invitation, stiffly taking the offered space beside him. Silence filtered between them despite the cacophony of fireworks, vehicles, and people on the streets below, the noise much louder here in the open than within the confines of the penthouse’s walls.

Her eyes roamed to the bushes of gardenia and white morning glory flanking them, the naturalistic setting an odd juxtaposition to the urban life below them with its lights and man-made structures. She hadn’t thought it possible for the Capitol to care for anything reminiscent of nature in a city filled with the artificial; it was like being in an oasis hidden deep in a wasteland. “I wasn’t aware this place even existed,” she breathed. “This garden, I mean. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, it is. I didn’t know about it either,” responded Kieran, “not until Neyra and Lila brought me up here tonight. I wish I’d known about it sooner.” He took in his surroundings before adding, “Be careful, though. You’ll hurt yourself if you get too close to the electric field near the railings.”

“Electric field…?” echoed Lauren. She craned her neck and squinted into the seemingly empty space over the balustrade, her eyes scanning the air. There, like soft static floating on the wind, was the slightest bit of distortion, like that of a pulsing current hovering and flickering through the emptiness before her. She followed its path, head tilting up as she made out the dome-shaped barrier of electricity they were encapsulated in, a near imperceptible cage. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I’m assuming it’s to prevent any Tribute from escaping too early, if you know what I mean,” Kieran commented. “A precaution to ensure all twenty-four of us make it into the arena and not one Tribute less. And if someone does try to jump, well… Watch.” He bent down to pick up a pebble off the ground, tossing it into his palm before flinging it into the air over the railing. As if bouncing off a trampoline, the pebble lurched back towards them, quicker than Lauren could react. Kieran caught it in his hand in an instant, saying, “See?”

“Hm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve thought this through,” murmured Lauren as she watched the static flicker around them. 

“Yep. So if you were considering pushing me off the roof, then tough luck. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow in the arena instead.” Although Lauren was sure Kieran’s comment was meant to be taken as a joke, she could detect no trace of humor in his voice or expression.

Shame jolted down Lauren’s spine like the current of the field as his words struck her. She stared down at her hands as she fiddled with the ends of her sash, voice hoarse and low as she said, “Listen, Kieran. I actually wanted to apologize to you for, well—for everything. For the way I reacted tonight. For everything before that. For the things I’ve said. Just—for everything.” She swallowed through her constricting throat. “After all that you’ve done for me, I shouldn’t have treated you like that. So, genuinely… I’m sorry.”

She hoped that despite the stumble of her words, they’d be enough to properly express her remorse. Lifting her gaze, she was met with his stunned expression, his features soft under the faint light and the shadows on his face.

“And also…” she began to add before she could think better of it. “I wanted to ask if—if your offer still stands. If you’d still have me as your partner. Ally. Whatever you want to call it. If you’d still be willing to form an alliance with me in spite of everything.”

If Kieran had been stunned before, he was surely bewildered now. His brows rose into the depths of his hair, his eyes matching the moon above them, wide and unblinking. There was a low husk to his voice when he asked, “You’ve changed your mind?”

Lauren shrugged and turned her attention towards the city behind her, the intensity of his gaze only making the pressure in her chest grow stronger. “Yeah, I guess I’ve finally become desperate enough,” she said, hoping her forced blitheness would mask the tremor in her voice. “Better to die trying than not try at all, am I right?”

Even without looking at him, she knew Kieran remained unconvinced. He tilted his head into her peripheral, regarding her with nothing but worry and concern. “You’re scared,” he remarked. “And not just because of tomorrow. Something happened, didn’t it?”

A quiver pulled at the corners of Lauren’s lips, her voice but a whisper in the wind as she spoke. “Three years ago, my parents were arrested, and to this day, I still don’t know why. Yet, somehow, Redcliff seems to know about them, like he knows exactly what they did. He whispered in my ear earlier, telling me that my father died a traitor, and that now I’m going to perish for his sins. And I—” She blew out a breath, feeling her heart rattle in her ribcage. “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if maybe I wasn’t brought here by chance. That maybe I was reaped for the Games on purpose and for a reason. What if… What if my name was meant to be drawn, so that I could be sent here as some kind of punishment for whatever crime it is my parents committed that got them taken away from me? What if—?” She dropped her head in her hands, the fear crawling up her throat stealing her tongue.

When Kieran gave no response, she lifted her gaze onto him. A flicker of something flashed across his eyes, its presence chilling her down to the marrow, leaving her feeling perturbed. Something that she could only describe as recognition. It seemed as if… 

… He was already aware of this information, Lauren realized, her breath catching. But how…?

“You already knew this, didn’t you?” she asked, the words spoken more as a statement than it was a question. “This isn’t news to you.”

Kieran pressed his lips together, his eyes averting away from the glacial look she bore into him. His silence alone was enough of an answer.

Lauren shook her head, standing abruptly from the bench as the overwhelming sensation of exasperation overtook her, prickling her every nerve like a thousand needles across her skin. Here she was divulging personal information about herself, yet all he could seem to do was continue to keep his secrets.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her fist pressing against the rapid rhythm of her heart. “How long, Kieran?”

“I—” He wet his lips, his body shifting in his seat. “I only knew that you being reaped was no coincidence. I don’t know anything else, especially anything about your parents. I promise you that.”

“But how? How could you possibly have known about the reaping, about how I—?”

“I’m sorry, Lauren,” he interrupted, “but I can’t tell you.”

Incredulity carved a path through Lauren’s bones, her body trembling with all her fury. “How do you expect any type of alliance between us to work if you won’t be honest with me?” she asked provokingly. “How are we supposed to work together to stay alive if I can’t even trust you?”

A tick feathered in Kieran’s jaw, and in a blink, he was on his feet, towering over her, his blue eyes severe as they locked onto hers. “Lauren, you have no idea how dangerous the territory you’re treading into is. There’s so much that you don’t know and don’t understand.”

“So tell me. Help me understand! What is it that you’re so afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of putting you in danger. Of putting you at an even larger risk than you’re already in. Is that so hard for you to grasp?”

“‘Afraid of putting me in danger and at risk’?” Lauren echoed, dumbfounded. A bout of mirthless laughter threatened to erupt from the burning heat in her throat. “I’ve already been reaped for the Games and am about to enter the fucking arena tomorrow. I think we’re past the point of worrying about my life being in danger when we’re already there. How much worse can it possibly get from here?”

Kieran said nothing. They both knew that there was no possible fate worse than the one she’d already been led down, death being the exception. And even then, that hardly appeared too far from her current reality. Such an ending seemed to be just a moment’s away.

Lauren clutched her robe tighter around herself as the gusts of wind strengthened around them, leaves rustling, strands of her red hair fanning around her face. “The past few days, you’ve insisted on working together. You’ve put yourself in difficult positions for my sake, to help me survive. Is being honest with me really where you draw the line, Kieran?”

“No, but—” His lips clamped shut, brows pinching as he struggled to find his words. “It’s just— It’s not that easy.”

His refusal may as well have been a slap to her face.

“Fine then,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you’d rather keep your secrets, then so be it. But I can’t do this. I can’t constantly question your motives or wonder what else you’re keeping from me if we’re supposed to have a partnership.” Lauren moved to step past him, eager for some distance between them. “Have a good night. I’ll see you in the arena.”

She made for the exit then, one foot already in front of the other. But the warmth she felt wrapping around her wrist had her halting, a wordless plea in the way his fingers touched her skin, the tenderness to his touch a stark contrast to how he’d held her arms above her head just hours ago.

And then she was being pulled towards him, his lips beside her ear forming words that only she could hear, words meant only for her to know.

Just as he spoke, a surge of wind blew through the city at that moment, trees and wind chimes rustling with a chaotic melody around them. The people below on the streets and in the park cried out in astonishment as the strong gale swept through like a tidal wave, their exclamations being drowned out by the wind’s thunderous roar. And yet, even with the tumult, Lauren still caught his words as clear as though they’d been spoken in absolute silence.

“The truth is, I’m with the rebellion.”

Against his fingers, Kieran could feel Lauren stiffen in his hold. He kept his attention solely on her face as he watched her eyes flare through the several stages of astonishment and disbelief, her emotions shifting from one to the other like lightning.

His heart hammered against his sternum, certain that its thunderous beat could be heard throughout the whole city, even amidst the wild wind flowing from the mountains. Moisture collected on his palm, and he dropped the hand holding his District partner’s arm to his side lest she fully realize the nervous wreck he was becoming now at this moment, the wreck that he typically found himself being when he was near her.

He wished she would say something. Anything to let him know what was going through her mind behind those golden eyes of hers, what she thought of his admission, or if she even believed him. What a massive risk he’d just taken by revealing to her the truth about himself, a spontaneous decision borne from his own desperation, eager to keep whatever trust she’d finally chosen to place in him before it slipped away. He knew he’d just thrown the ball in her court now. Any semblance of control he’d had was now relinquished to her.

“Lauren…” he breathed. “Please say something.”

She startled, blinking quickly as though she’d just awoken from a trance. 

“I see… That… makes sense,” she replied, her voice like a distant echo. “You being a part of the—” she paused, lips shutting as she observed their surroundings. “Is this a conversation we should be having out in the open like this?”

Kieran crossed his arms, his head swiveling as he peered around the garden. If there were any eavesdroppers or even microphones hidden in the greenery, then he was grateful for the blast of wind that had rushed about them, having most likely masked the volume of his confession to all others.

Distantly, he could hear the symphonic tolls of the wind chimes hung somewhere on one end of the rooftop, and with a curt tilt of his head, he motioned for Lauren to follow him. The clinking chimes led them to a small tree decorated with the musical ornaments on each branch, the glass and metal instruments reverberating with different timbres to the same windy melody while a tiered fountain babbled near them, adding itself to the orchestra of noise they needed in order to conceal their conversation.

Under the pretense of admiring the tall hedges of white morning glories and rows of hyacinths planted around them, they stopped beside the chiming tree.

Lauren traced the white petals of the round flowers with the pads of her fingers, Kieran’s eyes following their delicate path as she spoke. “I think I’ve sort of already known the truth,” she murmured. “For the past week, I’ve been trying to understand everything I’ve come to learn about you. From you coming from the Sixth, to your transfer to the Eleventh, to what you said about possibly ending the Games for good. I struggled to piece it all together, but if the rebellion exists as you say, and you’re a part of it, then it’s all starting to make a bit more sense now.”

A humorless chuckle rumbled deep in Kieran’s chest. “Believe me,” he responded, stepping closer towards her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The rebellion very much exists. I’m proof enough of that. After all, they’re the very bastards I have to thank for me being here, for me becoming Tribute against my own volition.”

Lauren turned towards him, her brows scrunched with confusion. “Against your own volition? But you—”

“—volunteered for the Games?” He let out a snicker. “Cruel, isn’t it? To assign me this role I never wanted, to force me to become a Tribute and expect me to fight for my life? All for the sake of the greater good they aim to achieve, even at the costs of some—sacrifices.”

Lauren’s hand fell from the flowers to her chest as she regarded him. “So all those things you said to March about why you joined the Games, they weren’t true?” she asked, though it was clear from the turmoil in her widened eyes that she knew the answer to her own question already. “You don’t actually want to be here…”

“Only as much as you do.”

“Kieran…” A rueful expression crossed Lauren’s face then, her sharp edges softening as she stared at him with such pity that he struggled to hold her gaze, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin as though she were piercing through it with just that look. “If you didn’t want to partake in the Games, why not just refuse? It wasn’t even your name that got reaped.”

“Hard to say no when the rebellion controls every aspect of my life, from my home to my job to everything else you can think of. How easy it would be to take all that away from me if I’d refused.” A cynical smile twisted at his lips, a shadow of contempt darkening his demeanor. “When I was promised a better future after I was inducted into the resistance, I had thought that their promises of a better life meant the home and money they were providing me. It wasn’t until just weeks before the reaping that I realized just how much the cost of my debt to them was, and how late it was to turn back; so here I am, replacing the poor soul that failed last year, so that the rebellion can finally move forward with their plans.”

“I don’t understand… How does sending one of their own to the Games help at all? What do they gain from you doing any of this?”

“It’s so they can have their champion—a figurehead that they can plant in the Capitol, really. Someone from the Districts to represent the people, but also someone who can infiltrate the citadel’s upper echelon in order to get close to those who control the Districts.”

“So you’re helping to take the Capitol down from the inside,” remarked Lauren. “By striking them at their core. That’s what you meant when you mentioned wanting to dismantle the country’s system.”

“That’s the idea. With Victors being as revered as they are, the rebellion is using that sentiment to their benefit in the hopes of manipulating and influencing the Capitol’s citizens.”

“Hence the transfer to the Eleventh,” Lauren thought aloud, a finger to her chin. “To help with gaining the favors of the nobles.”

“Yes… Or, well, that’s part of it,” replied Kieran, a hand crawling up to the back of his neck.

Lauren glanced his way, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “What’s the other part?”

Kieran’s gaze dropped to the ground, feeling suddenly apprehensive. “My mission for the past year up until the reaping was to serve as a mole and spy on Stefan Hawkes. I was to report on any notable information I could find about the District’s mayor to the rebellion.”

“On Will’s father?” Lauren cried out, a heat of indignation rising on her cheeks. 

“I promise my job mainly revolved around spying on the mayor,” Kieran rushed to say. “The rebellion only really cared about what Stefan was up to, not so much about his son or wife.”

“I—” Lauren sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I suppose that explains the archivist job then. I assume it was so you could spy on him in his place of work. And considering that Stefan is from the Capitol and is a known supporter of the royals, it’s understandable why the rebellion would want to keep an eye on him.”

“Precisely,” confirmed Kieran. “And I have to say, the last year of snooping around has certainly been… enlightening to say the least.”

Lauren raised a brow. “Care to share?”

“I’m quite under the impression that Stefan Hawkes isn’t quite fond of you or your uncle,” he said with much reluctance. “I might even go as far as to say he hates the both of you.”

“Hm. Yeah, he does,” Lauren agreed. “Not just me and my uncle, but my parents, too. If not for Will’s mother, I don’t think Will would have even been allowed to stay friends with me, knowing how his father is. My family’s political differences have always been a point of contention with Stefan, and I guess it must have reached its peak at some point because he—” A crack split down her words. She swallowed through it, trying again, a waver in her voice when she said, “He’s the one who arrested my parents. He was the one responsible for taking them from me…”

“Lauren…” Her name was all Kieran could find himself capable of saying. Not for the first time, he realized how inadequate he felt when he was a witness to her grief, knowing that the consolation she needed could never be provided by him, that she wouldn’t want it from him. Instead, he found himself murmuring, “There’s something else you should know about Stefan. Your parents’ arrest… It’s not the only thing he’s responsible for. He’s the one that also ensured your name would be selected at the reaping; for your name being the only possible choice at the reaping.” He caught her gaze, her eyes widening ever so slightly, just enough for him to catch the sheen of moisture that appeared in them before she blinked it away hastily. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hands digging into his pockets. “This must be a lot for you to take in.”

“It’s fine,” Lauren said, though the faintest croak in her voice revealed the emotions she was clearly trying to conceal. “I’m not even that surprised. It seemed like he was expecting my name to be called when I saw his face at the reaping. Like he was glad about it. It’s just…” She sighed deeply, all her agonies and fears so loud and clear with the one motion. “First my parents, now me. Where does his hatred for us end?”

“I… I wish I knew,” Kieran mumbled, the words so low he wondered if Lauren had even heard him. He angled his head in her direction, catching the distant, melancholic look that settled across her face, her gaze fixed on no specific point on the sky above, tension coiled tight in her shoulders as she stood unmoving and silent, the only motion being her hair as it flowed along the breeze. A hollow ache clutched at his chest as he stood in silence beside her, unsure of what else he could possibly say to her in that moment.

It was a short while before she spoke again. “What you said about the two of us surviving the arena together, about how there might be a way for there to be two winners, was that true?” she asked, her arms wrapping around herself. “Did you mean it?”

“I did.”

She turned to face him. “How? How is that possible?”

“I… I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know, Lauren,” said Kieran as he ran a hand down his face. “Just trust me when I say that I have some—acquaintances—who are willing to assist with this goal. I just don’t have the details as to the how.”

Lauren’s lips pursed together, the smallest bit of suspicion crossing her face again. “Would one of those acquaintances happen to be my uncle?”

Kieran stilled, his hand pausing on his jaw as his eyes dropped towards her, unsure of how to respond without neither confirming nor denying her assumption.

The slightest hint of a knowing smile touched a corner of her lips, a scoff escaping through them. “Don’t bother trying to hide it. Who else would be willing to put this much effort in keeping me alive if not him? It’s not as if you haven’t let slip before that you know something of his own schemings.”

He gave a light chuckle, a smile sliding onto his lips at the reminder that Lauren Sinclair was just as clever as she was stubborn. “Touché. You got me there.”

She snickered in return, her smile extending just the tiniest bit until, all too soon, it was gone, her expression turning into sudden sullenness. With a twinge of anxiety at the edges of her voice, she asked, “My uncle… Is he—Is he a part of the rebellion also? Surely, he has to be if—”

Kieran shook his head. “No, I don’t think he is,” he lied. “I believe he’s just a man who clearly cares about you very much, and one desperate enough to try everything to keep you alive. That’s it.”

Lauren’s eyes scanned about his face, her expression skeptical. “I see…”

Tristan Sinclair’s request to leave his niece uninformed about his and Kieran’s affiliation with the rebellion resounded through his ears, and it was all Kieran could do to not laugh at how miserably he was now failing at that front. There was simply something about his District partner that made it far more difficult than it should have been to maintain his secrets from her. This very moment being a prime example.

“I suppose I should have requested that you not ask questions regarding other operatives,” Kieran added. “I may be willing to reveal myself to you, but I won’t risk doing the same to anyone else.”

Lauren nodded. “Fine, I understand,” she mumbled, her eyes downcast in thought. She breathed in deeply, returning her gaze on him as she tucked a loose strand of windblown hair behind her ear. “Sounds like we need to settle some ground rules if we’re going to make this alliance work, don’t we?”

A new beat thudded inside Kieran’s chest, warmth seeping from the chambers of his heart. “Are you saying that you…?”

Lauren gave him a curt nod. “I am. I’m officially saying yes to an alliance with you,” she answered, a soft smile grazing her face as she said the words.

Kieran found himself unable to form a coherent response as her eyes locked onto his, his mouth suddenly dry. 

Perhaps it was just his imagination, or perhaps it was the moon reaching its highest point as a bell tower in some part of town chimed the midnight hour, but he could have sworn there was an ethereal glow consuming her, the lunar light around them reflecting off her pale skin. 

So mesmerized was he that he nearly hadn’t caught the words she was saying, his gaze dropping to her lips as she spoke. “Of course, that’s on the condition that neither of us withhold any important information from each other as allies,” she added. “I won’t pry about the rebellion, but we need to be honest about our plans in the arena. Please.”

Kieran nodded in agreement. He pinched his chin between his fingers, a teasing gleam to his eye. “And perhaps it goes without saying,” he said, his expression in feigned thought, “but also please no ‘accidentally’ trying to kill each other. I think this alliance will work best when we’re both still alive, don’t you think?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Obviously. But what about your arrangement with the Careers? I don’t see how you’ll manage to act as though you’re trying to kill me and remain in a pact with them, all the while having an alliance with me.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve already had some ideas of how I’m going to deal with them, especially after my ‘confession’ from earlier. I know they won’t be too thrilled about what I did, but I’ve planned for it. Just—trust me...”

“...I do,” said Lauren hesitantly, but the two words were enough to make the heat that had seeped from Kieran’s chest blossom into something more. “So, Mr. White, what do you say?” she asked, her right hand extended towards him, her palm up. “Shall we try to win this thing? Together?”

He glanced down at her hand, and with a smile slipping into place, he slid his fingers along hers into a gentle yet firm grip. So different was this handshake to the initial one they’d had on the stage of the Justice Building; whereas her hand then had been frigid and stiff, now it felt as if she held the sun within her own skin, the sensation warm and inviting. 

“Well, my dear,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“It appears we do.”

As their palms pressed together and their hold on each other tightened, as the gale blew about them under the beam of the midnight moon, one thought entered each of their minds like a whisper carried along the summer wind—

So it begins.

Chapter Text

The 11th District held an eerily ethereal beauty at night, a haunting allure that wasn’t quite as present during the hours of the day as it was past midnight after the evening celestial bodies had reached their zenith. When the town would be bathed in the moon’s pale light and the river rippled along its winding path, the endless, dark waters a mirror of the bespeckled stars above, the night brought about a sense of peace no matter how false such a notion of serenity truly was.

Tristan Sinclair gazed outside the window, hands behind his back as he peered down at the scenery from where he stood in his office, the corners of the room enveloped in shadow, the light fixtures above remaining unlit. 

Was this the sort of quiet Lauren often sought comfort in during her clandestine outings, seeking solace in the embrace of the moon’s pale beam and the night’s shade, a solace that the walls of their home couldn’t provide? Would she ever be given the chance to resume such nocturnal habits again when—if—she were ever to return home where she belonged?

He desperately hoped she would.

Alexander was gone. Rachel was gone. And now their only daughter—

Tristan turned away from the window, leaving the thought unbidden, and moved towards the desk behind him. Regardless of the late hour, the commander had opted to remain in the Peacekeeper base, the absence of his niece making the emptiness of their shared home all the more apparent with each passing day. And now, with it being the night that preceded the day he’d been dreading, the very thought of being within the manor brought about an overwhelming sense of vacuity, a chasm none could fill.

He dropped his gaze to the paper sitting on the bureau, the missive having appeared earlier in the evening, delivered surreptitiously as they tended to be. To the naked eye or to any interceptor, the paper would have appeared to be innocuous and typical, appearing precisely like the type of document a Head Peacekeeper would be expected to receive in his office located within the barracks: reports, casefiles, inquiries, and the likes.

But Tristan Sinclair knew there was more than met the eye the moment he found the envelope sitting atop his desk, all too familiar with the appearance of a missive he knew held more underneath its surface below the bold, black text.

He rolled the leather chair back and took a seat at his desk, the quiet of the night and the full moon strung in the sky being the only witnesses to his current task as he struck a match and lit a wax candle. Grabbing the paper, he placed it above the small flame, the difference in its texture when compared to an ordinary piece of paper being nearly indiscernible to most but him. Soon the dark font of the words on the page faded as though evaporating into nothing until new words altogether appeared in their place, scrawled in a disguised penmanship but one he knew all too well.

She will have to learn the truth sooner or later.

We can’t continue to protect her from our pasts.

The plans to save her will soon be set in motion.

Open the Underworld.

Although the missive remained unsigned, there was no question as to who the sender had been, the words familiar and expected. Tristan read the message one more time, feeling his heart thud with anticipation and worry, his breath shallowing with each line his eyes skimmed. 

This is the only way, he reminded himself. For her sake.

If they truly wanted to save his niece from either her certain death or from a life akin to imprisonment in the Capitol, then he would have to follow through with all they had agreed upon.

The Scythe Games would not be her doom.

Tipping the parchment’s corner into the candle, the flame began to feast upon the piece of paper, consuming it whole until its remains were nothing more than ash collecting upon the piece of oak furniture.

Before the new morning had yet to fully arrive and the sunlight’s rays had yet to peek through the cloudy overcast, before the bloated moon had yet to descend and settle into the west behind the mountains, Lauren Sinclair was already wide awake. There she laid on her bed, watching the blue light of dawn slowly but surely dilute against the white ceiling above her, her heart beating a new arrhythmic pulse against her neck as the minutes passed by and the dreaded day finally came forth.

It was the first day of the Scythe Games.

It was the beginning of the end.

Lauren could feel her anxieties flare through her nerves and gather like acid in her stomach, the threat of bile rising up and burning her throat. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, praying for sleep to consume her and save her from her current state of fear, to provide reprieve even if only momentarily. Instead she found her consciousness keeping a tight grip on her, its hold unrelenting. Unable to quell her rising restlessness, she released a sigh and slipped out of bed.

Guess I’ll just sleep when I’m dead, she said to herself, a tide of cynicism crashing over her. Which will probably be more likely than not.

There wasn’t a soul in sight when Lauren entered into the common areas, the rooms empty and vacant, no Avoxes or team members around to fill the spaces. All was still and quiet, the ruckus of the celebrations long gone; it felt as though the entire city—if not the entire nation—was currently waiting on bated breath for the beginning of the Games that would commence in a few short hours, a sense of anticipation and dread all around.

Forcing away any thoughts of time and how little she had of it left, Lauren poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a blueberry muffin from the kitchen before pulling out a chair beside the glass wall in the dining area that overlooked the towering buildings and artificial waterfalls across the city, trying yet failing to relish in the din of the silence as her insides twisted with worry and vivid images of her impending doom appeared in her mind like flashes of a movie while she ate, her stomach protesting every bite no matter how small.

Her knee bounced against her seat, and she darted a glance towards the hall leading towards the bedrooms, an urge to get up and pound on Kieran’s door overcoming her, if only to go over once more the plans they’d discussed last night—or what little of it they were able to conjure based on the small amount of information they had to work with.

Lauren cradled her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. There’d been so much that Kieran had divulged with her, imperative information that she had only him to thank for. And yet she still felt so immensely lost, unable to comprehend how in the world they were both supposed to survive the Games as a pair. What were they supposed to expect? What were they supposed to do to survive? How were they going to survive?

Lauren ran her hands down through her hair and leaned back in her seat, her attention fixed on no specific point on the ceiling as her mind wandered to last night and what had transpired on the rooftop. She thought of what Kieran had shared, of what he knew, of the things the rebellion had given him in preparation for the Games.

Of the folded drawing that still sat on her dresser, its image now printed to the back of her mind like a tattooed photo, a result of how much she had studied it since the moment Kieran had given it to her.

“Here,” he had said when he retrieved the notepad he’d left on the bench and opened it to a page, handing it to her. “You should probably take a peek at this also.”

She’d taken the open book into her hands, careful not to let the wind leaf through the pages, and had scanned the graphite contents drawn upon it. It appeared to be a drawing of some large landscape—mountains forming a crescent shape on the top-most left corner, a river cutting through a cluster of trees with the water leading towards a large lake, and a space that Lauren assumed to be an open field taking up a good chunk of the area to the right of the paper. 

Lauren’s eyes widened as she stared at the page.

“Is this supposed to be… the arena?” she’d asked, looking up at him.

Kieran had nodded, taking a step to stand beside her to view the map also. “It was something of a parting gift from my superiors on reaping day. I tried to re-draw as best I could from memory. It should be accurate for the most part and should still be useful.”

Lauren had dropped her gaze onto the paper, stunned. It was certainly an impressive illustration, the detailing and lining clearly drawn by an experienced hand; she hadn’t realized how honest he’d been when he’d jokingly mentioned his artistic abilities with Redcliff. 

“You drew this?” she had asked, sliding her attention to him. 

Kieran turned towards her and smirked. “As I’ve said before, I’m a man of many talents.”

Lauren had only rolled her eyes. Of course he is.

She hadn’t deigned him with a response then, choosing instead to turn her focus back to the map of the arena in her hands, wanting to commit each detail to memory as best she could.

How had the rebellion managed to obtain such vital information? There was absolutely no question of the advantage that knowing the arena’s layout beforehand would bring, to have prior knowledge of the terrain or of potential hideouts or of sources of water and food. And now Lauren had just that within her fingertips.

“Feel free to keep it,” Kieran’s voice broke through her frenzied thoughts. Her eyes shot up from the page to his face, his expression one that she didn’t think him genuinely capable of—sheepish. “If you want, that is,” he continued when she didn’t answer, his hands coming up to cup hers around the notepad. “I can always redraw it.”

That familiar heat that never failed to appear at his touch traversed through her skin and into her veins, reigniting the flare she had felt when he’d pulled her towards him, the same heat that had wrapped around her hand when he’d agreed to her partnership. The tremors in her hands that she hadn’t noticed then ceased at the shared contact, the hairs on her arms rising on end.

She’d withdrawn her hands from his grip, suddenly feeling feverish in spite of the cool gusts that blew through the rooftop, and given him a terse nod in acknowledgment to his offer before she changed the subject matter and proceeded to talk about their potential plans for the arena, unsure why her breathing had shallowed for that one split second and her pulse had spiked exponentially.

At the table now, Lauren leaned forward and rested her chin on top of her interlocked fingers, her thoughts straying back to that illustration. Aside from Kieran himself, it had felt like tangible proof of his words, proof that the rebellion truly did exist. That such an organization truly operated within the shadows of the country, working to dismantle the very government she’d loathed all her life, and that Kieran—of all people—was one of their members.

Her mind reeled as she tried to make sense of it all—the rebellion, the Games, his mission.

What must Kieran’s life have been like growing up? she found herself wondering. How atrocious were his living conditions and the situations he’d faced that they’d led him into the arms of the rebellion? To find himself here as a volunteer of all things as a result of those choices?

Lauren released a deep sigh. She wasn’t ignorant of the pity Kieran had for her, but now she felt as if he were the one more deserving of such sympathy, his circumstances just as dire as hers, the stakes just as high. 

And now, here they both were in the Capitol, forming an alliance with one another, two people sharing the same goals and desires—to survive. To end the tyranny of the government they were ruled by.

“This partnership is going to be a match made in Hell, isn’t it?” she muttered to the silent room. “And I’ve just gone and made a deal with the devil.”

The devil. That thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she peered into the depths of her drink, the murky image of her own face staring back at her, distorted and muddy.

Selfish hypocrite, it seemed to say to her. You’re no better than the rest of them.

If Kieran were the devil, then would she, too, be like Lucifer and fall from grace? Would she allow herself to descend into the ruthlessness that she’d irrevocably refused to consider; to become the very player the Capitol wanted her to be? Paying the cost of her victory in the Games with another person’s life?

A trembling breath escaped from her lungs. She knew quite well the answer that would lead to her survival was the very same one that went against her very morals.

It’s not as if you didn’t know this, Lauren, she scolded herself. You knew what you agreed to the moment you shook his hand. Remember why you’re doing this—who you’re doing all of this for.

She had to win. She had to stay alive.

She repeated those words like a mantra, as though saying them would manifest them into reality, summoning them into fruition.

To win and live would show the Capitol and those who wanted her dead that she was more than they’d bargained for, that she couldn’t be used for their own twisted need for whatever retribution they believed they would be achieving with her death. She refused to die and give them the satisfaction of her demise; she needed to see an end to their reign and witness their downfall rather than be the one who would fail.

She needed to win for her uncle. For Will. Refusing to be yet another soul they would lose, another lost life in their endless string of loved ones long gone.

She needed to win for her parents. To finally learn the truth of what they’d done. To continue their memory no matter the Capitol’s efforts to erase the stain they had left on the royal’s legacy from existence.

Her reflection in the dark liquid faded, and Lauren slid her attention towards the windows, praying that whatever means she and Kieran would take to make it out of the arena alive would not be in vain. Because if their actions were to be for nothing, she wasn’t sure how she would live with herself.

***

It wasn’t until Lauren was deep into her third cup of coffee that she heard another bedroom door open and close, the sight of her mentor coming into view as he made his way towards the kitchen. With the crisply pressed suit he adorned—the charcoal tweed fabric of his jacket one that left little doubt to its price tag—and his hair neatly combed back under his usual cap, his appearance appeared far more refined than it had been the past few days since their arrival into the city. Lauren eyed him curiously as she lifted her drink to her lips and blew on the steam.

“Ren, you’re up early,” March greeted a moment later when he exited the kitchen and into the dining area, a cup of what smelled like coffee in hand.

“So are you,” Lauren said in response.

“Yes, but that’s because I have to be up at this hour,” March replied as he settled into the seat at the head of the table next to her and placed his drink down. “I need to be at the Games Headquarters early today. You, on the other hand, should still be sleeping right now, not up and awake at the break of dawn. Forgive my bluntness, but you look like you could use it.”

Lauren rocked back against her chair and gave a slight shrug. “Didn’t really sleep at all last night, to be honest. Guess I’m just trying to soak up my last waking days before they’re gone.”

“Lauren,” sighed March, his head shaking with mild disapproval. “Well, I suppose with the strenuous day ahead, it's understandable that you can’t sleep. And, really, I can’t say I’m all that upset to see you.” A thin smile tugged at his lips, his expression turning somber as he added, “I’m glad I caught you on my way out if only to say good-bye.”

Lauren straightened in her seat and glanced at her mentor, her heart suddenly sinking into her stomach. 

Say good-bye?   

Of course. This moment here may very well be the final time she’d ever see Oliver March again.

Shame washed over Lauren that such a thought had not crossed her mind until now. Shame for allowing her temper to get the better of her last night, for nearly missing the opportunity to say her farewells to a man who was not only her mentor but a family friend, someone she had known quite literally her entire life. She’d thought she’d said all her good-byes when she’d sat and cried in that small room inside the Justice Building, but it appeared she wasn’t done quite yet, her heart twisting as a wave of despair swept over her.

Lauren swallowed through the constrictions forming in her throat, her words tight as she said: “Oliver… I don’t know what to say…”

March reached out and gave her shoulder a small pat, saying, “That’s okay. I do. I figured I should start with an apology for last night, for all that we put you through. For putting you in that position and blindsiding you like that. I know you felt humiliated during the interviews, and no matter our intentions, your feelings should have been taken into better consideration. So for that, I’m sorry.”

Lauren attempted to give him a grateful smile, but her trembling lips could only provide a small tilt, her throat clogging with emotion. “Thank you… That really does mean a lot to me,” she said, her eyes dropping to her hands around her mug. “But I have to admit, I don’t think I’m as mad as I should be about you and Kieran going behind my back. I, uh, may have agreed to form an alliance with Kieran last night…”

When March gave her no response, Lauren lifted her gaze, finding her mentor’s mouth hanging open and brows raised. Then he laughed. “If I’d have known all it took was a confession from Kieran for you to finally work with him, I’d have suggested he try that sooner.”

Lauren bristled, her face suddenly feeling like it had caught on fire. “That’s not— It’s just—”

March’s laughter grew into a holler. “I’m just teasing, Ren,” he said, patting her on the shoulder once more. “Whatever your reason might be, I’m just glad you’ve finally taken my advice. This certainly makes my job a lot easier.”

Lauren’s face scrunched with displeasure. “Great. Happy to help,” she panned as she lifted her mug to take a sip of her coffee.

March gave a low chuckle. “If you don’t mind me asking—now that you’ve officially decided to work with Kieran—have you given any thought to what I mentioned last night?”

Lauren slowly lowered her hands to the table and stared at her mentor with narrowed eyes. “You mean the ‘star-crossed lovers’ approach?” When March nodded, she answered, “Not really. It wasn’t exactly something I wanted to be reminded of. But you’re not asking out of curiosity, are you?”

“I just think it’s something the both of you may want to consider playing into.”

Lauren’s insides tensed at his suggestion, and she scanned March’s face for some kind of sign that he wasn’t actually serious about this. To her dismay, she found none. “So on top of having to pretend to like the Capitol, you want me now to pretend to be in love with Kieran, too?”

“It’s up to you, Lauren. Like Kieran said last night, your reciprocation isn’t technically needed, but it won’t hurt either. You and I know it would only help the both of you, and with the current climate after the interviews, I’d expect the people’s support for you both to skyrocket. The choice is yours.”

Doesn’t feel like it is, Lauren wanted to say through her clenched teeth. 

How was she supposed to fake a romantic relationship with her District partner, and do so while in the arena during the Scythe Games no less? Although Lauren was no stranger to being in a relationship, that didn’t necessarily mean she’d know how to feign one. At least not with someone she had zero romantic interest in and one who had none in her.

There were no such feelings between her and Kieran, nor would there ever be. Absolutely none at all… Right?

Lauren brushed the thought aside and suppressed whatever odd sensation had her breath hitching in her lungs. (A hiccup, she tried to reason with herself. Just a hiccup.) She turned her head towards the vast city outside the large windows, her eyes scanning the rooftops of each building within the Royal Circle, and imagined the type of nobles that might dwell within their walls; were they also privy to who her parents were and what they had done? And if so, would those Capitol citizens—the very people of nobility of the country—continue to support the daughter of such two criminals, regardless of her bloodline and family’s origins? Would they care in any sense to help her win, or would they be like Stefan Hawkes and Viscount Redcliff, anticipating her death rather than being eager to support her survival?

Lauren turned towards her mentor, her voice as tense as her grip around her mug when she spoke. “I don’t even know if any of this will even matter; if it’ll make a difference if I play into this idea. What if our efforts are all for nothing?”

There was a flash of concern across March’s face at her response before he said, “Have some faith in yourself, Lauren. You have more of a chance at surviving these Games than you might think.”

Lauren softly shook her head, blinking through the layer of haze that threatened to cloud her eyes. Her voice dropped when she said, “Do you think the rest of the Capitol is aware of who my parents were and what they did? Don’t you think that if they knew, these people would rather see me die than help support me during the Games?”

Oliver March’s mouth thinned and his face folded in thought. There was an odd air about him that had Lauren feeling a sense of apprehension coiling in her stomach. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “Hmm, believe me when I say this, your parents’ crime is certainly not something that the royals would want the public to know of. To have one of their own from the Capitol commit treason against them isn’t exactly information the king and queen would want commonly known, more so if it’s about the very thing your parents are responsible for. It would certainly be in the Capitol’s best interest to keep it confidential from not just the people here in the citadel but also the Districts.”

Lauren gnawed on her lower lip while a finger tapped against the wood of the table as she thought his words through, the age-old question she’d been asking for the last three years ringing louder and louder in her head: What did her mother and father do? 

How atrocious was their crime that even the royals had attempted to keep it hidden from everyone? And, yet, how did a few select people know of it?

Her finger stopped abruptly then and she darted a glance up to her mentor, a crease of confusion forming between her brows, a nagging feeling knocking at the back of her head. Didn’t March say before that he didn’t know what Mom and Dad did? 

Her frown deepened. Lauren wet her lips and steeled her nerves. “What do you m—?”

“Try not to worry yourself over this, Lauren,” March went on as if he hadn’t heard her—or at least acting as if he hadn’ heard her—and whatever question Lauren might’ve had immediately faltered in her throat. “I can guarantee you that there will be a long list of sponsors waiting to support you as soon as today, and you’ll only be gaining more if you do decide to consider what I said. The choice is yours and always will be, and I can only hope you will make the best one.” 

Lauren nodded stiffly, a pulse beating in her temple. “Fine. I’ll consider it,” she replied flatly. “I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures, don’t they?”

March let loose a small chuckle. “Sadly, they do,” he agreed. His eyes fell to his wristwatch then, and he released a deep breath through his nose as he pushed his seat back and stood, his exhaustion evident. “Looks like I need to be heading out now. Gotta meet with Lady A at the Games Headquarters soon, and I’d rather not have my ear torn off for being tardy. Good luck, Ren. Know that there are some people in your corner here in the Capitol, too.”

Lauren attempted to give him a half-hearted smile. “Thanks. And good luck with Arthingham. I think I’d rather take the arena over her anyday,” she tried to joke, earning her a snicker.

March waved her a good-bye and made for the foyer.

Only when he disappeared through the front door and she heard the door click shut did she allow her smile to fall, a new question thumping with the pulse in her head: What else did Oliver March know?

***

It was only minutes after her mentor had left did the two stylists enter into the penthouse.

Lauren nearly stumbled backwards in her seat at the weight of Lila Desroses launching herself at her, tears streaming behind the stylist’s round glasses and her arms around Lauren’s neck. Even through her surprise, Lauren attempted to console the sobbing woman, providing her light pats on her back until Neyra had assisted Lila on her feet and given her a tissue.

“I always hate this part,” Lauren heard Lila mumble through her sniffles as the stylist made her way down the hall, presumably towards Kieran’s door to prep him for the day.

Lauren watched the young woman disappear around the corner, her brows slanting with a mixture of shock and appreciation. “Somehow I hadn’t expected either of you to have become so—I don’t know—attached to us.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” asked Neyra in bemusement, drawing closer to her. “After working closely with one another for a whole week, it’s not surprising. And for someone as sweet and sensitive as Lila who’s gone through this before, her reaction is to be expected. I guess I should have warned you first.”

“And what about you? How are you feeling?” Lauren questioned as she turned her head towards Neyra. There was a tenuous lift to her brows at the sight of her stylist closer now beside her, and her eyes squinted at the image of the red rims that surrounded the violets of her irises and the tender circles beneath her eyes. It seemed not even Lady Darcy had taken her own advice and gotten much rest last night.

“Oh, you know. Same as always,” Neyra replied, a grim twist to her lips and her arms folded across her abdomen. “Anywho, let’s get you ready, shall we? Our hovercraft to the arena will be arriving shortly, so we should be on our way soon.”

Lauren nodded and downed the remainder of her drink before following Neyra into the bedroom where she was given a plain, white shift to change into, the piece of clothing feeling like an antithesis to everything else she’d been dressed in the last few days. Moments later, with her hair pulled into a ponytail, her face cleaned, and her teeth brushed, Lauren was trailing behind her stylist once more, the pair making their way towards the rooftop and into the breaking dawn.

Lauren’s eyes roamed about her surroundings and absorbed the garden she stood in, the bright colors that hadn’t been as visible to her beneath the night’s silver light was now all the more vibrant and saturated, the previous evening she’d spent in this very place suddenly feeling like an odd, faraway dream. Taking a peek at Neyra beside her, a familiar question appeared at the base of her tongue, one she had an inkling even Lady Darcy was aware she wanted to ask if their interaction in the stairwell just hours ago was anything to go  by. But the words soon died before they could leave her lips at the sight of the hovercraft appearing above them like an apparition, seemingly having emerged from nothing but thin air.

Capitol technology, Lauren thought spitefully. All these tech and advancements, yet they won’t do a single thing to help the Districts.

A metal ladder descended to the ground from the base of the floating vehicle, and Neyra extended a hand towards it, an invitation for Lauren to take the first climb. Obliging, Lauren grabbed at a rung with both hands, and as soon as her skin made contact with the metal, a prickle of static shot across her arms and traveled down to her legs, her body instantly stiffening as though she’d been transformed into a marble statue that was now paralyzed and glued to the steps. The ladder lifted off the ground and into the air just a second later, and soon Lauren found herself within the hovercraft, a woman standing by the entrance with a white coat flowing from her shoulders and a large syringe in hand.

Lauren cringed in pain when the needle penetrated through her left upper arm, feeling its sharp bite pierce her skin, certain that if she had any control over her limbs, her fingers would have tightened around the rung until her knuckles paled. It was only when the woman had completely withdrawn the syringe did Lauren feel the electricity from the ladder release her from its imprisonment, her grip on the metal loosening.

“There,” the woman spoke. “The tracker should be in place now.”

“Great,” muttered Lauren as she took a step back, feeling anything but jovial at knowing now that the Gamemakers would be aware of her location at all times.

The ladder descended again and soon Lady Darcy appeared inside their transport, the buildings and clouds flashing by in a blur through the windows as the hovercraft began to make its journey towards their destination—the arena.

Each mile they passed seemed to intensify the rhythm of Lauren’s heart and wring her organs until her stomach had knotted into a braid. There was a sharp acidity sitting on her taste buds, and she sipped on a glass of water in an attempt to force it away while Neyra sat at the table of the room they’d been led into, an abundant buffet of breakfast foods covering each inch of the mahogany. Lauren had taken a few bites of some porridge at the behest of her stylist who welcomed herself to a plate filled with fruits and pastries, but a few spoonfuls of her meal was all Lauren could find herself devouring before the threat of vomit overtook her senses. The two women sat in silence then, Lauren’s tongue feeling as if it’d become stuck to the roof of her mouth, too overwrought with fear and nervousness to strike up any conversation or respond to Neyra’s attempt at one.

Half-an-hour later, when they were beyond the borders of the Capitol and past the mountainous boundaries, their cruise through the skies began to slow all too soon, their trip nearing its end. The windows around them darkened until it felt as if the morning had vanished into night, the rising sun and pink skies gone in an instant, only the sight of their own reflections visible against the black tinted glass with the views beyond indecipherable no matter how much Lauren squinted and peered through the window.

The hovercraft came to a stop, and the two women were immediately escorted down the ladder and into the historic catacombs beneath the arena that would lead them to one of the Launch Rooms, the chamber reserved specifically just for Lauren and the very room that would take her into the slaughterhouse that was the Scythe Games arena. 

There was a frantic throttle inside Lauren’s ribcage now as she and Neyra walked through the brightly lit corridors, moisture beginning to gather on her palms and neck with every step she took while they moved deeper and deeper down the passageway. She steadied her breathing and willed her heart to return to its normal beat, searching for anything to provide her some respite from her unending uneasiness. The illustration of the arena’s map appeared in the forefront of her mind then, the faintest reminder that there was the barest thread of hope for her survival if she and Kieran could manage to have their wits with them. The slightest sliver of regret slithered through her nerves, regret at her earlier decision to tear the drawing down the toilet prior to her departure, having been too wary of the risks should it be found by anyone else once she was gone. Still, her fingers twitched at her side, a yearning still present at their tips to have the image in her hands.

It’s not like you’ll need it any longer, Lauren told herself. Not when you’ll be in that very arena today.

After a short walk, the pair located their room and they each stepped inside. The Launch Room was as grand as most rooms in the Capitol were expected to be; elegantly furnished with a plush couch pushed to one side of the room and a glossy coffee table beside it, ornate mouldings framed the length of the walls around the ceiling like a diadem, and situated in one corner was a long table filled with—to not a single person’s surprise—trays of food and refreshments, the steam protruding from the plates indicating how freshly made they were. 

But most notable of all was the large cylinder in the center of the room, a massive glass tube atop a circular, metallic platform, the clear structure extending from the floor to the ceiling and beyond, its interior large enough to fit one person. There was no question in Lauren’s mind as to who would soon be stepping into that very contraption and where it would deliver her to, and she turned away from it, not at all eager to linger on that thought.

“Come, I’ll help you get ready,” Neyra said, her thin smile brimming with sympathy. “They should be delivering your clothes soon, so I’ll start with your hair.”

“Oh, good. Here I was thinking I’d be forced to fend for myself in—this,” Lauren quipped, taking the hem of her simple shift in hand.

Neyra snorted. “It wasn’t my idea to put you in that. You know me, I would have put you in something far more flattering if given the choice, but sadly the Gamemakers failed to consult us stylists about that. Unfortunately, I can’t even say if your official attire for the arena will be any better. This is all on the Gamemakers now.”

“Hm. How comforting,” mumbled Lauren, feeling anything but comforted.

Neyra moved about the room, gathering a variety of different materials and placing them on the coffee table before she sat down on the couch and patted the space beside her, an invitation for Lauren to take a seat to which she obliged. Taking a brush, the stylist angled her in the opposite direction and undid her ponytail, the bristles sliding through the ends of her crimson tresses until each knot and tangle had been smoothed down to Neyra’s satisfaction. 

Somehow the silence that consumed the space was far more deafening than it had been when they’d been in the hovercraft; perhaps it was the small, enclosed area or the fact that they were miles underground with no other person in their vicinity. Regardless, the utter quiet had Lauren fidgeting with her hands and her knee bouncing with unease; in an effort to fill the silent void that only continued to yawn wider—and knowing quite well this would be her final opportunity to ask—she found herself saying: “So, how do you know Belladonna Davenport?”

Neyra’s hand stilled for the briefest of seconds in Lauren’s hair, the brush stopping mid-stroke, before it continued its ministrations as though her pause had never happened. “Ah, I was wondering when you’d finally ask about that today,” she said after a beat, her voice smooth if not forcedly amused.

“I’m assuming it’s some time when you visited the Thirteenth District?” Lauren continued to say. “I recall you mentioning that when we first met.”

“It was,” Neyra confirmed. “Me going to the Thirteenth was meant to be my parents’ attempt at a punishment. And well… Some ‘punishment’ that ended up being, really.” She gave a snicker, sharp and laced with mocking disdain, and Lauren was sure that if she turned around, she’d catch the wry grin on her stylist’s face. “I’d gone through something of a ‘rebellious phase’ as my mother would call it,” Neyra went on, “having become too vocal about my feelings towards this city, of our Capitol, and worse yet of the royals. As you can imagine, my parents weren’t too keen on my—erm, controversial—viewpoints, and thought me ungrateful and unworthy of our luxury and lifestyle. They figured trying to send me away for the summer last year would do me some good and make me realize just how good I had it if I experienced what the Districts were like.” 

“And they thought sending you to the Thirteenth was the best option?” asked Lauren.

“They very well couldn’t send me to the Eleventh, now could they?” Neyra quipped, her fingers combing through Lauren’s strands and twisting them every which way until a bun had formed at the nape of Lauren’s neck. “That would’ve defeated the whole purpose of their punishment, no matter how much my mother insisted on it if only to try and match me with William Hawkes sooner. In the end, my father decided I would stay with a family friend who now resided in the Thirteenth District as a Peacekeeper and I would live with her for the summer.”

“A Peacekeeper? Really? I can’t imagine you living in the barracks even if only for a few weeks,” joked Lauren as she angled her head down to allow Neyra to slide the hairpin into place within the chignon she’d just created.

Neyra snickered at the notion, saying, “Neither can I. Thankfully the friend had her own place; a quaint, little house near the docks, but certainly nothing as luxurious as what you have in the Eleventh, and most certainly not anywhere near to what we have here in the Capitol. As you may have guessed already, that was the summer I also met Bella.” A tender warmth engulfing each word, so rich yet so wistful, a deep sense of longing buried in the syllables. “Simply put, it was love at first sight.”

Lauren twisted in her seat and sent Neyra a lifted brow.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” her stylist said, a hint of laughter underlying her voice. She gently readjusted Lauren’s position and began separating the remaining strands into three sections, her nimble fingers producing a braid around the side of her head and behind her ear, saying in a voice that held nothing but adoration, “She might be difficult, but you can’t deny she is attractive.”

Lauren scoffed. “Sure,” she responded as she bowed her head to allow Neyra better access to the remainder of her hair. “Must have been some summer.”

“Yeah, it was…” Neyra agreed, and although Lauren couldn’t see her face, she could practically hear the small smile slide onto her friend’s lips and see the affection spark a light in the violets of her eyes. “We were practically inseparable during those ten weeks. It’s been about a year since then, but I haven’t forgotten that summer, and I know she hasn’t either.”

Lauren gave a contemplative hum before she asked, “Aren’t you at all nervous about the Games and what might happen to Belladonna in the arena? I know she’s good and is more than capable, but… well…” She let the question linger in the air, the words unspoken yet ones that rang with clarity and understanding between them.

Neyra’s hands slowly fell from her ministrations, and Lauren felt the braid hang loose down her shoulder in an unfinished twist. The air around each of them plunged into a slight sullenness, the temperature depleting, and there was a slice of Lauren’s conscience that feared she may have struck a nerve that she hadn’t meant to target. Angling her head, she looked behind her to face her companion, finding Neyra’s head tilted up and her glassy eyes pointed at the sight above her as though she could see through the concrete and stone and into the wilderness above them. 

“Oh, I’m terrified,” Neyra confessed, her voice like gravel as she spoke, a bob to her throat. “Why do you think I didn’t leave for home until well into the night yesterday? All I wanted to do was stay with her for as long as possible. I could barely sleep a wink after I arrived home, not when all I could do was worry about losing her.” Her eyes fluttered to a close and her hands fiddled with the silk of her skirt with such ferocity, Lauren was almost sure she’d tear through the fabric. “I knew Bella wanted to volunteer for the Games and eventually become a Tribute. And I thought I was prepared for this to happen, to see her here fighting in the Games, but to have it finally become a reality, it feels rather… unreal.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” mumbled Lauren, all too familiar with the act of treading the line between reality and a living nightmare. “Belladonna didn’t just volunteer for the Games for the riches and goods, did she?” Lauren inquired. “She volunteered so she could become the next Victor and be with you.”

A pained smile pulled at a corner of Neyra’s lips as she dropped her head and met Lauren’s gaze. “She did. Bella believed it was the surest way that we could be together. Even if she’d still reside in the Thirteenth after she won, with her title as a Victor she’d still be able to return to the Capitol for the Games every year as the new mentor.”

Lauren nodded in understanding. “And suddenly you deciding to become a stylist makes more sense,” she remarked.

Neyra’s smile spread across her lips, a sincere one not filled with consternation, but one suffused with a peculiar passion and a small drop of her typical levity. She shook her head tenderly while her hands reached out to return to Lauren’s hair, fingers moving once again around the braid behind her ear, and she said, “Actually, no. My decision to become a stylist in truth has little to do with Bella’s decision to become a Victor. If anything, I have my parents to thank for my choice to work for the Games. If they hadn’t sent me away to the Districts, I don’t think I would have considered the idea of applying for this job at all. I suppose you can say my parents’ punishment did allow me to better see how good of a life I led, but rather than lead me to become more grateful for what I had like my parents expected, it only made me realize that I wanted to do something that would help those in the Districts, to help the Tributes in some way that I could. So having a lot of experience with fashion, I applied for the opening to work as a stylist, and through some of my father’s connections, that’s how I ended up here. With you. I hope you know that despite being Bella’s competitor, I’m also rooting for you, Lauren. I mean it sincerely, and I also mean it when I say that I do see you as a friend. If our circumstances weren’t what they were, I think we would’ve gotten along quite well, don’t you?” 

Lauren caught a glimpse of Neyra’s amiable expression from the corner of her eye before she slid her gilded gaze away, compunction pressing deep into her at the sight of her friend’s  sincerity. “Yeah, I do…” was all Lauren allowed herself to say.

Silence permeated the space around them thereafter while Neyra proceeded with her work and wrapped the braid she’d been styling around the chignon at the nape of Lauren’s neck, sliding a good number of pins across her scalp to keep it securely in place, her hands moving with the certainty and resolve Lauren had begun to associate with her, fingers tugging and pulling at various strands until they were in the desired position.

But Lauren could scarcely feel any of it, too caught up within the tangles of her own mind to be conscious of Neyra’s composition, a taut coil in her stomach raging with a searing sensation of unease and guilt. Because if she were to be a survivor of these Games, then that meant the definitive end to not just the lives and hopes of those within the arena, but of the hopes and expectations of those around them—of those like Neyra Elena Darcy, like Harvey Wood’s ailing grandfather, like the residents of the Districts who relied on the winnings from these Games just to see another day.

You have people you’re also trying to win for, too, Lauren. You have family who are waiting for you back home. You have people in your own District who will benefit greatly from these winnings. You have an entire country that could be liberated if Kieran’s mission were to succeed.

You need to win. You need to stay alive. The repetition of the mantra tumbled through the crevices of her mind until it consumed all other thoughts, and she clung onto the words like a lifeline.

“There. All done,” Neyra declared not long later, a knock sounding on the door at the same moment. “Ah, right on time. That must be your clothes.” She made for the door and returned with a white box in hand.

Lauren changed into the delivered garments and stood before the floor length mirror in the room, her heart beating at an accelerating speed and her head growing featherlight.

This is real. This is happening, she thought in a panic, the reality of her impending fate barraging its weight down unto her as she stared at her reflection. There, standing before her, was a Tribute. One now dressed for the arena and one who would soon be stepping into that very abattoir at any given moment soon.

Neyra helped adjust and straighten the lapels of the black nylon coat Lauren currently donned, the hem reaching just a few centimeters below her knees, its onyx shade a match to the cargo trousers with its seemingly infinite amount of pockets, the utility belt threaded through the loops at her waist only adding to that number. Beneath the outerwear was a cotton shirt, the aureate color almost identical to Lauren’s own gilded eyes, and she slipped into a pair of buckled, leather boots fitted perfectly to her feet as were the skintight socks that reached over her calves. 

Neyra smoothed back any loose strands from Lauren’s forehead, making sure not a piece would be out of place, and Lauren found it almost dizzying how her face and hairstyle appeared to juxtapose the rest of her person. With her soft pallor and the elegant updo she wore—the chignon similar to the hairstyle she had had on reaping day, further embellished by the long braid that began from the front of her hairline and continued down towards the right side of her head and behind her ear until the ends twirled around the bun at the back of her neck—contrasted by the mundane, bucolic style of the arena wear, she really did resemble that of a Capitol girl who’d been mistakenly placed in her current position, a bourgeois who didn’t belong here.

But, unfortunately for Lauren, she was all too aware that her being a Tribute hadn’t been a mistake, and she clutched onto that fact towards her heart, using it as fuel for her goals.

Neyra stepped back and appraised Lauren’s attire, an arm across her stomach while the fingers of the other pinched her chin. “Looking good,” she commented, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “I think you should expect some cold nights up there if the lining inside the coat is any indication. And with the rubber treads on your soles, it looks like the terrain this year will require some traction. You might be moving through a lot of uneven ground or slippery surfaces there.”

Lauren nodded in understanding, the image of the arena map floating before her eyes during Neyra’s commentary, already aware of certain expectations of what was to come.

“I have something for you, by the way,” Neyra added, moving to her purse on the coffee table and plucking something from it with one hand. She returned by Lauren’s side and extended her palm towards her, a gleaming crescent shape sitting within it.

“A moon pin?” Lauren asked, gawking at the token.

“Mhmm,” Neyra confirmed, stepping forward and fastening the pin to Lauren’s coat, just above her heart. “Consider it a gift from your team.”

A parting gift, Lauren realized, a trickle of sadness rolling through her at that thought.

“I don’t believe you brought your own token from home, did you?” asked the stylist to which Lauren shook her head in answer. “Then why not this one? It’s already been approved by the review board, too, and I think it suits you perfectly.”

Lauren tugged at the front of her coat to peer down at the token, a lovely little pin about the size of the length of her thumb, the crescent moon carved from a smooth, lustrous opal, the stone embedded into a gold casing. The surface of the jewel gleamed an array of colors, the nebular greens, blues, and pinks shifting under the light with each movement she made. It reminded Lauren of the dresses she’d been adorned in during her time in the Capitol—the glowing ball gown she’d worn during the parade, the prismatic tutu she’d twirled in during the interviews—and she felt herself scoff as she said, “I make one comment about the moon, and suddenly it’s become my identity.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Our job has always been to help you stand out amongst the rest of the Tributes,” replied Neyra. “Now the Capitol will always remember who you are: Lady Sinclair, the Moon Maiden. You know, Kieran and Oliver were right; it does have a nice ring to it.”

Lauren rolled her eyes, but she allowed the corner of her lips to lift into a small smile. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

She peered down at the pin once more, gratitude swelling around her heart, and although Lauren had never been one to take pleasures in such material goods and gifts, that didn’t stop her from admiring the accessory and what it represented—it was a symbol of her home and where she came from, the District that mined and manufactured such precious stones and jewels, a home she loved and missed dearly; it was a symbol of what she’d become known as to the people of the Capitol and what she would now be associated with, an identity that was thrust upon her but one she’d now have to embrace in order to win; and it was a symbol of her, the opal a representation of her birth month of October, her birthstone a reminder of her life and her desire to live.

Her sights narrowed on the inner curve of the gilded bezel, noticing the indented patterns carved into the metal as if there was another piece that hers was meant to fit around, like her pin was just one half of a set, but she pushed the curiosity aside at the sound of Neyra’s voice instructing her to move around and assess the fit of her new garments, to ensure her comfort in them.

Lauren moved about the room, stretching her arms and legs, until her exercises eventually led her to pacing from one wall to the other, no longer a means of trying to appraise her comfort but now one meant to suppress her nerves. Neyra watched her stride back and forth, but said nothing, privy to the increasing anxieties boiling up every ounce of Lauren’s being that she knew she couldn’t aid.

After an unknown amount of time, a voice broke through on the intercom, and Lauren’s strides came to an immediate stop. “Tributes, prepare for launch,” was all it said, and it was all Lauren needed to hear for her breathing to cease and all her organs to fall to the ground.

It was time. 

The Scythe Games were about to begin.

Neyra approached Lauren and held out her hand to her, a solemn crease to her eyes that Lauren knew she wore on her face as well. Lauren took the offered hand and felt the slight squeeze of comfort around hers as Neyra led her into the glass cylinder at the center of the room, and with a shaky step, Lauren entered inside.

It felt as if Lauren had been plucked from the Earth and placed into a new dimension as she stood inside the glass case, as if all sound had diminished and all oxygen had been vacuumed from existence. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing unstable and ragged.

“Just breathe, Lauren,” she heard Neyra say. “You can do this.”

Lauren wanted to say otherwise, but the words stuck to her throat, now dry and rough.

Heart pounding, the metal plate soon began to rise, and as Lauren neared the ceiling, she caught a glimpse of Neyra tapping her chin as she watched Lauren ascend. Hold your head high, the motion said, and Lauren did just that, angling her head up and summoning all the courage she knew she was capable of, her spine stiffening into a straight line. 

Now was not the time to show her fear. Now was not the time to appear weak.

Darkness surrounded Lauren as the plate continued to rise, the suffocating feeling of the narrow space thudding down onto her, and she breathed in deeply—in and out, in and out—until her lungs burned. Nearly a minute later, the taste of fresh air wafted through her nostrils, cool and moist, and Lauren tilted her head back to see the luminous glow above her, the light growing brighter and wider as her lift pushed her towards it.

Lauren’s eyes squeezed shut on instinct against the flaming glare of sunlight, and only when she felt the metal plate lock into place, a click thudding through the machine, did she open her eyes again.

One by one, more Tributes appeared around her, each one of them atop their own platform, their bodies forming a circular, equidistant ring with only about ten feet or so of distance between each person. And at the center of their formation stood the gleaming, golden horn that was the Cornucopia, the massive structure towering over them all as if watching them like they were prisoners in a panopticon.

Finally, when the final Tribute sprouted into place, did another voice break through the silence, the sound of Hugues Hermann’s words booming through the air and into the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Twentieth Scythe Games begin!”

Chapter Text

Sixty seconds.

That was how long they would all be required to wait, forced to remain on their steel platforms until the full minute had passed. Sixty seconds to observe their current surroundings. Sixty seconds to formulate a plan and make their final decisions before the gong tolled to signal the start of the Games and the bloodbath officially began.

None were incompetent enough to risk stepping off even a single second too early, none were ignorant enough to consider it, each of them knowing full well the existence of the land mines underneath their feet that would trigger if the sixty seconds had yet to tick by, and no one was foolish enough to risk it and lose their limbs. Or worse, their lives.

The numbers hovered above the Cornucopia, all eyes drawn to the digits as they counted down the seconds.

Fifty-nine.

Fifty-eight.

Fifty-seven.

Fifty-six.

Fifty-five.

Lauren swallowed through the rock forming in her throat, her breathing growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. Her eyes flitted away from the timer, landing instead on the golden horn in front of her, her current position directly in front of the gaping 12-foot mouth of the Cornucopia. Supplies spilled from the large entrance, an abundance of life-sustaining materials that Lauren knew would be essential to their survival all sitting there just meters from where she stood—nourishment, medicine, water, and of course weapons.

Spread out from the mouth of the Cornucopia were more supplies scattered around the grassy field, their value of their benefits decreasing the further they were from the opening—only three feet from Lauren were folded pieces of tarp and a few rolls of blankets, while further down towards the halfway mark of the field were backpacks, long lengths of rope, empty water containers, and more, their usefulness much more beneficial than the items closer to her.

Lauren’s gaze trailed back to the opening of the large horn structure, squinting as she tried to better discern the objects within. There were crates strewn about while weapons including axes and spears leaned against them; a sword rack carrying a broadsword, a rapier, and even a katana stood tall amidst the other items; and a wooden case hung a variety of archery bows and a quiver near them.

There was a sudden lurch against her ribcage as Lauren’s eyes traveled down to the crate at the base of the archery display, a familiar item there catching her eye, the weapon dark and metallic, its tip pointed outwards—a crossbow. But it wasn’t just the fact it was a weapon Lauren had used before that had caught her attention, it was the fact that it was her crossbow sitting there, the model identical to the one she had used during her evaluations before the Gamemakers on the third day of training. Lauren’s heart beat with anticipation. 

There in the Cornucopia was a weapon she knew she could use and knew how to use, something she could fight and defend herself with, and the temptation to charge towards it tugged at her center.

Lauren glanced above the Cornucopia, the numbers still ticking down the time, the seconds flashing in numerical sequence.

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-five.

She could do it, Lauren considered. She could sprint to the Cornucopia and grab the crossbow and escape the bloodbath if she timed it just right. Lauren knew she was agile and lithe, having been one of the fastest runners and even most athletic students in her class. And from her current location with her platform directly in front of the Cornucopia’s opening, she knew she had a chance.

But should she risk it?

Her fingers twitched at her side and her body leaned forward on its own volition, legs bending at the ready.

What am I doing? she seethed at herself. This isn’t the plan!

She needed to get out of this field. She needed to stay on course and not stray from what she and Kieran had planned. They were supposed to meet at the rendezvous point once the gong rang, not partake in the bloodbath and get themselves killed!

But what was she to do if she ran into trouble? How would she defend herself if she came across some murderous creature in the trees or, worse yet, a Career? There would only be so much running she could do to evade danger, and she knew she’d need something to thwart off any possible assailants; she couldn’t very well rely on Kieran to protect her at every second while they were in the arena, nor did she want or expect that of him.

Lauren scanned her surroundings and took note of the landmarks in her vicinity. To her right was the vast lake, an indication that she was facing north if her recollection of Kieran’s map was correct and the lake was indeed east of their current location. That meant she’d just need to run forward from her current place in the field, to head in the direction of the mountains’s base that was the meeting point she and Kieran had agreed on. For now, it was only a matter of managing to arrive at her destination in one piece.

It was certainly in the realm of possibility—her obtaining her weapon and being able to flee from the scene, to escape the bloodbath with her life intact. But she knew it was also certainly reckless.

She sent another glance towards the timer.

Twenty seconds remained.

Her eyes flitted around to the other bodies in the circle, the male Tribute from the 2nd to her left and the female from the 9th to her right. Almost directly across from her, slightly obscured by the curved walls of the Cornucopia and facing the horn structure’s left rear, was Belladonna Davenport, her face contorted in intense focus, body prepared to launch off her platform at any second. Beside her on her right stood Beatrice Blakesley, and on Blakesley’s other side was Kym Ladell, her friend’s face austere, and her eyes fixed forward and straight. Scanning the other end of the circle, Lauren found Harry Anslow northeast to where she stood with Tim Sake standing only two spaces away from him; and although she couldn’t see him, Lauren guessed she’d find Harvey Wood situated on the rear side of the Cornucopia, currently concealed by its massive size.

Lauren gritted her teeth, her mind whirring as she considered her strategy. The Careers were all placed in her way, each of them an obstacle that could easily prevent her from entering the woods and heading towards her destination. And if she were to cross paths with them, she didn’t know precisely what she’d do with a blade at her neck while her hands were bare.

With her current advantage of being placed directly in front of the Cornucopia, she had the immediate knowledge of what was inside and where to head to the second the gong rang to release them. It was a simple enough plan: bolt towards the crossbow, grab it, and run like her life depended on it (which it most certainly did). The Careers would most likely be too occupied pillaging for their loot to pursue her, or at least, Lauren hoped that that would be the case. If she were quick enough to obtain her prize and escape before her opponents could get their hands on any weapon, she’d be safe, most likely already too far within the thicket of trees for them to hunt her down easily by the time they’d even have any item within their grasp.

Her bite hardened as much as her resolve did, and she slid her eyes to the roof of the Cornucopia as she watched the timer near its end.

Ten.

Nine.

Lauren breathed in deeply, allowing her shoulders to inflate as she tried to steady her increasing heart rate.

Eight.

Seven.

Her knees bent forward, the tip of her boot nearing the edge of her platform.

Six.

Five.

Four—

A movement from the corner of her eye caught Lauren’s attention, and she sent a side glance in its direction. There, with his back facing the lake and his eyes an electric hue of blue that held a warning within them, was her District partner, his expression stern and his dark brows meeting in the middle. There was a near indiscernible movement to his chin, a subtle shake of his head that told Lauren he was all too privy to the thoughts spiraling in her own mind, and he most definitely did not approve of any of them.

Don’t! his eyes yelled at her. Don’t even think about it!

She sent him a harsh glare. What—

The gong rang and Lauren startled at the sound of it, the rest of her thought fading away. All other bodies around her dispersed and scattered in every direction, some towards the Cornucopia, others towards the line of trees.

Shit!

Lauren leapt off her platform, eyes trained ahead while her pulse thudded harder than her feet padding down on the grass.

Three seconds! Three seconds of being distracted was all it took for Lauren’s plans to instantly go awry, and she cursed at Kieran for being the cause of it.

Dashing down the field, she attempted to close the distance between her and the golden horn’s mouth, beads of sweat collecting on her brow as she sped down towards it, to reach it before anyone else could. To her right, she could see Harry Anslow and Tim Sake make their way towards the center from the side, already closer to the Cornucopia than she was, while Belladonna Davenport and Beatrice Blakesley appeared from behind the horn, their proximity to it similar to hers; that was until another Tribute stepped in front of the pair and slowed their pace momentarily. Lauren caught sight of the young Tribute be shoved unceremoniously to the ground, his face meeting the toe of Belladonna’s shoe with a sickening crunch before the 13th’s female Tribute resumed her run. If there was any blood smeared on the leather of her footwear, it was concealed by its obsidian color.

Lauren forced her legs to pick up speed and felt the gust around her start to release strands of her hair from their pins as she sprinted forward. She reached the wide opening of the Cornucopia and grabbed at the crossbow along with the bolt case beside it, her heart pounding with relief at her success. Slinging her weapon over her shoulder, she clipped the bolt case to the belt at her hip and began making for the exit.

The violent tug at her hood had her choking on a gasp before she could turn around, the collar of her coat pressing into her neck and cutting off her air supply. One of her hands reached to pull the collar away from her throat while the other reached behind her as she stumbled backwards, clutching onto the hand clinging tightly to her hood. She twisted beneath her attacker’s arm until she had it pinned behind his back and his head shoved onto the Cornucopia’s interior wall.

“Ugh!” grunted Tim Sake. “Watch it, you little bitch!”

“Says the one who attacked me,” Lauren seethed, shoving his cheek further against the surface. “Leave me alone. Don’t get in my way, or else.”

“Or else what?” mocked Sake. “You’re a lot of talk for someone who scored a one during training. Pathetic.”

Heat traveled through Lauren’s ears and down her neck at the jab, her grip tightening around Sake’s wrist and around the back of his head. Rage coursed through her body and into her bloodstream, searching for an outlet. But before she could release her vitriol, she was suddenly on the floor, a sharp pain pulsing at the back of her head. White dots burst like supernovas in her vision, a soreness spreading through her skull.

“Just kill her!” Lauren heard Sake say.

“And ruin all the fun?” Belladonna’s virulent voice responded, sultry and enthused. “I’m not letting her get off that easily. Especially not after last night’s recent events during the interviews. Now, come on. You and Harry pick her up and get her out of my way. I’ll go deal with the rest of these poor morons.” There was the piercing song of metal ringing in the air before the sound of Belladonna’s footsteps faded. Through her heavy lids, Lauren attempted to register what was happening around her. She heard the pained yelps and cries of multiple Tributes and watched through her blurred eyes as the verdant grass gradually turned russet, bodies falling to the ground. Lauren didn’t know how many of their competitors had fallen, but she would soon find out once the cannons sounded to indicate the number of those who’d just died, the blasts expected to sound later once the bloodbath was complete and the deaths eventually slowed.

Two pairs of hands began to pull at her from underneath each of her arms and drag her forward until she was seated upright, and Lauren summoned all the strength she was capable of in that moment to resist being moved. She elbowed the person to her right in the stomach—hard enough to cause him to double over—and yanked at his shirt to collide her forehead to his nose. Harry Anslow slumped to the floor at her release just as she grappled with Sake for her left arm and shoved him into a series of crates and racks with a resounding crash.

With adrenaline fueling her system and not waiting for the other Careers to make an appearance, Lauren lifted herself up onto her wavering feet and darted out back onto the field. It didn’t matter that the earth beneath her felt like it would flip over at any given moment and toss her back to the ground or that an aching beat throbbed like a drum within her skull, growing heavier and heavier with each footfall on the grass. All that mattered was that she escaped. She felt the weight of the crossbow at her back as she ran, careful to ensure that the last few minutes would not be for naught, and headed towards the forest directly behind the Cornucopia.

She could virtually hear March and Kieran collectively berate her for her decision to risk her life just now, could feel the anxiety that must have coursed through her uncle as he watched her dash down the field and towards the weapons, but she shoved their judgments aside and refocused her attention onto the path ahead of her. They could all tell her how foolish and reckless of a person she was once she was out of the arena and safely back home. She ran as fast as her unstable legs could take her, the sun beating on the back of her neck and the taste of the lake’s moisture in her dry mouth. 

Something hissed through the air and darted in her direction from behind, her quick step to the right allowing her to avoid being pierced through the back by the projectile at the last second. The arrow lodged itself into a nearby tree ahead of her, and Lauren turned her head to catch Blakesley with a bow and arrow in her hands, the 6th District’s female Tribute already nocking another arrow and aiming it towards her. Lauren leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding the shot, and she thanked the heavens that Blakesley didn’t possess the same proficiency as Kym did in archery.

Taking her crossbow in her arms, Lauren spun towards her attacker and cocked an arrow, then she pulled the trigger. The projectile launching towards Blakesley was enough of a distraction to allow Lauren to flee the scene while Blakesley’s attention was fixed on evading the oncoming attack. Lauren didn’t stay to witness where the arrow would land, knowing quite well she hadn’t aimed for any part of Blakesley’s body that would cause severe harm or injury, choosing instead to take the few seconds provided by her diversion to enter into the forest.

She shoved through the shrubs and branches, putting as much distance as humanly possible between her and the Cornucopia, her lungs burning and her throat stinging with parchedness. Still, she kept running. She didn’t know how many minutes had passed or how many yards or meters she had crossed by the time she stopped to catch her breath and bent forward to rest her throbbing head on a tree trunk, but she hoped she’d be far away enough from the Careers to avoid another assault, knowing it would be far from their final attempt at her life.

Breathing in deeply, Lauren’s eyes shut tight as she tried to ignore the ache in her head and instead refocused her attention and perked her ears to her surroundings; the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of the massive trees high above her and the chirping of the birds taking flight were the only noises she discerned in her vicinity. There were no crunching sounds of rocks beneath pairs of boots or the snide jeers she’d come to associate her adversaries with; only the resonance of nature was present.

That was until the rumbling echo of the cannons sounded all around and rattled through the trees and cut into the air.

BOOM!

One shot. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Lauren mutely counted them all, her thoughts straying to the question of which Tribute each shot was attributed to, to the question of who had lost their life in the ten or so minutes since the Games began.

Kym? Kieran? she considered the possibility. She shook her head, more out of denial than from certainty. No. They can’t be. If I’m still alive, then there’s no way they aren’t either.

Neither Kym or Kieran had been present around the Cornucopia during the bloodbath, both most likely having vanished into the woods when the gong rang out. The likelihood that two of the highest scoring Tributes should meet their demise so soon while she still lived and breathed was improbable. They had to be okay. They just had to be.

Releasing a sigh, Lauren slid down the trunk and rested on the ground once the eleventh and final shot echoed all around. She waited for the world to cease its spinning for just one minute and allow her to regain control over her bearings, gulping down some air as she reassessed her current disposition.

North. She still needed to continue heading north. How far until she reached her destination, she wasn’t all too sure; the canopy of branches and leaves that seemed to graze the clouds only helped to conceal the views of the mountain range, hindering her awareness of the distance in between her current location and its base. The arena had seemed so miniscule when she was holding its map within her hands, but to be within it physically made her realize the true size that was the massive expanse of land that it actually was. How long of a hike would it take her to reach her meeting point with Kieran? An hour? Two hours? The entire day? She tilted her head up and peered through the gaps between the branches above where sunlight filtered through, and she prayed to the Gamemakers that they’d allow the light to remain in their artificial sky long enough for her to complete her journey before dark fell.

Guess I better start walking now, Lauren decided, pinching the bridge of her nose. Pushing herself off the floor, she returned towards the direction of her path and began to trod forth. 

She walked onward mutely, her eyes continuously surveying her surroundings, ears perked for danger or any pursuers while her hands gripped her crossbow. In spite of the seeming solitude she was in—only the trees, shrubs, dirt, and her own thoughts to keep her company—Lauren cautiously kept her guard up, the potential for an assault sent by the Gamemakers or a competitor always a possibility.

I just hope the bloodbath will keep the viewers satisfied for the next few hours, thought Lauren. Long enough for the Gamemakers to not have to pull any strings just to keep them or themselves entertained.

A wave of nausea seared through her stomach, a result of both the unending ache in her head dealt by Belladonna and from the sudden reminder of who was in charge of the very people manipulating the Games and the arena. Was Dakan watching her now and seeing his goddaughter here within these very woods that he could alter with the press of a button? Was it truly possible that Kieran would be right about her godfather and his intentions? That the Head Gamemaker intended to help her through these Games and protect her in some way?

She supposed that if her uncle intended to liberate her from the arena, her godfather playing a role in that scheme wasn’t too far off of an assumption. No matter how strange the last few days had been each time she saw him, she still clung onto her belief that he hadn’t forsaken her after all; that all she’d experienced the past few days were all for a reason. 

Yet, it still begged the question of what their plan was, and how she and Kieran were meant to understand and execute it.

The Games have just begun, Lauren reminded herself. There’s still time to figure it out. Just focus on actually getting to where you need to go first.

With that thought in mind, she continued her trek, vaguely wondering how far along the path Kieran must be by now and how close he was to reaching their rendezvous point.

The sun arched across the sky and minutes passed as she walked, her steps muffled by the fallen leaves on the forest duff; her legs began to feel the burn and strain of her traverse up the sloping, uneven hills. Heat began to permeate through the forest and prick at her skin through the material of her coat, the temperature rising high enough to force Lauren to shed off her outerwear and drape it over one shoulder, a thin layer of perspiration on her forehead. The thirst she’d felt earlier swelled inside her mouth, the feeling bordering on dehydration and becoming all the more prominent the more she tried to push away the thought of it. Regret coursed through her at not snatching a water bottle when she’d had the opportunity earlier by the Cornucopia, having passed at least one container when she’d been running across the field. Looking over her shoulder, she gazed back in the direction that she had come from, calculations running through her head of the distance she must have crossed and the time it would take—or in this case, the time she’d be wasting—if she decided to return to the field for more supplies.

Athena’s words from the first day of training came rushing back to her. “Your chances of survival in the arena will depend more on your ability to find food and shelter than it will on knowing how to kill one another,” the head trainer had said. And yet when the time to collect materials had come when it mattered, Lauren had solely focused on retrieving a weapon, and now she felt like a fool for it.

Okay, Lauren. Just think. I could head east instead towards the river, she considered, turning her attention towards the aforementioned direction. Then hopefully the water there will be fresh enough to drink, and I can follow the water upstream towards the mountains from there.

It was a far better detour than returning from the very place she had just barely fled from—a place that she was sure would still be occupied by the Careers—and much quicker, too. She could only hope her new path would be clear enough to allow her to arrive there sooner rather than later.

Turning in her new direction, Lauren followed the sounds of the distant streaming waters, her throat like sandpaper with every breath she took, her lips tender from the cracks forming on them. Her skin bristled at the feel of the sun’s rays searing on her flesh many moments later when she arrived by the edge of the river, her body now no longer concealed by the canopy of trees. The water billowed downstream below her—far below her—roaring over the large rocks and boulders, the steep cliffside she was facing a good eight meters high from the river. Even if she could scale the crags, she knew the rushing river posed a risk, the currents more than strong enough to sweep her away.

Her eyes trailed the water’s track until they landed on the lake at the bottom of the decline in the far distance, the golden spiral silhouette of the Cornucopia at the center of the grassy field gleaming under the bright beams of the sun.

Lauren bit back a curse. Of course there would be no other way to reach the water unless she returned to the lake where the rush stilled and there were no cliffs acting as an obstacle. Of course the main source of water would be at the very hub that would force Tributes to converge, a means for the show to obtain some action and provide some thrills and entertainment to those watching.

Lauren slid a hand down her face. Fuck! What now?

Her eyes slid to her left and towards the mountain range in the opposite direction from the lake, trailing her gaze upstream. The juts seemed so close from her current position, but she held little doubt of the illusory perspective, their height altering her perception of proximity. Would she be able to find another source of water if she continued to head in that direction? Could she even survive long enough to complete the journey there?

She thought of March and the assurances he had given her just this past morning, of his certainty that she, too, would have the support of the people and viewers who’d come to take interest in her life. But where were they now? Did her mentor not see or understand the situation she was currently facing?

She gazed up at the clear sky, her fists curled at her sides. “Alright, March,” she muttered to the mild gust of wind. “Now would be a great time to prove you were right about us having sponsors. Feel free to send some water anytime now.”

She waited on bated breath for something to happen, a signal that she had been heard and that her request would be granted.

But when no such indication occurred—when no silver parachute came falling from the sky—Lauren frowned, and she felt her stomach curl with a semblance of resentment alongside her tightening fists. 

Surely her own mentor wasn’t blind to her struggle. Surely she hadn’t overestimated how much he cared about her and her survival. Surely he hadn’t been wrong in his belief that she’d be capable of obtaining at least one sponsor willing to put their money on her and help fund her survival, to allow her mentor to purchase something as measly as a bottle of water to send her way and help her live.

No, it can’t be that, Lauren told herself, trying as best she could to convince herself of the fact. There has to be a reason why he’s not sending me any gifts. But what? What reason could he have?

Lauren didn’t dare dwell on the question, knowing all too well of the time she was spending pondering over such thoughts. The day was beginning to drag into the mid-afternoon, and she’d yet to reach her destination; at this point, if she lingered any longer in her current place and kept to her current pace, it would be nightfall by the time she’d reconvene with Kieran. She needed to keep moving before it was too late. 

But the incline her path required for her to tread now appeared far more arduous than it had when she’d first begun her trek. Her heart beat more rapidly from the exertion, and her calves burned from the distance she’d crossed. The slopes were becoming taller and steeper, while her body was becoming weaker and more vulnerable. How much further did she need to walk until her body gave up on her?

“Just keep going,” she mumbled to herself, moving away from the ravine and towards the woods. “I have to keep going. It’s just one step. Then just one more step after that.” And I’ll be damned if this is where I quit now.

Her head swam as she tried to quicken her steps up the varying slopes, her breathing becoming laborious. Hunger rumbled through her stomach with each passing second, an ache clenching inside her middle so viciously her hand flew to clutch at it to try and soothe the sharp pains away to no avail. It must have been hours now since she’d last consumed any food, and anxiety flared within her at the question of where and how she would obtain her next meal. She hadn’t seen any animals as of yet that she could hunt nor had she passed any shrubs or trees with berries or hanging fruit. Bark, perhaps? she considered, but she shook her head at the idea, knowing she’d have no way to scrape any off a tree. 

“One problem at a time,” she told herself. “I’ll think about that after I reach the mountain base. Then maybe March will come to his senses by then and send us something to eat.”

The skies began to gradually fade into a gradient shade of blue tinted with a touch of orange hues as she continued on, the sun casting a yellow glow onto the treetops and grass at the base of the hills as it curved towards the western sky. Lauren felt the heat across her body as she trod through the length of the arena, feeling exhaustion seep through every nerve ending and vein, her footfalls closer to her feet being dragged up the path than a proper step, her focus wavering. There must have been a point in which her legs eventually gave way without her realizing, because in one blink she was on her feet, and the next, her hands and knees were on the ground, fingers sinking through the soft, moist earth, the dirt gathering beneath her fingernails.

Lauren’s lips curled into a sneer. Get up, she yelled at herself, trying to push off her knees and onto her feet. Get up! Do you really want to stay here and be an easy target? Do you want to die?

But no matter how much she forced her body upright, she could only find herself stumbling back down to the ground, a tremor jolting through her legs with every attempt.

Perhaps Tim Sake hadn’t been completely wrong when he’d called her pathetic. And certainly the viewers watching her lie on the ground must share the same sentiment. She could almost imagine the satisfactory smiles on the faces of those taking pleasure in her misery, them basking in the gratification that this may very well be the location where she’d die. Lauren’s fingers curled around the mud below her as a searing indignation ignited in her chest at the thought. How pathetic and foolish she was for her impulsive decisions. How—

Lauren stilled, looking down at the dirt she was kneeling on.

Wait… Mud?

Bringing one closed hand up to her eye level, she inspected the earth within her grip, her heart beating rapidly with a sudden giddiness. 

Mud. This is mud. And if that’s the case then that means…

Her gaze slid to the top of the incline she’d been treading, a sense of renewed hope and resolution swelling within her entire being as though she’d just unlocked a new source of willpower she never knew she possessed. Gathering the last of her remaining strength, she tried once more to push herself to her feet.

It’s just one step... One step...

She swayed to the side as she stood, legs still unsteady, but she managed to find her footing enough to not meet the ground again. Wiping her hands, she forced her feet to carry her over the remaining distance to the top and over the crest. There, barely a few feet below, was a small lagoon, the water clearer than crystal while a tumbling waterfall crashed down towards the small body of water from the steep cliffside beside it, one that she’d mistaken for the sound of the ravine.

Relief flowed quicker than the river through her blood, and despite her fatigue and the fire burning in her legs, Lauren rushed towards the pool of water as fast as her body allowed.

She threw her coat onto the ground alongside the crossbow and dropped to her knees on the pebbled and rocky shoreline, not caring one bit for the dull thud of pain from the impact. Her focus was solely on the water before her, fresh and sparkling, the cool wisps of moisture hitting her warm face. Cupping her hands into the liquid she brought the water to her lips and took a sip. Then a gulp. Then another. And another. And another. She drank more than her heart’s content, more than the storage in her stomach could contain, drinking until the notion of thirst was but a distant memory she was no longer familiar with, and droplets dripped down her chin with a sense of satisfaction.

It was the rustling in the bushes that drew her back to her senses and lured her attention away from the pool with a start, her heart rate intensifying at remembering where she was—in the arena, in a game to the death with others who were competing to be the sole survivor. Were there other Tributes around who relied on the lagoon for hydration, too? Had they been lurking in the shadows of the trees while she’d been out in the open, an easy target for them all?

Lauren didn’t wait to find out. She darted towards her crossbow and collected it from the ground, slinging the strap over a shoulder. With her weapon in hand, she traipsed towards the tree line, finger hovering over the trigger and steps muffled in the mud. The sound of the waterfall’s roar faded until the only thing her ears could hear was the beat of her pulse and the piercing ringing accompanying it, her eyes scanning the vicinity for any movement or other signs of danger. Staying close to the trees and using them for cover, she edged closer to the area she’d heard the rustling from and craned her neck to the patch of grass and the shrub beside it to find…

… A rabbit.

Its nose twitched, and its ears bent in her direction, before it hopped away into the shrub and disappeared from her view.

Shoulders unwinding, Lauren lowered her weapon and released a sigh, her heart’s pace returning back to its normal rate.

A rabbit, she said to herself. It was just a rabbit.

And how fortunate she was to come across it, she realized, knowing now of the potential game she could catch for a meal. And if more could be found, she may just have located the most opportunistic location within the arena—water and food at her disposal.

Pushing away from the tree, she turned back in the direction of the lagoon with the intent of retrieving her coat, relieved that that it hadn’t been another Tribute—

Fingers wrapped around her wrist and reeled her backwards, while her airways were suddenly obstructed, a hand covering her mouth and nostrils and silencing her yelp of surprise. Lauren writhed free from her assailant’s grasp and shoved him away only to find her back hitting the trunk of a tree when he pushed her in return, the glint of a knife shining underneath her chin; one tilt of her head down—one small swallow—enough for the tip to graze her skin and draw blood.

But she wasn’t the only one with a weapon pointed at her.

Her hands clutched her crossbow, index finger prepared to press the trigger as she angled the tip of the arrow at her assailant’s chest, his face obscured by the light streaming into her eyes from the gap in the trees above them. Her gaze trailed downwards away from the blinding beams, past the blade aimed at her throat, past the collar of his coat, catching instead onto a piece of metal and stone pinned near his heart. There was something familiar about the shape of the black broach he wore, yet she knew without a doubt that she’d never seen the piece of jewelry before, the circular onyx stone in its gilded bezel a stranger to her. But the jagged edge on one side of the gold casing was one she knew, its pattern nearly identical to the very accessory Neyra had presented to her earlier that morning, the same accessory her stylist had pinned onto her own coat.

Lauren looked up and squinted against the light, a pair of stormy blue meeting the flames of her gold as her lips parted in surprise.

“Kieran?” she cried out.

“Hello, darling,” he said, a rigidness to his voice. “I hope you missed me.”

Chapter Text

Lauren gawked at her partner, certain he’d lost his mind. “Are you crazy? I could have shot you!”

“Careful, darling,” Kieran said, the hand he had currently wrapped around her upper arm tightening, and even with the sun’s rays burning her eyes, Lauren still managed to catch the sardonic tilt to his lips. “I do believe we had an agreement that we wouldn’t accidentally kill each other, did we not?” 

“Well good thing it wouldn’t be an accident,” she bit out through her clenched teeth and taut jaw, her pulse thudding with her exasperation. She kept her hold on the crossbow steady, index finger hovering over the trigger while he maintained the knife he held at her throat. If he thought she’d flinch and be the first to withdraw from this challenge, she’d prove him wrong.

The tilt on her partner’s lips lifted even higher as he stared down at her. “For someone who claims that she doesn’t want to kill, that’s quite the statement.”

“I can shoot you while still managing to keep you alive. Would you like to see?”

He took a step forward, trapping her between his body and the tree at her back, but she kept her head high and her grip on her weapon steadfast, keeping herself rooted where she stood.

With Kieran’s height hovering above her, Lauren found herself in his shadow, the sun’s beams no longer blinding her line of sight. Instead, she found him regarding her, his eyes and expression tense and filled with a ferocity that he was attempting to maintain, a hint of some other emotion threatening to protrude from beneath it, one she’d found herself growing familiar with—concern. Her eyes flickered down to where she could feel the knife at her throat, a near imperceptible waver to his otherwise steady grip, and for a flicker of a second, she found her own resolve wane and her hold on her crossbow loosen.

He leaned forward. “You know, last I checked,” he whispered, his voice like gravel beside her ear, “we formed this alliance so the both of us can stay alive and make it out of this arena. Diving head first into danger kind of defeats that purpose, don’t you think?”

 “And pressing a blade to my throat kind of defeats that purpose, too, don’t you think?” she seethed in return, though there was no malice in her throat, no contempt coursing through her as she said those words. Instead, she felt a weight pressing between her ribs, and a feeling akin to shame burning in her chest.

“I hope you risking your neck earlier was worth it,” he said, drawing away from her and folding his arms across his chest.

The burning shame seared Lauren’s skin even hotter, and she loosened her hold on her weapon, letting it dangle by her right thigh. The tension from her arms and shoulders released with her exhaled breath, and she tilted her chin to better peer up at him.

“It was a calculated risk, and I…” She swallowed with a shake of her head. “It was stupid of me. I knew better and I still took the risk. We had an agreement and a plan, and I deviated. I’m sorry for my—recklessness.”

Kieran fixed his gaze upon her, the hardened glare that had been there earlier now faltering. “It’ll do you no good if you get yourself killed on the first day,” he said, his voice strained. “Especially not to your uncle or friends or to m—” His words died from his lips, and he angled his face away, breaking their eye contact. 

There was a jolt in Lauren’s left arm, a surging need to place a calming hand on his shoulder. To extricate him of the unease he was exuding, and she felt herself take the smallest step forward towards him. But as quickly as the feeling came it vanished just as easily, the sigh Kieran released breaking the impulse that had now fluttered away.

“Let’s go,” he said, retracting the knife and clipping the hilt to his belt. “We should get to our base before it gets too dark.”

Lauren gave him a terse nod as she adjusted the strap of her crossbow, all too aware of the restlessness that had now overcome her fingers as she watched Kieran stride ahead of her. She clenched them around the thick band as she followed his trail back to the lagoon, pushing away the rush of whatever sensation was tingling at her fingertips and burying it down.

She retrieved her coat from the edge of the pebbled shore, watching as Kieran knelt beside the water’s edge and filled a canteen to the brim, a backpack resting on the ground beside him.

Well, at least one of us managed to be better prepared, she thought, removing her crossbow for a moment to slip her coat on before walking towards him.

“Ready when you are,” she said as Kieran got to his feet and slung his pack onto his back.

“It shouldn’t take us too long to get there. The hike up shouldn’t be too bad,” he responded, his head craning towards the rushing waterfall at the other end of the lagoon, its water spilling from so high above them, neither could see the top from where they stood.

“And where exactly is it that we’re going?” asked Lauren, her eyes searching for some indication of a path that they were meant to follow and seeing none.

“Somewhere we won’t be bothered,” Kieran answered. “Now, come on. Before another rabbit decides to startle you.” He gave her a snicker before he strode away, walking along the edge of the shore and leaving her with a pulsing nerve in her temple at his remark.

“How nice of you to worry,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes, following behind him and matching his pace. Or at least, she tried to match his pace.

Much to Lauren’s chagrin, there was indeed no path that led to their destination except for the one they were making now—less of a trail than it was a suggestion etched into the jagged earth and slick boulders covered with moss that they were climbing and crawling over. With the fire burning in her legs from her earlier trek and the dull ache that persisted against her skull that she had Belladonna Davenport to thank for, the ascent up and along the outcrops was an arduous venture. She watched her partner methodically move up the staggered slopes, feeling dumbfounded by his nonchalance and ease with their trek, barely a trace of sweat to be found on his face or neck as he continued with his movements.

“You okay back there?” Kieran called from ledge at the top of the incline, his voice scarcely betraying any hint of exhaustion he might have.

“Never… better…” Lauren huffed as she pulled herself up a particularly damp node, the mossy carpet and smooth surface providing little support even with the deep soles of her boots.

Moisture collected along her forehead, both from the tiresome climb and from the spray of the waterfall that gently rained upon them, and finally finding her footing on the ledge, Lauren clung onto the overgrowth of ivy along the cliff wall that stretched behind the cascading water, careful not to slip on the narrow, glistening path Kieran was already moving along, the pool of the lagoon directly below them. She followed close to Kieran as they padded cautiously along the cliff face, and it was all Lauren could do to not bump into him when he stopped abruptly at a junction, the ridge jutting out directly behind the rushing torrent above them, the only piece of elevated ground wide enough to stand comfortably on.

“Here we are,” Kieran announced over the roar of the waterfall. “Home sweet home!”

Lauren gingerly stepped closer, squinting into the gaping dark mouth that was carved into the stony wall before her, a curtain of ivy and vines framing the entrance. “A cave…?”

“Our hideout,” Kieran corrected. Giving her a pleased smile, he gave a flourishing sweep of his hand, saying, “After you.”

Eyeing him curiously, Lauren stepped inside and was met immediately with a soft wave of damp air, its viscosity carrying a certain stench of saturated earth and humidity. The cavern was far more spacious than she’d expected it to be. Water trickled down the jagged ceiling, feeding the basin inside, its gentle murmur and the droplets coming from above the only sounds within. A mosaic of greys and ochre made up the material of the walls, their surfaces streaked with veins of quartz that glittered faintly in the limited light filtering through the broad skylight opening carved above the distant depth of the cavern. At the center of the cave was a small land mass encircled by the basin like a lake to an island, accessible only by a single, precarious leap over the narrow fissure located at the other end of the room.

“Huh. Cozy,” Lauren deadpanned, her voice echoing faintly in the room’s vastness as she took in what would now be her new abode. She stepped deeper inside, carefully striding along the slim path between the water and the cave’s walls. 

“Get comfortable,” said Kieran from the opposite end, a thump softly resounding from where he’d crossed the fissure and onto the small island. “This is where we’ll be staying for the next few days.”

“You mean where I’ll be staying for the next few days,” Lauren corrected, her eyes scanning the walls and roaming upwards towards the jagged ceiling. “Last I remember, you still have your alliance with the Careers to maintain.”

He sent her a dismissive shrug, answering, “It wouldn’t make much sense for us to be allies and not work together. I’ll deal with the Careers when the time comes. I wouldn’t want to get caught in the crossfire of their bloodbath unlike a certain someone.” 

Lauren narrowed her eyes his way but said nothing. 

Kieran removed his pack from his shoulder then and knelt beside it, his hands rummaging through its contents evidently in search for something. “In the meantime, we should figure out the rest of our game plan. Speaking of—here. Catch.”

The sharp song of metal sliced through the air, and before Lauren knew it, there was the hilt of a knife in her hand, the blade barely missing her cheekbone by a hair’s breadth.

“Kieran, what the hell!” She flashed him a venomous look, but the wry smile on his face and the knife he twirled around his fingers told her it had little effect on him.

“Part of our plan is to make sure you’re staying sharp and in shape,” he said. “Can’t risk your reflexes getting sluggish now that we’re in the arena.”

Lauren rolled her eyes, temples threatening to burst as she wondered how she was going to survive this odd alliance with him. Her gaze dropped to the knife in her clutches, thumb gliding gently across the blade’s flat edge, before her attention drifted to the pack he was now moving away from the center and placing near the edge of the water. 

Where did he even get these? she silently questioned. The Cornucopia? No, he’d booked it out of the field as soon as the gong rang? Then if not from there, then did he…?

A chill passed through her and her gaze hardened as her attention dropped to her weapon, fingers clenching around the handle as the remnants of the canons echoed through her ears. Had he slaughtered a Tribute for their equipment on the first day? Had he taken a life this soon?

“Come on, Sinclair. We haven’t got all day,” Kieran’s voice broke through her contemplations, drawing Lauren’s attention to him. He sent her an expectant look, a challenge gleaming in his eyes, daring her to meet him. 

Lauren released a tense breath. “You are insufferable,” she muttered barely loud enough for him to hear. 

“Oh? Then why don’t you come show me just how insufferable I am?” He smirked.

Willing the vice gripping her skull to subside, Lauren removed her crossbow from her shoulders and stripped her coat off, placing both on the ground. She took a few steps towards the rear of the cave, blade in hand, and crossed the basin’s gap to meet him in the center, landing firmly on her feet.

“Ready?” he asked, his feet and legs moving to take a stance, his knees bent, left foot sliding back, and his blade held before him in an en garde position.

“No, but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice,” came Lauren’s disgruntled answer, mirroring Kieran’s posture.

Lips twitching in amusement, Kieran beckoned for her with a provoking wag of his finger. Lauren scowled, her legs moving on their own accord as she charged towards him, her knife meeting air as he swiftly angled away from her attack, dodging it.

“What’s there to discuss that we haven’t already talked about last night?” asked Lauren as she swung her blade upwards and in all directions, trying and failing to land a blow on him.

“Now that we’re in the arena, we’re going to need to figure out how we’re going to outlive everyone else,” answered Kieran, blocking her series of attacks, his forearm coming up to make contact with hers, causing a ripple to shoot through her bones. “Water shouldn’t be a problem for us with the lagoon here, and we should be able to scavenge for food or even hunt if need be, but we also need to prepare for whatever the Gamemakers throw at us.” 

Kieran shoved her away with a hard push and Lauren’s feet stumbled just the slightest before she found her balance. She thrusted her arm towards his center, forcing him to twist away to avoid the attack. “Any idea on what to expect?” she asked.

“Sadly, my intel didn’t give me that information,” he responded, adjusting his hold on his weapon’s handle and flipping  it into a reverse grip. He swung the pointed blade downwards at her, adding, “You know just as much as I do about that, which unfortunately isn’t much.” 

“Great. That’s so much help,” muttered Lauren through her gritted teeth as she parried his blade with hers, shifting her weight forward to interrupt his momentum. She shoved his arm away from her, pushing him away at a sliver of a distance. A mistake on her part, she realized, when Kieran used the opening she had created and hurtled towards her.

Lauren gulped down some air, her breaths coming out ragged as she ducked underneath his arm to avoid his outward strike. Then, using her position, she swept a leg from under him, a small cloud of dirt forming from where her boot grazed the ground. Kieran pivoted in time to avoid losing his balance, his blade coming down to plunge towards her.

Lauren rolled to the side to avoid his oncoming attack, managing to push herself onto her feet, stepping back to put some distance between them. “What about the other parts of our plans? Any clue on our timeline?” she asked, her breath coming out in a huff. Anything from Dakan or Tristan, her silent question resonated between them.

“Not yet,” Kieran said, his eyes scanning her in appraisal as they circled each other. “It doesn’t seem like we’ll be getting our answers to that as soon as we’d like. It would seem that patience will be a virtue that you and I will have to practice.”

How wonderful. So they were as clueless now as they were 18 hours ago.

Lauren moved to advance towards Kieran, careful to avoid the slash of his blade. “So what are we going to do in the meantime while we figure that out?”

“Bide our time, of course,” answered Kieran, sidestepping her lunge.

Lauren lifted a brow. “That’s it?”

“Well,” Kieran began to say as he charged towards her, the piercing sound of metal echoing around the cavernous chambers as Lauren deflected his blow, “until we receive some indication on how we’re going to move forward with our plan, there’s not much we can do about that, is there?”

“Feels like we’re wasting our time then rather than biding it.”

Kieran shrugged, sending another swipe in her direction. “It’s only the first day, Lauren. There’s still time to figure things out.”

Lauren’s pulse spiked, the aching anxiety that resided within her surging forth. The echo of those very same words she’d told herself that afternoon now hardly felt assuring, providing less relief to her worries and acting more as a reminder to their current reality. With the first day of the Games soon coming to a close, there was little comfort to be found in the fact that she and Kieran still remained unaware of how they were going to accomplish their goals, the question of just how much time they truly had looming over her head.

“There are still eleven other Tributes out there,” Lauren reminded him. “Five of which want me—us—dead. That’s not even taking into account whatever else the Gamemakers have in store for this year. And I can’t imagine the Careers just sitting idly by when I’m sure they’ll be on a manhunt for us soon.”

Kieran swung his blade upward, his wrist colliding with Lauren’s as she moved to block his attack, a grunt escaping her lips at the impact. “Like I told you last night, I already have a plan on how to keep them off your back. Both our backs, hopefully.”

Lauren peered up at his face that was scarcely a few inches from hers, seeing nothing but sheer determination in the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw, yet she found no inkling of comfort in his confidence. Just the dread she’d come to know, the sensation of it crawling up her spine and taking root around each nerve ending. 

She licked her lips and pushed away from him. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you just… eliminate them? You’re clearly capable, and it’d save us a lot of trouble if we didn’t have to deal with them.”

Kieran surveyed her through narrowed slits, his head tilting to the side while his arms crossed against his chest. He remained silent for a brief moment, and Lauren found her fingers flexing at her side, feeling a thick tension suddenly envelop them. In place of where determination had been present just a moment ago on his face was instead an austerity; an intensity in the taut line of his lips and frigid pierce to the look he gave her that had Lauren suddenly unsure of how to feel.

“That’s a surprisingly callous question coming from you,” he said, a glacial chill wrapping each word he spoke. “The girl who preached about not wanting to take a life casually suggesting we deal with a few… obstacles?”

“It’s just…” Lauren carded a hand through her hair, feeling her head spin as she considered what to say. “Wouldn’t it save you and me the trouble of having to deal with them if they’re already dead?”

“Yes, it would,” he replied, taking a small step towards her. “But let me ask you this. Earlier at the lagoon when you threatened to shoot me, would you have actually taken the shot had it been anyone else cornering you, or would you have let yourself be killed at that moment?”

Lauren’s eyes flitted away, scanning the ground as though the answer could be found in the dirt by her feet. Her chest inflated like her ribs were a prison trapping air within them, chilling and sharp, and she found her mouth drying even more the further she considered how to respond. What would she have done had it been another Tribute? Would she have actually pressed the trigger to neutralize her assailant, or would she have hesitated in her actions, losing her life in return? Even when she had aimed an arrow at Beatrice Blakesley at the Cornucopia, she’d pulled the trigger knowing it wouldn’t have caused anything fatal to the young girl. But had it been another Tribute threatening her at the lagoon, with the same proximity that she and Kieran were in earlier, what was the likelihood that she would have prevented the blood from spilling on her hands?

Her ribs constricted around her lungs, a cage of bones that refused to allow oxygen to flow through her body. Her index finger curled inward, the phantom feel of the crossbow’s cold trigger pressing on the pad of her skin.

Selfish hypocrite.

Selfish hypocrite.

Selfish hypocrite.

Before she could register what was happening, there was a sharp tug at the front of her shirt and soon her back was hitting the hard earth with a thud, the wind knocking out of her lungs. White dots formed behind her eyelids, and she blinked her eyes rapidly, scanning her surroundings and finding Kieran hovering above her. Turning her head, she found his hands and knees on either side of her body, caging her down to the ground and keeping her in place.

“You really have a thing for pinning me down, don’t you?” she seethed, a fire searing her throat. “This is—what? The third time in twenty-four hours?”

“Lose focus, lose your life,” Kieran said in return, bringing one hand up to point the tip of his blade between her eyes. “What if it was Belladonna instead of me in this position? What would you do?”

Lauren’s stomach rolled at the notion, a metallic taste on her tongue. “But you’re not Belladonna, so why does it matter?” she spat, a fury melting the ice in her veins. 

Kieran shook his head, his expression unyielding. They both knew that was hardly the issue at hand. There she was asking him to kill while she refused to commit the same atrocities, remaining unstained, her hands left pristine while his would be reddened.

“It’s tempting, I won’t lie,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he spoke. “A swift solution. A clear path. But I refuse to stoop to their level. I refuse to let these Games change me. I refuse to be the very thing you once accused me of. I will only kill if there’s no other choice.” His lips curled, the smallest hint of a smirk. “Question is, how far are you willing to go to achieve your goals? Perhaps you and I aren’t as different as you once believed.”

Lauren’s heart thudded against her chest. Though his words were far from an insult, they struck her like a physical blow nonetheless, one that reached the core of her essence and tore her from the inside. A cold fury bloomed in her veins, one born from a frustration whose source she couldn’t identify—at him? The Careers? The Gamemakers? Herself…? Rather than decide to dissect it, she gathered her strength, now amplified by her ire, and yanked his wrist, tugging—hard—and pulling him forward. Using her other hand to shove him aside, Lauren allowed her knees to lock behind his and toppled him onto the floor. Shifting her weight until he was underneath her, her legs locked on either side of his hips, keeping him in place.

“Not bad, darling,” Kieran rasped, the hand she had pressed onto his chest restricting his airflow.

“Thanks. Knocking you down is like a stress-reliever for me.” She placed the blade of her knife beneath his chin, a mirror of how he’d had her pinned against the tree earlier on, her lip curling into a sneer. She grabbed for the knife in his hand, saying, “So, Mr. ‘I only kill when absolutely necessary,’ nice gear you got here. Where’d you get all this stuff? Didn’t see you scrambling for supplies at the Cornucopia. What’d you do? Politely ask a Career to share, or…?” She raised a brow as she shifted her weight, enjoying the small advantage she held against him.

A faint grunt vibrated against the knife resting on Kieran’s skin, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he said, “Why? Because you think I partook in the bloodbath to get these?” At the sound of her breath hitching in her throat, he rolled his eyes, his smile turning more into a sneer than anything else. “I’ll have you know I plucked these off a Tribute who was unfortunate enough to find himself on the other end of Belladonna’s blade. Consider yourself lucky that you didn’t find yourself in the poor boy’s position. Although from where I was standing, it seemed like you very nearly could have been.” A shadow flickered across his eyes, a grave solemnity entering the lines of his features, his amusement gone. 

Lauren’s hand that she had splayed on his chest trembled imperceptibly, the knife on the other lowering and her grip on it softening. The raging concern he had displayed towards her at the lagoon returned in a flash in her mind, the remnants of the blow Belladonna dealt her sending a throb through her head.

She swallowed down the heat bubbling up her throat. “Yeah, lucky indeed…” Lauren withdrew her hand from his chest and removed herself from him, pushing herself onto her feet. “Come on. Get up. Clearly we’ve both proven that we’re still capable of fending for ourselves.”

Rolling onto his back, Kieran leapt onto his feet in front of her, brushing off bits of dust from his shirt and clipping his knife at his hip. “Sure. We’ll call it a draw for now.”

“A draw? I was the one who incapacitated you just now!”

“Yes, but who incapacitated who first?”

Lauren folded her arms over her torso, glaring at him but gave no answer. Instead, she asked as she retracted her own blade, “So what now?”

“Well, first thing’s first, we’re going to need some more supplies,” Kieran replied, turning his attention to the backpack at the edge by the water. “We’ll have to go out sometime during daybreak tomorrow and scavenge for some dried branches and flint. It might be a bit of a walk considering how wet everything around here is. We’ll probably have to set up some snares to catch some game, too.”

“Why not just wait for sponsors to send gifts? Wouldn’t that be better than going out and risking being caught by the other Tributes or whatever shit the Gamemakers have waiting outside for us?”

“Maybe, but who knows how long receiving those gifts might take. Would you really prefer waiting around like sitting ducks and starving in here?”

A cold sweat broke out on her palms, and she tugged at her collar, as if to loosen a tightening grip around her neck. How could she argue with that logic? With how well the start of the Games had gone for her, it was unsettling to consider how many or how few sponsors were left that were willing to place their bets on her. Had she royally fucked up her chances already? Had her decision to run head first into the Cornucopia been enough to cement the belief that she was too reckless to win the Games? That her odds of surviving combined with her score of a one were enough to prove that she wasn’t worth any time or money?

But she had survived the bloodbath. She had emerged victorious from the Cornucopia, managing to escape the Careers with both her life and her weapon. That had to amount to something… Didn’t it?

 Gazing out onto the basin surrounding them, she wondered if there was more to the reason March had refused to send her water when she’d made her earlier request to him in the woods. That maybe the truth was closer related to the amount of support that she was or was not receiving than it was anything else. She’d believed for a split second that March had made the decision to withhold such a necessary gift from her due to her proximity to the lagoon she’d come across, but now she couldn’t stop the thought that perhaps there was a much more alarming reason.

She glanced at Kieran who’d made his way to retrieve the pack, watching him bend over it and sort through the items within. There was hardly any doubt that her ally would ever have to concern himself with the lack of sponsors, that even humoring such a thought was laughable. He was practically the Scythe Games’s Golden Child and the clear favorite to become a Victor. The chances of him having an endless stream of support were more likely than not. What more did Lauren need to do that she hadn’t done already to reach that level of security and maintain it?

The star-crossed lovers of the Eleventh District, that’s what they’ll be calling you two.

If you don’t mind me asking—now that you’ve officially decided to work with Kieran—have you given any thought to what I mentioned last night?

Lauren’s fingernails dug into her upper arm, her eyes averting away from her partner like keeping her gaze on him would allow him the ability to hear the commotion of her thoughts. The reminder of March’s remarks brought about a wave of nausea, her center coiling tighter than a spring with each passing second. 

God, was she really going to heed March’s advice and agree to such a ploy? All for what? To appease and entertain the Capitol and be rewarded for it?

Lauren detested the fact that there seemed to be only one pragmatic answer to all her questions.

Taking a deep breath, Lauren pushed through her discomfort, her arms dropping behind her, and fingers tugging nervously at her own wrist until she felt a sting sear her skin.

“Hey, so about what you said last night,” she called to Kieran, drawing closer to where he was situated, “and about something March said… I know it’s probably a terrible idea and an awful strategy, and I hate that I’m even bringing it up, but, well, I was thinking…”

Kieran raised a brow as he straightened his posture and got to his feet. “Oh? And what is it exactly that our dear mentor said?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his tone. “I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with his proposal to play into a certain romantic angle, would it?” At the expression Lauren must have worn on her face, he gave a husky chuckle, adding, “I may have overheard bits and pieces of your morning conversation.”

Lauren pursed her lips. “Like I said, it’s a terrible idea,” she panned.

“You wouldn’t be bringing it up if you really thought that.” A wry grin twisted at Kieran’s lips, a glint sparking his eyes as he moved towards her, closing the distance between them and leaving barely a gap in between. He leaned down, his breath a warm wisp against her ear when he said, “You know, darling, it’s okay to admit that you’ve finally fallen for my charms.”

Lauren stiffened, the grip she had around her wrist tightening, and she forced herself not to collide her fist with his shoulder or his nose.

“I’d rather fall off a cliff than fall for you,” she countered, her voice more disgustingly sweet than melted sugar. “But unfortunately, I’m going to have to pretend to if I want to make it out of this thing alive.”

“So you’re proposing we play a little Romeo and Juliet? I must say though, I’ve always considered myself to be more of a Mercutio character.” He pulled back from her then, the smile he’d worn slowly slipping from his face while a quiet sincerity peeked through from beneath the surface, his words surprisingly tender when he said, “You know, I meant it when I said you didn’t have to reciprocate what I mentioned during my interview. I’d never intended for you to even try.”

“I know,” Lauren replied. “But, at this point, I’m willing to play all my cards if it means tipping the scale in both our favors. I don’t want to risk the regret of not trying to do what we can do, especially if it’ll help us out and save our lives.”

Kieran regarded her for a moment, the look he gave her leaving imprints of electricity across her flesh. After a pause, he finally said, “Okay. Let’s do it. I confess it would lend some credence to my excuse to the Careers.”

Giving him a simple nod, Lauren replied, “Good. I suppose we should strategize and set some boundaries then?”

“Yes, we should,” he answered, the crooked grin returning to his lips as he added, “Though do try to be careful not to lose yourself in the performance. It may become easy to forget where the act ends and reality begins.”

Lauren released an exasperated breath, folding her arms over her torso. “Oh, believe me. I will do my best not to.”

Kieran gave a small chuckle, the distance between them disappearing as he drew closer to her, near enough that she could feel the heat of his skin radiating off him like the embers of a flame across her front. She caught the faint whiff of the fragrant scent of the wind and sun on his hair, the aroma of fir around his collar. It was a disconcerting sensation, unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite articulate, and soon there was kindling burning within her own skin and rising up her neck as though a spark had been ignited through each nerve.

She steadied the look she gave him when his eyes met hers, the vivid hues of his blues deepening as he said, “Very well. Let the show begin.”