Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Gamemaker Center, Capitol, ‘111

PARIS CALLOW, Y1 APPRENTICE GAMEMAKER (they/them)

When Paris saw Broteas Brand, their first thought was why did I agree to this internship again? 

Despite being the Head Gamemaker, a job which Paris thought would be hard to perform without being trendy, his outfit was so gaudy that they nearly gagged. It was a simplistic suit with a scratchy fabric and diamond studded jewels in it, the shoes matching. Glitter and jewels had died with the fall of ‘104, due to Excellence Schimek losing popularity faster than most Victors. 

Even worse than his suit was his hair, dyed in an ombre that faded from bright, lemon yellow to a deep crimson. His skin was tinted a pale yellow, as though to match. When he turned from the black, circular sheet of metal he was hunched over, they made eye contact. His eyes were a startling and artificial blue, the type of blue only achieved by food coloring. The pupils were sideways, like the eyes of a goat.

While disturbed, Paris was so shocked that they almost missed him approaching them with a handshake. “Paris Callow, correct?” Broteas asked. His accent struck Paris as faintly odd—maybe one of the people who lived in the Capitol’s northwestern suburbs. 

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing. As Paris brushed fingers with Broteas, they were suddenly overwhelmed by a strong scent of patchouli cologne. They easily resisted the urge to cough—memories of harshly-taught manners running through their head, as the Academy couldn’t afford to produce a generation who were District-like —but they did have to mentally stop their nostrils from taking another whiff. 

“I am so happy that you were interested in this position. Your mother, such a startlingly beautiful woman...it's no wonder that your family has been seeing the success that it has,” Broteas said, giving an affable smile.

Paris cleared their throat. They were used to people talking about their mother’s accomplishments before their own. It was easy to start a conversation about someone looking like one of the women who was constantly on billboards, posing in lingerie or applying seductive red lipstick. But Paris had long grown accustomed to such talk, and therefore was able to easily wind it away. “I am so grateful for this opportunity,” they expressed. “I have long been fascinated by the Games, and I’m certain that you will be a great mentor.” Paris gave a quick nod to punctuate the sentence.

“Just as I’m certain that you will be a worthy apprentice.” Broteas nodded in return, before whisking around. Paris saw then that the suit also had coat tails , although by that point they were so stunned by the man’s fashion style that they couldn’t even think of why it was so horrible.

“Now, as a Gamemaker, we must consider many factors. Weather, muttations, and other natural animals of the given area, for example, none of that can be decided without an Arena.” Broteas approached the flat black disk. Paris lingered for a moment until he motioned for them to join him. “Arenas are typically divided into two categories. Fabricated Arenas, such as the 111th, are Arenas which are entirely built from the ground up. They are typically indoor Arenas, but we’ve had a fair share of fabricated outdoor ones as well. The opposite are natural Arenas, which are formed when we spy a particularly promising area of land and then use it as an Arena for a year.”

As Broteas brought up the topic of the 111th Games, which had occurred some months before, he pressed a long string of buttons on a white fixture that stuck out from the disc. Abruptly, the room, formerly a sterile white, lit up with a soft blue glow as a holographic view of the Arena appeared. 

Paris had enjoyed it. A good concept, certainly, being a huge library with owl statues that had come alive on the penultimate day and chased down the tributes, as well as a sort of hermit crab horde-type mutt that hid among the books and could be fatal if the tributes opened the wrong one. When the boy from 7 had gotten his fingers pinched off by one, Paris had found them stupid. But then when the alliance between 5, 9, and 10, had discovered that some of the books contained useful information about survival, they understood their purpose.

“Given the chaotic nature of the Games, the Arena has to be perfectly balanced in every fashion. Too big, and it will result in a tragically boring starve-out that will be obviously slanted towards the outliers. Too small, and it will be a bloody rush to the finish. However, it is important to keep in mind that both of these concepts can work , if some things are slightly shifted. But it's always vital to balance out the Games between two years.”

“Which leads us to next year, the 112th Hunger Games. While the library Arena was certainly novel and a smashing success, D5M ended up being the least favored among his alliance and therefore a disappointing Victor. Along with D7F being the Victor of the 110th Games with slightly more likeability, I’m interested in a grande Arena this year to hopefully produce a grander, and preferably more violent Victor.” Broteas inputted another sequence of commands. 

Another hologram appeared, this one with a label hovering over the dome-shaped Arena. 112 W.I.P, it read. And it certainly was a work-in-progress. Considering that Paris had only seen the completed products of Arenas, they couldn’t help but feel that the barebones sight in front of them was almost uncanny. 

In fact, it was so empty that it took them a moment to realize what they were staring at. Uncertain, they waited until Broteas motioned for them to give their thoughts. Despite the man being a horrid sight, they knew that it was proper to wait for their superior to allow for them to speak, just as the Academy teachers had the students do. “The Cornucopia is an interesting idea,” they observed. “A bait-and-switch to get the tributes comfortable. I quite like it.”

Broteas nodded in agreement. “Impressive Arenas are defined by their reveals. Take the 97th Hunger Games, for example. All of the tributes thought that they would be safe in that beautiful hotel until the blackout hit just as the beginning cannon sounded.” He smiled as though describing his fondest memory. Paris supposed that it might’ve been, although they were fairly certain that Hydra Gaul had been the Head Gamemaker at that time. 

Paris frowned in concentration, trying to think of how the 111th Hunger Games went down. Ten tributes out of twenty-six was a decent haul, with all of the Careers getting their fill. But the endless shelves of the library—which also had the added feature of shifting during each of the thirteen nights the Arena was active—made it harder for the Career alliance to hunt, as it offered no way of remembering where they had gone.

“I would suggest shrinking the overall size of the Arena,” they put in, twisting a lock of purple hair around their finger. “Especially with the outer edge looking like that, that gives the outliers a lot of wiggle room for hiding out. You said that it was better to avoid a starve-out, so…” As soon as the words left their mouth, an apology rose in their throat, a leftover habit from the Academy. 

Broteas stepped back, an artist looking at his masterpiece. “I see what you’re saying. I was planning on that central area taking the tributes twenty-six hours straight of walking to cross the diameter…”

“Twenty-six hours? With so many nooks and crannies? The Careers would be hunting for days ,” Paris pointed out. “I see why you want to make this Arena so expansive, but that is simply too far.” They considered themselves to be a Games enthusiast, but even they would have to fight the urge to fall asleep if they were presented with such a sight.

Broteas’s goat eyes flicked back and forth. “Good point. You’re picking things up already.” He picked up a silvery pen before jotting down a note on the hologram. 

Paris blinked in surprise. They thought they had seen all of what Capitol technology had to offer. Clearly that wasn’t the case. Meanwhile, Broteas slowly nodded. “Yes, yes…a smaller central area will allow the outer parts to shine more…”

“When will you start considering mutts to be added?” Paris voiced. With the style of the Arena, they could see multiple opportunities for intriguing mutt designs. Of course, they weren’t certain how much of a say they would have in mutt designs, being a year-one apprentice, but they were at least curious to see the concepts.

“One step at a time,” Broteas clarified, his tone reassuring. “It's important to define the Arena more before we even get to mutts. And as Head Gamemaker, it's my job to explain my thoughts on mutts. Unsurprisingly, the muttation developers deal with the science behind them. It used to be that Head Gamemakers had to know mutt logistics, but that resulted in too many mutt-heavy Games.” 

He turned away, pressing a button and shutting down the display. “I have a lot to think about. I’ll have to redo the measurements for the Arena circumference. Thank you for your input. If it helps, you have truly impressed me on your first day.”

Paris lingered for a moment, almost slack-jawed. Once they realized that they looked like an idiot, they sunk into a deep bow. “Thank you,” they said quickly, as though he would change his mind. They made their leave in a similar manner.

They weren’t in much of a hurry to leave the Gamemaker Center. For some reason, there was an odd ritual of Gamemakers being drugged with a sedative, blindfolded, and then shoved into a vehicle to be brought to their own workplace. The first time it had happened, Paris was certain that they were being kidnapped. In other words, they really weren’t looking forward to experiencing that again.

If Paris didn’t know what the Center was, they would’ve thought it was a hospital of some sort. In some ways, it looked like it, with most of the floors being dominated by various offices, conference rooms, and laboratories.  They had absolutely no clue what lay in the bottom two levels. Out of pure curiosity, they had wandered down there when they first arrived in the Center, only to discover a pure black door that required a Class 5 keycard to enter. This was interesting only in the way that from what Paris had seen, Broteas had a Class 3 card. 

Paris was caught so deeply in thought that they almost crashed directly into a neon green-clad man. They stumbled a few steps back, trying to recuperate. “Ah, apologies, mister…” their words died in their throat as they saw who it was, drawing themselves out of their awkward stance and into a straight-backed position. “Figuerdo.”

“Paris,” the man said in turn. His irises were completely black and adorned with two sclera green pupils. He had somehow found a way to dye his saliva and tongue and make them green as well. His teeth were sharped to fine points and he wore multiple earrings in both ears. His slicked-back black hair also had rivers of neon green dye running through it, somehow made to look like they were constantly flowing. 

“What are you doing here?” They asked. He wasn’t an apprentice Gamemaker, not as far as they knew. They would’ve never come if they did know. 

“Doing my service. I’ve landed a government position, you know.” He leaned casually against the wall, checking his black nails which had been lengthened into near-claws. Paris never understood his obsession with looking like a monster before.

“Of course I know,” they snapped instantly, before regaining their composure. “President Cardew has an interest in you, daddy’s money, yada yada, same old story. What do you want ?” 

Figuerdo opened his mouth to argue, but closed it just as quickly as he assessed the situation in the snakelike manner he always did. The Demigloss family had been longtime supporters of the Games, so much that they had named one of their own children after one of the great District 1 Houses. Instead, he decided to bite back. “Accusing me of nepotism is insanity when your mother has one of the biggest egos in all of Panem,” he snarled back. “All of the years in the Academy, and you still can’t stop vying for her approval. When will you grow up, Paris?”

Paris took a deep breath to stop themself from screaming. You’re better than him. You’re better than him. You’re better than him. “Don’t bring my mother into this. I asked a question.”

“Well, as one of Cardew’s loyal messengers”— lackeys, Paris mentally corrected—”I have to carry messages, obviously. I was told to bring this to Broteas Brand, but I have no fuckin’ clue where that guy is. So now you can deal with it.” He produced a velvety white envelope, with yellow detailing around the corners in the style of lace. On the front was the seal of the Capitol.

“From the President himself,” they noted. “And for the record, despite being one of Cardew’s so-called messengers, you don’t do your work very well. Maybe learn how to stop being such a hardass.”

“Hardass? I’ll show you hardass ,” Figuerdo fumed. He ripped open the wax seal using only his clawed fingers and then practically tore apart the envelope, before pulling out one of the prettiest pieces of paper Paris had ever seen. They watched his eyes dance across the page.

Never in their life had Paris seen Figuerdo afraid . They had been friends once, sure, but even then he had always been confident and willing to dive into challenges. And when he had developed into a bully and somewhat of their rival, those traits had turned into pure arrogance.

The look on his face was pure horror. His face blanched. “What?” Paris asked with confusion, trying to see over his shoulder. Frustratingly, the taller man turned his body away from them with ease. “What’s up?”

“Oh fuck . Broteas might be screwed .” Figuerdo gasped out every syllable like he had been punched in the stomach, somewhere between panic and laughter. “You ready to be Head Gamemaker?” 

“Stop screwing around, Fig.” They used the weight of such an old nickname as a distraction to snatch away the letter. Surely he’s just being a dramatic jerk so that I freak out. 

Cardew’s calligraphy matched the look of the page. It was overtly elegant, in such a manner that Paris had to assume it was purposeful. In fact, some of the letters were so decorated that they had to squint at the page. It didn’t help that they had mostly neglected physical reading after their days at the Academy.

Dearest Broteas Murdock Brand , Brother of Mine;

It has come to my attention that you have been picking up my wife from my mansion at precisely 2:00 AM every morning and engaging in intercourse with her until dawn…

Paris gasped out loud. “What—”

Figuerdo clapped a hand over Paris’s mouth as a mutt specialist exited from the nearest room. She gave the two of them a strange look before moving on with her day. 

“This can’t be real. Are you sure this is—” the words died in their mouth at Figuerdo’s grave look.

“It came straight from him.”

Paris opened their mouth and closed it three times, quiet gasps escaping all the while. “You’re not serious.”

“Listen…just pretend like this never happened, right? I gave you this letter and we never read it.” Figuerdo claimed. “And for the record, I still hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual. I’ll…bring this to him.” Paris tentatively picked up the pieces of the envelope and tried their hardest to make it look like a natural accident instead of ripping.

“We can never speak of this again,” Figuerdo affirmed.

“Never,” Paris confirmed, before turning on their heel and marching up to Broteas’s office.

Presidential Penthouse, Capitol, ‘111

PROMETHEUS CARDEW, PRESIDENT OF PANEM (he/him)

Despite being President since ‘93 in the Old Years, Prometheus never ceased to be shocked by how painfully incompetent the other high society members of Panem were. 

He stood, looking out over what was effectively his kingdom, from the safety of his apartment. Just as Livia Cardew II had taught him, his chin was slightly tilted up, and his eyes were narrowed because everything was beneath him.

Truly, when he first dreamt of becoming the next true President of Panem—President Paylor was barely a sneeze in the unwinding thread of time, after all—he knew that it would not be an easy path. But despite his resolve, he was still surprised every year by what his peers could manage.

‘Peers’ might’ve been too kind of a word. Ever since his earliest schooling days, he knew he was above everybody else. You will be great , his mother had whispered as she put him into an exquisitely tailored suit. You will be great , his teachers had exclaimed when they gave him back flawless report cards. You will be great, the Headmistress of the Academy had smiled as she handed him his valedictorian gifts.

And he was great. He had effortlessly kept all of Panem safely tucked in the palm of his hand for eighteen years, after all. He had started what was considered the most inventive era of the Hunger Games under strict partnership with Hydra Gaul, a woman who he both hated and admired. 

The only issue with having such a flawless record of Games was that it was hard to keep ideas fresh. There had been a few frightening claims that the Games were beginning to get so outlandish that they were becoming repetitive. Really, repetitive was a ghoulish word that haunted Prometheus in general. He wanted nothing less than to end up like any of his three predecessors. The first, poisoned in a mysterious assassination. The second, shot by the Mockingjay. The third, killed by Prometheus’s own design. 

Of course, Prometheus had his own thoughts on how to improve the Games. It occurred to him on multiple occasions how the Games could truly be a spectacle. If only Gamemakers were willing to take a step away from tradition and towards greatness. Alas, such a mix wasn’t meant to be. 

Not only that, but Prometheus had been plagued by Head Gamemakers who wanted the Games to be extravagant on an entirely different scale. When Hydra Gaul had discussed her thoughts for the Fourth Quarter Quell, the thought of ninety-one tributes made Prometheus’s head spin. It had helped to put the tributes into randomized squads of seven and split them like that, but it was still a major headache and a large blow to the annual budget.

Broteas was a whole different type of problem, a problem which Prometheus planned to address in…according to his watch, five minutes. The man had been a year his junior at school and one of the students who fawned over Prometheus like a celebrity. He never minded it, but he knew none of them were on his level.

Overall, it felt like Panem was an unsolvable puzzle. Sure, Prometheus could have the greater body of it under perfect, organized control, but then some piece would force itself from the whole and Prometheus would have to figure out how to rearrange the entire image for it to fit. After all, if the President couldn’t solve such small issues, could he really call himself the President?

Prometheus turned and approached his desk. Everything was in its intended place. He had a small model of Panem on it, a sort of war map that he constantly scrawled plans upon. New silo in 9? Maybe close off 11’s eastern border…population starting to crawl close to it. Remember to talk with Valentines about producing jewelry for Althaea. 

He blinked once at that message and then hastily removed it with an eraser. Althaea was as good as dead to him, after all. 

The doors swung open. Two of his Presidential Guard entered, carrying Broteas Brand between them. “Sir, we caught this man trying to sneak out of the Gamemaker Center.” They spoke completely neutrally of him, one of Prometheus’s favorite traits of his personnel. No matter how famous or respected somebody was, they were as good as trash when they questioned him.

Prometheus sat down swiftly and leaned forward, resting his chin against his knotted hands. “Thank you, gentlemen. You may leave us.”

Broteas let out a shocked cry as he was dropped without warning. The two guards turned as one and marched out of the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind them. 

Prometheus regarded Broteas coldly. “First, I called you. Then I sent Guards to your home. Then I wrecked your vacationing apartment in 1. And what it took to finally see you face-to-face is a letter to your workplace? I wish I could applaud your dedication, but obviously you are willing to put other things above that.” He paused. “Sit up, Brand. Seeing you sprawled out like an ill bitch makes me feel like you don’t deserve this.”

Broteas trembled in silence, yet he followed the order. 

Whenever Prometheus had bothered to cast a look in his direction during his years at the Academy, Broteas always gave off the impression of a frightened hummingbird, shifting his weight and flitting his eyes around whatever area he had been dragged into.

“So, it's obvious what I’ve brought you here for. Care to explain why I was alerted by my Guard—which is pitifully short-staffed as of now due to you paying half of them off to not say shit —that my wife was seen climbing into a stranger’s car every morning for the past two weeks?”

Still, the man didn’t speak. A flash of anger, hot and embracing, ran through Prometheus. He shot up from his chair, approached Broteas, tidied his suit, and then slapped him. The sharp sound echoed around his large office. “Get it together,” Prometheus snapped.

Broteas looked stunned. A red mark was already fading onto his skin. “I—I haven’t been able to focus on work recently,” he said, his eyes downcast. He remained on his knees. Prometheus appreciated the height difference. It allowed him to glare downwards. 

In fact, the last time he had been able to stare down at someone with such intensity was when he was crowning Gramme Bazil of 5. Of course, it had required lifts to be added to his shoes, but nothing felt better than feeling the trembling running vibrations through the golden crown as he placed it atop the squeaky boy’s head.

“And why is that ?” Prometheus wondered out loud. “You know, I have eyes, Brand. I can see things others don’t notice. And I’ve been noticing that dame of yours, ah, what is it, Decuma? Yes, she’s been seen crying in her bars more frequently with friends than she has been seen with you .”

“She thinks our relationship is going nowhere,” Broteas attempted feebly. “No kids and all.”

“I see,” Prometheus nodded, feigning empathy. He enjoyed the slight shift in Broteas’s eyes. A flicker of hope. “Well, Brand, I only have one thing to say to that.”

Broteas looked up. Prometheus leaned down, so that they were face-to-face. The smell of patchouli washed over him. Prometheus was learning to hate the scent. “I don’t care about your problems with your pig of a wife, but if you dare to touch mine again, I will ensure that Decuma disappears. And of course, there will be only one suspect, won’t there? They’ll find her body, crumpled and broken up, in a trunk with your name on it.” 

Broteas’s jaw dropped. Prometheus smiled. “Ah, Broteas, lighten up. Due to the nature of your betrayal, I’ve shared your punishment between you and Chryseis.”

The man blinked dumbly. “Wha—what did you do to her, Prometheus?”

“Nothing, naturally. She’s just off on a nice, permanent vacation in my District 9 country house. If any problems are to arise in that area, well, the news will say that I’m staying there with her. I’m sure that the masses will be momentarily appeased by killing the First Lady.” Prometheus shrugged. He spoke like he was explaining what he was eating for breakfast.

“You’re going to put your own wife in danger just because of—that’s insane!” Broteas cried out.

“She’s no wife of mine. Not any longer. You’ve made that certain. Ah well, it's alright. As they say, there are many fish in the sea. Maybe I should take a night off, spend some time with my old school friend Decuma. Then we’ll be even. How does that sound, Brand?”

“What?! No!” The man protested immediately. Despite not being restrained, he still remained obediently on the ground. He at least had enough self-respect to finally lift his chin and look Prometheus in the eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it's okay when you do it, but when I do it, you suddenly act like it's illegal?” Prometheus sighed, rolling his eyes up towards the arched ceiling. “Bumbling fools like you are the reason why Panem can’t progress. It's alright though, because, luckily, there are competent people like me to pick up your slack.”

Prometheus moved away and pretended like he didn’t see Broteas’s relieved sigh. Privately, he relished in the man’s fear. “Speaking of competent people, actually, Paris sent me some plans for the coming year’s Arena. I must say, that apprentice you have is actually half-good. I would even go as far as to say they might be…better than you.”

Broteas’s pale yellow skin somehow went stark white. “Are you saying that you're going to-to—”he stumbled to get the word out—” replace me?”

“No, Brand, no . Frankly, that would be a waste of time and resources.” Broteas’s hopeful look returned. “However, consider yourself on…Gamemaker probation. This is a strike, let’s say. Mess up at the caliber you just did again, and I’ll be forced to reconsider resource distribution for ‘112.” He sniffed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Against my luck, the 112th Hunger Games do provide a smooth opportunity for you for redemption. If they prove to be a reinvention of some sort, I’ll consider not making you disappear.” He shrugged. 

At Broteas’s look, Prometheus felt the tiniest sliver of guilt, a feeling which he isolated and shoved down deep inside of himself in exchange for the rising of bile at the fact it had occurred in the first place. “Don’t be too concerned, though.” 

He approached his desk and opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a stack of blueprints and notes. He proceeded to dump them in front of Broteas and then Prometheus coldly watched the man pick up each individual piece, a few sliding from his clammy grasp. 

“What are these?” Broteas asked. For all of his plain fear, the man was still one that was fascinated by new concepts and ideas. In that unfortunate way, they were similar. 

“Ah, just some concepts I drafted up from what Paris sent me. Thoughts on mutts and Arena events. I will admit, it's quite the innovative design.”

Now for the enjoyable part . Prometheus mentally grinned as he saw Broteas’s color slowly drain back to what it had been before the skin dye. “Some of these are—these aren’t possible.” He said quickly. “I mean, they’re possible , but they’re such big shifts in the meta of the Games that nobody would be satisfied.”

“Well, your job is to satisfy, is it not?” Prometheus raised his brow.

“Of course, but still. And some of these things—the mutts—that’s just plain cruel.”

While Prometheus wanted to spin their conversation around on Broteas for sympathizing with the Districts, he had already planned out exactly how the next—and final , if everything went well—year of Broteas’s life was going to go. “You can appease me, or you can appease the greater Capitol. I’m certain you’ll find a way to make those one and the same. But if you can’t, well, there’s always Paris.”

Broteas visibly swallowed. Prometheus raised his brow, before nodding to him. “For what it's worth, good luck, Brand.” Remind them who’s in control , a voice that was distinctly his mother’s murmured. He turned back to his window and waved over his shoulder. “You’re dismissed.”

He waited for the doors to thump closed before sighing and massaging his temples. How had he ever allowed such a buffoon to enter one of Panem’s most prestigious positions? 

Prometheus scoffed, before looking back out over his city. Maybe this country is just doomed to incompetence and foolery .

Chapter Text

Holdem, District 10, ‘111

BANQUO PERMUTT, VICTORY TOUR PREPARATION CREW (he/him)

Banquo was really starting to despise his hometown. Every time he stepped in front of the Justice Building, into the Reaping Square—a phantom that was briefly revived for one day every year—he could only see the past.

He still remembered that day, some months ago: the warm press of the other sixteen-year-olds around him, as he was forced to step away from Oisian’s grounding touch and into the familiar uncertainty of the Reapings.

He still remembered the awkward split between tines and pales. As per usual, he had stood in an uncomfortable middle—the result of a tine mother and a pale father, after all, was not meant to be openly accepted by either group. But he had hardly known his father. The tine culture was what he had been  raised in. But his upbringing hadn’t mattered against  the color of his skin and so instead he had lingered in the ghostly space in-between.

He had hardly heard their stupid escort, Eduene, begin to speak. She couldn’t have cared less about District 10. Ever since Collie’s disastrous Victory in the 100th, who could? Their mentors were freaks with broken minds. Nobody was going to make it home.

And then the worst thing had happened. “Daida Barahona!”

Banquo would've known the name of his fourteen-year-old prima anywhere. She was one of the people who accepted him into his mother’s tine family with no question. He could only stare, open-mouthed, as she was marched onto the stage. 

The boy who had been  Reaped was some other tine kid from the Range. Banquo had been fairly sure that he had seen him selling goat’s milk.

He had followed the rest of his family up to say goodbye to Daida. She had been  so frightened, snot dripping from her nose and her cheeks wet with tears. Once everyone else had filtered through with the usual nonsense about being sorry, Banquo had thought that his loyal cousin deserved some real advice.

“Daida, look at me.” Banquo had said, gently resting his fingers on her damp cheeks. Daida was shockingly pretty. It was unsurprising how many Three Knives boys wanted her to keep them company. Even then, when most people would look a disheveled mess, Daida had looked more like a maiden, crying in despair for her prince. Banquo hadn’t understood where all of his mother’s good genes went. In comparison, with his green-undertone pale brown skin and lanky horse limbs, he had looked like an overgrown bush. “Daida, its going to be alright. No matter how they break you, you just keep your head up, okay? And never give up. Find a group of nice, skillful people. They’ll have your back. But no matter what, you can’t give up. Do you hear me?”

“ Ai , Banquo. We both know I’m not coming home.” Her tone had been so resolved, like she was ready to be stuffed into a casket.

“No, no, not my cousin. You show them exactly what us Three Knives kids have to offer.” As he finished that sentence, the Peacekeeper in the room had approached the pair with a stern glare through their tainted mask. Banquo had glared back as the man reached for him to drag him out.

“No need to put those gloves on me, man. I’m on my way out.” With that, Banquo had stood and left the room with at least some dignity, although he had to blink wetness from his eyes as he stepped out.

The next two weeks had been hell, plain and simple. To her credit, Daida had followed his advice. She had found a good alliance in the skinny girl from 3, the boy from 5, and the pair from 7. 

Well, the alliance had seemed good. Both from 7 had died in the library Arena’s Bloodbath, instantly crippling the plans of the alliance. The remaining three had discovered valuable information about the Arena from the books that surrounded them. On the seventh day of eleven, however, the girl from 3 had her fingers pinched off by the book hermit crabs, and she bled out before next morning. 

Then the Careers had the shelves shift in their favor, and they stumbled right across Daida and Gramme. The pair had run for their lives, but Daida tripped over a fallen column, and that was that. The cameras zoomed in on her blood-streaked, impaled torso, a clean cut from the District 4 boy. 

When Daida had fallen, Gramme hadn’t even turned around.

That experience was just the beginning. The worst had been  the funeral that occurred in late August, when the sun baked the ground into dust and left every worker miserable and tired. Daida had been buried as she was born, wreathed in hay and surrounded by goat bones and jugs of their milk. 

He wasn’t the only one feeling the tension. All of the people who had volunteered to help with preparations were carefully avoiding the subject of the Victor whom they were preparing for . Safe to say, Gramme Bazil was not a popular guy in 10.

Banquo watched the pedestals be put into place, where the families of the deceased would be placed. He pictured his family, all crammed onto the left pedestal of the female District 10 tribute. 

Another group of people rolled a raised image of the two deceased tributes. Banquo headed over from where he was stringing a banner— WELCOME, GRAMME BAZIL! --across two poles. He helped the skinnier volunteers with putting Daida’s frame into place, a short pole and base with wheels attached to the large picture.

District 10 families couldn’t afford luxuries such as cameras, so the image within the frame was one from her time in the Capitol. It was a picture of her walking across the stage in a jean romper, a smile plastered neatly onto her face. Banquo wondered if she had truly enjoyed her time in the Capitol, or if one of her useless mentors had forced her to like it.

Soon enough, everything was properly prepared. Someone got into the Justice Building and rang the large brass bell within its belfry. It was a melancholic sound, calling out that it was the one last time for District 10 to mourn their yearly losses.

People filtered in slowly. Banquo spotted his mother and extended family approaching their pedestal, and walked over to join them. Instead, he was stopped by another volunteer. “They want us on standby, in case anything goes wrong,” they informed him.

Banquo resisted the urge to shout in frustration. Instead, he walked next to the stage, where a few Peacekeepers had been stationed. They looked straight ahead, paying him nothing more than an assessing glance.

Some of the other volunteers were also on standby. Banquo recognized a face that he hadn’t seen for some time. “Oscar,” he asked, squinting at the boy. “Is that you?”

Oscar, a pale boy with a mop of blonde hair, gave Banquo a reserved smile. “I didn’t know if it was you. It’s been six years.”

“It’s me, man,” Banquo affirmed. He slid past some of the other volunteers to stand by him.

“How are you holding up?” Oscar asked. Despite them not speaking for some time, rumors of the deceased spread like wildfire around the District. “I’m so sorry about your loss.”

“I’m alright. There’s only so much grief you can feel until it all goes numb,” he responded truthfully. “Devastating loss though. Deida was…the best of us.”

Oscar hung his head in a silent memorial for a moment. “My mother was going to bake the Barahonas a pie. She thought it would be best to leave y’all be for some time.”

Banquo nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment. This is going to be the hardest part, and then we can move on.”

Oscar opened his mouth in reply, but one of the other volunteers gave a sharp hiss to silence them both as Eduene invited Gramme Bazil of District 5, the Victor of the 111th Hunger Games, to the stage.

The boy arrived on stage with little love from the crowd. There were a few scattered attempts at clapping, mostly from the pales, but almost all of the tines—who actually had a stake in the Games—stared straight ahead, resolved to the pain they were about to experience.

As Gramme walked forth from the Justice Building, Banquo was shocked by how tall he was. He had to be about six feet and six inches. He had seemed so small on television. 

The other thing that shocked Banquo was just how quickly he was overcome by fury. When he laid his gaze upon Gramme, he was reminded of how the boy had abandoned Deida as a distraction for the Careers.

He resolved to glare at Gramme with all of his might as the boy approached the microphone. The Victor lifted the small black instrument to his mouth, a squeal echoing around what felt like the entirety of Holdem.

The only one who reacted was Gramme himself. The boy flinched away from it briefly, before slowly leaning forward. 

He had been dolled up for his Tour, evidently. Banquo knew next to nothing about fashion, but he had seen how Eduene dressed for the past four years. Gramme’s outfit almost seemed like a masculine version of something straight from her wardrobe. It was pale green, with a chequered pattern of darker greens and an egg white undershirt. 

Banquo had no clue if it was just Gramme’s lanky stature, but his clothes clung in odd places. It probably wasn’t helped by the Victor’s nervous disposition. His eyes flitted around Holdem, two dark pools trying to soak up everything and make sense of it all. Eventually, his eyes came to rest to the side, where Banquo was.

Banquo had no clue what caused it. All he knew was that one second, they were engaged in an awkward staring contest. The next moment, Gramme’s pale face had gone paler, as though he had placed why Banquo looked so recognizable. 

Eduene awkwardly stumbled over to the microphone, clearly discomforted by the perpetual silence from the Victor. “Apologies, everyone, Mr. Bazil here is a bit, well, tongue-tied. Thank you for your patience.” With that, she turned to him and exchanged a few harsh words with the boy, who stood like a statue. Meanwhile, the metallic black cameras slithered through the air, readjusting their angles while they had the chance. A few drones flew around, no doubt casting looks at how ‘brutal’ and ‘depraved’ District 10 was to the entirety of Panem.

Finally, Eduene tottered away on her humongous heels, and it was only Gramme again. He opened his mouth, taking an audible sigh, before he began. “As always, I would like to prelude this speech by giving my everlasting thanks to the Capitol, who are the true benefactors of my Victory. I couldn’t have made it far without these Games to show me…the…” His breath hitched as he looked down at his cards. “...true worth of camaraderie and friendship.” 

Banquo felt like he had just been gut-punched. Camaraderie and friendship? You left my cousin to die on her own , he thought, a dark rage curling tightly in his stomach. 

He wasn’t the only one who was upset at the word choice. A few displeased mutters were ringing through the crowd from both tines and pales. Despite the divisions between the two groups, disrespect of the dead was considered to be one of the most admonishable actions.

Gramme obviously noted that he was losing the audience, as did an unnerved Eduene. She motioned to him to hurry it up. The boy flipped to the next card, swallowing nervously as he continued. “Both Daida and Rocinante were honorable tributes. Despite the amount of fear that can be generated in an Arena, they both kept their heads high and stayed brave, never once faltering.”

He turned slightly towards a weathered-looking family, composed of two women and six children. Interestingly, none of the children looked quite like the one next to them—surely adopted from District 10’s small community homes. Rocinante must’ve been adopted too. 

“I did not know Rocinante,” Gramme admitted in a matter-of-fact tone. “I believe we spoke on one occasion, and it was quite a short one. I am saddened that he fell so quickly and violently, but it was a worthy sacrifice to maintain the Peace of Panem.” Yet again his tone stumbled on the final words of the phrase. 

Even from his distance, Banquo could see the furious looks on each of the children’s faces. Despite both women’s looks of resolve, their shoulders shook with anger. Banquo could sympathize, despite not knowing the boy. He knew already that whatever Gramme had to say about his cousin would be far more intimate.

Gramme pivoted slowly to look at Banquo’s family, however he carefully avoided looking them in the eyes. “I did know Daida, more than most did. Despite the challenges that our Arena presented, she entertained our alliance with stories of this—your District. She was impossibly kind, and she wasn’t once afraid.”

Every word Gramme spoke was a needle that pressed into Banquo’s brain. Interspersed with his words were images of Daida’s last moments. Her tears, just like how she had been during their final goodbye, her screams of Gramme’s name, the flesh of her soft arms being violently torn apart as she tried to defend herself from being stabbed. 

Banquo felt his fists slowly close by his sides. His world tunneled in so that it was only on the cursed Victor’s face. His eyes were vacant, like he didn’t actually care at all. Of course he didn’t. If he did, he would’ve seen that Daida was afraid the whole time. 

“She, too, was a necessary sacrifice. Her unfortunate death led the way to my victory.” Gramme blinked slowly, and Banquo realized that he was blinking tears from his eyes.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to keep the tension from exploding out of his body. For a moment, it felt like he had everything under control. There was still reason within him, telling him that the boy from 5 didn’t really think any of these things, that he was just being pressured into a speech.

And then he felt Oscar’s hand on his back. “Banquo? Are you okay?”

Meanwhile, Gramme was giving his concluding statement on Banquo’s cousin. “I can only wish for more tributes from your District like her, tributes who, despite lacking skill to win, are still worthy of respect and the highest honor, which—”

He couldn’t take it. Suddenly, he was charging forward onto stage faster than the Peacekeepers could react. They were obviously stunned and half-asleep, as they barely even responded. “How dare you say those things about my cousin?!” Banquo screamed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the people of his District, who had been torn and beaten and then told that their tributes lacked skill. He saw a few tines looking up with curiosity and, damn , even respect. The pales looked frightened.

And then, to the left, his uncle, who gave the smallest, most imperceptible nod. In the silence, a pindrop could’ve been heard. But Banquo wasn’t intent on keeping silent. “Daida only lacked the skill to win because you fucking killed her!”

Gramme looked stunned, his jaw faintly open. He turned back towards the audience at Eduene’s gesture. Peacekeepers began to ascend the stairs. “Thank you, District 10, for your continuation of maintaining the peace and posterity of our unified Panem. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

“Don’t ignore me!” Banquo’s voice broke, the last sound less than a raw howl. He saw the two waves of white encroaching on him, remembered the gloves that were nearly placed on his shoulder when Daida was being sent to be killed.

There was only place to go. Gramme was staring at him now, uncertainty in his eyes. Banquo didn’t care. He deserved all of what he was about to get.

He took a breath and lunged towards the other boy.

To his credit, Gramme attempted to sidestep. He didn’t lose all of the skills he had picked up in the Arena, evidently. But Banquo was fast and had the advantage of surprise. Besides, Gramme neglected to consider how large of a target he was.

Both of them went tumbling through the air for what felt like eternity. In reality, it was just seven feet. As they hit the ground, a great amount of resting dust shot up into the air, mostly blinding the Peacekeepers who had been attempting to get a hold on the situation.

Banquo took less than a second to regain himself before he jumped on top of Gramme. “You—” his breath heaved with discomfort, having been winded by the fall, “you think you know all about my prima . You think she wasn’t afraid ?! You left her, asshole!”

Gramme opened his mouth, as if to argue, but no sound came out. Instead, he was staring at some place beyond Banquo. “Look at me ,” Banquo hissed in return, grabbing Gramme by the raised collar of his undershirt. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?!”

He raised his fist and struck the District 5 boy across the face. There was a satisfying crunch. He assumed the dust was beginning to lift, as there were a few shocked gasps, as well as the rushed whispers of the camera crew to pause the feed, damnit .

Still, Gramme just stared at him. Banquo punched him again, and he made the sound of a kicked dog. “Pathetic,” he snapped. “You’re the guy who was heartless enough to leave my cousin, even when she was screaming your name?”

Gramme’s face was beginning to look really  beat up. His lip was awkwardly set, his nose dripping a steady line of blood. Not only that, but Banquo had accidentally rubbed off some sort of makeup that Capitolites wore. Suddenly, he could see a network of small scars that ran across his face.

“Fight back!” Banquo demanded, punctuating the phrase with yet another hit. Gramme gripped his sleeve harshly, and Banquo tensed, prepared for a hit.

His words stumbled out like the town drunks Banquo had grown accustomed to. “I’m sor–sorry that…I can’t give you what you want.” 

Abruptly, Banquo felt something cold being inserted into his neck. The world swayed and dipped sideways. “No,” he grunted, familiar with the type of sedative that they used to tame wild horses. He reached out towards Gramme, who was being helped up by two other stage hands.

“Are you alright?” One of them asked, beginning to lead Gramme away from the stage. Gramme said nothing, instead staring over his shoulder. 

Meanwhile, Banquo fell to the ground, held down by two Peacekeepers. His vision darkened. “Deida…” he muttered under his breath. “Where are you?”

Everything went black.

CW: drug use, depictions of trauma

Holdem, District 10, ‘111

GRAMME BAZIL, VICTOR OF THE ‘111th HUNGER GAMES (he/him)

Gramme was in a floundering state of half-awareness. Sometimes he would see flashes of reality, and other times he would be forced out of his mind, usually by some sort of substance. He didn’t care much about being taken out of the past, but he also didn’t care much for staying in the present.All it did was break up the monotony and try to relieve himself of some of the pain that stabbed in the back of his head over and over.

The past months had been rough. The first two weeks had just been a screaming, violent endeavor for himself and all of those around him. He felt at all times like he needed to scoop out his insides. He begged and yelled until his voice could barely squeak and then he beat the walls of his holding room with his fists, so loud all of 13 could hear it. 

They couldn’t let him go, though. He was too unstable. He wasn’t adjusting well, despite the pain medicine and the constant surveillance. Gramme could hear them through the walls. They needed him presentable. They needed him capable of saying whatever they needed. And most of all, the screaming had to go.

At the end of the first month, they took to sedating him. He would be under for hours and then would wake up shivering and sweating at the same time. His dazed state was filled with visions. Visions of watching Mossi and Pup from 7 be cleaved down by the pair from 1. Visions of having to pull Daida away, as she reached out and called their names. Visions of Radara screaming bloody murder, seven of her fingers gone. Visions of Daida, in all states of being. 

Then, the hateful boy from 8 who he had taken down with a broken piece of wood on the first day. He hadn’t cried out once. He had just stared up at him, anger in his eyes even after he  died. During the recap, Leto had cheerfully informed him that the boy had a horrible home life, and had often defended himself from bullies. 

And most of all, the twelve-year-old girl from 6. She hadn’t deserved it, either. But she was starving and half-dead. The remaining Careers were going to find her and do something much worse than the peaceful death that Gramme could grant her. 

How could he have known that her District partner was watching the entire time? How would he have expected that boy to allow his hatred to fester, take out the last Career from 4 and then hunt him down? Deliver a thousand cuts to his face and arms? “I don’t need your mercy,” he had said at the end.

All of the memories would fade into a peaceful blur. For moments at a time, Gramme would think that he’d finally moved on, that he could go home. And then the sedative would wear off—or maybe the effects would return, because Gramme couldn’t tell the difference anymore—and the ghosts would be back.

Finally, after five weeks, Gramme was given leave by his doctors-slash-captors. The only condition was that he would attend therapy for as long as necessary. Gramme had never heard of therapy before. 

He met Dr. Lunt soon after. A mild-mannered woman, who told him that she had chosen to break away from the public studies she had inherited from her family and specifically worked in assisting Victors.

Lunt’s advice ranged from obvious to just plain unhelpful. After the first day, Gramme took to only dropping small details of his true feelings. Luckily, it was clear that Lunt didn’t care much either, as long as she was being paid.

At least, that’s what Gramme thought. After all,  why would she want to help him? After Solara, his mentor and the only other Victor for 5 had seen him for the first time when he was released, she had scoffed and shook her head. “This world is going to eat you alive, kid,” she informed him, while taking a drag  on some sort of Capitol smoking device .

Gramme wondered what Lunt would say to him now. How do you feel, probably, or I’m sorry that you feel like that. 

Yet again, his mind was somewhere else. He was still on the dusty District 10 ground, that boy on top of him. He had been struck over and over. The boy’s face had been a blur, but he looked so much like Daida. 

Solara and Portico had told him that people would be angry. No matter what, Eduene, the escort for this District had advised, just keep reading those cards, hon .

Gramme had read the cards. He had done his job. He had almost been ready to ask if he could go home. He hadn’t expected to be tackled off of the stage by a boy who was screaming in his face. 

When the boy had first punched him, Gramme’s first instinct had been to throw him off and defend himself. It's what the Games had taught him to do, after all. Solve  violence with violence. 

But Gramme knew that if he raised a fist in response, his hands could only kill. So he took the blows. And, privately, he reveled in the pain, because the world seemed so much clearer. Suddenly, everything was crashing down. He had killed Daida. He had heard her call his name, and he had still turned his back, because he was afraid.

He deserved it.

However, no amount of beating Gramme was going to help that boy. In some ways, the Daida-looking kid was just like Gramme when he had first been sent to 13. He thought that destruction would give him peace.

Now, he had been quickly hurried off stage. One of the stagehands approached him with a syringe, offering another dose of his specialized sedative. Gramme shook his head. He wanted to be awake for all of this.

After that, he had been brought inside the Justice Building, to a dingy bathroom that had such a small mirror that, along with Gramme’s height, forced him to lean down awkwardly. They had handed him a scratchy rag.

For ten minutes exactly, Gramme just stared at his reflection. The boy had rubbed off all of the careful makeup his stylists had applied. The scars from the boy from 6 were back, and his permanently half-shut eye was made obvious. Along with the damage he had sustained from the beating, he hardly looked like himself.

It was hard to believe he had entered the Arena at sixteen years old. He felt about ready to lie down in the grave and finally have some peace. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and he bit his lip to force them back. Don’t cry . That’s not what a Victor does. 

Besides, he had stayed as strong as possible for so many months. He had left the Arena with two arms, two legs, and eight fingers. Two of them had been sacrificed to the boy from 6.

Gramme finally picked up the rag that had been offered to him. It was a ratty thing, threadbare at the edges, andwetted it. As he began wiping off the blood dripping from his nose, he found the rag  had a scratchy texture.

He heard a thump on the door. “Gramme? Are you alright?” His mostly uncaring mentor had a shockingly gentle tone.

Gramme opened the door. Despite most of the blood being scrubbed off, he knew he was still a sorry sight. Solara instantly flinched as though she had been struck.

“I think my nose is broken,” Gramme informed her.

Solara scoffed, her defenses already  flawlessly rebuilt. “Nothing a bit of ‘Capitol magic’ can’t fix, eh?” Gramme responded with a hapless shrug, turning back to the mirror. “Come on kid, you have to cheer up a bit.”

“It hurts,” he said, not referring to his nose. “It hurts a lot.”

“And it will stop hurting. But you have to actually let yourself move on first.”

And why should I listen to you? Gramme wanted to snap back in defense. You’re also a mess. “I don’t want to forget the people who died so that I could live.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive, kid.” Solara shook her head and sighed. 

Gramme sniffed and slid past Solara to leave. He wanted nothing more to be back in District 5. There, they couldn’t hate him as much. He hadn’t laid a singular finger on the girl from his District. She had been thirteen and decidedly not worth being in an alliance with. At least she was one person who he didn’t have to feel guilty about. Or maybe he was just becoming colder.

Besides, what was waiting for him at home? Ever since he had been young, his parents had reminded him that they had brought him into the world for one express purpose: to make money for them. In return, he got food and a roof over his head. And now, they were practically swimming in the money that he had won, in the mansion that he had killed for.

His action was given instant misfortune, as he bumped into the other person he wanted to avoid. Portico was a District 4 fan who had been trying to move his way up to that District for his entire life, even changing his name to sound more like their industry. His hair had beads and strings of pearl. His skin was a pale, powder blue, with fake scales and small webs between his fingers.

Standing next to him was Eduene, who looked positively miffed about everything going on. She was wildly gesticulating and speaking in a high voice. The frequency and her posh Capitol accent made her very hard to understand. 

“I mean, the ego of these District folk! I can’t believe I’ve been stuck with this backwards, depraved place! They had to give the troublemaker double the dose of what they give your Victor, Port! Double !”

Port was instead staring up at Gramme, who had completely crashed into him. He carefully avoided looking at his face. “Gramme,” he greeted. “How are you?”

Eduene instantly started yelling again, this time at Gramme. “I am so sorry about this ridiculous populace, mister Bazil! The security is absolutely unforgivable…I have already ordered for a report to be sent to the Capitol itself—how improper!”

Portico raised a hand as though taming an unpredictable animal. “You’re being unprofessional, Eduene. That being said, the attack was completely unprecedented. They’ve identified the boy as a member of the D10F’s family—”

“Daida,” Gramme intercepted. “Her name is Daida.”

“ Was ,” Eduene hissed under her breath. Portico cast a glare in her direction and she scoffed before marching off. 

“That makes sense,” Gramme finally responded to Portico. “They, um, looked similar.”

Portico gave a short clap, as though trying to dissolve the tension in the air. “Anyways, its time to start getting you ready for your next stop: District 9!”

Gramme sighed to himself. He hadn’t directly harmed anyone from 9, that was a calming fact, but 9 was infamous for its hatred of Victors and peaceful ways, especially of their own Victors. He had only seen Chia Helprin once, back during his own Games. She had been trying to help one of her crying tributes get it together, to no avail. Likewise, Kernel had been at the banquet, sleeping next to an empty glass of liquor.

His nose crinkled at the thought. No matter how desperate things got, he refused to let himself become an alcoholic. 

“Come on then,” Portico said. “You’re going to need a lot of makeup.”

Chapter Text

CW: depictions of trauma, mentioned Victor prostitution

Victor’s Village, District Twelve, ‘112

COLSTON GLAZEBROOK, VICTOR OF THE 89th HUNGER GAMES (he/him)

Colston had truly grown something that was his own. He wiped off sweat from his brow, looking at the multiple boxes. Something about knowing that the hives within would persist, no matter how harsh the winter, made his heart feel warm.

He had just finished dragging some chicken wire and surrounding the boxes with it. It would prevent mice from getting into the hives and ruining his work. And it was his job to prevent the bees who provided so much. 

His boots crunched across the snow as he entered his Victor’s mansion. There were twelve in the cul de sac, but only his was occupied. 

“Daddy, daddy!” A girl cried, approaching him at a run. Colston swept her up into his arms. She was almost a perfect replica of him.

“Hello, princess,” he cooed in response, poking Amaranth’s small stomach. She giggled in response.

“Amaranth, give your father some space,” a stern woman said. She held two babies in her arms. “He has an interview to get ready for, remember?” Despite addressing their daughter, Kirrily was looking directly at her husband. Her pale eyes briefly narrowed, though a playful smile was plastered on her face.

“Yes, yes, an interview,” Colston rumbled. He didn’t quite understand the point of them coming to his humble home, year after year, and bashing into his head that he would be marching another two children to their deaths.

At the very most, he thought that he somewhat understood what the Capitol audience was looking for. Proof that Victors were living good lives, or at least one was, despite his peers being broken glass that could never be pieced back into their original shape.

He didn’t change out of his beekeeping gear, but he did take the chance to towel off the majority of the sweat that had coalesced underneath it, and he combed a brush through his hair. 

After that, seeing that there was only roughly seven minutes left until the interview, he headed outside and pretended to do work, resecuring the chicken wire. However, Colston was careful to not do anything that would make him unappealingly disheveled.

With his free time and solitude, he chose to do a bit of self-reflection. At first, when Chrisoula Trinket had informed that beekeeping was his most promising hobby, with the other options being indoor decorating and arranging bouquets, he hadn’t been interested at all. Bees were a nuisance to him then, especially knowing the hornets that had caused him quite some trouble in the coniferous forest arena.

But over time, he had softened to the insects. He discovered that they were an important part of something called ‘the biosphere’, being the main pollinators of Panem. Pollinators did things like allowing flowers to grow. 

He heard the odd whirring engine of Capitol vehicles. The only vehicles in District Twelve, the Peacekeeper trucks, were loud and growled their way down the thin, unpaved roads. The Capitol automobiles were sleek and almost always some variation of black or gray, with tinted windows.

Instantly, three crew members exited the car. Two of them began setting up the Capitol’s fancy cameras—ones that sat on automatic necks so that they could move and observe different angles. The third ran to the backseat of the car and opened it.

“Ah, District Twelve,” a woman said as she stepped out, audibly giving a deep inhale. “Fresh air and the smell of pine and coal. How I love it.” 

Colston stifled a gag. Of all of the twenty-one interviews he had gone through since his victory, he had picked up who the better and kinder interviewers were. The woman standing in the road now, Emmy Queneau, had to be his least favorite. Her bright red hair stood out like a sore thumb in the muted landscape of Twelve.

She approached him, her heels clicking against the stone. Privately, Colston willed that a patch of ice would appear underneath her.

Emmy was certainly dressed for the cold. She was wearing a large, blue cloak, with sleeves that draped over her arms and golden stitched flowers winding in a complicated design across its body. There was an ostentatious fur collar around the neckline. Her boots matched, with fur lining the interior and bursting from the top. Her pale neck was accented with silver jewelry that had small pieces of sapphire within it. 

Her makeup worked well with her  outfit too , possibly the most understated part of her look. The most over-the-top part was an ornate silver headpiece that almost looked like metal earmuffs. Two giant pieces of sapphire stuck out from the sides, and tiny silver pieces designed to look like some sort of flower draped from beneath them. 

A smaller section of silver and sapphire stuck out over a piece of her forehead. That’s what Colston’s eyes chose to rest on as she walked over, her annoyed crew trying to figure out how to get the camera over the curb.

Emmy cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “Come on now, boys, put some spine into it!” She shouted, before turning back to him with a pleasant smile. “Colston,” she used his first name as though they were longtime friends. “It’s so amazing to see you.”

With that, she instantly lunged in and gave him a tight hug, one boot girlishly suspended in the air. “Always a pleasure,” Colston grunted. He gave an imperceptible glance to the side, where he saw Kirrily, her lip ever so slightly curled in rage. He quickly stepped away from Emmy as the camera was finally moved over the curb and into his backyard.

“And we’re rolling in 3…2…1…” one of the cameramen informed them, pressing a button on the back of the camera and counting down with his fingers. Another man quickly dashed in to hand Emmy a microphone. 

“Hel- lo Capitol, and any others who may be watching!” Emmy began, a cheerful smile spreading across her features. Colston gave her a sideways glance. Her lips were slightly larger than when he had last seen her. He wondered if she had gotten ‘work’ done, as Capitolites said. 

The Capitolite continued. “My name is Emmy Queneau, and I’m with the Panemian News here today! As Games season comes closer and closer, we like to get an interview with any Victors of interest. That brings us to none other than Twelve’s one and only Victor, Colston Glazebrook! Colston, how are you doing?”

“I’m well,” Colston responded simply, leaning ever so slightly towards the microphone. Emmy scowled briefly in response to his basic answer, but didn’t object. Instead, she gave the camera another winning grin. 

“Folks, he’s ‘well’!” She exclaimed, laughing to herself. “Alright, Colston, we’re all happy to hear that you’re doing alright. Now, a lot of people have been very curious about you. Twenty-two years since your Victory, and Twelve hasn’t had a singular promising tribute!”

“Some of them have been promising,” Colston interjected. “My girl in the 108th Hunger Games made it into the final eight.” He only used my girl because the Capitol could care less about tributes who weren’t Victors or memorable. In reality, Colston knew intimately the names of every child who he had sent off to die.

“Maybe that’s true,” she amended. “Does this mean that you think Twelve might have a chance of winning the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games?”

“Every District has an equal chance of winning,” he affirmed. Of course, he didn’t believe that on any metric, especially with the Careers of 1, 2, and 4, but it's what the audience wanted to hear. 

“If that’s the case, it must reflect more on the mentor,” Emmy speculated. Colston made a hissing noise through his teeth. He hesitated, unsure how to respond. Last year, one of his tributes had died to a spear from the boy from 4. The other had been killed by the living owl statues. How could they have been prepared for that?

“Perhaps it does,” he admitted. “Nonetheless, I’m adamant that District Twelve’s dawn is approaching. It all depends on the conditions of the Arena, as well as sponsor interest.”

Emmy blinked at him, probably annoyed by his neutrality. “Let’s move on to the topic of your Games, shall we?” She asked. Colston’s lips briefly tightened together, but he didn’t object. “The 89th Games, wow, such a staple! The fancy resort they put you on, the palm trees…do you ever miss it?”

“Um, no,” Colston admitted. “Especially because we spent the entire time in the dark. We didn’t precisely get to enjoy it. And all of the water was replaced with undrinkable sludge. But I can see why the basic resort is admirable.”

“That makes sense,” the reporter allowed. “Are you aware that ever since your Games were held at that resort, it has become a very popular location for Panemian citizens to visit?”

Capitolite , he mentally corrected. “I can’t say that I’ve visited on a frequent basis. I’ve tried to stick to District Twelve after my time in the Capitol was finished.”

“And why’s that?” Emmy wondered out loud. “I hope you won’t mind me saying so, but Twelve is quite the… humble abode.”

This is supposed to be an interview about me and the Games, not about you insulting my home . Instead, he gave her a smile. “Well, I’m sure it appears that way to a Capitolite familiar with luxury like yourself. But I’ve lived here all my life. I can’t picture being anywhere else. Besides, my beautiful wife and my children are here and I want to help my community, not abandon it. So here is where I’ll stay.”

Emmy brushed off the statement. “Honorable words from an honorable Victor.” She paused. “You know, it's actually a bit funny…” she turned towards the camera. “There have been some recent discussions about your District partner. What was her name again?”

Colston tilted his head slightly. He didn’t understand what she was going for. “Her name was Elowen,” he supplied. He would never forget her, just as he was certain that no Victor would ever forget those who betrayed them in the Arena.

“Elowen,” she smiled. “Yes, well, she was a crazy one, wasn’t she?” Emmy pulled out a tablet that automatically displayed the statistics of his Games on its flat screen. Colston’s eyes narrowed. He had a feeling that something about the interview was set up. He focused back in as Emmy spoke again. “Yes, it indicates here that she had eight kills. Isn’t that unbelievable? Truly just another reminder of the otherworldly nature of you District citizens.” 

He was prepared to take her words as an insult. Instead, he just blinked, stupefied as he saw the interested glimmer in Emmy’s eyes. She truly believed that there was a separation between the Capitol and the Districts, besides just wealth. He wasn’t too surprised. There had long been circulating rhetoric that Capitolites were of a higher, more ‘purebred’ group of humans. What that meant, he wasn’t certain.

“Elowen lived down the street from me, back when I lived in the Seam. She was nice,” he reminisced. Whenever they spotted each other, she had been quick to wave. Their families had frequently traded, as well. Even today, every time he visited the Hob, he expected to see her shouting about fresh miner’s lettuce and shaking it at the crowd.

“It’s impressive that such a plain girl could reveal such a monstrous nature in the Arena,” Emmy pointed out, smiling at the camera again. Colston clicked his tongue against his teeth and shifted where he stood, tucking his hands into the pockets of his beekeeping outfit. She wasn’t a monster. No more than I am .

After all, he still remembered that third night in the Arena. They were both covered in blood from the tributes from Three and Six, who they had killed earlier. It seemed cruel, but they had told each other that the only way to beat the Careers was to become like them. I’m scared , she’d admitted to him. What is it going to be like when the world goes dark? 

You’ll be at peace, he had quickly reassured her. That’s how it feels to die . 

Colston was certain that being stabbed to death by her own ally wasn’t a peaceful way to go at all. He felt his gloved hand instantly rise to scratch at the scar that ran across his forearm. A parting gift from her, just after she’d accidentally woken him up while trying to burn his supplies. “She was the only piece of home that I could take with me,” he supplied.

“Well, it's a sure good thing that you killed her,” she guffawed. “Can you imagine having such a crazy, mangy girl as the Victor of the 89th Hunger Games?”

“I’m sure she would’ve been settled down by the neverending charms of the Capitol,” he said, forcing another smile onto his face. 

“Perhaps so,” the woman nodded slightly to the cameraman. “Well, folks, this has been a lovely check-in with Colston! Thank you for your time.” Emmy extended out a hand and Colston shook it hurriedly. He could feel the coldness of her hands through two layers of gloves. 

While they packed up, Colston fought the urge to sigh and turned away, adjusting his gloves. That was what he hated about Emmy Queneau. She always found the cracks in his armor and knew how to twist the knife. 

Of course, he knew of her true nature. She was just a dog for the Capitol, a manufactured thing to poke and prod at Victors and make sure that they weren’t going to break anytime soon. The first few times they had spoken, she had almost gotten him. But he refused to lose his composure over such a woman.

“Ah, Colston?” Her voice rang out clearly. He turned towards her. She swallowed, fiddling around in a hidden pocket of her ornate jacket for a moment before she produced an object. “I thought that we could…spend some time together.” There was a certain shyness to her as she handed it to him.

Colston’s stomach dropped. He knew what he was going to see before he even looked down. It was a black envelope with decorative golden lettering on the back. Colston Glazebrook, D12 , it read.

“Are you serious? No, Colston, you can’t go. Not again!” Kirrily exclaimed, pacing wildly around the kitchen. Two strands of her dark hair hung over her brow. The smell of a goose-and-potato stew wafted through the kitchen. He tried to focus on those things, instead of his wife’s anger. 

“What choice do I have? Cardew made it clear—we can’t deny the black envelopes,” he elucidated. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Well, does it have to be with that despicable woman? She calls our District humble and then requests your time like she owns you?! Are you kidding me?” Kirrily gesticulated as she shouted, before wiping both hands across her face. “I just don’t get how they put you through all of this shit even after you survived the Games.”

Colston merely exhaled and shook his head. While he cared dearly for Kirrily, and they could relate to each other on many fronts for both being born Seam, it was painful when she didn’t understand or empathize with the strange culture around Victors. “Hon, she doesn’t know . Just like the rest of the Capitol. We’re just toys. It’s just how it is.”

“Colston Jay Glazebrook, do you hear yourself?” She asked, marching up to him, a stern finger in his face. “I don’t understand you when it comes to this. You’re so intense and passionate about every other topic, but when it comes to shit like this, you just roll over and take it!”

He cast his gaze downwards. How was he supposed to tell her that if he dared deny the Capitolites their wills, then she, Amaranth, and the twins would be at risk? Besides, he knew there were at least twenty listening devices trained on their precise location as they spoke. One of them had fallen out of their shared bathroom’s shower curtain the other day.

“Mommy? Daddy?” Colston whipped around from where he had been leaning against the wall to see that Amaranth was standing, her gaze flicking between them, uncertain. 

“It’s alright, honey. Mommy and Daddy were just discussing something. Nothing you have to worry your pretty little head about, okay?” Colston murmured, scooping her up. 

Just before he left, he looked over his shoulder. Kirrily’s lip was curled into a furious arch. She cast him one final look of disapproval before turning back to the pot on the stove.

Victor’s Village, District Thirteen, ‘112

CADUCEUS PETRARCH, VICTOR OF THE 107th HUNGER GAMES (they/he)

Caduceus had been staring at the board for so long that they were certain they were going to go insane. Their eyes trailed along the text at the top— the Victor Disappearances of ‘80 —and then returned back to the actual imagery. 

He forced himself to his feet. Maybe a new perspective would help them make more connections. But how many more connections could even be made?

Most recently, Caduceus had attempted to speak with Vegas, who would’ve been mentored by one of those Victors, but the District One Victor was adamant that his mentor had been one of the Capitolite stand-ins, not this ‘Charikleia Tzianabos’ that Caduceus kept on insisting on.

Caduceus clicked his tongue. They constantly found themself led back to the question that had started their three year pursuit: how does nobody remember these Victors ? They had confirmed with Rosaura, easily the most friendly of the Career Victors, that there was no ‘Charikleia’, at least not in the Victor’s Village of One.

Of course, Charikleia wasn’t the only missing Victors. Along with her were Conveyor Saxton, of District Six, Scow Laurence of Four, and Seven’s Victor Hyla Elosegui. From what Caduceus had gathered—which was frighteningly little—the leading public story appeared to be that they had been Victors who rose and fell from fame just as quickly. He gave a wry chuckle. The same could be said about him, he supposed. Oh well. He was no Career Victor—he had no need for attention. If anything, it kept him safely off the radar and allowed him to conduct his investigation better.

They wiped their hand over their mouth and chin. Well, he had tried speaking with two of Victors of One, at least. They were certain that Charikleia was in some way the key to the entire mystery. It was practically unheard of for Victors from One to simply vanish overnight. Then again, how could they guarantee that Vegas and Rosaura hadn’t lied?

Caduceus would have to look for a more trustworthy source. He turned over the thought in his mind like he had all of the brief resources on the Victors. The official logbooks of the V.R.I. had suggested a brief visit from all four Victors, though even most of the medical detailings were wiped. They had noted one thing, however, regarding Hyla. Constant screaming, restlessness, paranoia…are you sure that she should stay here? It felt like an odd note. After all, where else could a Victor go?

Caduceus had his own fair visit to the Victor Reformation Institute. Of course, it had helped that his father was one of the Head Psychologists of the place, but never once had any of the medical professionals mentioned relocating.

Subconsciously, something clicked in the back of his mind. Caduceus figured out a source. What about the Capitolite mentor for Charikleia? He was sure that he could at least track whoever that was down. It would just be some fancy and higher-than-thou Capitolite. He could deal with that.

They marked it down on the board. Just as they did, however, they heard the distinct thump of footsteps against the polished wooden stairs of the mansion. Quickly, they lifted a ragged, stained sheet and threw it over their work, before turning around just in time to see none other than their sister, one very pissed-off looking Dulciana.

Dulciana had always reminded Caduceus somewhat of a rampaging horse. She specifically fit the description as she impatiently scuffed her slipper against the ground and huffed in his direction. “What the fuck are you doing up here?” She snapped, instantly reaching over and flicking on the light in the otherwise shadowed room.

Caduceus winced but didn’t complain. It was his fault for forgetting his light-blocking sunglasses, a permanent accessory due to him being unable to handle large amounts of light after his Arena. That was sort of what happened when an Arena was meant to be as bright as possible and stop tributes from sleeping. “Working,” they responded instantly, an embarrassed smile crossing their features. “On a personal project.” 

“Caddie, are you serious?” She rolled her eyes, tossing her curled brown hair. “Hiding up here, in your dusty-ass study, instead of spending time with the family?”

“The family is just you, Pastille, and Arnica,” Caduceus responded with an unintendedly sour tone. Of course, he had no issues with his sister’s wife, nor did he have issues with their daughter. 

“Well, Arnica currently thinks that her uncle hates her,” Dulciana shot back. “I mean, come on, what’s the point of winning those Sun-cursed Games if all you’re going to do is sit in the dark and pout about it?’

They felt it. A crack reopening, directly in the center of their heart and spreading through their chest. A cavern, just like the one they had huddled in for six-and-a-half days after their allies died. There was a brief flare of hatred, but like every strong emotion Caduceus felt these days, it burned brightly and then vanished without flourish. They cracked open their mouth, which felt impossibly dry. “Dulci, that is not a fair assessment. Don’t act like it is.”

Dulciana snorted, but she didn’t argue. Knowing her, Caduceus had a feeling that his sister was actually regretting what she had said to him. Instead, she just said, “well, you still can’t hide away up here. Didn’t Jaceona tell you that Victory is about,” she waved her hands in the air, “moving on or something? I mean, doesn’t it feel annoying to be in the dark all the time?”

“Jaceona isn’t right about everything,” he admitted. 

“Oh really, because you used to act like everything she said came from the Messenger himself!”

Caduceus fixed their sister with a hard stare, but focused on her latter statement. “Yes, I’m aware that sitting in the dark is strange and unorthodox. I didn’t choose this. If you—” awkwardly, their voice broke, “if you had been in there, you would be like this too.”

She clucked her tongue. “I’m sure the Sun will forgive you. Anyways, what are you even working on up here? It better be super productive and time-consuming…” Too late, Caduceus realized that she was heading straight for his board. He jumped to his feet and attempted fruitlessly to intercept her. She daintily spun around him and ripped off the sheet.

For a moment, Dulciana Petrarch just stared. And then her eyebrows lifted up, until they were threatening to cross onto her forehead permanently. Finally, they tightened into an annoyed arch. “Who the fuck are these people? The Vic—”

Caduceus lunged over and blocked her mouth, looking all over the room as though expecting to see a camera. They lifted a finger to their lips. If there was one thing Jaceona had taught him, it was to never discuss important matters within his mansion. Their ears were everywhere. Instead, they just sighed and looked back at her. “Listen, I can’t tell you everything.” They fidgeted, their shifting weight causing the floorboards to creak ever so slightly. “Can you just trust that it’s important?”

He knew she wouldn’t understand. Just like most people, she was probably content with the answer that the four Victors had simply chosen a private life after their Victories. But Caduceus knew that couldn’t be the case. 

“I—I don’t want to deal with this right now. Just come down when you’re ready,” she swallowed, making a quick leave from the room and firmly shutting the door behind her.

Caduceus had another thought just as the wood clicked into place. Quickly, they wrote down the name Astarte Calhoun . The Victor of the 80th Hunger Games. If anyone would know and be willing to speak about the Victors who disappeared during their year, it would be her. 

His eyes darted back to the circled words: mentor of Charikleia. It looked as though he was about to take a very impromptu trip to the Capitol. Honestly, they just hoped that they had something nice enough to wear. 

A TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERVIEW WITH ANDROKLES VYCE, MENTOR OF 76th VICTOR CHARIKLEIA TZIANABOS

ANNOTATED AND RECORDED BY CADUCEUS PETRARCH

[CLICK]

CADUCEUS: Thank you for joining me today, Mr. Vyce. I am aware of the inconvenience and short notice, and I applaud that you found time in your schedule for us to meet.

ANDROKLES: Well, of course. I’m always open to speaking with the good-blooded Victors such as yourself. 

CADUCEUS: And you consent to being recorded, correct? I am aware I already asked you this—I just need for you to repeat it on the actual recording for legal reasons. [ Not that I actually plan for this to be shared with anyone outside of myself - CP ]

ANDROKLES: If it’s necessary, I do. [ Weird. One of the first Capitolites I’ve met who weren’t eager to have a claim to fame with a Victor. Also, retroactively, he was pretty normal-looking. Only some gauges. - CP ]

CADUCEUS: Lovely. Let us commence. So, you mentored Charikleia Tzianabos, correct? [ Apologies for the volume here. We had to sit in a crowded restaurant so that nobody could listen in on us. Future self, don’t listen with headphones. - CP ]

ANDROKLES: That’s right. Forgive me if I don’t clearly remember some things. It was thirty-six years ago, after all. 

CADUCEUS: Fortunately, a precise memory isn’t what I’m looking for. Just some key details. 

ANDROKLES: And what is this for, again? 

CADUCEUS: Ah, just for a study I’m doing on how Victory has evolved over the years. [ Sun above, one of the least convincing lies I’ve ever told. Luckily, Capitolites aren’t too concerned about the truth. ]

ANDROKLES: Right, right. Sorry, my memory is starting to go. [ At the age of fifty-four? Capitolites are very odd about age. Should’ve informed him that it is most likely a placebo effect. ]

CADUCEUS: It’s no trouble at all. To begin, is there a particular reason why you don’t share much about your experience mentoring? Apologies for being blunt—I am aware of a few podcasts and shows in which Capitolite mentors share their stories. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you on one. 

ANDROKLES: Well, I don’t have much to share. Ah, can I get a refill on this martini? Thanks. [ Interesting way to attempt to throw me off. Little did he know, I’ve been on this scent for years. ]

CADUCEUS: Surely that’s not the case. I’ve heard some people describe mentoring as a ‘once-in-a-lifetime experience’...can you speak to that at all?

ANDROKLES: Sure I can. I mean, it was a bit different back then. The Games didn’t quite have the glamour that they do now, believe it or not. Deciding to mentor was a hard choice. To be frank, I mostly did it for extra credit in school.

[BRIEF SILENCE]

ANDROKLES: But that doesn’t mean it was bad , or anything. It was interesting to get such close-up experience, especially with the most venerated District of all. 

CADUCEUS: Can you elaborate more on what it was like specifically mentoring a District One tribute? [ By then, I realized that I would have to take a more slow and cautious approach. ]

ANDROKLES: Are you certain that this is just for a study? Between you and I, I’m not really supposed to… you know… [ I thought it was over here. Can’t believe I saved it .]

CADUCEUS: Mr. Vyce, I completely understand and sympathize with your concern. I understand that partaking in these discussions can be frightening. If it will settle your conscience at all, this is all being done for the greater good. I am looking to permanently ensure Victory is better for all involved. If you feel the need to neglect some details, go ahead. But rest assured, any secrets are safe with me. And this is a… crowded environment.

ANDROKLES: If you’re sure… sorry, where was I? It was interesting to get such a close-up experience. She [ You may notice that Androkles doesn’t refer to Charikleia by her first name for the entire interview ] was good , though. 

CADUCEUS: Can you elaborate?

ANDROKLES: Well, it’s…not much of a secret that she was super skilled. Nowadays, we know that it was part of President Cardew’s brilliant plan to get the Careers up-and-going again, by reminding us how fascinating they were. Yeah, I guess that’s the best way to describe her. Fascinating . She never did anything just to do it. Everything had a purpose, every blink, every smile and wink… [ Androkles turned a peculiar shade of pink here ]

CADUCEUS: That is truly interesting. Now, Mr. Vyce, this is going to be sensitive territory, but I assure you again that anything you say will not be shared. That being said, I heard some rumors that the Games were…potentially rigged in Ms. Tzianabos’s favor. Did you hear anything about that?

[SHUFFLING NOISE, ANDROKLES MOVES AS THOUGH TO STAND, BUT HESITATES]

CADUCEUS: …Is everything alright, sir?

ANDROKLES: Ah, yes, yes. Apologies. Er, where was I? No, I don’t think the Games were rigged at all. [ Damn, Capitolites are terrible liars .] She was simply skilled. But, it was clear to the trained eye that she would be the one to make it out of that Arena. I mean, she scored a twelve in training, and had the most sponsors by a mile. Her District partner wasn’t bad or anything, but he paled in comparison to her. [ That’s not what I asked at all. Attempt to avoid the question. ]

CADUCEUS: Right. So can you confirm that it wasn’t rigged, then?

ANDROKLES: It’s not in my jurisdiction to speak on the matter, alright? I’m not a Gamemaker. Ask one of them. 

CADUCEUS: Although I would love to, Gamemakers are quite busy around this time. I tried to get an interview with one ‘Paris Callow’, but they declined. So it’s vital that you can tell me any important details.

ANDROKLES: [SWALLOWS] Alright, fine. Between you and me, it was probably rigged, but nothing too blatant. I mean, the Games are supposed to be fair for all. So what if she had access to supplies later than some other tributes? She won fair-and-square, just like any respectable Victor. [ So there definitely was some bias. Unsurprising, really. Just as I thought, the Capitol really wanted to see through their deal with One. But why go through so much trouble and then dispose of the Victor anyways? ]

CADUCEUS: Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Pyke. I apologize for the prodding.

ANDROKLES: No, no, it’s fine. That felt… nice. To get it off my chest.

CADUCEUS: Well, that’s good to hear. How about we move away from the topic of Charikleia’s Games, hm? What do you remember of her Victory Tour?

ANDROKLES: She put up a brave front. I mean, I could tell that she was going through it. Like seriously going through it. She begged me for more specific cue cards during the District Eight part of the tour. But she smiled through it. Didn’t complain much, which was nice. But I could tell she was relieved to be home. It sort of hurt to part.

CADUCEUS: Is there any out-of-the-ordinary behavior you noted after that point?

ANDROKLES: By then, I was out of her life. I graduated, went on to do technology studies. But I remember seeing something peculiar on television: when the next Victor, the District Six boy, visited her District, they talked and laughed quite a lot for an outlier and Career.

CADUCEUS: Really? How interesting. 

ANDROKLES: Panem, they were everywhere together too. On every billboard, every poster. No advertising deal was taken alone. It got even worse when Scow Laurence joined the ordeal. An impeccable trio, that’s what people called them. They were in a bunch of interviews together. Seemed like they were in a tight little friend group. [ I was just letting him riff on his nostalgia here. No need to ask more questions if he was telling me useful things. After all, I haven’t ever heard of those three being in a friend group together. ] 

CADUCEUS: Were there any indicators of fractures or breakups?

ANDROKLES: …Not that I can remember, no. They were all quite tight. Even with Scow and Hyla’s, er, thing they had. I mean, maybe Conveyor seemed a bit jealous , but—

CADUCEUS: I’m sorry, Scow and Hyla’s thing ? Are you implying that these two had a more involved relationship of some sort?

ANDROKLES: Oh, geez. Look at the time. I should go. [CHAIR SCREECHES AGAINST FLOOR]

CADUCEUS: Mr. Pyke, please, just answer my last question.

ANDROKLES: I’ve already said too much. They’re going to come for me.

CADUCEUS: Who is ‘they’? [FOOTSTEPS; ANDROKLES LEAVES, CADUCEUS GIVES LONG SIGH] Well, that was eventful. I’ll have to look into Scow and Hyla being in a relationship. And Scow, Conveyor, and Charikleia being in a friend group. How strange. I’ve hardly seen non-Careers and outliers being friends in such a manner, or at least so outwardly. It feels like there is usually a barrier between us. Not important—what’s actually important is that this is a huge crack in this case. End recording.

[CLICK]

Caduceus felt awkwardly restricted in his crisp shirt and tailored pants. He stood just on the steps of the restaurant, thinking over the interview. He had taken the rest of the allotted reservation time to re-listen to the recording, write a transcript, and take notes. But it was past twelve AM now, still early hours for the Capitol’s eccentric nightlife, but Caduceus could feel exhaustion weighing on them.

The nice part of the Capitol was that they had very similar weather to Thirteen, so Caduceus didn’t have to adjust his clothing much. They made sure to wear high-fashion during every outing, but usually in grayscale. They didn’t want to stand out too much, in case an overeager fan would be upon them.

Of course, not that Caduceus had many fans . District Thirteen’s trademark gray slacks had been a short fad after their Victory, but the Capitol couldn’t resist their bird-of-paradise palettes. And Caduceus was content with diving into his investigation.

However, as he was standing and enjoying the cool night, he suddenly felt a peculiar vibrating in his pant leg. Instinctively, he dove into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He fumbled awkwardly with it for a moment. There wasn’t much of a point of using a phone in Thirteen. Nobody else had one, after all, so Caduceus wasn’t exactly a professional.

The contact was the default photo, there was a simple label of ‘Colston ’ underneath it. He instantly realized the name of the District Twelve Victor. Shakily, he slid the green phone indicator and lifted the device to his ear. “Hello?” He asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice. 

After all, he didn’t know Colston well. He had received the man’s phone number during last year’s Banquet. It was mostly so that Colston could link Caduceus up to his beekeeping business, or something. It felt like a peculiar attempt at a truce.

“Hello?” He repeated. He heard the steady breathing of somebody on the other line.

“Caduceus, this is Colston. Listen, I understand that our Districts have a rivalry or something, but I don’t think it’s necessary anymore. How about we move past it?”

“Isn’t this something you should speak to Jaceona about?” Caduceus inquired, genuinely curious. Colston and Jaceona were more similar: both quietly introspective and deeply empathetic.

“I figured we could help each other. I’m proposing an alliance, between both us and our tributes.” Colston was hesitant, each word coming out slowly and carefully. Caduceus had a feeling that he had been thinking about this for quite some time.

“I’ll agree, but only if we make it a trade.”

“So be it. What do you need?”

“Well,” they couldn’t stop the childish grin that brushed their lips. “I’ve been working on something.”

Chapter Text

CW: depictions of illness and trauma

Snow Square, Capitol, ‘112

VOLVO ZIZZO, VICTOR OF THE 99th HUNGER GAMES (he/him)

Vapor, tinted a nauseating green, entered Volvo’s nostrils. He made a conscious effort not to inhale as the woman across from him waved the smoke out of her  face. There was nothing apologetic about the look on her face, because she wasn’t removing the smoke for him.

Volvo would never understand the obsession with smoking in the Capitol. People in the Districts spent their whole lives choking to death on the stuff. He would never choose to reexperience the nauseating feelings he had experienced while living in the Underground, the smell of burning metal feeling like the kiss of death whenever he woke up to it.

He refocused just before his nostalgia stole him away. “I’m just asking you to consider , Euphrasia.”

“I’m considering, Zizzo.” The woman sniffed. Her face was sharp as glass despite her advanced age, both cheekbones coming to dagger-like points. Even her bun was meticulously neatened. She laid one of her arms on the table. The surface was artificially smooth, a perfect ivory. Floral designs lined the prosthetic in light blue tones, making the material appear as porcelain. Its elbow was pure gold, with gold veins running up and down from that point. 

Her sharp green eyes travelled from her arm to Volvo’s own. He kept his face blank, despite the viper-like stare driving a knife into his gut. “I think you can understand why I’m not very eager to trust you District folk.” Her point made, she allowed her arm to relax back on her lap with its matching partner. 

“Euphrasia, when have I gone back on my word? As I promised, my tributes have consistently survived the Bloodbath. They have performed well in their private sessions, made good impressions with the audience. You even showed up to Tyre’s sponsorship meeting last year.” And nearly scared him to death. He winced, remembering how his male tribute had reacted to both Euphrasia’s appearance and her disposition.

“Listen,” he continued. “I understand that it is hard for you to branch out and trust the Districts after the bombing. But I also guarantee that any Victor I produce will be of utmost use to both you and the Capitol’s needs. I don’t plan on flaring up the rebellion again.” 

A partial truth, Volvo supposed. As he aged, he found himself having more and more unsavory thoughts. Of course, he knew better than to express them. But they lingered in the back of his mind, a constant presence. Unsurprisingly, they had flared up significantly after Tyre’s death.

It didn’t matter, though. Volvo was fine with pushing down his own views if it meant that finally he could get the approval of his District. If he could finally step away from mentoring and focus on the important things. 

“While I do sympathize with your cause, my money isn’t infinite. Do you know how much solvex I blew last year trying to get your boy patched up before the finale? Only for that Five boy to steal it right from your grasp,” she snickered slightly. “Such is the way of the Games.”

“But, the point is that Six just doesn’t have the same prospects as other Districts. You are a charming man, I’ll give you that, Zizzo, but why would I sponsor you and not one of the more promising Districts that are guaranteed to make a turnout?” The woman plucked her martini glass and took a sip, her throat bobbing agonizingly slowly.

“Euphrasia, do you not fancy yourself a professional better?” Volvo asked, leaning forward slightly with a glint in his eye. 

Euphrasia swirled her drink momentarily, a delicate motion due to her prosthetic. “I suppose.” There was a hint of curiosity in her cruel glare.

“Well, then you must know that if a District with lower odds wins the Games, the prize for betting on the winning tribute can double or even triple. Currently, Six is tied with Twelve as having the lowest odds.” He slid her a napkin across the polished the wood. “In other words, any turnout you make will dwarf what you’ve contributed to my sponsor pool over the past three years.”

Euphrasia peered down at his offering. After a moment, she lifted the napkin and wiped her lips. “Such a silver tongue,” she simply responded.

When she didn’t speak again, Volvo filled the silence. “Besides, Six is due for a Victor soon. Don’t think that I haven’t seen the threads. People are clamouring for more. And I know that Gamemakers like to meet demands.” 

Euphrasia raised her brow. The Six Victor bit down on his tongue slightly, realizing he might’ve said something a bit too radical for an old money Capitolite. However, she just made a fanciful motion with her robotic fingertips. “I see why you say that, Zizzo. But don’t you think Six had promise last year? The Gamemakers are a bit finicky about allowing the same District to place second for two years in a row. Based on statistics, your tributes are likely to place from 18th to 10th this year.”

He nodded, seeing her point. “Statistics are futile when regarding the Games. More miraculous things have happened. After all, who knows what the Arena will be like? Could be a trainyard.”

Euphrasia cackled. There was no other way to describe the noise—it reminded Volvo of a witch. “Surely that will happen. In all seriousness, I am beginning to tire of you sapping my funds. Perhaps it’s time for you to… give back to the cause, hm?”

Volvo’s breath hitched in his throat. Please not an envelope, please not an envelope, please not an envelope . “And how would you suggest that I do that?”

Euphrasia visibly relaxed slightly, taking a thoughtful puff from her long pipe. The interior glowed a strange green as she did so. Volvo’s eyes lingered on it. The Capitolites who used it called it venom. She blew out more green smoke. “Well, I could see you with one of my albino pythons around your neck.”

Suffocating. He had been suffocating. Reptilian creatures of many shapes and sizes crawled over him, writhing. Green scales slithered across his face and he felt the slimy flesh of frogs across his hands. 

“Don’t leave,” Destination had said. “Please don’t leave me.” A snake had curiously lingered near her mouth. With some contemplation, it slowly crawled in.

Volvo was brought back into the present by the sharp press of nails against his skin. He realized it was his own manicured fingers digging into his palms. Euphrasia watched him with a detached curiosity. “Is there an alternative?”

Her expression shifted, if only for a moment. Was it…pity? “For you, Zizzo, I suppose I’ll make one more exception. If your children this year make good scores during private sessions and they place out of the Bloodbath, I’ll continue my patronage of you for…let’s say five years. If not, I’ll throw my lot in with the show ponies from One.”

“You’re making the right decision,” Volvo assured her, giving as close to a reassuring smile as he could muster. He felt his control over the situation returning. “And for the record, I could always find new patronage with the Exigents. What is it they make? Adorable puppy-kitten mutts? Sounds a bit more reliable then a snake.”

A grin twisted Euphrasia’s features. “Smooth, Zizzo. I’ll be seeing you before the Games begin in a month, I hope.”

Volvo gave a curt nod. With that, he stood from their table at the bar and took his leave, exiting  through the large glass doors in the back that allowed for a bit more of a private entrance and exit.

One month away from the Games . It was the time of the year when his life became hell. Most of the time, Volvo could dart around the Capitol without much notice. People kept such a significant lookout for the Career Victors that he was practically a ghost. 

But, unfortunately, the closer Panem crept to the Reapings, the more bumping into excitable fans was inevitable. Volvo was counting his stars as he crossed the street, maneuvering through a large, brightly-clothed crowd of Capitolite pedestrians and sleek black vehicles. 

Volvo was about to cross yet another street when he heard an excited squeal. “Oh my Panem,” a high-pitched Capitolite accent cried out, “is that Volvo Zizzo ?” 

Volvo froze like a cornered deer, turning slowly to see three giggly Capitolite women. One of them had buzzed her head and replaced her hair with some sort of fur. Another was a bright blue with arms that faded to pink. The third had tattoos in her eyes. A few Capitolites turned with interest, but they quickly slunk away as soon as the light changed, much to the Victor’s relief.

“I’m such a huge fan!” Fur-Head cried out, practically throwing herself at Volvo and dragging her sharp nails across his jacket. Capitolites, always with the touching . 

“Me too,” Pink-Arms added, holding her phone up to Volvo’s face. He squinted, unsure of what he was looking at, until he realized that her background was a picture of him at fifteen, blood crusted on his cheeks. 

Volvo blinked. He wasn’t aware that even had that many fans left. “Er, that’s nice. Listen, I should be on my way.” He tried to spend as little time as possible in the Capitol. Given that it was already 3 P.M., he should’ve been at home two hours ago. 

“Can we get a pic?” Tattoo-Eyes squealed, raising her own phone, the camera already prepped. Volvo felt three pairs of arms layer onto his shoulders. As they hit, a strange, nauseous feeling crashed over his shoulders. He winced at the feeling just as the phone made a snapping noise.

“Is District Six going to win again?” Fur-Head asked. “I want another Victor from you guys. You’re my favorite District, you know.”

“I’m working on it,” Volvo managed to choke out.

“If they’re as hot as you, I have no complaints,” Tattoo-Eyes smirked, biting down on her bottom lip in a suggestive manner. Volvo shuffled uncomfortably, knowing that his perceived ‘hotness’ was only a result of his Victory Tour campaign forcing him to keep his shirt off the whole time, as well as Capitol surgery to make him look more muscular than he was.

“Can you sign this? I’m trying to get all of the Victors’ autographs!” Pink-Arms thrusted a piece of paper into Volvo’s face as well as a pen. Volvo grabbed the pen and signed where she pointed, right in-between Gramme Bazil’s hurried scrawl and Teva Phelps’s delicate strokes.

The three women crowded around the phone, giggling in excitement. Volvo stared halfways off into the distance, a buzzing feeling exploding in his ears. “Aw, you blinked,” Pink-Arms protested. “Come on, let’s take another—hey!”

Volvo wrenched himself away and quickly launched down the street. What the hell was happening to him? The world twisted. The edges of buildings fluctuated. Suddenly, he realized that his foot hadn’t properly touched the ground, and he was falling, falling…

He crashed directly into a man wearing an ostentatious fur coat. Just as the man began to ask if he was alright, Volvo stumbled away. 

Another wave of nausea hit him. Resisting the urge to keel over and vomit on the street, Volvo pivoted and threw open the gold-framed door of a casino, not even bothering to check the name on the sign.

Instantly, he was overwhelmed by the smell of cigarette smoke, spilled drinks, and sweat. A woman shouted in frustration at a craps table. Ringing noises of slot machines echoed from further in the establishment. 

Volvo grabbed the velvet sleeve of the nearest worker. “Where are your restrooms?” He asked , his sides heaving. The worker gave him a quizzical stare and pointed with their white-gloved finger.

Volvo lurched towards the indicated location, practically throwing himself into the room. Some sort of elevator music played softly in the background. Succulents hung from the top of the room. 

He placed his hands on the frame of a sink, looking in the mirror. No wonder the worker had looked at him so oddly. His nose was streaming blood. Two crimson drops fell into the sink. 

Volvo raised his brow in confusion. A nosebleed? Was that seriously it? Wow, his immune system was dramatic. 

Then the third and strongest feeling of sickness slapped against his stomach. He gave a muffled cry and fell forwards, coughing in pain.

There was the slap of something liquid hitting the sink. Volvo expected to see bile, but instead he saw just red. Red, red, red, fields of red.

“Why…why are you doing this?” Destination mumbled as Volvo drove the wooden stack into her stomach. Her eyes stared off into the distance, her lips cracked from a permeating dehydration. 

“I’m saving you,” came Volvo’s disoriented reply. He brought down the stake again. 

He clutched his midriff, sinking slightly downwards. Illness. He had known illness twice before. 

“Papa, get up. We gotta go to the factory. Papa. Come on.” Volvo, at seven, tugged on his father’s cold arm. Two streams of blood were pouring from his nose. The top of his shirt was drenched in sweat and red.

Volvo had worked long hours with his father, suffocating on dark gray fumes in the Underground. Heavy-lung had taken his father at thirty-nine. Now it was coming to take Volvo, too.

Volvo stumbled through the arid sands. He had watched the small amounts of water in the Arena turn to blood on the second day. He had weathered a storm of reptiles on the fourth. He had suffered from lice on the fifth. Flies had swarmed him on the seventh. His pitiful amounts of sponsorship food had gone bad on the eighth. He had gotten terrible boils on the ninth and then been harassed by hail in the night. Locusts had terrorized him on the tenth. And on the eleventh day, he forced himself through a permanently dark Arena, his boils stinging against his skin.

The doctors in Thirteen had told him that they had removed any ailments from their ‘Nine Plagues’. But they never removed the lung damage from a life of living in Six. 

And now, Volvo was going to die. Euphrasia could spend as much of her time smoking from a pipe as she wanted. The Capitol would always strive to keep her alive. But Volvo? The Victor of an irrelevant District who couldn’t even do his job? Who had been seen too frequently in a romantic lighting with a Victor from a different District?

Finally, he felt well enough to stand at his full height. He stared at the mirror, smearing away the blood with the back of his hand. He just had to make it through another year, secure a Victor. Then he could die.

But the other Victors couldn’t know. What would they think? Yes, he could hide this. He couldn’t show them that District Six was weak and desperate enough to have a sickly Victor mentoring their children in the Games.

Just as he came to this resolve, the door to the bathroom opened.

“Volvo?” Collie Lowery, the Victor of the 100th Hunger Games, asked.

CW: depictions of trauma

Snow Square, Capitol, ‘112

COLLIE LOWERY, VICTOR OF THE 100th HUNGER GAMES (she/her)

In the face of Volvo, Collie was abruptly aware of how darn silly she looked. Her hair was all mussed, tiny pieces hanging over her forehead and dangling into her eyes. She blinked once and then twice, her eyes instantly glancing to the pool of red in the sink. She had seen red before. 

Once, she had been red all over.

“What’re you doing in here?” She finally finished. Instantly, the Six Victor lunged to the faucet and raised the water to a blast. Collie watched the red drip into the drain, leaving the porcelain with a faint pinkish tone. “Are you alright?”

Volvo’s mouth opened and closed three times. “‘M fine,” he decided.

“Are you quite certain?” Collie felt heat rise on her cheeks. “Er, this is the ladies’ restroom, y’know.”

“I didn’t know, actually,” the man responded. His voice was a husky rumble, and his eyes delicately avoided hers. “Was just trying to get a break.”

“A break?” She repeated, as if she didn’t know. 

“From…” he made a fluid gesture with his right hand. His left was still firmly planted on the edge of the sink. “You know. Capitolites.” Finally, Volvo turned his head. Collie gasped at the bloody smear in the space between his nose and lips. She didn’t know if she was going mad, but she swore that his eyes, usually the bright blue of the cornflowers on her father’s ranch, were a shade duller.

“Volvo,” her voice lowered. “You’re hurt. ” In a moment, she crossed the tiles, moving fluidly for how tall her heels were. She grabbed his cheek in her hand before slapping the other on his forehead. He was feverish and covered in a layer of sweat.

Volvo made a strange hacking noise. Collie looked down to see crimson spots across her pale green blouse. “Oh my stars,” she murmured. “What happened t’you?”

“I don’t know. I just…I don’t know.” Volvo had a look on his face like he did know, a look that made Collie instantly frown. She pulled her cellphone out of her pocket. It was a nifty thing, and with twelve years of practice, she had grown rather adept at it.

“You need to be sent to Thirteen, now .”

“No, no,” he made a pathetic fumble for the phone. Collie held it just out of reach, giving him a quizzical stare. Of all of the years they’d known each other, Volvo had always been coordinated. Careful. Now, he had an unfocused look on his face.

“Why not?” Collie yelped incredulously. She pulled herself away from him. 

Volvo’s brow furrowed. “Need to… be strong. For the tributes.”

“You’ll be stronger if you get damn checked out ,” she asserted. 

“No… saving me. Heavy-lung doesn’t have a cure,” he sputtered, swaying like a fragile tree. “Not for me.”

“ Heavy-lung ?!” Of course, Collie had only heard rumors of the cursed disease. In Ten, she had never experienced it or seen it. But she had heard of it plaguing the streets of Three, Six, and Eight. She couldn’t imagine such a terrible ailment. 

He shook his head. “I need this. I can’t… wont … let families be disappointed. No more kids dying in Bloodbaths. No more having to shove kids into cramped boxes before we put them on the death-trains just because their bodies are so mangled that we can’t carry ‘em otherwise. No more broken promises. No more false hope. This year is going to be our year.” 

There was a delirious hint to every syllable that clumsily slid from his mouth. Collie nodded slowly as Volvo lolled his head sideways. “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

Collie didn’t know what to do. She felt tears prick in the corners of her eyes, a strange feeling because this wasn’t her first time knowing that she was going to lose a friend. She wrapped her arms around him tightly.

Collie had been drowning in her sorrow for days and days and days and days and days. She couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t get a wink of sleep without thinking of an open farmland, of three Bloodbaths occurring at once. Of running through cornfields and stabbing anything that moved. She kept her new home dark, kept all of the shutters closed. She didn’t want to see a farm anymore.

How was her life supposed to move on? The Capitol treated her as some freak, as a monster of a different nature completely. Of course, she understood. Some part of her had been so irreversibly broken that she felt only partially whole. Even though she was miserable, she was happy to be home, instead of in the Capitol.

The Victors were even worse. Even they saw her as strange. The Ones and Twos gave her odd stares, because three of her kills had been potential contenders for their ranks. She couldn’t tell if they were admiring her or afraid. Maybe some combination of both. They had reason to be afraid.

Syber offered unbridled fascination. Collie hated how analytical the other woman was, how interested she was in dissecting the psychology of every Victory. When Collie had passed her, Syber’s face had been buried in a journal, scrawling the title of a new page: ‘The Fascinating Case of Collie Lowery’. 

The Fours hated her. Even when she wasn’t around, she knew they spat her name with venom and screamed it at the sky. They had eight years without a Victor and found it unfair. Well, Ten had seven. So it didn’t matter much.

Solara was impossible to read. She seemed to follow the whims of her own spirit. She smiled at Collie and called her the ‘girl who slaughtered’. Collie knew that she was just another malicious figure among her supposed peers. And she had heard from the others that Solara only did things to further her own goals, whatever those were.

The Sevens could’ve sympathized with her. Collie had heard rumors that they were understanding of the Games and the Victors that were produced. But she had killed four of their ranks, and their hearts were closed off for that reason.

The Eights seemed the most friendly, but they also wanted to follow the crowd. They didn’t want to draw any more attention to themselves than what they already had, what with a Victor with no kills and a Victor with three children.

Kernel had giggled at her in a drunken stupor. Collie had killed one of his kids. She supposed it was better than the Careers, who had practically disemboweled the two youngest. She wasn’t even sure if he was aware that she had killed one of his own.

Indigo used polite terms around Collie, but she had overheard the girl lamenting to Colston about the way Collie had coldly killed two children from Eleven. Indigo had killed six children in her own Games, one from Ten. Collie wasn’t sure what the difference was.

Colston didn’t seem to mind Collie much, but Collie knew he wanted to support Indigo more than he wanted to care for her. She knew because he had curtly admitted it to her in private. Collie hadn’t even been surprised at that point.

Jaceona was, well, Jaceona. She was so far within her own pit of misery that Collie knew well to avoid her in case she was pulled in further too.

After a week, Collie had a surprising knock at her door.

“Hi,” a slightly unfamiliar man had said. “I’m Volvo.”

Volvo. The quietest of the Victors. Collie had shrunk slightly away from him, away from the light. 

“Do you wanna go for a walk? You seem like you need some fresh air.”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s okay. I’m right here. Do you trust me?”

“I don’t know—”

“C’mon, it’s alright. It’s going to be alright.”

Collie took a step forward before promptly tripping. She careened directly into the man and they both fell onto the grass together. It tickled her skin. She smiled. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he chuckled. “You have a pretty smile.”

Collie’s fingers dug into the divet on Volvo’s spine. She was unabashedly crying now. She felt the soupy mascara dripping down her cheeks. “Don’t die on me,” she begged. “Please don’t die on me.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“More than anything.”

She nodded. “Alright.” She took a step back. “Alright.” She swallowed and ran her hair through her hair, sniffling a bit as she did so.

“I should get going,” Volvo said. “Would be awkward if someone caught us together.”

“ Oh ,” mumbled Collie. “Right. See you.”

Volvo made a quick leave without another word. Collie understood his haste. There had always been an unspoken rule of Victors being alone with another Victor. Collie never quite understood why. She looked back in the mirror and saw that her makeup was practically streaked all over her face. She opened her pocketbook and wiped it all off before taking some time to redo it. 

As per usual, she was wearing a more spectacular version of what she sported at home to fit with Capitol standards. It was a knee-length dress with a ruffle hem pencil skirt. The pattern was white and black like a checkerboard. She wore a ridiculous bow around her neck, and a black beret on her head. 

Of course, Collie didn’t have the faintest clue of what half of those words meant. She mostly followed her stylist’s whims on what was trendy and interesting in the Capitol.

Once she was prepared, she left the casino. Wool, who was hunched over her own black phone against the wall, looked up with a confused stare. “Geez, what were you doing, gambling ?”

“Just using the restroom,” Collie responded breezily.

Wool held up her phone clock. “For forty-five minutes?”

She shrugged in response, pulling out her own phone. There were fifteen missed calls from the other Victor from Ten.

The other woman rolled her eyes. “Panem, why did I agree to be the personal chaperone of such an unpunctual person? Oh well, you have work in an hour. Best get to the train station sooner rather than later.”

Collie didn’t protest. The two women had been navigating Snow Square for over a decade, and so they were able to quickly find the busy Capitolite train station. The sleek trains made Collie uncomfortable for two separate reasons. 

For one, she still remembered when she had first entered a Capitol train. After the fact, she had been told that it had to be modified to compensate for the sixty-five extra children. But it had been terrible. Five of the ten tributes could barely stop crying. She was one of them.

For two, she knew that in the front of the car, a conductor from District Six was being forced to operate the vehicle, probably held at gunpoint by a Peacekeeper. It was hard to enjoy the leisurely ride for that reason. 

Collie followed Wool towards the train bound for Ten. A few Capitolites boarded with them, although certainly not as many as the trains for the Career Districts.

The ride was quick and mostly passed in silence. Collie couldn’t stop the clammy feeling that rose to her palms as they arrived. She hated her work. She hated it and didn’t want to do it. It wasn’t like she needed the money.

But President Cardew had his own ways of being… persuasive.

After the train came the car ride. It was similarly fast because nobody else in Ten had a car. 

When they arrived, Wool’s hand gripped Collie’s in a steadying way. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll pick you up and drive you home.”

Collie nodded and stepped out of the car. She saw nothing but an open, sprawling field, a farm with an absurd amount of acreage. And looming around a gated entrance to the farm was a murmuring group of Capitolites. Collie used her key to sneak in through the side entrance. She practiced her smile before stepping out on the other side of the gate.

Instantly, the Capitolites gasped in wonder. There appeared to be an older man, a younger couple, another younger man in dark sunglasses, three older teenagers, and a woman in a very luxurious outfit and a wheelchair. She was smoking something green from a pipe. She watched Collie with a detached gaze.

“Hello, and welcome to the tour of the Arena for the 100th Hunger Games!” Collie announced, unlocking the gate. The tour group flooded in, giving oohs and ahh s as they admired the landscape. Collie closed the gate behind them. She was glad that none of them had tried to climb the electrified fence as her last group had. “I’m so glad that all of you are willing to learn about the history of Panem’s greatest honor. In case you weren’t aware, my name is Collie Lowery. I’m the Victor of these Games, which means I’m perfectly qualified to tell you the ins and outs of the Arena! Now, come on, let’s visit our first location!”

Collie walked through the farm with ease. She found her Cornucopia, situated inside of the largest barn. The steel was completely flawless and sparkled under the setting sun. 

( Collie, recently turned seventeen, spun in circles on her plate. Ninety-one tributes, but by her count, only twenty-six were around her. The singular girl from One wasn’t there, nor were the Twos. A pair from Four was there. The girl glared at her and drew a line across her throat.)

“This was where the Games began. Of course, there were three Bloodbaths, not just one. Three Cornucopias. In total, twenty tributes died in this event.”

( Collie launched herself off of the platform as fast as she could. She made a mad dash for the Cornucopia. The boy from Four beat her by a few seconds and his expression went pale white. Collie looked down at the weapons. There was only farm equipment. No matter. She grabbed a sickle and was off. But then she heard someone else, running right behind her. The girl from Four was hot on her heels. She had a cattle prod in her hands. Collie looked in front of her. One of the three young children from Eleven was in her way. She didn’t know what to do, so she raised her sickle ).

The man in the sunglasses delicately raised his hand. Collie nodded to him. “You killed a tribute, yes? During the Bloodbath?”

( Collie twisted her sickle in her hand and gouged the blade deep into the boy’s neck. His eyes took on a surprised glaze as blood sprayed across the Cornucopia. The blade was curved and therefore couldn’t be pulled out easily. So Collie did the best she could, and pulled it out to the side. Viscera slapped her arms, some mix of cartilage and trachea and things that Collie had only seen in her father’s butcher shop. )

“That’s right,” Collie confirmed. “Does anybody have any questions?”

The older man raised his brow. “Did you have any special training before these Games? You know, I’m with a news source that seeks to discover the hidden truths of the Games. We think you’re a Career. Can you speak to that?”

The woman in the wheelchair leaned forwards, an interested glare in her eye.

“Um,” Collie blinked. “No, the only training I received was from Wool Cocteau, my mentor and current friend.” As the man opened his mouth, she quickly added, “If that’s all, let’s head on over to the pastures.”

There were plenty of pastures when the farm was actually being used as an Arena, but they had been cut down significantly. Now there were only six choices. One of them had placid-looking sheep.

( Almost a week later, Collie stumbled through the midday heat of the Arena. Her lips were cracked. The amount of tributes had reduced by a full quarter. Collie had been trying to keep from the little shelter that the open Arena offered. Her sickle was coated with blood, that of one of the girls from Five and one of the boys from Nine. 

She found two of the tributes from Seven. She overheard them arguing about a trap they had set, claiming the other had stolen the bird they had seen earlier within the trap. 

What they didn’t see was the faint gash of blood on the yellowish grass, and the pinkish stain around the mouths of some of the sheep that were grazing. Collie approached carefully. They both whipped around, pulling out their axes.

“Hey, I’m friendly. Listen, you guys need food, huh? I can get you food. Here.” She beckoned over one of the sheep, sending a silent prayer. Long ago, she had chosen the sheep to be her guardian. To her absolute luck, it moved over. “There’s a certain way we  have to kill these livestock. Come on now, don’t be shy.”

The two boys crept over, their cheeks hollow and reeking of desperation. At the last possible moment, Collie gashed one in the side with her sickle before pushing them into the pasture. The scent of blood was all the carnivorous sheep mutts needed. Collie walked away, hearing their screams peter out and their cannons sound.)

“These are the carnivorous sheep mutts which are probably the most infamous aspect of the Games. Ah, don’t touch!” She pointed at one of the teenagers, who rolled his eyes and moved his hand away. Instead, she approached a small rack of buckets, filled with meat. “They like this. Give them some.”

Collie watched the guests eagerly snatch for the buckets and begin tossing them to the sheep.

Sometimes she didn’t understand how the Games could exist after over a century of their conception. 

And then she saw cruelty at such a small level, and it all made sense.

Chapter Text

CW: depictions of trauma

Snow Square, Capitol, ‘112

DORSAL CASAREZ, VICTOR OF THE 109th HUNGER GAMES (she/her)

Dorsal rolled up to the event with the expected amount of fanfare. As she stepped carefully out of the black vehicle, minding her skirts, a carpet had already been left out for her to stroll across. Two crowds of ecstatic Capitolites lined the sides of the carpet, barred off by a metal grate. She gave them a grin and made sure to blow a kiss at the nearest woman, who promptly fainted into her friend’s arms.

She felt a sure grip around her wrist and turned to see Alevin. Her fiancee had a shark-like grin on their face, accented by their neatly slicked pale hair, blue eyes, and ruffled white shirt with billowy sleeves as well as matching pants that looked like waves. 

For the cameras, Dorsal leaned in towards her fiancee and planted a firm kiss on her cheek, before whispering, “ you’re my favorite apex predator .” Alevin laughed at the sad attempt of a joke, which made Dorsal’s heart soar. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe that she was marrying her biggest childhood crush. Sometimes, everything felt like one big dream. 

A few members of the crowd squealed, drawing Dorsal back into the tight grasp of the present. Dorsal heard a distinct me next, please ! The pair were quickly ushered down the length of the carpet and towards the ornate building. It was a common sort of building in the Capitol, an empty husk with a fanciful interior that was often rented out for different events. 

For Dorsal, the event was the viewing of her Hunger Games, an event which she had to endure for multiple years on end. Her feelings on the matter were…complicated. The first year, she had sat through the thing with a feeling of detachment. The second, a bit less so.

Nonetheless, she would navigate the event just as she’d navigated life until that point: shoulders squared, chin up. There was no alternative ( except for failure ). 

Dorsal walked with Alevin’s hand in hers into the building. The ceiling stretched high above their heads, accented by ornamental chandeliers which had to be at least the size of the average person both in height and length. The chandeliers cast a soft, yellowish glow across the room.

Spread about the room were round tables, covered in elegant white cloth, with six chairs at each. Near the front of the room was a large screen setup. Interspersed among and at the tables were variously people. Most of them were Capitolites, however they wore clothing decorated with insignias of a fish being pulled out of a spray of water. 

Dorsal fought the urge to roll her eyes. There was nobody she loathed more than the ‘Best Catch’, also known as Four’s most fanatical crew of sponsors. They loved being included in events that were technically meant to be private, and even more, they loved feeling important. Although Dorsal had been urged by both her mentor and the other Four Victors to take them seriously, she still couldn’t see them as anything more than a desperate fanclub.

For that reason, she slid right past a crew who waved and gestured towards her dress. It was understandable; her stylist had truly outdone himself with the layers of ruffled fabric in different shades of blue, green, and white, making her seem like the ocean itself. The skirt was a bit too fluffy, however, making the action of skirting around the various partygoers rough. 

Dorsal finally made it to her destination: a man, leaning casually against a sidewall and observing the events of the evening with some humor. Two eager Best Catch members approached him and snatched a quick photo before scurrying away under Dorsal’s stare. 

Hooke Eisenman was the picture of cool confidence. The first south-coaster to volunteer and succeed, he was more myth than man. However, he had been keen on not flaunting his miraculous Victory, a quality Dorsal didn’t share but could also respect. He was mostly beloved now in the Capitol as being a so-called ‘silver fox’, a man who had maintained his youthful beauty despite living for almost four decades. His blue eyes, the color of the coast at dawn, turned to  her.

“Well, well, the lady of the hour,” he commented. 

“It’s nice to see you here, finally,” she responded in turn. 

“I’m a busy man,” Hooke shrugged casually, before shifting his gaze slightly past her. “So, are you going to keep on cold-shouldering her, or…?”

Dorsal looked over her shoulder as if she didn’t instinctively know who he meant. She met the deep pools of a solitary figure, practically hidden at the very edge of the room. As per usual, the woman wasn’t wearing anything too fashionable. “How much I choose to interact with her is up to me,” she said. “No harm in a little avoidance.”

“Hmm,” Hooke hummed, although he didn’t argue. There was an unsettling keenness about his expression. “Have fun with that. I’m going to get a refill.” With that, he detached himself from his perch and made his way for where some sort of alcoholic beverage was being served. 

Dorsal wasn’t in the mood to drink, not yet. Instead, she walked towards where another, slightly older man was standing and chatting eagerly with a few of the sponsors. Pisces Conway wasn’t known for his beauty but for his charisma. He had practically charmed his way out of the Arena. He was a north-coaster Victor, shown by his flaming red hair that practically glowed under the lights.

Upon spotting Dorsal, Pisces pushed his way out of the suffocating circle of Capitolites and towards her. Instantly, his arms wrapped around her in a tight hug. He smelled like pavement after rain. He pulled away after a moment. “There’s my girl! How are you this evening?”

Dorsal smiled. Pisces was somewhat of a constant presence in her life. He was the first one to reach out to her after her Games, and he had mentored her District partner. If he had any anger over her Victory, it was dead and buried. “I’m well. What about you? How are the kids?”

“Oh, eager as always for this year’s Games. Even though they’re not Careers, they have to be some of the most dedicated watchers!” Pisces nodded. Dorsal understood Pisces’s wish for his children to not become Careers. It was a strenuous path to take, and it would only be worsened by their father’s status as a Victor. 

Suddenly, the man leaned in. “Between us, if you need anything at all, let me know. I know how much of a drag these can be.” He gave a hearty laugh before clapping her on the shoulder.

As he attempted to step away, Dorsal kept him pulled in. “I can’t believe I’m being forced to fucking mentor with Neveu ,” she hissed. “That whore isn’t even a Career!”

Pisces responded in a slight frown. “I don’t think that’s the kindest word to use,” he observed. “Larimar has her own strengths, as do you.”

“So you don’t want to help me change it?” Dorsal asked dully. “We’ll have a better chance of getting a damn Victor if our male's mentor is actually half-competent and willing to strategize.”

“Maybe you just need to give her a chance,” Pisces shrugged. Above their heads, the chandeliers suddenly dimmed. “Seems like the festivities are about to start!” He yelped cheerfully before dancing away. The other Best Catch members quickly found seats, mumbling in anticipation.

Dorsal quickly found her seat. Alevin had been resting against their own chair, their boots swung over another. As Dorsal approached, they quickly removed them, twisting his body to face forwards the screen, which was displaying the Panemian eagle. 

Dorsal sat slightly rigidly on her seat as the picture changed from the Seal of Panem to the Reapings. Antoinette’s perfect curls bounced as she confidently strode up to the stage. Edgar’s almost sickly appearance, which Dorsal had later learned was just a decoy, drew the concern of the commentators. As for Ilias and Greaves, they both established themselves as threats instantly. Instead of the traditional handshake, they arm-wrestled on the stage. 

The cameras cut from Three to Four. Dorsal watched herself prepare in a running position, with about six other girls doing the same. She practically flew to the stage. She remembered the freeing feeling of her feet pounding against the ground. She remembered finally getting to live behind the drunken stink of her father’s cannery. 

Dorsal forced away her last competitor, a girl with bright red hair. The girl collapsed with a shout of ‘cheating’, but the escort didn’t complain, helping Dorsal to the stage and raising their hands as one.

Herl fell twice and miraculously still made it to the bowl before the other boy. He wore a dopey grin and had two steady streams of blood pouring from his nose. His hair fell to his shoulders, his skin was sunkissed. Dorsal keenly knew every detail. 

There were quick demands from the gathered crowd to skip the unimportant parts, also known as Training, the Banquet, the Masquerade, and the Interviews. Some Best Catch members grumbled about the ‘spirit of the Games’ and ‘needing context’ but they were quickly silenced as the Arena faded onto the screen.

Dorsal’s stomach peculiarly lurched at the sight. It was a bog, a bog she had grown familiar with. The tributes peered from their slightly raised position at the surrounding lands which were thick with trees and all covered in water that nearly reached the knees. Dorsal and Herl grinned at each other. Antoinette stuck her tongue out in disgust. “ My hair’s gonna be ruined! ” She protested towards one of the aerial cameras. The countdown continued passively.

As the countdown came to its end, the majority of the tributes ran towards the Cornucopia, probably frightened by the prospect of no supplies to be found in the wild. She felt multiple pairs of eyes turn on her as she got the second kill of the Games at forty-five seconds in, a clean stab with her trident through the back of the boy from Eight. She got her second kill with the assistance of Herl a minute later as Herl trapped one of their biggest opponents—the muscular boy of Thirteen—with his weighted net and Dorsal skewered him with her weapon.

Footage cut to the third day in the Arena. The second day passed quickly as the tape that was being played was a highlight reel, and the Careers failed their early morning hunt and practically lazed around for the rest of the day. On the third night, Dorsal watched Herl stealthily leave his tent and creep into hers. 

As if on cue, the feed switched to the inside of Dorsal’s tent. She felt a peculiar chill knowing that the Capitol had the perfect capability of watching her undress from her original outfit to her Capitol-sponsored wetsuit. 

Herl and Dorsal spoke in hushed voices, mostly gossip about the other tributes, until Herl finally said his heartfelt line. “I mean, it’s weird to think that the other tributes are actually people, right? Like when we killed that guy from Seven, we didn’t just kill a guy. We killed someone’s son. Someone’s dinner table has an empty chair now. Someone is never going to see their best friend, their brother, their co-worker again .”

The cameras cut away just before they could show Herl crying in despair of the meaning of killing and death. Dorsal remembered it all—wiping his tear-stained cheeks and reassuring him that they only needed to last a little longer. They were down to twelve tributes, after all.

The next morning, Herl made a joke about who they would trick into becoming fishbait. He was strange like that, all jokes and smiles one moment, and then debating the meaning of life the next. Dorsal never really understood him, not fully.

On the fourth day, the Careers finally had another successful hunt, taking down the pair from Nine and one from Three. It was a good haul, but Dorsal had been at camp with Antoinette. While preparing their meal—her and Herl were the only ones who knew how to fish, after all—she slipped a peculiar sponsorship powder into Ilias's spare waterskin.

As soon as Herl returned, Dorsal casually mentioned that he should help her dispose of the fish remains, assuring the others that it would be quick. On the way, she murmured to him that the Careers were going to be splitting soon and therefore it would be time to run.

And run they did. In the afternoon of the fifth day, Ilias finally accessed his extra waterskin. He started choking out and spasming on the ground. Dorsal and Herl were long gone as Antoinette and Edgar turned their rage on Greaves.

When the sun began to go down, mosquito mutts were unleashed upon the tributes. Dorsal and Herl were herded, along with the rest of the tributes, closer to the Cornucopia. They were both suffering from the itchiness, and Dorsal knew the only way to get any relief was to kill.

So, she stalked the undergrowth, make sure not to make any loud sounds as she crept up on the boy from Three. He called his ally’s name and then he drowned, his head shoved underwater by Dorsal.

Nonetheless, it worked. She and Herl received a parachute each with a special device to remove the venom from mosquito bites. She felt no better feeling than the relief she did then.

And then came day six out of eight. A day Dorsal remembered well. Her and Herl were carefully navigating their quarter of the Arena, making sure they wouldn’t be attacked by either tribute from one. And then Dorsal saw a peculiar sight. Something moving in the water. Something large .

Just then, a huge shape emerged and snapped its jaw around Herl. Dorsal remembered the raw scream that left her throat as she saw it reenacted on screen, remembering the chaos of avoiding the other alligator mutts and just trying to help her District partner. Finally, she got a hold of him.

She tugged. 

“I don’t want to die! I’m not ready…I’m not—” and then there was a sickening squelch. Dorsal’s stomach lurched as she saw the same sight that haunted her dreams, Herl being torn in two as the alligator finally won the struggle. 

As Dorsal from the past screamed and fell backwards into the water, Dorsal in the present stood up quickly. She had a peculiar feeling, like when a train started accelerating. The world twisted in on itself. 

“Hey, you alright?” Alevin asked, their hand a gentle stabilizer for just a moment before Dorsal was thrown back into a torrent. She didn’t know what was happening. Her breaths came in short. 

“Just need a moment, is all,” Dorsal reassured. With that, she made a beeline for the door, pretending to be a silent shadow. However, she could feel everyone’s eyes on her back. This isn’t how a Four acts , she chided herself. 

She emerged into the night, the coolness giving her some relief. She rested her head against the wall, her throat bobbing with some difficulty, as though she was swallowing molasses. The crowd was gone, creating an eerie feeling. 

Dorsal stood there for a few moments before she heard the door open.

She turned and then there was dark eyes and dark eyes which had watched Herl and hadn’t helped and watched her suffer and watched Antoinette’s pretty sword cut open her eye and she was BURNING BURNING BURNING—

“Hey,” Larimar Neveu said quietly.

“What could you possibly want?” Dorsal hissed. Her former mentor recoiled like a frightened cat. Dorsal despised everything about the woman. She hated that they were connected based on things that didn’t matter. Everytime they were regarded as equals, her stomach turned.

“Listen. I know you don’t like me, and I know you want absolutely nothing to do with me ,” she took a breath, “but consider this: we’re working together no matter what. And trust me, nobody understands the pain like I do.”

Dorsal simply scoffed. “Don’t act like you ever know anything about me,” she barked, before shoving past her traitor mentor. 

CW: depictions of trauma

Victors’ Village, District One, ‘112

EXCELLENCE SCHIMEK, VICTOR OF THE 104th HUNGER GAMES (he/him)

Excellence woke up the same way he always did. His stomach pressed flat against the icy edge of a cliff, his arms shaking with effort, his teeth grit against the cold gusts that slapped against his skin, sweat pooling on his thickly-coated back. 

This Arena is ridiculous , Lore from Two had hissed to him as they were hunting together on the second day. Excellence couldn’t help but agree. A frozen plateau—he was sure that some Gamemaker was going to be killed for the idea, what with the majority of the tributes being too starved to even object when the Careers finally found one, or just dying from the constant freezing temperature. 

Lore was dead, anyways—the polar bear mutt Excellence lured in had made sure of that.

He heard a scream from behind him and saw an impossibly skinny shape come running from the nearest snowy drift. “Come on,” he said to the girl dangling over the edge beneath him. “You’re almost up!”

He was pissed. The Gamemakers had purposefully made the Arena foggy, resulting in Glacis tumbling right over the edge. Excellence’s Career instincts had nearly overcome him, but falling over a cliff was no way for a Career to die. 

The girl from Two looked up at him. Both of her gloved hands were clasped within his, but one slid out. “Excellence!” 

He swiftly pulled it back into his grip.

“We can do this. Let’s get out of here and fight her and that bitch from Ten together— you got a damn twelve in training! I only got a ten, alright? I can’t do this without you.” He gave a hearty tug before looking over his shoulder again. The girl from One was racing towards them, her rapier poised to attack. Excellence had accidentally dropped his spear into the abyss. 

Excellence looked down at Glacis. She looked painfully fragile, swaying as she was. Her boots desperately scrabbled against the edge of the cliff as she tried to find purchase. Excellence had never heard of a Career falling to their death before. And it wasn’t going to happen today. But he needed Glacis with him to make sure of it.

After all, since Excellence had killed her District partner—which she had allowed, because Lore was proving to be too much of a threat, they had spent practically all of their time together in the final five. 

Perhaps they had grown too close. Excellence knew well the feeling of her pitiful warmth against his, the soft plumpness of her lips and the grace of her fingers running through his hair. At first, it had been a romance of convenience. But at some point, it developed into something else. Something Excellence hadn’t prepared for at all.

They had watched each other’s backs. Glacis saved him from the crazy, twitchy boy from Eleven. Excellence had cared for the knife stab she had retained after that fight. The frozen landscape felt a bit less lonely with somebody to hold.

“Excellence,” the named boy didn’t appreciate the shift in Glacis’s tone, the steady look in her caring gaze. He had looked into those eyes so many time, had seen the way they crinkled when she smiled. “You have to let me go.” Even after a dedicated minute of pulling, she wasn’t any closer to the edge. She just kept on slipping. “Prospera’s going to kill us both. Is that really what you want to happen?”

“No,” he responded instantly. “Prospera’s the worst.”

That made Glacis laugh. 

Excellence had let go before. And he wasn’t going to again. He leaned precariously over the edge, looking into his lover’s gray-toned eyes. He had always been shocked by her steadfast nature, her complete logic in the face of…everything the Games had to offer. “I can’t. I can’t.” He repeated it like a mantra, each syllable a short stutter. She tried to free herself, but Excellence just used his gloves to hold even tighter.

Meanwhile, the hunting girl from One moved ever closer. She had to be thirty yards away and closing quickly. “Then I will,” Glacis whispered. Excellence couldn’t react fast enough as her hand suddenly slipped out from his and into the hilt of her belt. 

Excellence recoiled with a scream as Glacis dug her dagger into his left hand and then out the other side. As she fell, she smiled like she was about to grow wings. And then she vanished into the icy fog below. It swallowed her up like she had never existed in the first place.  

Just as she vanished, Prospera was almost close enough to attack. It was then that Excellence realized Glacis had given him her dagger as a weapon to fight with, and she had purposefully stabbed him through his left hand, which was his dominant hand in everything except for fighting.

Excellence awoke with a startled shout and a burning headache. Instinctively, he reached out for his left hand to pull the knife out. Instead of a knife, there was merely a scar that crossed his entire palm. 

Some of his skin wasn’t his. He couldn’t quite tell where it stopped and started, a thought which used to disturb him but had since become dull. He hoped whoever’s it was hadn’t minded him taking it. 

(How much of his original skin was left? Probably not much. The girl from Ten had practically butchered him.) 

He reached for his pain pills with his uninjured hand but accidentally knocked them from the table, an action which made him wince. It felt like becoming a Victor had somehow made him more clumsy. 

Diana jumped from where she had been sleeping on the windowsill. She gave a hesitant meow before approaching Excellence and brushing against his hand. He couldn’t help the smile that brushed against his lips. His emotional support cat had been a worthy investment.

Excellence suddenly heard a sharp knock at the door. “Are you planning on rotting in your room all day? There are things to discuss ,” his mother’s distinctly snake-like voice hissed. Excellence sighed and changed into a decent outfit. He dry-swallowed two of his pills before leaving, giving him a sort of loopy feeling. 

The stairs from the second to first floor twisted around on themselves. Excellence began proceeding down them. He paused and turned slightly to look at the face of his brother.

Radiance had been ‘caught’ in a moment of pure poise. His hands were drawn carefully in his lap, his expression guarded and somewhat anticipatory. The brushstrokes were long, watery things that resulted in him looking almost more spectre than man. A date on the golden placard stated that it was drawn on 6/02/103.

He hadn’t left the Arena. He had placed third, killed by a whirlwind of a girl from Five. And Excellence had Volunteered in his place.

Lady Pinnacle Schimek was careful in every action, even the mundane ones she was partaking in, such as sipping tea from an ornate teacup and reading a report. One from the Illustri Academy, of which she was an advisor, no doubt. “Sit,” his mother instructed him without moving as much as a finger.

Excellence sat. It wasn’t a conscious decision as it was so much muscle memory. He remembered him and his brother having to precariously stand and watch dinner be served before they would be permitted to sit. Excellence felt the saliva rise in his throat at the thought.

“Although I’ve made it clear on multiple occasions that this wasn’t supposed to happen,” the woman began with a sigh, “it’s clear that the time has come to partially accept it.” She waved her hand towards the nearest Avox and they instantly approached to refill her tea. She gave it a quick sip. “And, more important, it’s time for you to sire a child.”

Excellence choked on the breath he was taking. “ What ?”

Pinnacle nodded. “What, do you think I’m going to allow this horrid family to slip further into desperation? The Schimek line cannot die. That’s synonymous in giving up to the fucking Figuerdos. Is that what you wish to happen?”

Bile rose in Excellence’s throat at the thought of the Figuerdos. The other Houses were always on odd terms with each other, but the Figuerdos and Schimeks harbored nothing but hatred for their counterparts. There were claims that Excellence had purposefully sabotaged one of the Figuerdos into getting an injury before he Reaped. His mother had taught Radiance and Excellence that the Figuerdos had encroached on their family’s fortune.

“Well, no, but…” Excellence blinked. How was he supposed to explain that his first and last love had fallen from a plateau? He shook his head. “I don’t think I want to engage in that sort of relationship.”

“Panem above. Do you know how much I had to sacrifice to keep this family in place? Are you so naive to think that I actually loved your father, my son? No, he was just a means to an end. Now that he’s gone, I can focus on keeping our fortune afloat. That is, unless you want to drop to the desperation of the damn Lessers .” She harshly set down her teacup, making an unnatural clattering sound. “You know, your brother would’ve never needed this kind of shove. He was a good son. He did what I asked and didn’t complain about wants . And now he’s gone, and you’re still here! Perhaps this family is just truly cursed.”

Excellence blinked once and then twice. “What do you mean, ‘you’re still here ?’”

“Do you think I needed more than one child? No, obviously I didn’t. Your father and I just intended you to be Radiance’s playmate. Oh, dear, and Radiance was simply begging us for a brother. When he heard the news, he smiled…oh, I do quite miss that grin.” She elegantly pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed under her eyes with it. “Why did he have to leave me?”

Excellence stood up and approached his mother, giving her an awkward embrace. “Mother, it’s alright. I’m right here. Alright? I’m not gonna leave you.” He took a breath. “And, I’ll…have kids.”

“Good,” Pinnacle murmured, “good. See? We can agree on things. How dare you frighten me in such a way? You know, sometimes I worry that you’ve gone mad with that ugly cat of yours and those medications they make you take. How dreadful.”

Excellence winced. “...Right. Did I tell you that I’m mentoring again this year?”

“Ah,” Pinnacle nodded. “Perhaps you’ll actually produce a Victor this time. Haven’t you heard what they say about you? They call you…oh, it hurts my heart… incompetent. Are you incompetent, Excellence Schimek?”

“No, Mother. I’m not.” He shook his head. Feeling his throat slightly choked up, he navigated towards the cabinet, where he quickly snatched up a glass as his mother was blowing her nose. Then, he turned to the fridge, and went to put some ice in his glass.

Unfortunately, his mother’s sharp eyes caught the motion. “Ah, ah, ah, Excellence. I don’t care what those useless Thirteens say. Use your left hand.”

Excellence sighed and switched hands. He began filling up the glass with ice. It was a delicate thing that was shaped more like a wine glass than something to drink water from. It was also polished to the nines, just as the Avoxes were taught. 

His hand trembled. He raised his other hand to steady it, but at the disapproving click of his mother’s tongue, he dropped it. Just as he did, his left hand spasmed ( nerve damage is a bitch ) and he watched as the glass slid out of his fingertips.

The falling cup went from glass to girl and back again, a sort of flashing that made Excellence’s head reel in pain. Just the meds , he told himself, grating his teeth against his tongue and falling backwards against the counter. She’s not here. She’s dead in a box and buried underground. You saw her be buried. Stop being such a dumbass, Schimek.

With a final cry, the girl glass shattered. He had needed Glacis’s comforts to stay warm. That was all, right? But why did he feel so cold? His world twisted out of his reach. He heard Pinnacle say his name in confusion, but what even was his name?

Excellence turned and retched into the sink. He barely wiped his mouth when his mother commanded, “wipe that up yourself. Now.”

He moved to grab a paper towel.

Chapter Text

Wimbourne, District Nine, ‘112

CHIA HELPRIN, VICTOR OF THE 105th HUNGER GAMES (she/her)

Chia couldn’t think of anything worse than winters in Nine.

Well, there were plenty of bad things. Having to help Kernel recover from drunken stupors was horrible. Being reminded of her Games was a constant prickling on her back, like one-thousand needles were being carefully pressed into her skin. 

But goodness ,  she’s had to puzzle for almost an hour over if it would be more proper to wear a shawl over her blouse. Sometimes the mornings were temperate. Sometimes they lingered just on the edge of chilly that she would shiver but if she added another layer to her outfit she would sweat. It was positively dreadful.

She was trapped in the latter variation of morning weather as she crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being stomped on by somebody’s stock horse. She made sure to give them a nasty look about it, before carefully adjusting her cloak so that its shadow fell over her face.

As Chia’s luck typically determined, something bad occurred not even a moment later. An oddly harsh breeze snapped around the corner of the nearest building, resulting in Chia’s carefully arranged cloak falling over her shoulders.

The nearest child gasped and tugged on his mother’s arm. “Mommy, look! It’s the murderer!”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” the mother murmured to her son before casting a glare in Chia’s direction, as if her sheer presence was her fault. In most ways, it was. Chia was a murderer of one soul, that was true. And for Nine, one was enough.

Chia turned away shamefully as the nearest passersby began to stare. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to be disowned by her family and completely humiliated by her fellow Victor. It appeared as though her torture would never come to an end. 

She was lucky to be standard-looking for Nine. Deciding that the cloak was a useless endeavor, she kept her shoulders hunched as she navigated the streets. A few people recognized her, instantly turning to whisper when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. (Chia always paid attention. It made it hurt a little less, she thought.)

Fortunately, rumors couldn’t kill her. The nice thing about being so close to the Capitol was that nobody was willing to directly draw their wrath just to inconvenience her. 

Besides, she had things to do. Being a Victor had inadvertently made Chia a busy woman. And while she had the sense to know that women were meant to stay home and comfort their husbands, it gave her an odd sense of thrill to know that she got to break the rules and nobody else could.

It was that thought that motivated each step as she navigated easily towards the train station, pausing for only a moment to make sure that all of her things were prepared. It wasn’t often that she chose to leave the District, even if she had the freedom to. She would rather seem like a loner among her own people than among strangers.

Chia had to admit, though, it was strange how she had originally fancied herself as one of Nine’s many countryside girls. She had never even dreamed of stepping outside of her parent’s sharecropped farm, where she slept in the loft of a barn. And there she was, knowing Wimborne like it was the palm of her hand. 

In some ways, the Center of Commerce was pitiful and small. But there was an undeniable spirit to it, a tightly-knit community that Chia couldn’t help but admire. It seemed like everybody had a place and was content with it, instead of constantly vying for more as the sharecroppers and landowners did.

Chia stopped and stared at the train station. She didn’t really know what to do in a train station, so she just awkwardly skirted inside and followed the nearest person to some sort of toll machine. Showing it her card of unrestricted transit, it gave a satisfied beep and let her through.

She finally found the boy who she was searching for. For a moment, she was struck by how darn young he seemed. Had she looked like that once? What a concept. 

It was fairly comforting to see that the boy seemed a bit awkward as well. The majority of those who used District Nine transport were Capitolites, and even they were rare. The small amount of District Nine citizens who passed by were content with ignoring him. 

Chia smiled as she approached him. He gave her an expectant stare, but Chia motioned for him to speak first. It was slightly painful when outsiders were unaware of Nine’s customs. Didn’t he know that Father Earth expected the man to speak first?

“Hi,” Gramme Bazil murmured. Chia could tell that their little affair wasn’t a planned event—there was no cleverly placed makeup to disguise a half-shut eye and a little series of cuts that ran across his face. 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Chia hastily responded with a quick dip of her skirt. Gramme stared at her like she had grown a second head. Chia wondered if she should’ve reintroduced herself. She figured that most Victors knew each other’s names. “But, I do have to wonder, what does Panem’s newest Victor want with me?”

Gramme smiled for the first time, a sheepish and unsure thing, like he wasn’t quite sure how it fit on his face. “Honestly, you just seemed nice. And, er, agreeable.”

Chia shrugged. She had heard some things about his Victory Tour, which had concluded only a few days prior, so she wasn’t too surprised. Solara always seemed like only half of a woman, making weird comments and smoking a bit too frequently for Chia’s liking. And his escort was positively dreadful. “Well, you’ve come to the right girl. Where are we headed on this afternoon, Mr. Bazil?”

Yet again, Gramme seemed shocked at her formality. “District Ten.”

Chia blinked momentarily in surprise, but before she could respond, a loud train horn sounded, indicating that it was time to board. The two Victors shuffled towards the train, both flashing their transit cards for a second time, which had them redirected into a nice lounge area near the back of it. “What business could a boy like you possibly have in Ten?” It was rare in Panem for even Victors to traverse outside of what was thought as their inner circles. For Five, that was Three, Six, Seven, and Eight. For Nine, it was Ten and Eleven. 

Gramme didn’t respond until the doors shut between their lounge and the rest of the cars, and even then, he kept his eyes on a blinking red dot in the corner. 

“Something happened to somebody. Something that shouldn’t have happened at all. And it was because of me.” Although Chia, always an eager gossip and respectfully nosey, wanted to know more, she decided not to press for the moment. Instead, she just nodded in what she hoped seemed to be a sympathetic manner.

“What kind of something?”

He gave her only a glance. “Imprisonment.”

Despite her sympathy, she had a fair bit of concern for the boy. It sounded like a noble cause, but Chia had grown up being taught that the Capitol’s word was good. If someone was in trouble or imprisoned, it was probably meant to be. After all, Chia couldn’t tell why anybody would want to go against the Capitol’s will. They had saved her from the shame of her people. “Well, what do you intend to do about it?”

Now Gramme looked puzzled. “Free him.”

“By Panem’s name, free him?” Chia began to fan herself. “Why, I’d never think of something so… so… backwards.”

Gramme rifled through the pockets of his crisp pants. “Er, I think I have… yeah… here.” He handed a neatly folded paper to Chia. She read it.

“Wow. We can free people from jail?”

He shrugged. “We can do anything.”

She didn’t voice her opinion as an Avox entered the room with two steaming bowls. One of them had her District bread, cornbread, within it. It was warm and faintly buttered, just like how Chia liked it. 

Presented to Gramme was what appeared to be some sort of flatbread, the entire thing pale and marked with brownish spots. A smaller bowl filled with hummus accompanied it. Chia had a faint memory of the dreadful stuff from her Victory Tour. Pita bread, they called it. She never understood the concept, but District Five food had always been questionable to her.

It took her a moment to realize that Gramme was speaking in his own, mumbly sort of way. “You’ve been mentoring Nine’s tributes, right?”

Chia nodded. “For the past six Games, that’s correct.”

The boy leaned over slightly, his head resting gently on his hand. As his hair shifted, Chia caught a look at a small hole on his neck, maybe an infected wound, like he had been stabbed there multiple times. “How do you… sorry, I don’t know how to ask this, how do you deal with it?”

Chia clucked her tongue, chewing thoughtfully on the cornbread and holding a gloved hand politely to her mouth to deafen the sound. She wasn’t the best at giving advice. “It’s the sort of thing you learn over time, I suppose. My first time, I was a crying mess for at least a week. But you learn to close yourself off, if that makes sense. It becomes... not better, but less painful over time.”

He nodded slowly in response. “What do I even tell my tributes?”

“I don’t really know what to do with my tributes. I’m not intent on making a fresh batch of toys for the Careers to mess around with. I just try and tell them that basic survival skills are important. But I don’t try very hard to make a Victor.”

Gramme frowned slightly. “I don’t know if I’m content with that. As in, just telling them to lay down and die. My District’s different than yours.”

Chia found herself insulted by the notion, but she buried the comment in a bite of cornbread, allowing a steady silence to fall between them. When she looked up at Gramme, the light entering the train window had shifted to a slightly brighter shade as the morning light morphed into the afternoon. She saw what appeared to be the remains of a purple bruise circling his eye, and a nasty one at that.

“Oh dear. You have a dreadful wound on your face,” Chia noted, looking towards where the idle Avox was posted by the door for medical assistance. The Avox stared straight ahead while she tried to configure her question, although they briefly turned to give their charges a curious stare. Chia had to wonder how much gossip they picked up over their years of service.

“I’m alright,” Gramme said with ease. “I took a nasty fall recently.” Chia knew he was lying because he sat up and tightly tucked his hands in his lap.

“Right,” she murmured. She understood how hard it was to admit the truth to other people as a Victor. It felt easier to wrap up one’s feelings and stuff them deep inside, instead of feeling vulnerable again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what you had to go through. In the Arena. But I assure you, if you think hurting yourself is the answer—”

“Don’t jump to conclusions!” He yelped, turning a bright shade of pink. “I assure you I would never do anything like that.” Chia gave a satisfactory nod. 

Before she could respond, the train began to slow as they approached Holdem. They passed fields dotted with various livestock—cows, sheep, pigs. A few workers peered curiously over fences at the passing trains. There was a mix of pales and what Ten called ‘tines’. 

Personally, Chia harbored nothing but hatred for Nine’s neighbors. They were often looped together as one body, but Nine ran much more smoothly and with more sense than Ten. 

For one thing, Ten’s Victors were absolutely miserable. Wool was more alright than Collie, but she was still a rude creature with no sense of manners or sense of anything at all. Her and Kernel had achieved some sense of partnership a year or two ago. Chia ignored it. And Collie was horrid. In fact, Chia couldn’t understand why a decent man like Volvo even bothered trying to help her! Eleven children murdered was an excessive amount, even if the tribute count was tripled.

Besides, she had heard that Ten had entered tumultuous times in terms of politics. Talks of rebellion and all. It was a Victor’s duty to quell rebellion, but their Victors were tragically incompetent and probably the cause of said times.

And, on a monthly occasion, representatives from Nine and Ten had to attend a meeting to discuss trade relations, with Capitol oversight, of course. And by representatives, that just meant the Mayor’s family and the Victors. 

It was a terrible and cruel affair. Mayor O’Shea was pliable and willing to bargain, which usually made each meeting hours long as the Tens tried to haggle for their livestock. 

She sighed at the memories as the train finally came to a stop. From there, it was a quick trip off and out of the train station. It was a small and dusty creature. In fact, Holdem was really more dust than people. But due to the time of the day, there was a slight crowd. It was mostly merchants trying to desperately get the passersby to buy their wares.

Chia took the lead through the crowd. She had a feeling that Gramme wasn’t the best among such large groups, and it was an aversion she didn’t share. Eventually, however, she realized that she didn’t know where they were going. 

Gramme realized at the same time as she did. He stared across the street, using his hand to shield him from the glare. “Do you see a sign?”

She winced. “I can’t read.”

“Wh—don’t kids in Nine go to school?”

Chia shook her head. “Not Helprin women. My Pa would never allow me or my sisters to go and learn anything other than what we needed to.”

“That’s not fair,” Gramme scowled. Instead, he turned and began looking through the crowd. He lightly tapped a shorter woman. She gave him a confused glare. “Would you happen to know where the Holding Center is?”

“ Ai , the Holding Center? Yes, it’s just down that street.” She pointed in what Chia found was a vague direction, but Gramme nodded. “No clue why you’re stupid enough to go there,” she hissed to herself as she walked away.

Chia stared after her bobbing head. “Why is everyone here so rude?”

“Not rude. Weary. Also that was one woman,” the boy pointed out. “Might’ve been a bad day. Anyways, let’s go.”

The two walked until they reached a squat building with a faded metallic sign designating it as a Holding Center. Two Peacekeepers were smoking tobacco outside of the building. They gave the Victors curious looks, but said nothing. 

As they walked into the building, Chia was overcome by a peculiar musk. There was the distinct smell of sweat and gunpowder, but also something that Chia couldn’t quite place. She waited for Gramme to pass her but he seemed a bit clueless. 

With nothing else to do, Chia approached a secretary at a desk. The woman looked old and tragically bored, mindlessly tapping her pen against the wooden surface. The table was covered in stacks of papers and disorganized files. As she began to speak, the woman tucked her pen neatly into her gray bun.

“Hi, er, we’re here to see one of the inmates?”

“We only have one inmate.” The woman had a curt voice, harsh and ragged around the edges. “A boy, about eighteen. Refuses to say anything.” She typed something into her computer. “Yes, Banquo Permutt. Regardless, people aren’t allowed to visit unless given explicit permission from a Peacekeeper. Do you have anything to show you have permission?”

Chia was surprised to see a pale hand slam down a neatly folded piece of paper. “In case you weren’t aware, we’re Victors. We don’t need the permissions that the common person has. This is my document that states I have Victor’s immunity. Do you know what that is?” Before the secretary could respond, Gramme continued. “It means I can go where I want. So let me see him.”

Chia blinked, her mouth gaping slightly. She had never seen the boy so confident. A part of her swelled in pride.

“Jeez, alright,” the woman scoffed. “For a Victor, you are quite rude. Don’t know why you even want to see such scum, anyways,” she snipped under her breath, before nodding to the guard to show that they could enter the cells.

There were three cells, and only one was occupied. It was the one that was closest to the wall: it was built entirely from uncomfortable-looking cement and drenched in darkness, too far from the weakly buzzing light to receive much help. There was a tiny window located near the top of the cell, thick bars preventing any from attempting to exit. A stony outcropping provided a place for the inmates to sleep and sit. There was one thin blanket on the outcropping.

Chia turned her attention towards a pile of bowls near a thin slit in the bars. Flies buzzed around what appeared to be rotting stew and bread. The stench was abysmal. 

She was suddenly aware of a figure looming in the dark. He was slouched against the back wall of the cell, his chin tilted slightly upward. Even with the lack of light, Chia saw purple circles under his eyes. He looked gaunt, and his curly hair was matted and limp. In other circumstances, Chia had the feeling he would’ve been quite the attractive young man in Nine.

Gramme stood stunned to her right. Finally, he walked forward and rattled the door. Banquo’s head lolled downwards slightly, and even then he still had a sleepy haze over his eyes. “...It’s you.” Chia flinched at the hoarse sound of his voice.

“It’s me,” Gramme agreed. “We’re getting you out of here.”

The boy didn’t look like he cared much. “On the third day of refusing to talk, they said I would be losing something. I thought it was just a bluff. The next day, they said I could visit my family.” He swallowed. “Our farm is gone. It is just a pile of ash. My parents are dead. Probably my sister too.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gramme murmured. “But you can’t stay in here forever. It’s not healthy. I can take you to Five.”

Banquo spat on the floor. “And attract more attention to myself? Get you killed too? Don’t be ridiculous, Bazil.”

“Listen,” Chia finally cut in. “I don’t know what the deal is between you two, but it’s obvious that you’re dying in here. Even if you have differences, isn’t the preferable alternative getting to live to see another day?”

Banquo hesitated for just a moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t live. I got my entire family killed. And why are you even helping me? I beat you up, for Panem’s sake!” He directed the last statements at Chia’s companion.

“When you go through the things that I’ve gone through, you learn how to forgive fast.” He nodded towards where the guard was standing. “I’d like to use my Victor’s immunity to give Banquo a pardon until further notice.”

The guard’s brow shot up, but he merely stepped forward and unlocked the cell. 

Gramme walked in, reaching out his hand. Banquo flinched away from it, and Chia saw that he had a horrendous bruise on his face. She wondered just what kind of trouble he had been put through during his stay. “It’s going to be alright.” After a moment, Banquo returned the grasp. He turned back to Chia. “Thanks for your help.”

Chia had the feeling that it was a good time to leave. 

As she arrived home, she was immediately aware of a yellowish piece of paper on the table in her hallway. Somebody must’ve left it there. It was a small card with a number, name, and address written on it. 

Chia called over one of the housemaids to assist her with reading the text.

A woman was winking on the front, with the phrase I’ll help you catch up! written in large letters across the top. It was also stated that she was a tutor who specialized in helping people who had fallen behind get back into the groove of things. 

And on the back, in a quick scrawl, it said Everybody deserves a chance - Gramme.

She smiled and held the thing close to her chest.

Colkirk, District Seven, ‘111

CYPRESS FOXEN, VICTOR OF THE 98TH HUNGER GAMES (he/him)

Cypress didn’t know much. He could admit that with his chest full of pride. In fact, he found that maybe it was better for humans to be naive than to know of all suffering and evil. 

The one thing he knew for certain was that death was very odd, at least when it came to the Hunger Games. Instead of being seen as a tragedy like some workplace-incident deaths were, it was merely acknowledged once and then never again.

Or, at least, that’s how it felt to be an outsider looking in. But he knew that somewhere out in the District, there was the imperceptible shift of a little universe collapsing as it lost its center.

The car veered to the left as it snapped across a large branch, coming dangerously close to the edge of the unpaved road. “Panem!” The boy in the passenger seat yelped as his small body jerked against his seat belt. “Pay attention to the fucking road,” he snapped at his brother.

“Aster,” Cypress responded patiently. “No swearing, man. You’re only twelve.” 

Aster responded by slumping back on the leather seat with a huff. 

“I don’t get why I even need to go to this thing,” he insisted, tossing his brown hair slightly. Cypress made a mental note to cut it during the evening. 

Cypress’s grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled. “It’s a tradition, Aster. It’s how we honor the dead tributes every year. It’s been that way since the conception of the Games.”

“Pup’s dead,” Aster scoffed. “And that’s that. Some stupid ceremony isn’t going to make it hurt any less. Besides, I didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

Cypress made sure to show his disapproval with a frown, although he didn’t elaborate on the subject. He knew that Aster wasn’t quite mature yet—he had first been brought into the Foxen family when Cypress was twenty, two years after he won his Games. His parents had wanted another son and so they had adopted one of the orphanage babies. 

While growing up, Aster made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the fame of being the brother of a Victor. That had lasted for some time, and Cypress had been plenty surprised when the Peacekeepers had visited his house, asking for him to accept guardianship of his adopted brother.

Things had progressed since their parents’ death two years ago, and Aster warmed up to him. But there was only so much Cypress could do when one of Aster’s best friends was Reaped.

( Keep him alive,” Aster begged, looking Cypress in the eyes. “Promise.” )

Promises couldn’t stop a rapier blade from One piercing Pup’s stomach.

Any progress that was made during the course of their relationship became completely unwound. Aster returned back to yelling at Cypress and being rude to him in public. Cypress wanted nothing more than to defend himself, explain that he was trying his hardest.

But Aster was just a kid. So instead, he said nothing. He just took it. What else could he do?

The car rumbled on. It had been a good investment at the time he bought it, a better way of getting around that wouldn’t attract as much attention as walking around would. In theory, at least. 

Driving a luxurious model around District Seven’s dirt roads was pretty attention-grabbing. For the first three months after he bought it, Cypress spent hours scrubbing mud from the white metal. After that, he stopped bothering and let the muck crust. 

There wasn’t exactly a parking lot for the only car in the entire District, so Cypress pulled it as deep into the dirt path as he could before shutting it down. He undid his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, waiting to hear Aster’s door shut before continuing.

The walk to Colkirk wasn’t very long. Cypress could hear the shouts of various men and women working in the woods, the distinct snapping of delicate branches as they were disregarded and trampled on.

Colkirk was, oddly enough, identical to almost any other Seven settlement. The only distinguishing factor was the rickety building that flew the Panemian flag, built out of flimsy wood and older than dust. A platform extended from the front. Cypress knew that in roughly a year’s time, Seven’s chipper escort would be calling two names from that very platform.

For the moment, however, it was occupied by Mayor Pallet. Pallet was a stout man, obviously living a more comfortable life than the majority of Seven’s population. His hair was long gone and all that remained was blonde stubble. He wiped his head with a handkerchief as he waited to begin.

Cypress and Aster integrated into the crowd. Almost as soon as they did, Aster fled off to stand with his friend group. Cypress couldn’t help but notice the way they all crowded together—there was a slight gap, like they were waiting for Pup to join. He looked away quickly and decided to find someone to stand with.

Teva was standing closer to the front of the crowd. She was wearing a long dress of fine black silk and long gloves, as well as a black fascinator. Her curls were pulled up into a tight, oppressive bun. She eyed the other members of the crowd with a great deal of suspicion and guilt.

As Cypress approached, the girl physically softened a bit. She had won just the year before, and therefore it was obviously hitting her a bit harder. Her first mentorship had been a fifteen-year-old Bloodbath. Cypress couldn’t imagine how she was feeling. She wasn’t even an adult.

They had gotten into an argument just a few weeks earlier. Teva refused to effectively mentor Mossi. She thought it was better to produce a sacrifice over a monster. Cypress didn’t exactly agree, but he now understood where she was coming from. Besides, Mossi and Teva were from the same settlement. He knew she wasn’t going to just tell her to die. The girl from One had other plans.

There was a strained silence in the clearing. The sky was an eerie gray despite it being mid-August, and a hot and sticky feeling was left in the air. The crowd was mostly silent, a shifting ocean of dark clothing and quiet murmurs.

Most awkwardly, a bronze statue dedicated to Gamemaker Colkirk loomed over all of them. He had an impressive glare and a faintly menacing grin. His cane was held in two hands. He was the first Gamemaker to conceptualize moving Arenas from some sort of colosseum to more authentic environments. His invention caused Mossi to trip on a cracked tile, right into the path of the girl from One. 

Finally, Mayor Pallet decided to begin the proceedings. He walked up to the microphone with some shame, and Cypress noted the looks of distrust the audience cast him. It was hard to respect a man who got his riches from kissing the boots of the Capitol, after all.

Pallet’s gaze swept over the crowd. “Last year, we were lucky enough to receive a Victor in none other than Miss Phelps. This year, however, we were not as lucky. I would like to remind everyone that this year’s losses are no one’s particular fault, nor should they be treated as such.” 

His stare was pointed at Teva and Cypress. The latter shifted uncomfortably. “Let this loss be seen as a necessary tragedy. It is never a good thing when we lose two children with bright futures in the Bloodbath, but the continuation of the Games has resulted in a safe Panem without crime or fear.” Multiple people muttered at the statement; everybody knew of the situation that was beginning to pop up in Ten. 

“With that being said,” he produced a large piece of paper which had been neatly folded into his pocket, “Let us begin with the reading of those we’ve lost. Beginning with the very first Hunger Games…”

The reading of the names was another tradition. Sometimes families who knew the names would cry, but most of the earlier names were only dutifully remembered by those who were related to the tributes. 

The reading went by rather quickly. It was clear that the Mayor knew nobody cared much about the names before the Second Rebellion. There were a few mutters as things crossed from the 75th Hunger Games to the 76th. Once it hit the 100s, Cypress started hurting a bit. 

He couldn’t blink. If he did, he knew he would see the faces of the named children—Collie killing Mason and Amber was distinct, as was the butchery his female tribute had gone through during the 107th Hunger Games from Caduceus. Who knew somebody could make a body look so indistinguishable with just a needle.

This year, two more names were added to the list. “Mossi Greenworth, fifteen, and Pup Levin, twelve. It is these two tributes who we are honoring today. To begin with Mossi, she survived forty-three seconds into the Hunger Games, before being killed by a throwing knife.” They never mentioned who exactly did the killing. That would just cause hatred and overshadow the time of mourning. “Surviving Mossi are her parents and two siblings. We would like to invite them to the stage to speak.”

He stepped aside as the four people in question walked up the steps. There was a deafening silence as they did so. There appeared to be an older, weary boy, and a younger one who just looked stunned. The mother was holding up her husband with a tight grip. She spoke first. “When I knew that Mossi was coming, it was the most joyous day of my life. I sewed my first ever baby dress for her to wear, because I only had boy clothes from my first son. And she was…wow, she was everything I could’ve asked for. Patient. She picked up chores like she was born for ‘em. And she was so curious about everything . Always asking her Pa where he got his squirrels and such, what kind of birdsong we were hearing on the walk to the village. She was everything, and now I just don’t know how I’m going to go on without her.”

The man beside her seemed to steady his resolve and moved forward. “For the record, the Games are a blameless crime.” His voice was barely a murmur. “There are many factors to our daughter’s death, and we will mourn her nonetheless. Thank you.”

Stuttered clapping echoed across the square. As it petered out, the family stepped down and the Mayor replaced them. “Thank you to the Greenworths. We honor your daughter’s sacrifice.” The older brother gave a broken sob, and Cypress and Teva averted their eyes at the same time as the mother desperately tried to silence him.

Pallet continued on with a stilted aspect to his voice. “Pup lasted fifty-seven seconds into the annual Hunger Games. He was stabbed to death by a rapier. Those who will remember him are his grandmother and cousin.”

A woman with a long guiding stick began approaching the stage, helped along by a skinnier and younger woman with aquiline features. Her eyes were very blue as they looked out into the crowd. 

“Pup and I weren’t siblings, you know. His parents died in an accident, just as mine had starved to death a few years before, and therefore we were both taken in by our last family member.” She cast a loving look at her grandmother. “Pup had an easy smile. He knew exactly what to say, and he was always honest. He was actually so honest that when I tried to cover him for making a mess in our kitchen, he simply sat next to the mess and waited for our grandmother to return, so that he could explain the situation. There’s never going to be a teenage boy as demure as him, that’s for sure.”

Warm murmurs chased her words. The cheerful story had lightened the mood a bit, but from the corner of Cypress’s eye, he watched Aster slide his hand into the girl standing next to him’s palm and squeeze it hard. Tears were in her eyes.

Mayor Pallet took the microphone for a final time. “We respect these tributes immensely, and we sympathize with the pain of the families. That being said, it is time for the final part of this ritual. After tributes are Reaped, we reach out to families and ask for them to select a tree that will be hollowed out and turned into a floating casket for the tributes. Then, we send them down the river. You will see some stagehands navigating through the crowd with slips of paper and writing utensils. If you have a message for either tribute, write it and then throw it into their casket. Thank you.”

Someone began playing a lilting tune on the violin as the proceedings began. A stagehand approached Cypress and Teva with the basket immediately. Cypress took out two slips of paper and a pen as Teva did the same. He leaned over and balanced the paper on his knee to write.

For Mossi, he wrote, I’m sorry . 

For Pup, he wrote, I’ll do better next year .

A false promise. He was getting good at those, wasn’t he?

Cypress moved through the crowd like a ghost. People viewed him and Teva with so much pity that it almost alienated them. In Seven’s big family, they were the awkward individuals who didn’t quite fit anywhere. They didn’t work, but they were still a part of daily life and Seven’s culture.

He found himself at the coffins. They weren’t really coffins. They were carved in a shape similar to a canoe, only formed from the hollowed trunk of the families’ chosen trees. Mossi had a scarf around her neck to hide the jagged wound where the knife had struck home, and Pup had a buttoned, dark shirt to prevent the visibility of his ruined torso. 

Mossi was peaceful in death. Her curls had been carefully cared for. In reality, they had been frizzy and matted in parts because she didn’t know how to care for them properly. Her brown skin was unblemished, but it had freckles and acne scarring when Cypress knew her. Her hands were lightly wrapped around a bouquet of water lilies. She laid in the trunk of a willow tree.

Pup looked more apprehensive. He wore gray clothes, but his brows remained in their perplexed and anxious manner as in life. His hands were at his sides, a piece of solvex in each palm. Riches in the next life, Cypress knew. The root spirits loved such offerings. His trunk was that of a dogwood.

Paper rained as people threw in their messages, fluttering and coming to rest onto the bodies of the tributes. A paper crane landed on Pup’s chest, and nobody folded paper cranes as well as Aster did. Cypress threw his own papers.

After a moment, designated helpers gathered to bring the two deceased children to the river that flowed next to Cypress. They were raised into the air, people muttering goodbyes and well wishes after them.

Cypress didn’t say anything until the bodies were finally lowered into the river. He saw them gently stir for a moment and then they were picked up by the lazy current of the river, bumping against each other as they quietly began flowing downstream. He could’ve sworn that when disturbed, Pup’s body tilted so that his face was looking directly at her. He had looked at the cameras when she had died, just like Cypress had taught him. 

“Maybe next year.” Cypress’s back prickled at the sudden sound of Teva’s voice. She was usually slightly prickly, but for once, her voice held nothing but sorrow. Her eyes were watery and swimming with emotion. As she stared after the willow trunk.

“Maybe next year,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

MEMENTO VIVERE, ACT I

I'm Not Ready to Go

“I'm not ready to be / Done with my time / I've got too much to see"

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

CAST: 

DISTRICT 1 | LUXURY

Lysander Cartucci, 18, submitted by Cameroii.

Eulalie Tagliamonte, 18, submitted by livinginadream0.

DISTRICT 2 | MASONRY

Calvisia "Cal" Tadros, 18, submitted by dirtwolf.

Priam Providence, 18, submitted by samael.

DISTRICT 3 | TECHNOLOGY

Lyra Kasmin, 12, submitted by KitKathy250.

Modem Soohoo, 14, filler.

DISTRICT 4 | FISHING

Aithra Armada, 18, submitted by Cerulean.

Nemo Threepwood, 17, submitted by yoyowhitehole.

DISTRICT 5 | POWER

Aurora Libeccio, 13, filler.

Watson Jovi, 13, submitted by AstralKnight98.

DISTRICT 6 | TRANSPORTATION

Morgan "Gani" Calloway, 17, submitted by Cameroii.

Roadster Henriches, 18, filler.

DISTRICT 7 | LUMBER

Minivet Speck, 16, filler.

Rosebay "Bay" Bitterroot, submitted by Creativity_Unrestrained.

DISTRICT 8 | TEXTILES

Viola Adaba, 18, submitted by amadeusss9.

Fustian Boothe, 16, filler.

DISTRICT 9 | GRAIN

Blythe Ballantine, 18, submitted by ladyqueerfoot.

Graddan Shroff, 17, filler.

DISTRICT 10 | LIVESTOCK

Demaris Galpin, 18, filler.

Totolin Accles, 18, submitted by Manny Siliezar.

DISTRICT 11 | AGRICULTURE

Thatcha Reed, 13, submitted by Dante Alighieri1308.

Dunstan Lucky, 15, filler.

DISTRICT 12 | MINING

Veronika Stagfall, 18, filler.

Yorkie Serry, 15, submitted by ClearedPipes.

DISTRICT 13 | MEDICINE

Viva Lafratta, 16, filler.

Micaiah Kirchner, 15, submitted by explosioncat.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Tagliamonte House, District One, ‘112

Eulalie Tagliamonte, District One Female (she/her)

“ You’ve got to catch up and win the race / And straighten yourself out ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

As per usual, Eulalie was writing a song. She found herself in her house’s specialized recording studio often. Not even consciously thinking of something new to perform, just idly creating. It was an enjoyable feeling and one she would miss in the Arena.

Her teal-colored electric guitar was nestled in the lap of her dress. She wasn’t an amazing guitar player—not good enough to play the leads of her songs, anyways—but she learned a few chord progressions, just to match up with her lyric ideas.

She glanced back down at the piece of paper. It was a song about forgiveness and goodbyes, mostly based around the fact that she was about to go into the Games. And the Games were all-in or completely out. 

She wasn’t going to lie or tell herself anything different—she was nervous. The past Games hadn’t been very kind to their District One girls. By her count, seven out of twelve Games post-100 had resulted in the District One female dying first out of the Pack. 

If she was going to die, she at least wanted to avoid the shame of dying before the other Careers. That would be the antithesis of her plan, which was mostly to give some pride to her family if she absolutely had to go out. 

Well… maybe not mostly . More like… slightly . 

The truth was, Eulalie was frequented by dreams of living in the Capitol. Daydreams and dreams in her sleep. Wherever she went in One, she pictured what the same place would be like in Snow Square. Elegant cafes, attractive people all around. People who worshipped the arts instead of acting like they were second-hand to business. She could see herself in one of their huge concert venues, everyone screaming her name. Eulalie imagined that it was the ultimate goal for any sensible performer.

Eulalie wanted to join their number more than anything. And, if everything played in her favor, then she would. Hopefully with the ease that the last female Victor of One, Rosaura Valentine, did. 

Besides, anything was better than her repressive home. Her father was always breathing down her neck about learning the ‘true ways of Panem’, and turning her into a proper businesswoman. He believed that everybody was always out to get his family and that it was a dog-eat-dog world, whatever that meant.

She knew that he wished she was a boy. It was easier for sons to inherit their family business. 

Even worse, her mother micromanaged everything she did. From the day she turned seven, she wasn’t allowed to go out into Illustri or go to the Institute without makeup on and styled hair. Her clothes for every week were picked specifically for the outings and events that her mother had planned after school. 

“ The press needs to know our names. No other Lesser House plays the media like we do, alright ? That’s what makes us stand out. Everyone thinks we should be one of the Seven anyways.” Gloriella had said that when Eulalie complained of not getting to be with her friends on her thirteenth birthday. Instead, she got dragged out to a golf course and blew out her candles with about twenty cameras trained on her face.

From what Eulalie had heard about the Seven, or at least what they put out publicly, it didn’t seem like any of their children lived such stressful or crowded lives. Theoretically, the Tagliamontes should’ve been one of the Seven already, but they couldn’t prove that they had history of a Victor, despite Gloriella’s claims.

Eulalie had a feeling that wasn’t the case, though. She knew that for the Seven Houses to change—which they hadn’t, not since the first decade of the Games, which was when the Victor rule was first introduced—one of them had to be kicked out. She understood it to be some sort of vote. So she could see why the Seven didn’t want to lose their precious spots at the top. 

It was a weird paradox. If Eulalie did win the Games, then maybe her life would be easier. Or maybe her mother would get even worse about her appearance to keep up the standard of being a Seven.

Well, Eulalie wouldn’t have to care when she was a Victor. No more pushup bras and tiny miniskirts. No more thick layers of sunscreen to prevent any wrinkles or freckles from blemishing her face.

It wasn’t like Eulalie didn’t understand the worth of these things. Looks, she found, played a significant part in what people thought about you, even if it didn’t seem obvious. And Eulalie wanted to be a showstopper, which meant she had to look absolutely stunning.

She just wished she could choose what she wore, really, and what style of makeup she wanted. Eulalie had seen it from tapings of the previous Games—each Capitolite had their personal style. The trends moved quickly, but there was still a layer of individuality to it all.

It was better than Eulalie’s current style, which was just ‘every other One girl: slutty, stupid, and sexy’. She only had to keep up that appearance (minus the slutty and sexy) for the pre-Games. Then she could drop it for the Arena and really shine.

The best part was that she knew that she would be going into the Games with massive support from her District. District support could be a deciding factor, the Institute had taught. Some District-bought sponsorship gifts had completely changed the outcome of their respective Games.

Eulalie had gone on multiple tours around One. Each time, she had gained a larger following. Roses had pooled at her heels and people had yelled the lyrics of her songs. 

And music had been her choice. She’d always had melodies engraved in her soul, but had been nervous her mother wouldn’t accept it. Luckily, Gloriella agreed just because it made Tagliamonte a household name.

The only issue was Lysander Cartucci. Their families were decidedly rivals. Not publicly, of course, that would completely shatter their flawless illusions, but Eulalie had overheard her parents complaining about the intrusive Cartuccis.

“ They don’t even deserve it, ” Gloriella had snapped, pacing around the room as a maid swiped a brush through Eulalie’s hair some months ago. “ I mean, they don’t put in any effort at all! They have no houseworkers. They don’t have the relationship with the people that we do. All they have is their son. ”

Gloriella had a thought, at that moment. “ He has a boyfriend, I believe. Do you know anything about this boyfriend, Eulalie? ” She asked innocently.

“ Oh, Garnet Montclair? Yeah, I heard he’s one of the like, three scholarship kids or so. Not a very rich family. He’s a Marsh kid. ” Eulalie hadn’t paid much attention to Garnet. He was hardworking, though, which Eulalie could respect. Scholarship kids hardly made it though, not as much as they did in Two.

“ Bribe-worthy-not-rich, you think ?” Gloriella wondered.

At the time, Eulalie found it just a weird way to measure wealth. “ Yeah, I guess, ” she responded, half-paying attention.

Well, whatever Gloriella had meant by that question, Eulalie had a feeling it was connected to how Lysander and Garnet had acted during the election. Garnet had looked like a wounded dog for the whole thing, and Lysander had glared at him while showing off his skills.

Nonetheless, Lysander had beaten both Garnet and the Blair family’s offering in the election. An impressive feat, Eulalie had to admit. That rarely happened, except for the years in which the Seven Houses miraculously had no children of age. Luckily, the latter had been true for Eulalie. She’d heard that the Berlin family had a seventeen year-old, but only a fool would put a seventeen year-old in the Games by choice.

Regardless, none of those factors—Seven, Lesser, Marsh—would matter unless Eulalie actually made it out alive. And then she could live her dream. Be herself, whatever that meant.

She heard a strange slicing sound and looked down to see specks of blood spray against her guitar’s pickups. Lifting her strumming hand, she saw that she had accidentally played a bit too hard and a bit too fast. Now, rivulets of crimson ran down her fingertips.

As Eulalie got up to wash it off, Gloriella barged in. She was in an elegant and flowy magenta dress. She never quite dressed in One’s standard pink—she thought it made her standout more. “One hour before the Reapings begin, and you’re goofing off with your instrument?” Eulalie carefully tucked her wounded hand behind the guitar as her mother ranted. “Start getting ready.”

Thankfully, Gloriella’s words were short. She whisked around as soon as her daughter nodded and let Eulalie be, but Eulalie didn’t move. She was enraptured by the red on her hands, feeling the sting of the cuts as though it was muffled. 

Eulalie wondered how much blood her hands would be covered in by the time the Games were over.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Illustri, District One, ‘112

1:45 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Eulalie arrived at the Reaping fifteen minutes before it began. As always, the main square of Illustri was bursting with energy and excitement. Children chased each other with foam swords as their parents gossiped excitedly about the latest news of the District. A smaller group of people, roughly five-thousand strong, mostly kept to themselves. They were the darker-haired Marsh folk, the ones who practically everyone ignored.

The entry line moved quickly and Eulalie entered with the rest of the children as their parents were ushered to the sides to make room for District One’s absurd amount of children. There was no concern or fear on anybody’s face. They knew that Eulalie and Lysander would be volunteering, and other Careers after them, and more after. Eulalie could appreciate how it kept everyone feeling secure. 

She couldn’t imagine living in the outlying Districts, or hell, even Four. She wondered what it actually felt like to have her life in jeopardy during every Reaping. It was sort of nice that she had extra time to get over the potential of her dying before she was actually thrown into the Arena. 

Eulalie wasn’t going to die without fighting for the crown first. But she also knew that ego had been the downfall of countless tributes, and she knew that she wouldn’t be making the same mistake. But there was nothing wrong with just a dose of confidence, she believed. After all, she was undeniably beautiful and had a voice that had enraptured thousands. 

The only thing standing between her and Victory was Lysander. But she could cooperate with him, at least for a while. Biding her time. She wasn’t even focused on  him dying by her hand—if anything, it would be easier if he didn’t.

As Eulalie began navigating towards her place in the crowd, she saw heads turning in her peripheral vision, probably due to her captivating dress. It was a flamingo pink maxi dress with a considerable slit on her right thigh. A fur boa had been carefully slung over her shoulders by one of the Tagliamonte maids.

Despite all of the looks, Eulalie kept her face forward and her eyes trained straight-ahead. Keep them wanting more , her mother always advised. She couldn’t see her District partner anywhere, which was nice because it meant the attention was all on her. Those who didn’t know her as a Career, which was unlikely, as the majority of the District participated in the election, knew her from her slightly raunchy songs and sweet voice.

She stepped smoothly into the pen for the eighteen-year-old female slotted candidates. Instantly, she was overwhelmed by squeals and yelps of excitement as her friends descended on her.

Ember Hedronn, named after her shock of red curls, was the first to speak. “Oh my Panem , I can’t believe it’s finally happening! You’ve worked so hard for this!”

Eulalie nodded, embracing her friend tightly. “I’m so thankful for your support.” Ember and Eulalie had been friends for the longest time out of her little group. The Hedronns were technically a Lesser House, but they agreed to stay out of the way of the Tagliamontes. “Don’t worry, I’ll totally take you clothes-shopping in the Capitol.”

“Really?” Ember’s eyes sparkled in joy.  “I would love to go!”

Finally, the escort, Sugar Begay, approached the microphone and clapped twice into it. The crowd politely quieted to allow her to speak, which she did in her thick Capitol accent. “District One, District One, another year and another Reaping! After your performance last year, I’m expecting another great Games for you! But to have a great Games, there must be great Victors!” Sugar looked like, well, Sugar. Eulalie was sure that she was one of the Capitolites who had specifically had their name changed to fit their aesthetic. After all, her skin was pure white, as was her hair and her dress. The only splash of color was a sash she wore in District One’s saturated pink.

Sugar gestured as four people mounted the stage, introducing them as they went. Vegas, the oldest of the bunch, got the most cheers. People had constantly fawned over pictures of him when he first won. Rosaura followed him, looking appropriately foxy and conniving. Her nails had been sharpened into fierce points, and she showed them off eagerly to the crowd.

After those two came, there was a slight pause. “And now, your mentors! This year, Austere Lemieux will be mentoring the female tribute, while Excellence Schimek will be mentoring the male tribute!” More clapping followed as the two men entered. Eulalie noticed the fact that they kept considerable space between them. She wondered just how much the Seven Houses truly hated each other—if they harbored the same amount of hatred that her mother had for the Cartucci family.

“Ladies first,” Sugar cried after the applause died down, approaching the bowls. Eulalie allowed the selected tribute’s name to ring out—some skinny fourteen-year-old girl from the Marsh—before politely raising her hand.

“I volunteer as tribute,” she called out, clear and confident. Instantly, cheers of support rang out through the crowd. Everyone screamed her name. Of course they did—they had voted her in for the Games. She made sure not to look too excited, however, and she kept her stride elegant as she approached the stage.

As she walked, she began to dream. Walking in Snow Square. Sitting in lavish bars and sipping fancy drinks. Singing while people screamed until their voices were raw. Getting to be her own person, no longer associated with her family name. 

And all the while, another vision: her hands, covered in blood, mixed so deeply that she couldn’t tell what was hers and what was somebody else’s. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Cartucci House, District One, ‘112

Lysander Cartucci, District One Male (he/him)

“ There’s me gone, there’s you in the way / Moving on, open all the way ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Lysander’s name was written in flowy pen. His signature had an overwhelming flourish due to his former tutoring in calligraphy (his father said that all distinguished One men knew calligraphy). 

The name below, however, was completely carved out of the laminated paper, a jagged scar where scissors and a knife had torn it out being the only signifier that it had ever been there. And, if he looked closely enough, Lysander could see the place where his tears had splashed and formed bubbles on the plastic surface. 

The room was warm, maybe a degree or two uncomfortably so. Lysander had stolen some firewood from his family’s luxurious fireplace and thrown it into his own, less luxurious and rarely-used one. Lighting it with a match was the quickest option.

He stared down at the piece of paper, his knuckles tight around the edges. They dug into his palms painfully, and he grit his teeth against the strain.

( “You sent the fucking letter? They were going to replace me!” )

Lysander took a step towards the fire. His trainers always said that entering the Games meant going in without past pains holding you down. Unresolved emotions would just limit one’s potential.

He didn’t intend to be limited. 

( “Please, I didn’t know!” The other boy begged, his cheeks slick with fresh tears. “I didn’t know they were actually going to take it seriously—I would never betray you!” )

He dropped the paper. The flames licked it up instantly, giving a ravenous whoosh as they touched it.

( “You know what,” Lysander hissed, his hand balling up at his side. “Fuck you.” He pulled his arm backwards. )

As the now-blackened paper was completely swallowed, a knock sounded at the door. Lysander startled slightly, becoming aware of tears prickling in his eyes. He raised his thumb to wipe them away. “Come in,” he announced.

A flash of pale skin and pink ruffles flounced inside of his lavish bedroom. “Ly,” his sister yipped in a sing-song tone. “It’s your big day!”

“Yeah,” Lysander nodded in a somewhat solemn way, which resulted in Lazulina giving him an odd stare. “Of course I am,” he added flippantly, to reassure her. 

A grin crossed her features. She strode closer to him and gestured towards herself. “Do I look good? Do I? Do I?” This proceeded to go on for about a minute until Lysander finally calmed her down.

Mentally, he rolled his eyes. Lina had certainly gotten their mother’s vanity. In fact, with her crazed manner, Lysander had to wonder if she was on her period.

With that, Lina proceeded to drag him across the room to his full-length mirror. She poked at her face, wiping off some lipstick that had strayed onto her philtrum. “Are you nervous?” She asked him, completely curiously. Otherwise, Lysander would’ve been insulted by the notion.

“I don’t need to be,” he sniffed. “This is what I’m meant to do.” Lysander believed that full-heartedly. Being from one of the Lesser Houses, the easiest way to become one of the Seven Houses—supposedly, at least, as nobody had ever done it—was to win the Games. He was ready to be the first one to succeed.

It was his destiny. 

Soon after, Lysander and Lina walked down the stairs to the kitchen together. Varian Cartucci was standing at the stove, cooking something up for lunch. It smelled like One’s famous pink shrimp.

Lysander loved his father’s pink shrimp. His heart swelled in pride as he realized that it was for him. 

“Look who it is,” Varian nodded. “My son, who’s Volunteering for the 112th Games. What an honor.” His father wasn’t very emotive, but there was a distinct shine in his blue eyes. He spoke in a prim manner, which contrasted greatly with his muscled and scarred appearance. The siblings obediently sat at the table as they waited for the food. 

It was served quickly in a cocktail glass, with sauce to dip it in. Varian sat down with his children. “Now, let’s go over some scenarios. You’re in the Pack, during the late Games. You don’t think the others want to split. What should you do?”

“Secretly pack up everything I can. If I have the means to, burn the camp or poison one of the other Careers as a distraction and then run away during the night.” That method had proved the most successful for most late splits. When Careers got too comfortable, they forgot their training and were overcome by emotion. Lysander knew he wasn’t going to do that.

Varian grunted in approval. “You’re in the Bloodbath and you see two potential options to go after: a strong, high-scoring tribute, and a younger tribute who got a mediocre score. Who do you fight first?”

“The high-scoring tribute. It’s better to remove threats earlier because then the later Games will be a clean sweep of the weaker tributes,” Lysander answered instantly, as though reciting a text. The information had been drilled into him for a long time—when he had been a newer Career, he had always picked the younger tribute during exams. He wouldn’t make that mistake in the real Games.

“Correct again. Lastly, you are presented with two options for allying in the mid-to-late Games. Your District partner, and a formidable tribute from Two. Who do you pick?”

“My District partner,” came his hesitant reply. At his father’s disgusted look, Lysander’s voice rose to defend himself. “Is it not subjective? Just because a tribute is formidable doesn’t make them trustworthy ,” he scoffed. Plenty of Careers had made that mistake of choosing the strongest ally to be with. They ended their time in the Arena with a weapon in their back and betrayal in their eyes. 

“Do you not remember who your District partner is?” As Varian’s voice raised, Lina squirmed awkwardly in her seat. “She’s a Tagliamonte , Lysander. They’re the most desperate to be one of the Seven. And Tagliamontes don’t let their emotions overcome their goals.” 

“Maybe both could be true,” Lina supplemented weakly.

Lysander stared down at his meal. Suddenly, the pink shrimp tasted overly sweet. His lip curled in annoyance as Varian glared at his younger sister. Before he could argue, though, the door that led out to their porch slid open.

Velissa Cartucci walked into the room with a large, floppy sunhat, and square sunglasses perched on her button nose. She was wearing a rather revealing bathing suit, and she shut a book with her left hand as she held a half-full glass of wine with her other. “I wanted to come and wish my handsome boy luck before we have to do it in front of Peacekeepers.” 

Unlike her husband, Lysander’s mother spoke with a peculiar lilt to her tone, similar to a poorly-tuned violin. She approached her son and hugged him from behind. “You’re going to do so well. And you’re not going to fail.”

“ Cartuccis weren’t born to fail ,” Lina added in the strict voice of Varian. It was enough to earn a smirk from everyone gathered. 

“Right,” Velissa agreed. “Something like that. Well, remember to be brutally efficient. Don’t choke up when a twelve-year-old girl runs by, just cut her down.” The woman spoke as if this was completely casual. Lysander had been drilled on not falling for younger tributes’ innocence on multiple occasions. Spinneret Witta had won due to being overlooked. “Viciousness will carry you through to the end, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Varian put in. “And remembering your training. But there’s no doubt you won’t be able to do that. You’ve been in the program since you were ten.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Lina cheered, embracing Lysander tightly. 

Velissa took a sip of wine. “Oh, and for the record, I would like a studio apartment in the Capitol once you do win. I’m so tired of having to deal with this House drama.” She rolled her eyes under her dark lenses.

“We won’t have to deal with it anymore, once we’re one of the Seven.” Varian pointed out, before turning to his son. “Alright, go and finish getting ready. Reapings start in thirty.”

Lysander nodded, taking care of his dishes before heading into his bedroom to put on his newly-bought dress shoes. He stared into his reflection again. Don’t think about him. This is your day. He’s insignificant. 

Besides, Lysander was going to win the Games and prove him wrong. He was undoubtedly going to capture the audience’s attention. He was going to kill his way to the top. 

And, above all, he deserved to win.

He had placed above a Seven Houses kid in the District election. That hadn’t happened in multiple years, not since the 100th Hunger Games, and that was only because things had been shaken up from the Quell twist. 

Lysander was certain that he was going to stick it to the Tagliamontes and the other Lessers, to show that the Cartuccis were the only ones who deserved to be a part of the Seven Houses. 

(But if he was so certain, why was his stomach twisting in circles?)

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Illustri, District One, ‘112

1:45 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Lysander was ready. He stood quietly among his mostly rambunctious peers. A few of them clapped him on the back with wishes of luck and a good time in the Arena. But Lysander knew how things were. Except for close friends, people didn’t want to associate too much with someone who was most likely going to die or forget them after Victory.

It was good. Lysander wanted to show that he was different from them anyways. Instead of just bragging about being a Career for the popularity, he was actually going to bite the bullet and be in the Arena. 

Mayor Sultan Figuerdo made a quick speech. There wasn’t much of a point to the Mayor’s speech in One—of course they knew about the importance of the Games. They worshipped them. 

After that, Sugar was introduced. Lysander found her and her getup completely ridiculous and backwards of anything he thought was fashionable, but he knew that he would have to grow used to it. Escorts were often underestimated in the Games—but they could be valuable assets during the two Interviews he would be navigating.

Sugar proceeded to invite Vegas and Rosaura to the stage. Lysander didn’t care much for either Victor. Who he really cared about were the latter two Victors, and of those two, he was mostly concerned with Excellence.

Lysander was admittedly upset that Excellence was his mentor. The 104th Hunger Games weren’t very elaborated on in the Institute, and their victory was especially awkward to mention. After all, Excellence had done what was strictly advised against: gotten attached and then fell in love to boot. It was a foolish move. Everybody knew that the Capitol didn’t like lovers unless there was clearly a power struggle and deeper conflict between them. All that it had earned the man was a knife through the hand and a body twisted in the wrong way at the bottom of a cliff.

And besides, Lysander didn’t know what Excellence could teach him that he didn’t already know. Varian had been  enough training on his own, and the Institute perfected him. Excellence had no direct ties to the Institute. Some Victors chose to be partial trainers, but it was rare. In fact, Lysander didn’t remember the last time he saw Excellence in public. That meant that compared to Eulalie, he was less likely to have a good amount of sponsors unless he made a strong impression.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, irked. How annoying. Of course, he was perfectly capable of making an impression, but he didn’t appreciate the extra work. He wanted a smooth ride into the Arena. 

Finally, Sugar got to the Reapings. “Hellotia Waymire!” She called, looking out across the crowd. A pallid little girl stepped away from the rest of the fourteen year-olds, a bright smile on her face. In One, being Reaped was something to brag about.

Almost as soon as the little girl had her moment of fame, a clearer, bell-like voice rang clearly across the square.

“I volunteer as tribute!” Eulalie Tagliamonte called. Her eyes remained forward as she walked. Lysander, meanwhile, had to resist the urge to roll his own. How expected of a Tagliamonte to pretend like nobody else existed.

Screams and cries of joy followed her. Some people began exclaiming about how much they loved her newest album. Lysander hadn’t listened to it, but he left a pleasant expression on his face at the fanfare due to the cameras. He didn’t want any of the competition overanalyzing his disposition.

He watched her mount the stage. “I mean,” Sugar guffawed, “I shouldn’t even have to ask for your name. But share it with those who live under a rock, if you will?”

Eulalie gave a smile that was very unsettling. “My name is Eulalie Tagliamonte, and I have been ready for this since the day I was born. If you think my voice is good, wait until you see how I hold a weapon.”

“Very bold!” Sugar grinned. “Well, folks, give it up for famous singer and tribute of the 112th Hunger Games, Eulalie!” Rapturous applause followed, before Sugar politely raised a hand to quiet it. “Miss Tagliamonte isn’t the only tribute going into the Games this year,” she said in a somewhat chiding tone. “Now for our male tribute!”

Lysander forgot how to breathe. It was finally going to be his moment. With bated breath, he watched Sugar approach the male Reaping bowl. “Global Masarotto!” A seventeen-year-old boy looked faintly shocked as his name was called. 

Lysander made sure to yell just a bit faster than Eulalie had. “I volunteer as tribute!”

“-as tribute!” A more feeble voice echoed. Lysander knew the voice without even turning.

He sneered over his shoulder, looking Garnet Montclair in the eyes. “Yeah, nice fucking try. Always trying to get a piece of my glory, huh?” He made sure to harshly shove the other boy out of the way on his way towards the stage. Garnet gasped in surprise, as did a few others around them. On the large screens in front of him, he could see Garnet’s saddened face lingered on for just a moment, before the attention was back on him.

Where it was meant to be. 

In his quest to be the opposite of Eulalie, he made sure to interact with the crowd as he walked. He shook a few hands, blew a kiss or two. All simple stuff, really. He knew that District One this year was going to be a popularity contest.

“My name is Lysander Cartucci,” he explained to the microphone. “And you’re looking at your best bet for Victor of the annual Hunger Games.” He whisked around to face Eulalie, who was looking a tad paler than before, giving one last confident smirk to the cameras before offering a handshake.

“What’s the matter,” he asked her as he extended his palm, his voice low to disguise it from the microphones. “Scared I’ll break your petite hand?”

Eulalie grabbed his hand around the wrist and pulled it to the sky. “Never assume I’m ever scared of anything again.”

Lysander couldn’t help it. His grin deepend. Maybe this would be more fun than he thought.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

The Labyrinth, District Two, ‘112

Calvisia “Cal” Tadros, District Two Female, 18 (she/her)

“ If I’m gonna snap necks / then I gotta snap back”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Calvisia was becoming tired of not being able to see shit. She was permanently trapped at a snail’s pace, creeping against the stone wall with her palm pressed flat against its cold surface. Every single muscle in her system twitched, wanting to run out of the maze and be done with the entire thing.

Unfortunately, she also had a brain—a sensible one, at that, and she knew that playing a longer game would benefit her. But playing a longer game also meant practically sitting on her ass and waiting for people to come her way, or preferably to stumble across the exit.

The Labyrinth didn’t follow any sort of pattern. Sometimes Cal would nearly crash into a wall, other times she came across such a long and twisting corridor that it drove her crazy. She had to wonder how many hopefuls had been knocked out of the competition not by elimination, but just by running headfirst into a wall. 

She remembered the trainers of the Institute informing the class of ‘112 that they would not be receiving a flashlight. Any fighting would be done in complete darkness. That was already proving to be a significant annoyance. 

Right when the opening gong sounded, Cal crashed directly into another girl and spent roughly ten minutes chasing her down while also trying to avoid getting a concussion. 

Making matters worse, the only weapon the potential tributes were offered were tiny rods given the overly impressive name of electrified batons. In all of her nine years of training, she had never fought with just a puny stick.

Despite the faults of the test, Cal had to admit that she was having fun . The adrenaline rush she felt when sparring was one thing, but creeping around in the dark and not knowing if she was about to hunt somebody down or become the hunted was a whole new high. 

Cal continued forward, the scent of trapped moisture and earthy rock sharp on her nostrils. The other interesting thing about the Labyrinth—it had been formed entirely out of natural rock formations. While Cal wasn’t among her District’s population of stoneworkers and masons, she could appreciate the dedication and patience that had gone into such a complex structure.

After an hour in its depths, however, exhaustion was beginning to weigh in. For the first time in her life, Cal was thinking of taking a break, and she was really being pushed on by pure spite.

Because Cal didn’t take breaks. Ever. The Institute forbade it, for one thing. It was drill after drill and if she wasn’t drilling, then she was sparring. Secondly, it was really just how her brain worked. The only time she felt the need to rest was when her head finally hit her pillow at night. And even then, that was just so she was refreshed for training in the morning.

Her boots hit the ground lightly, so that she was gliding more than walking. Her eyes were sharpened by the shadows, peering around for any disturbance in the ebony expanse. 

She lowered slightly into a runner’s crouch, her stick tight in her hand. Was she beginning to feel the effects of dehydration, or was that someone up ahead? Yes, that was a person—the distinct noise of their shoes against the uneven ground made it clear.

The hunt was on, and Cal was tired of waiting.

She started slow, slipping closer and closer to them. While Cal wasn’t being the most stealthy, she heard now that the person’s breathing was shallow and quick, so they weren’t listening too closely to their surroundings. Her hand never left the wall, keeping her centered and preventing her from bumping into things. When she was within five paces, she charged.

To the other girl’s credit, she turned tail like a startled rabbit. But Cal knew that she wouldn’t have much luck in a chase. Instead, she made a little tch under her breath and snatched the back of her shirt. “Hey!” The girl snapped in frustration.

Cal’s respect practically flooded down the drain. Only one girl would make such a sound—a sound that spoke of expectation and pampering over many years. She pressed the smooth button on the side of her stick, and blue electricity lit up both of their faces, confirming that she was staring at none other than Enna Parrot. The girl’s face was scrunched in disapproval, her relatively short body shaking with the rage of being caught.

They stared at each other for only a moment before Enna had her own stick up in preparation for a fight. She broke Cal’s hold with some difficulty, and it was only because Cal wanted to savor her victory. 

In the blue tones, Cal could distinctly tell that Enna had been in a different scuffle just recently. Her padded armor looked rough, and her perfect hair was tangled in a few directions. Her breathing was still erratic.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Enna proclaimed.

Cal rolled her eyes. People like Enna weren’t meant to be indulged. Instead, she just lunged. Enna made a peculiar sound一something between a squawk and a shriek一as she condensed into a half-formed defensive stance.

While the baton was mostly inconvenient, in her hour she had spent with it, Cal had been able to adapt her style to make it halfway manageable. Her trainers always stressed how important adaptation was in the Arena, so she was familiar with thinking outside of the box.

The two batons crashed together, making an unflattering smacking sound. While Cal was unphased with how the fight was going, she could already tell that Enna’s resolve was beginning to break, her teeth bared in exertion.

Cal won the engagement, using her greater musculature to push away the other girl’s weapon and to then prod Enna in the chest with the electrified tip of her stick. She watched Enna jolt in place, a zip of electricity no doubt running through her veins. One strike out of three.

Enna yelped and threw out her own attack, a messy move that caught Cal off guard just because it was so violent and untrained. She mentally kicked herself—the outliers would be doing the same in the Games. 

As the baton slammed into Cal’s ribs, her entire body shook. Her teeth rattled in her skull and stars danced across her vision in hypnotic patterns. As her vision cleared, she saw that Enna had a light smirk on her face.

That had to change. Cal spun the baton in her palm as she backed away, searching for a different opening. Enna took the initiative, striking with a flurry of blows that left Cal’s arms strained by the time they broke apart again.

During the beat of rest, Cal rushed forward, and she hit Enna once. The girl quickly defended, but what she wasn’t prepared for was Cal’s fist to swoop out of left field and push her sideways. With her balance thrown, Enna practically stumbled onto the end of Cal’s stick. She gave a shriek of pain with the hit, and crumpled slightly. “N-no fair,” she sputtered.

“Nothing’s fair,” Cal snapped. She was sick and tired of Careers who didn’t get that, the blind ones who thought that they could just flounce their way into and through the Games to Victory, everything handed to them on a silver platter.

No, Cal would be taking her own Victory, and she would bleed for it too. 

Enna was shaking, obviously knowing now that she was heavily outmatched. Cal watched the thought of running enter her mind as she began to stumble backwards. Cal socked her in the side where her foam armor had a dent, and the girl stumbled back a few steps, another protest on her lips.

All Cal did was flick her chin upwards in a challenge. Enna took it, with a surprising amount of strength  despite the injuries she had already suffered. She leapt onto Cal, and both of the girls crashed to the ground, the only thing keeping Cal from a head injury being her padded helmet.

Cal’s head spun from the impact, and she suddenly felt a white-hot pain as Enna raked her manicured nails over her cheek. If Enna was so obsessed with catfighting, so be it. Finally recovered, Cal effortlessly pulled the girl off.

She maneuvered around Enna so that she was behind her, and placed two hands around where her hair met the flat of her scalp. Then she pulled . Enna howled in response as Cal dragged her towards the wall, her nails scratching at Cal’s steady fists. In response, Cal kneed her side.

Enna shouted something as they finally hit the smooth wall. Cal lifted her baton, holding it to the girl’s temple, allowing it to crawl closer and closer to shocking her head. Enna saw the action and spit at Cal’s boot.

Cal gave a final yank and threw Enna’s head against the wall. The girl was knocked out cold almost instantly. Cal stood at her full height, looking down at the slumped-over girl.

Cal stood, tall even at the age of ten, trying to blend into the wall. Distinct cackling echoed through the hallways. She didn’t want to be next. Please, leave me alone for one day. Just one.

Enna turned the corner, her posse following closely behind her. A shark-like grin rested on her lips. “Hey, guys!” She shouted, her eyes burning a malevolent blue. “Look at the fakie, trying to pretend she’s one of us!”

Back then, Cal needed somebody to protect her. In the Games, she was sure that she would have her own back.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Tadros Household, District Two, ‘112

10:30 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

It was the day before the Reapings, and Cal couldn’t sleep. Even though her eyes were shut tight and her body was ready for a night’s rest, the world of dreams refused to take her. Sourly, Cal wondered if it was a punishment from Athena for falling into Enna’s petty ways.

She was determined not to look like a fool during the events of the next day, so she allowed her brain to sink into the odd place between physical and not, something between a memory and a dream. 

Just as they frequently did, her thoughts turned directly to her brother.

As always, the day was sweltering, and Cal felt miserable. She longed for a cool glass of lemonade, or some shade under her house’s roof. But instead…

“Cal, look at this one! ” Ilias cried, his brown skin glistening with sweat under the harsh District Two sun. In his palm, he was cradling a grasshopper that was colored in a soft blend of greens and reds. “This one just looks like summer, doesn’t it?”

Cal, only thirteen, was much more cautious about random bugs found in the Quarry than her older brother. Ilias was confident, however, that bug-searching was a vital skill for a Career to have, and brought her out frequently to find the ‘best spots’. (Now, Cal knew that it was probably just to get her out of the house more). Cal slowly approached as he showed her the grasshopper in finer detail.

It slowly crawled around the surface of Ilias’s skin. Noticing that she was staring, Ilias puffed out his chest with pride. “Those are its antennae. That middle part is its thorax. Cool, right?”

Cal shrugged. “I guess,” she allowed, even if it was things that every Two kid learned in science. 

Despite her unenthusiasm, Ilias grinned. “C’mon, don’t you like Mr. Grasshopper?” At her lack of an answer, a frown brushed the edges of his lips. “Alright, how about you hold it…”

“No, I’m goo—” she was halfway through saying, before Ilias flatly dropped the grasshopper into her hands. A chill danced up her spine, and she squealed in surprise.

While her first instinct was to drop the damn thing, she found herself in an odd moment of contemplation. The grasshopper walked in circles, each movement synchronized and delicate. Its eyes were so big . Cal had learned in school that bugs with those kinds of eyes could see the same image multiple times.

Imagine that—getting to experience the same memory, the same view of the sky, through multiple repetitions. Cal gently set the thing down on the grass, and it quickly hopped away.

Ilias smiled. Not his usual light grin. A real, genuine smile.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

From how outdoorsy he was, fifteen-year-old Cal practically celebrated when she saw that the Arena was a bog. The Quarry was a marshland too—in fact they had huge drains due to how much it flooded. 

Not only that, but the Careers were strong. Ilias and Greaves were on great terms as cadets, and they even arm-wrestled during the Reapings to show that it was going to be a good year for Two. The pair from One were also strong, but easy to work with. The Four tributes had been deemed ‘honorary Twos’ due to their strength.

If only the Careers had known the wickedness that they were hiding. 

The Bloodbath went smoothly, and even though the next few days were messy, Cal’s big brother was going strong. Cal cheered every time the Careers had a successful hunt, and she knew that someday it was going to be her stalking outliers.

Ilias was always friendly, too. He didn’t leave out any of the Careers. He joked around the most with Herl and usually accompanied the boy on hunts. But he had a respectful solemnity in every action. Unlike the Ones, he never disrespected the tributes he killed. He ended the young tributes from Nine with grace and care. He didn’t try to seem sympathetic—didn’t act like he was sorry, because he wasn’t. 

And sometimes, Cal could swear that he was speaking right to her. A bright smile lit her features when he shared in his Interviews that his younger sister was his biggest motivator, and when he correctly identified their grasshopper—the Eastern lubber—in the Arena as being a mutt, because the coloring was slightly off. He saved the Careers from the nerve poisoning that killed three outliers.

Then, in the dead of night, the girl from Four received a powder labelled with a cheesy skull. Cal’s stomach dropped, because she had a feeling who the girl’s target would be. After all, she had been subtly antagonizing Ilias, trying to get his cheery mindset to break. He was the link keeping the Careers together for so long, even as the Games entered the final ten.

Her cheers turned to screams as she begged Ilias, tears in her eyes, not to drink from his stupid extra waterskin. But he couldn’t hear, and he took a swig with that knowing glint in his eyes.

Ilias Tadros placed ninth, killed by Dorsal Casarez, who would go on to be Victor. By the time the life finally left his body, she was long gone, having warned Herl and booked it as soon as possible. She left Greaves to be teamed up on by Antoinette and Edgar.

Cal knew on that day that she had a new motivation for entering the Games. She was going to destroy Dorsal’s dreams of having a Victor, and when the crown was placed on her head, she would know that she’d won not as a back-handed poisoner but as a righteous warrior.

District Four had no idea what was about to hit them. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Quarry Children’s Hospital, District Two, ‘105

Priam Providence, District Two Male, 18 (he/him)

“ All along, there was a story / Spare me all the allegories please ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Priam was eleven, and death was around every corner. When he was born, something went wrong, something that resulted in smeared memories of IVs, monitors, and white walls. He had never known anything but the sterile scent of Quarry’s singular Children’s Hospital. 

An immune disorder, they said, something that would constantly keep his life in jeopardy if he wasn’t connected to wires and being watched in a thoroughly-cleaned environment all his life.

Things weren’t all bad, though. He got to eat nice food that half of the District had no access to, for one. And he got to speak with possibly the kindest women in Panem, namely Aspasia. To his understanding, nurses weren’t assigned to the patient, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that Aspasia showed up every morning with a warm meal and a story on her lips.

It was one of those mornings, and Priam swallowed down another bite of scrambled eggs as Aspasia perched on the edge of his bed. “Is there a particular story you want to hear this morning?” She asked the young boy, staring at him intently.

“What about Hearth? You haven’t talked about him in a while,” Priam said, his voice as measured and soft as always. The staff remarked frequently about his calm demeanor and his ‘old soul’.

“Right, Hearth,” Aspasia smiled. “Well, you see, Hearth was a very kind boy from an untypical upbringing. Surrendered by his family at a young age due to financial burden, he ended up being taken in by the Head of the Virtus Institute herself, and raised to be one of the glorious warriors we call Careers. He laid down his life as he volunteered, searching to ascend to Victory in exchange for the threat of death.”

“And he went to the jungle, right?” Of course, Hearth didn’t actually venture to the jungle, it was just his Arena. But Priam always loved how Aspasia brought wonder and fantasy into her retellings of the Games.

“Precisely. Him and the other selected warriors fought together, tied in a unique bond by the blood they shed. They faced beasts to raid their dens, which were full of supplies and food. After losing his closest friend to one of the most dangerous mutts, but one with a very powerful item, Hearth fought the jaguar-like beast alone, and emerged victorious with the special poison in his hand. It was with that poison and his wit that he was able to outsmart his final opponents and return home.”

Priam was starry-eyed as she told the story. He had never seen Hearth’s Games before, shockingly they weren’t among the Hospital’s collection, but he could imagine almost every aspect just through her storytelling. 

Aspasia cast a glance at the clock on the wall. “Ah, your mother wanted us to check in on your sister.”

Priam watched as the woman delicately turned on the mounted television, which was automatically set to the broadcast of the Games. For the 105th Hunger Games, the Arena was a treacherous, windy cliffside, the sea sucking eagerly at the base of the cliffs. The Cornucopia was on the edge, which had led to three tributes falling or being pushed to their death alone. 

Five days since then, the majority of the tributes had perished, by merit of the harsh conditions, weapons, or being confused by the peregrine falcon mutts. The cameras were focused on three of the eight remaining tributes, namely the remainders of the Careers.

They weren’t in great shape. They had been attacked by the peregrine falcons, resulting in the boy from One falling to his death. That left only the girl from Four, the girl from One, and his sister, Cardea.

She wasn’t the first Providence that had been in the Games, that much had been remarked on multiple times by the commentators. Four years before, Bellona, the eldest, had thrown in her lot. Unfortunately, she hadn’t made it out.

But, Priam’s mother told him that if there was anyone to count on, it was Cardea. From what she had told him, Cardea was smart as a whip and twice as fast. 

Besides, as it stood with the Careers, the boy from Four had been partially blinded by the falcon swarm, and the blonde One was hot-headed. Even as Priam was watching, they were discussing terms to break up the alliance. Of course, they still kept that same agreement to not target each other until they had to. They all gathered up any supplies they wanted, splitting it evenly. Cardea, sportsmanlike as always, even shook their hands.

With that, the three Careers split. Aspasia abruptly tensed, and Priam was about to ask why until he saw it too: the girl from One, pulling out one of her pretty little daggers. She prepped it for a throw, directly at Cardea. The knife whirred through the air before sinking into the flesh in the crevice of his sister’s neck, a cannon sounding as she fell forward. A cannon sounded.

The boy from Four looked alarmed, giving the girl from One an open-mouthed expression. “ Why the fuck would you do that ?” It had been clear for a while that the two were secretly closer allies to each other than either with Cardea, but Priam still felt slightly betrayed.

“ She had an advantage over us, ” the One girl snapped with annoyance, indicating the boy from Four’s injured eye. “ And she was a bitch, thinking she’s all high-and-mighty or whatever. ” She threw her hands up in the air, and before Priam could see anything more, Aspasia flicked off the television screen.

The nurse gave him a saddened look. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”

He raised a hand. “It’s fine, ma’am.” He felt an uncomfortable sort of way: a pit in his stomach, a sort of unending hollowness that wasn’t quite grief. After all, he hardly knew Cardea. Was he supposed to feel worse? Of course, she was his sister, but it wasn’t like she nor any other Providence was permitted to visit him in his sorry state.

Abruptly, there was a chiming noise at the door, and an incomprehensible blur Priam instantly recognized as Adair Providence rushed in. As per usual, she was covered in a draping dress, but it didn’t seem to hinder her movement at all.

“Mrs. Providence, your daughter—”

Priam’s mother held up a finger. “I’m aware,” she murmured. “My daughter has entered the heavens to join her sister, gods bless their souls. However,” she turned her eyes—slightly wild and bloodshot—onto Priam. “An angel of the Capitol who sponsored both of them greatly has just created a pathway for a treatment to your curse, my son.”

“Wh–” Priam sputtered. “An angel?”

“That’s correct,” she affirmed, spreading her arms wide. “We shall rejoice, as this means that you can also begin working towards the finest goal of all.”

“The Games,” he breathed. He had long dreamed of entering them, of continuing the family tradition which his lineage had partaken in for generations. “You’re saying I could—”

Adair smiled. “That’s correct.” She returned to speaking with Aspasia. “It’s a well-tested treatment, but not one that will completely neutralize the disorder. It’ll make the symptoms mild at best, which means my son will be good to return home with his family. I can’t wait for you to meet Pax, she’s been waiting to see you and was deeply upset that it was too dangerous to do so.” And it was. If any virus got to him, it could be his end. Even as she spoke, she kept a wide berth between herself and Priam. 

Aspasia nodded. “That’s wonderful news, Mrs. Providence. I’m sure your son will make a great Victor, some day.”

Priam thought of such a thing. What if his story was told by Aspasia to other children? What if, eventually, he would have ichor running through his veins? He smiled at the idea. 

And he would get to go to school! Of course, he had only heard stories of what it was like, but a space where education fostered and he learned more about the glory of the Games and Panem sounded absolutely stellar.

“How soon can I start?” He asked his mother.

“In due time,” she smiled. “I was rather worried that we would have to throw Pax into training early. I’ve told you of her, haven’t I?” At Priam’s shaking head, she continued, “A firecracker, that’s what she is. Bellona was something of a schemer, and I suppose Cardea was a diplomat. But Pax…she doesn’t seem to slow down, ever. Quite the handful. But I imagine nothing would calm her more than getting to see her mysterious older brother.”

“I can’t wait to talk to her,” Priam said, before frowning. “I wish I could’ve met Bellona and Cardea before they…”

“Don’t feel sad,” Adair advised. “They knew what they were in for, and they went out as soldiers, with honor. And besides, they’ve paved the way for you to achieve glory. And I’m quite certain that the Providence line is due for a Victor. You would look handsome with a crown on your brow, I think.”

“Only time will tell,” he shrugged.

“So wise,” she smiled. “No matter what happens, you will be great, and they will say your name as they say the gods’.”

Priam liked the idea, and he held it close to his heart. He had been told twice by then that he would achieve great renown someday, and he knew that he had to be some sort of prophecy.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

The Labyrinth, District Two, ‘112

12:03 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Priam felt the kiss of spring weather against his skin as he half-stumbled, half-sprinted out of the yawning cavern mouth. His arm moved to his ribs instantly, where he could feel the tenderness of a bruise through the thin shirt.

A crowd, formed in a half-circle, watched him with interest. There were some disgruntled mutters that parents’ own children hadn’t beat him, but Priam merely integrated into the people, shedding his helmet, electrified sticks, and vest as he did so.

Of course, he wasn’t the official male tribute yet. He knew that a panel of trainers and Victors were poring over the feeds from various cameras, making sure that Priam hadn’t found a way around the system. They only wanted the most loyal and most respectful of tributes, after all.

Priam had both traits in bounties.

He finally found his family, squashed awkwardly near the back of the circle. Adair was holding Osian tightly, as if the boy had ever even dared to wander from his mother’s side, and Pax was bouncing on the balls of her feet while Ianus surveyed the passersby with mild disinterest.

Just before he spoke, an announcer who Priam didn’t recognize got on the megaphone. “After some surveying of footage, it has been decided that Priam Providence, age eighteen, will be the male tribute for the 112th Hunger Games!”

Pax squealed. “Congrats!” She shouted, jumping up and giving him a high-five. “Someday, they’re gonna say my name like that, dontcha think?”

Priam gave a cautious smile. “Of course, Pax,” he said. But not if I win, gods willing. After all, his sister wasn’t at all ready for the realities that came with being a Career.

“We knew it would be you,” Adair nodded. “Tyche smiled upon us today.”

His father’s eyes shone with some humor. “Perhaps a celebration is in order?”

“Maybe later,” Priam acknowledged. “I’m exhausted, after all.” He looked over his shoulder at the male hopefuls who were slowly being brought out, mostly nursing wounds and hissing curses under their breaths.

“Did you kick anybody’s ass?!” Pax yelped, mimicking fighting poses that she had learned at the Institute only a few weeks prior as a new cadet. Ianus gave a gentle reminder about language, casting a concerned glance at Oisan, who was only five.

“Well, it’s not just…ass-kicking,” Priam pointed out. “You have to have a lot of tact to get out of there. It’s the same hallways basically repeated over and over, and all you have are sticks.”

“So cool,” Pax gasped. “So you’re really going into the Games now!” After a moment, she pouted. “Aw, but I’m gonna miss you.”

“And I you,” he agreed, despite Adair’s miffed look.

Pax slowly pulled something out. “I wanted to give this to you,” she said. It appeared to be a sort of locket, the crescent moon-shaped pendant swaying slightly on a silver chain. “Y’know, because our household god is Artemis, I thought it might be helpful to always have the power of the moon with you.”

Priam smiled. He took it from her gently, before holding it close to his heart. “I was looking for a token,” he said. “Thank you.”

“It’s not from me,” Pax explained. “It’s from Cardea, I guess.”

“Oh,” Pax blinked. Abruptly, he noticed a stiff-shouldered woman dressed in red—one of the Institute medics—approaching him at a fast pace. “Ah, I believe this is for me. I’ll catch up with everyone later.” His family obediently wandered off, presumably to walk home, as the woman gave him a quick once-over for wounds.

She stared quizzically at the bruise. “Hm…you should be fine as long as you ice it. It’s going to hurt for a bit, but it should fade about a week from now. Honestly, you’re lucky you weren’t hurt more.” She looked at him with wonder. “Anyways, are you excited to go into the Games?”

Priam shrugged humbly, but on the inside he was smiling. He knew it was because he had earned the favor of the gods. Especially due hours spent sweating rivers and memorizing stances, just to maintain his blessedness. 

That meant that he couldn’t quit just because he had reached the first qualifier for his end goal. The only time he could ever rest— if ever—was when his body was either lowered into the ground or when he was looking the President in the eye as a crown was placed on his head.

Priam would get his glory, that much was certain. He had already fought through the other twenty or so hopefuls, and they had actually been trained. 

He realized after a moment that he hadn’t precisely answered the woman’s question. “Just as much as any other tribute has been,” he considered. “But excitement is only half of the battle. Now, there’s something to be said about skill…”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. Priam was suddenly aware of another set of eyes on him, this time from quite a distance. He turned his head slightly to see a slightly familiar girl wearing a training outfit not dissimilar to his. He couldn’t quite place her name, as the Institute classes were large. As the medic left, he turned to look at her. “Do I know you?” He asked cagily. 

The girl shrugged. “You will.” She stuck out a friendly hand. While she did, Priam noticed that strong muscles rippled under her skin. “I wanted to meet my District Partner early. Cal Tadros, nice to meet you.” She gave him what he figured was meant to be a friendly smile, but it came off as more of a wolfish snarl.

“Priam, and you as well. I’m glad to see that I’m entering with such a formidable ally,” he remarked to the girl. And she was formidable. Her buzzcut, intense eyes, and impressive stature implied a cutthroat nature, something he could appreciate.

“Me too,” she said neutrally. Suddenly, they both became aware of someone calling her name. “Oh, that’s me. Catch you later, Priam.” Without another word, she was off. Priam only realized after that her name sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

He was sure, though, that she wouldn’t stop him from getting what he was owed.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Armada Household, District Four, ‘112

Aithra Armada, District Four Female, 18 (she/her)

“ I wanna be your lifeline / but everybody can’t be a millionaire”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

The city of angels glowed on Aithra’s television screen, despite the grainy footage. Rows of hair like Nine corn lined the square of Illustri, shifting slightly as they spoke in low tones, the words barely caught by the mounted microphones. She chuckled despite herself-District One and their rumors. 

Once the Mayor finished his speech— holy shit, Mayor Sultan Figuerdo was older than what Aithra thought, but okay —the real proceedings began. The shifting colors stung Aithra’s eyes in the dimness of her room, but she really didn’t mind, if it meant seeing the spectacle again.

An unfamiliar escort mounted the stage, her outfit commented on by retrospective host Neilos Exigent as being “sad, even for post-Rebellion Panem.” Aithra didn’t pay attention to her, but instead to the girl in a bright pink dress made entirely from dyed roses. As soon as the escort pulled out the name of the Reaped tribute, her hand shot up and she volunteered.

Aithra grinned, drifting closer to the tv in anticipation. This was her favorite part. 

Rosaura Valentine divorced from the other eighteen-year-olds with an avian grace, polite clapping following her. She had been elected some months before, but still whispers followed her every footstep, murmurs of sabotage, and hissed curses. Despite it all though, her chin was held high and her golden curls flounced effortlessly behind her.

Aithra was suddenly aware of the dried-out ends of her own hair, which had begun to fade between a disgusting shade of brown and blonde. She would have to dye them again before the Reapings, or more enticingly, force Plexaura to do it.

Rosaura stepped onto the stage, blowing the crowd a bold kiss. “ As you may know ,” she announced, instantly silencing the people of One— “ Charity Hilton had an unfortunate injury which I have been speculated as causing. Well, to that I say: would you rather have a competent Victor, or a concussed one? ”

Aithra mouthed along to the words. Rosaura’s most famous quote, no doubt. Just as the crowd began to clamour over the escort’s next words, her door opened with a sharp bang.

Plexaura lowered her boot to the ground from where she’d kicked it open. Aithra gave her a judgemental once-over, annoyance sharp on her tongue. “How dramatic, Plexie,” she observed.

Plexie rolled her eyes, leaning dramatically against the door. She was in her work clothes, the pant legs stained up to the knee in permanent greenish-blue. “I was helping Dad out by the docks, and you’re in here dicking around and watching some One Victor be Reaped.”

“So?” Aithra sniffed. “I’m like, learning or whatever.” 

(In reality, Aithra didn’t care at all about learning . She just loved to see the people of One, her people.)

Aithra was pretty sure that Plexie’s right eye twitched. “Are you serious ? You should be at the damn Foundation, getting in as much extra practice as you can! Here, I’ll walk you there.” It was an odd act of kindness. From the way Plexie was faintly bouncing in place, Aithra almost sensed that she was…nervous?

While Aithra wasn’t opposed to the idea, she gave her sister the finger for good measure, especially as Plexie pulled up the blinds of her room, casting midday sunbeams across the floor. Her sister then retrieved the remote and turned off the television, which was wrapping up on the District One Reapings of the 83rd Hunger Games. 

Aithra kicked Plexie out to change into a more training-fitted outfit, with stretchy pants and a breathable shirt. With that, the sisters headed downstairs. Both of their parents were out at the Armada fishing business, so they didn’t have to say goodbye to anybody.

Aithra didn’t even get why she was being forced to train. She was ready for the Reapings. She was going to be the District Four female, she was sure of it. If she wasn’t, she would end up being the first south-coaster to become a trainer , trapped among the in-landers who made up the majority of the Foundation staff. That wouldn’t do at all.

As they walked to the Foundation, Plexie filled the air with mindless conversation. “So, do you know who your District partner is going to be, yet?”

Aithra scoffed. “Nobody, I guess? They didn’t give any male candidate the Seal of Volunteering, and everyone’s pissed.” Aithra remembered the Yearly Assessment results. None of the male hopefuls had seemed terrible . 

“What about the seventeen-year-olds?”

“Absolutely not,” Aithra groaned. “They’re so immature, and the Foundation teaches all of the important stuff when you’re eighteen. I would rather die.” Still, the thought of having no Career in with her was…frightful, to say the least. She would have no actual support if the other Careers chose to turn on her, which often happened with Fours. She would just have to show that she was above it all.

While they spoke, some south-coasters peered at them curiously. Aithra was something of a mini-celebrity. Not many kids from her area were Careers, after all. She didn’t care if they frowned upon her, though. 

( They would be hailing her name like Rosaura’s in under a month .)

They entered the Foundation quickly, the splendor of the building outperforming every other in-lander shack nearby. Aithra bee-lined for the gym with Plexaura awkwardly trailing after her. She felt a certain sense of satisfaction knowing that she was in her element and her sister was the awkward one.

Aithra grabbed a trident from where it had been mounted on the wall. She ran through a few drills, slashing and lunging and parrying invisible strikes until sweat soaked her back. Plexie gave small bits of commentary, though most of it was unhelpful. While Aithra would’ve preferred a knowledgeable trainer, they appeared to be occupied with a group of rowdier initiates.

As Aithra finished another set and took grateful sips from a water bottle, Plexie looked over at the younger kids. “I remember when you were like that,” she smiled. “So convinced you would win at ten years old. And bitchy about it, too.” 

Aithra gave a harmless shrug. She had to be confident. If she wavered at all, she could lose everything. “No problem with high hopes, right?” 

( She needed her parents to stop looking at her like a fucked-up mistake. )

“Guess not,” Plexie admitted. “Hey, those trainers are looking over here.”

Aithra turned her head to see that in fact the entire class of excitable ten-year-olds was staring at her with wide eyes. She caught just a bit of one of the trainers’ sentences. “—and that is Aithra Armada, one of the Careers who received the Seal of Volunteering.” Noticing her stare, the trainer—she remembered his name as Tyde—turned. “Aithra, would you mind giving a demonstration?” There was a hint of exhaustion in his expression.

Aithra nodded, giving a toss of her short hair for good measure. “Of course.” The children gave her a wide berth as she beckoned the other trainer, Manta, forward. The woman had a sour look on her face as she retrieved a spear, but she didn’t complain as Tyde shouted, “Commence!”

The two girls began to circle. Manta had an inch or two on her, so Aithra would have to be mindful of her reach.

Their clash was passionate. Manta was a swift striker, one of those who tried to tire their opponent with flurries of attacks. Aithra caught her mid-blow, the echo of metal rattling in her skull as she forced away the shaft of Manta’s weapon.

Manta came back with a vengeance, lunging so that Aithra had to side-step out of dodge. The children gave little gasps of excitement as Aithra twisted around, spinning her weapon towards Manta’s chest. The woman barely reacted, meeting each strike with ease.

As they continued, Aithra noted that a larger crowd of trainees had begun to gather, watching the match with interest.

It was time to switch things up. Aithra tossed her weapon into the air, catching it with her left hand and delivering a swift attack towards Manta’s neck. The children gave more excitable shouts as the blunted edge landed just at the edge of Manta’s bobbing throat. 

“And that, my friends, is a true Career—the absolute peak of prestige and poise, which we should all aim to reach,” Tyde told the children. It was a bit too exaggerated, Aithra thought, but she didn’t mind the praise.

Aithra took a step back, letting Tyde do all of the talking with the kids. She was about as compatible with young children as a codfish was with a net, after all, and she would hate to look awkward.

She turned towards the gathered crowd with some indifference. She felt a gaze on her shoulder, then made eye contact with someone she never expected to see again. A wave of horror and disgust, mostly the latter, crashed over her. She gave the class a quick goodbye before marching towards the locker room.

“Wait, Aithra,” Amurnesis said, catching up with her quickly. He put his hand on her arm like they were more than peers , and tried to slow her. Annoyed, Aithra continued at a breakneck pace until they were relatively away from everybody else.

She finally whipped around. “Can’t you just leave me alone?!” She hissed, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. “It’s been a year, Amurnesis, a year ! I’m not still crawling after you like some desperate dog. I’m sorry someone else’s parents couldn’t find a daughter to bother, but that doesn’t mean you can bother me , either!” 

For a moment, just a moment, she saw that look in his eyes, that look that used to make her swoon. Then the other memories came back, memories of screaming into her pillow and begging him to listen just once . To care about what she wanted.

Aithra regained her senses as she pushed him away. She stormed off, leaving her past behind.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Southern Docks, District Four, ‘112

3:27 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

After her draining encounter at the Foundation, Aithra made quick leave and returned back to the southern coast. As the scents of the sea washed over her, relief followed it. She passed her own house and approached the docks. The south-coaster dockhands were possibly the friendliest—they were so dedicated to their jobs that they didn’t care if her hair was naturally a muddy brown or if she was a Career. As long as she helped around, they were happy. 

And help she did. Almost as soon as she arrived on the boardwalk, she was handed a mop and told to scrub off any seawater. She did so with vigor, knowing who was about to return.

The cry of a boat engine became audible as a pontoon approached. The residents milled around like busied ants. “Looks like quite a haul,” one of the dockhands shouted. The rest of the workers cheered in excitement. 

The three-man crew of the pontoon soon boarded off the boat, hauling large nets of fish. Aithra approached the girl in the back, giving her a sly wink as she assisted her with a particularly heavy load. As the nets were settled into a pile for later collection and storage, the two girls had free time, as it was the pontoon’s last voyage for the day.

“You know,” Xanthe Aquarius observed, “I think it’s pretty funny that we’re the only District who still works on Reaping day.”

“That is funny,” Aithra agreed, standing at the edge of the dock with her friend. Xanthe’s blonde locks were tousled by the winds of the sea, and her green eyes had a humorous spark to them. Aithra’s heart stuttered at the sight—the girl was often melancholic, especially after what happened.

After a beat of silence, Xanthe spoke again. “D’you think you’re ready?”

Aithra’s face screwed up in a funny way. “Hm, well, that’s a hard question. I feel like I am, but then again, I’ve never done this before.” She stared out into the endless blue, reflected across both sky and sea. “Can we just…keep it fair?”

“Fair?” Confusion rose in the other girl’s voice. “Why fair?”

Aithra felt a bit ashamed. She didn’t want to seem nervous , obviously, so she kept her tone as neutral as possible. “Like…no sabotage. We both have an equal chance, right? And I guess the other two girls who got the Seal.”

Xanthe laughed, and it wasn’t her typical sly chuckle. It was a sincere, deep-bellied laugh, the kind shared only by jolly sailors at dusk. Aithra had never heard such a sound come from her—she had to be nervous, too. “Of course not. You think I spent all of those years competing against you just to cheat to get in? Fuck that!”

“Right,” Aithra smiled, her chin dipping slightly. Another silence. “Well, is it time to exchange gifts?” They had already agreed on the gift a few days before. At Xanthe’s nod, they both showed each other the items.

“From our matching dresses,” Xanthe announced as she produced a long, teal ribbon. Aithra had seen the dress it came from—it made Xanthe look like the Maiden of the Sea herself.

“Should we say something fancy? Like, ‘till death do us part?’” Aithra grinned, handing over her own cobalt blue ribbon. 

Xanthe shrugged. “If that’s your prerogative.” She stared quizzically at the ribbon. “I don’t think this’ll fit around my wrist. And here I thought I was finally laying off the salmon.”

Aithra giggled, giving her friend a light smack on the shoulder. After a moment, she realized that they would actually have to find a way to keep the ribbon on their person, especially if it was meant to be a token. “What about…in our hair?” Aithra suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Xanthe nodded. She stuck out her hand. After an embarrassing moment, Aithra understood the girl’s intention, as they both knew she was clueless when it came to hair styling. Her mouth made a round shape, and she plopped onto the dock, kicking off her shoes so that her toes could rest in the water.

Xanthe leaned over the other girl, her warmth pressed against Aithra’s skin. She carefully maneuvered the ribbon through her hair, the soft velvet occasionally brushing against her cheek. “This is how my father used to do it,” she said softly.

“Oh,” Aithra murmured in response. She frequently forgot about the catalyst that had brought them together. “He must’ve been very talented.”

“He was. I think it goes without saying that I miss him. A lot.”

“Naturally,” Aithra agreed. 

Xanthe crouched down next to Aithra as she did the finishing touches of the style. “I hope I get the position. Sorry, but I do. It’s all he ever wanted for me, y’know? And maybe…out there, in the ocean, he’ll be proud of me when I win.”

Aithra looked down, her hands clenching into fists. “I need it too, Xanthe.” That’s all she said. That’s all she ever said. Even if Xanthe was theoretically her closest friend, she wasn’t fond of letting others in.

Xanthe paused in her weaving. “I understand,” she said solemnly. Aithra was slightly offended by the girl’s words—did she think sympathy would get Aithra to back down? No, she was going to give everything she had.

Xanthe’s graceful hands moved away and she wrapped Aithra’s ribbon into her own hair. After that, they were both motionless, stiff and uncomfortable. After a beat, Aithra realized that Xanthe’s pointed nails were resting atop her stouter fingers. She didn’t mind the feeling.

“Why can’t it be like this forever?” Aithra asked, turning to look at Xanthe. Her eyes had regained some of that familiar solemnity. 

“I mean, we signed up for this.” Xanthe pointed out. “No backing out now, right? Personally, I feel like I worked my ass off enough to not give this up. But, I think that if I wasn’t so dedicated, I would like to sit here with you forever.”

Aithra smiled. “Me too,” she said. “Me too.”

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Reefton’s Estate, District Four, ‘102

Nemo Threepwood, District Four Male, 17 (he/him)

“ To say the things he truly feels / And not the words of one who kneels ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

The Fylan Estate’s garden was a winding maze of green, accented by well-tended flowers in shades across the rainbow. Nemo, barely nine, paused at practically every bunch, staring in wonder at the ivory anemone and yellow lupine and purple irises. Despite living there for four years now, he was hardly allowed to enter the garden. Something about children and getting lost.

As Nemo paused to peer at a particularly colorful patch of milkweed, he heard the whirring wheels of a wheelchair come to a stop. Reefton’s impatient voice sounded not even a moment after. “Are you going to keep dallying and looking at flowers, or are we going to get something done, boy?”

Nemo stepped away from the alluring growth with a fair amount of disappointment. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what Reefton was planning to teach him today. They usually stayed inside, with Reefton teaching Nemo how to build the bows he sold to the Foundation in his woodshop. 

Nemo couldn’t complain, though. He didn’t get to see the sun much, not since the Threepwoods had to leave their cozy home on the beach. Too much to do to linger for long, Reefton thought.

He trotted after Reefton at somewhat of a skipping pace as they turned into the higher-cut hedges of the garden. After a series of quick turns, they reached an open clearing, bright green bushes on all sides. Nemo identified what appeared to be painted targets on wooden posts, bright red in the center fading to black at the edge of the circle. On the side were huge straw dolls that made Nemo faintly uncomfortable.

Reefton pulled a wooden instrument into his lap. He cleared his throat, which signalled the beginning of one of his long-winded lectures. “You’ve learned the basics of building a bow, but the real purpose of a bow is to shoot it. Now, obviously I can’t show you how to do so,” he hissed in a bitter tone, “But I can guide you through it. This bow should be best for your size. You won’t be using a full-sized one until you’re probably twelve.” 

He extended his arm, handing Nemo the bow and then a quiver of three arrows. The weight of the thing felt strange in Nemo’s hand. He had felt the smooth wood under his fingers while watching Reefton carve its distinct curve, but he had never lifted one on his own. It was a strange sensation.

“Now, lift it so that the string is vertical—no, silly boy, you’re holding it upside down—” Reefton rolled over, deftly fixing Nemo’s hold. “There. Now, feet spread evenly apart, and stand a bit to this side here…” He gestured, and Nemo obeyed. With a shocking amount of gentleness, Reefton pulled an arrow from the quiver. “You put it here,” he explained, demonstrating. “Pull the feathers—we call them the fletching—beside the string. All the way back to your ear. Come on, further!”

Nemo’s arm shook from strain. “Reefton, it hurts,” he protested, a faint whine in his tone. Nonetheless, he was able to get his fingertips to brush against his ear. He bit on his tongue, a shock of pain jolting through him at the sensation.

Reefton rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss. That’s far enough, I suppose. Now, steady yourself—look at the target. Feel that breeze?” Reefton paused. “Whatever direction it’s going, you want to aim your bow the opposite direction, depending how strong it is. So, move your bow to the right.” Nemo readjusted, and his heart jumped a bit at Reefton’s impressed nod. 

“This part is important,” Reefton explained. “Take a big, deep breath. Calm yourself, and take another—on your third exhale, release.”

A silence consumed the garden, save for distant birdsong, as Nemo took two breaths. On the third, nervousness bit into him like a spur, and he shot before exhaling. The arrow was only in the air for a moment before it flopped lamely to the ground about a yard away from the target.

Reefton gave a disappointed sigh, and Nemo flinched, prepared for the same harsh words that usually accompanied any mistakes he made in the woodshop. Instead, the elderly man just waved his hand. “Try again, without my help this time.” At Nemo’s sad-puppy look, Reefton shook his head. “Independence is an important skill, my boy. Now,” he gestured. “Shoot.”

Nemo’s arm shook a bit less this time, and instead of falling short, the arrow missed the target by a hair and crashed into the brush. “Better,” Reefton admitted.  “Make sure your arm doesn’t drift from the intended position. You keep on moving it just before you shoot. The position should be locked in.”

This time, Nemo focused on keeping his arm steady, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth a bit as he struggled. When the arrow released, it planted itself with a dull thud into the top right furthest ring of the circle. Reefton smiled , actually smiled . It was painful—more a grimace than a smile. Nemo thought. It was nothing like his mother’s gentle grin.

“Collect those arrows and give it another go—you’re already making fast progress,” Reefton praised, his tone flat—almost bored—as ever. Nemo huffed and walked towards the fallen arrows. “Keep the tip up!” Reefton shouted with some alarm, his voice wobbling in pitch. “Maiden, Nemo, it’s like you’re trying to lose an eye!”

Nemo muttered a quick apology before scurrying over and shooting another round. This time, he loaded faster. Reefton still jumped in with pointers, but by Nemo’s fourth go, he was practically silent. In the first shot of his fifth, Nemo hit a bullseye. Of course, he had a feeling that it was just luck, but he still flushed a bit with Reefton’s compliments on his swift draw and shot.

Reefton abruptly rolled away, pulling out the straw dolls Nemo had seen before. He realized then that they were pockmarked with holes. Nemo’s voice came out shaky, with the hint of a squeak, as it always seemed to do. “Um, w-why are those ones shaped…like us?”

Reefton returned. “The dummies? Well, because it gives you a realistic depiction of what a human being looks like. See how the head and a part of the chest are painted red? That’s because those are deadly spots to shoot.”

“Deadly?” Nemo had a hard time wrapping his head around the word. His mother had told him that death was scary, and it was something that had come for her parents and Nemo’s father. “You mean I’m going to…give people death?”

The older man snickered. “The proper term is kill , my boy. And, well, with your already strong skills with that bow, it would be a foolish choice not to have you in the Games.” 

The Games . The distant thing Nemo had caught on flashes, on television screens in the corner of his eye. His mother didn’t care for them much, and she mostly tried to cover his eyes whenever they had to watch them. She said that violence had a funny way of spreading and rotting people who partook in it. Would that happen to Nemo, too? He shuddered.

“Come on, son. Really, it’s just another target,” he instructed, leaning back in his chair with half lidded eyes. “When you enter the Foundation, you’re going to have to learn how to kill people anyways.”

“What?” Nemo’s stomach swam. His knees, still knobbly and not quite filled out, began to shake. Suddenly, the sting of pollen choked his throat, the birdsong grating on his ears. “I don’t think I want to?”

“You’ll learn to get it. I sure did,” Reefton shrugged.

Nemo felt suddenly aware of how small he was. With a pronounced gulp, he turned back towards the dummy and pulled back the bowstring. His eyes lingered on its painted red face. Suddenly, a memory…

(“Ken, no!” Nemo’s mother tried to scream, before there was an ear-shattering noise) .

Nemo blinked away the hazy picture. He wasn’t sure what that was. He realized, suddenly, that his hands were shaking, and his heart was beating like the drums in the music his mother enjoyed. “I don’t th-think I can do this,” he stumbled out to Reefton. 

“What, are you scared? It’s a dummy , boy. It’s not going to come to life—”

There was a sudden clatter as the arrow dropped to the ground. Numbly, Nemo picked it up. Brought the string back, but it gave a twang and the arrow fell to his feet instead of firing. He heard Reefton’s unimpressed grunt.

“You can’t let these fears overcome you, boy. In the Arena, split-second anxiety like this could end you. Do you want that to happen?”

“No,” Nemo choked out. With renewed fear in the opposite direction, he shot the same arrow again. It buried deeply within the reddish mark. Nemo felt like he was going to faint.

“A perfect shot,” Reefton acknowledged. “See? You’re a natural.”

This time, the bow itself slipped from Nemo’s clammy palms. He turned and fled from the clearing, a tiny sob escaping from his throat. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He really, really, didn’t.

But what if there was no way to avoid it?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Trout Foundation, District Four, ‘111

10:54 AM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

The Foundation was abuzz with excitement, especially with it being almost a month before the Reaping for the year. Nemo was leaning against a wall, practically sweating his ass off in the District Four humidity. He stared across the open plot, watching various trainees practice.

Tyde jogged over, sweat slicking his hair against his forehead from their extended training session. Nemo felt his eyes lingering just a bit too long on Tyde’s gently sloped lips and fluttering lashes. “I mean, if it helps, I do think your trident skills are getting better.”

Nemo’s shoulders sagged.“It’s alright,” he muttered.. “You don’t have to make me feel better—” After all, everybody knew that Nemo was somehow one of the only Foundation kids who was clueless with both a trident and a spear. Most trainees tended to be better at throwing or close-quarters fighting. Miraculously, Nemo sucked at both.

“It’s fine, Mo,” Tyde comforted, clapping his shoulder with a calloused hand. Nemo felt electricity spark from the point of contact, making his heart thud. If the Maiden loved him at all, then he wasn’t blushing right now. “You’re probably the best archer in all the Districts, and that has to count for something.”

Nemo shrugged, although the familiar nickname Tyde had granted him since they met a year ago made butterflies take off in the pit of his stomach. “Well, I’m not the one who's literally about to go into the Games.” That was really the only reason Nemo bothered to show up to the Foundation most days—to support Tyde.  

“Well, I have some tough competition,” Tyde pointed out, gesturing towards a fair-haired boy who appeared to be in the middle of telling a story to a crowd. “I heard that Pike’s been running around his neighborhood for an hour every day. He’s as ready as I am to go for the bowls.”

“It’s not just him, right?” Nemo asked. “Besides, Pike is seventeen. I think he might wait a year,” his voice petered off as Tyde gave him an incredulous glance.

“And miss a chance to compete with me? Tch , right.” Tyde glanced around. “Then again, I’m more concerned about Valdrin over there,” he said, pointing to a somewhat threatening-looking boy who was sparring a trainer on the mats.

Nemo shrugged. He didn’t know Valdrin well. Soon after, the two boys made their way onto the mats and began to spar. Nemo probably would’ve died a thousand times over, but Tyde was kind enough to be gentle and point out better courses of action when he messed up. In another life, Nemo thought, Tyde would’ve made an excellent trainer.

But he was set on entering the Games. Not that anything Nemo said would change his mind, but it still filled him with a great deal of worry. Nemo had a feeling that he wouldn’t be volunteering for the Games, unless he found a really good reason to do so.

As Tyde and Nemo broke apart from another bought, Nemo noted surprised shouts coming from his right. He looked over to see that Valdrin and the trainer—her name was Maribel, he thought—were getting more intense. “Geez,” Tyde muttered, nonchalant as always. “Looks like they’re really getting into it.”

Nemo felt a slight pang of concern, but he wanted nothing more than to move away from the scene, the intensity making him queasy. “H-how about we try throws?” He asked, tugging lightly on Tyde’s sleeve.

Tyde quirked an eyebrow. “Um, okay?”

The two moved over to the targets, which were shockingly unpopulated. Tyde threw his trident at least twenty feet with ease, and it went straight through the plastic target. He ripped it out with ferocity, and Nemo averted his eyes.

“Want to give it a go?” Tyde asked. Nemo held his own spear awkwardly. Throwing a spear was nothing like shooting a bow. There was a lot more back in it, and Nemo always failed at it somehow. He watched a kid from further down the range nail a bullseye with ease. 

“Only if you let me feel better about it by letting me shoot some arrows,” Nemo joked lamely. Surprisingly, Tyde gave an accepting shrug. Nemo hefted the trident over his shoulder and threw it. It clattered against the wooden framing of the target before smacking against the tiled floor. It was possibly the most depressing thing Nemo had seen. 

Nemo walked over to the glass display case, pulling out one of the Foundation’s two metal bows. It felt like a hug in his hands, despite the fact he wasn’t very good with the Foundation metal and was better with wood. Returning to the targets, he rapid-fired three quick shots that all landed in a near-diagonal line. Tyde clapped from the sidelines with a low whistle.

“I’ll never understand how you do that,” he sighed in amazement. Nemo felt his face heating up again, and he turned the other way quickly. 

“A lot of practice,” Nemo said with a shrug, giving Tyde a little bump with his shoulder. Given their wildly different amounts of muscle mass, it didn’t even affect Tyde.

There was an abrupt shout. Both Nemo and Tyde whipped around, and what Nemo was met with, he was sure he would never forget.

Maribel was clawing at her throat—a spear shaft stuck clean through. Blood dripped from the wound, her wet gagging audible even from a distance.  Valdrin stared in what appeared to be a detached shock. Nemo didn’t even realize that a gasp left his lips until Tyde was staring at him. 

His vision began to blur—when the memory tried to crawl back in.

( Everything was dark, lit up by a flash of white. Blood sprayed across Nemo’s cheek. His mother was sobbing .)

Nemo looked around at his peers. To his shock, many of them had entirely blank expressions, watching as Maribel collapsed to her knees and then to the ground, a pool of blood collecting under her body. Her eyes rolled backwards into her head, and she stopped moving all together. Horror crept up his spine. Nobody even screamed. We just watched a trainer die, Nemo thought, his hand clenching at his side and his eyebrows knotting together.

A few people wrestled Valdrin and escorted him from the gym, screaming that he ‘didn’t mean to’, trying to run away from his own peers. Nemo wondered what would happen to him. Put in the Holding Center, maybe. Executed, depending on how rich Mirabal was. Both images gave him intense discomfort.

But there was no way it was just an accident. The spearheads were blunt. Valdrin would’ve had to use an incredible amount of force to achieve such an outcome… the mere thought sent a shiver down Nemo’s spine. 

Soon after, medics came out with a stretcher and laid a sheet over Maribel’s body. Nemo swore that he could still feel her eyes following him as she was carried off. Stony faces followed the corpse as it was taken away from the scene, leaving only a stain of crimson and the abandoned spear.

The blurred static didn’t go away, even once it was over. It crashed over him like a wave, and Nemo could hear Tyde calling his name, but he couldn’t move or see or hear and he was so so scared

Tyde’s steady hands pressed against his back as his knees buckled, and he fell into a black, black sea.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Third Star Middle School, District Three, ‘112

Lyra Kasmin, District Three Female, 12 (she/her)

“ Latching onto whatever I can get / I don’t know when I’ll let go”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Lyra’s parents liked to say that she always had room for growth.

Generally, when they said that, they were referring to her height. She was significantly shorter than everyone else in her family, after all, by several inches. It was a fact that had started to cause some worry between everyone. Nova was five-foot nine, after all, and Zoe was already four-foot nine despite being three years younger.

But, sitting in her B-grade class, Lyra began to wonder if they also meant general growth. 

“Ms. Kasmin,” her teacher said tersely. “Please stop daydreaming.”

The other children of the class—only eight—turned to look at her. All of them appeared dazed by Lyra’s existence. They tended to forget that she sat in the back of the classroom at all. Lyra didn’t mind. She didn’t speak, truly.

Instead, she preferred to observe. 

For example, one of the peering boys, Apus Blyth, was quite the asshole to his other friends. He tended to surround himself with those he viewed as lower, like Chime Milani, who sat two desks to his right. While Chime seemed to think that her and Apus were on good terms—in fact, Lyra had heard Chime confess her crush on him some days prior—Apus joked around with his real inner circle that Chime’s black hair was greasy and her teeth were crooked. The only reason why he kept her around at all, really, was to cheat off of her paper in exams.

It was an interesting thing to know, she thought. The way people interacted and spoke about each other. How a person’s opinion of you could change in a split second, depending on who they were speaking to. She liked to be away from—and therefore above —such ideas. 

Lyra said nothing to Ms. Auriga. While most of the class often jeered behind her back at the teacher’s harsh nature, Lyra overheard that she had lost a baby quite recently, and for that reason she kept out of the harassment.

The class continued. “As you all know, we are approaching the end of the school year, specifically due to complete the week after Reapings. With this, it’s come time to begin preparing for your Placement Exams.”

Multiple mutters rang around the class. “Last year, I stayed up for two days studying,” Chime complained to Apus. He chuckled at the knowledge but said nothing else, only half-paying attention to the girl and instead staring at the chest of Tucana Ribecco, which nobody but Lyra seemed to notice.

Asshole .

Ms. Auriga continued through the spiel of knowledge about the Exams, despite it being everybody’s seventh year of going through them. They would determine the course that each student took in the following year—from S-grade to D-grade, with a failure meaning forced removal from SATA’s school systems. If a S-grade student managed to get a stellar grade on their exam, they would be able to apply to one of the better schools in ACT. 

“That’s not all,” Ms. Auriga clarified. “As you’ve seen, we have a Placement Wall. Students who are high on the Placement Wall—which may fluctuate throughout the year, mind you—may be scouted to work in a laboratory or some other exclusive job.”

Right, the Placement Wall. Lyra was a decent Rank 106 out of the 200 children who attended Third Star Middle School. But to be even noticed by one of the proposed ‘exclusive jobs’, she would have to make the top 50 or even 20, which was unlikely to happen. 

Tension rose in the room as Ms. Auriga began to wrap up class. Everybody knew what happened when Ms. Auriga wrapped up. The woman walked towards her desk and lifted a stack of papers. “Now, your science tests.”

She slowly walked around the room. “Ms. Milani, nicely done. Mr. Blyth, maybe brush up on thermodynamics next time. Ms. Carthy, good work. Mr. Binari, see me after class. And Ms. Kasmin…”

Lyra waited with bated breath as Ms. Auriga pain-stakingly lowered the paper to her desk. She tilted her hand to review the score. Forty-three out of fifty . An eighty-six percent. “Solid,” Ms. Auriga affirmed, before walking towards Tucana.

With that, the ending bell rang, and Lyra grabbed her satchel, throwing the test into her crowded notebook. She was never good or stellar, not like Chime. But she was also never bad or horrible, like Agus. 

She was just mediocre . And that was the worst of the three to Lyra. 

As other students hurried out, including Ms. Auriga, Agus was speaking to Tucana in low terms, his hand on her arm. “Just one date,” he begged quietly. “Please. I’m not letting you out until you say yes.”

“Agus,” Tucana whispered, her voice cracking with fear. “Please leave me alone.” Tucana had frequently told Agus off for pursuing her. She wanted nothing to do with him. Neither student seemed to notice that Lyra was still there.

Lyra took a moment to evaluate the situation. She would have to play it safe—she didn’t want to be actually acknowledged by someone like Agus, much less bullied, but she also couldn’t just watch him harass Tucana, who from her observations was rather sweet.

“Agus,” Lyra said, her voice barely a breath. However, it was enough to get both people to whip around. “How about you just hurry home to your sickly brother? You know, the one who you always complain about taking up too much attention? Funny how you leave out that he’s on the brink of death…”

“How did you—” Agus’s mouth widened as he realized who was speaking. Even Tucana’s brows shot up on her forehead. The shock was enough for him to release Tucana and leave the classroom in a flush of red embarrassment.

Tucana mouthed a thank you before making her own exit.

Being observant really does help sometimes.

Lyra stood in the S-grade wing for seventh graders, the students all wearing crisp uniforms and carrying heavy loads in their bags. Finally, the girl she was looking for came out of a classroom. 

As per usual, the attention whore was surrounded by her gaggle of nerds, all of them in different states of concern over the Placement Exams. Lyra just barely caught Zoe’s words. “I mean, I really want to make the top ten next year, but the eighth graders are such tryhards.”

Of course, her friend group filled with supportive words. “You’re already three grades ahead,” one of the unfamiliar girls pointed out. “You’re more of a prodigy than any of those dumb eighth graders!”

Prodigy . A word Lyra had quickly become sick of. 

Zoe was used to Lyra’s ghostly ways, so she found her sister hiding in the shadows of a corner. Without any prompting, she began to rant about her day. The one thing Lyra wasn’t jealous of the S-grade students for was the amount of drama and politics that played into everything.

“It’s so unfair,” Zoe whined as they crossed the street and began walking through the downtown area of SATA. “Mizar’s father donated like a gazillion dollars to Third Star, and now his placement is going to be high next year!”

“I didn’t know that you could predict the future,” Lyra pointed out neutrally.

Zoe made a noise of dissent. “Why can’t Mom or Dad ever donate to the school?!”

“Because they have better things to do than worry about your future,” Lyra said. Even though that’s all they do. “Besides, aren’t you always an advocate for work instead of family-based privileges?”

Zoe pouted. “Yeah, but it would help . And I’m so scared for Placement Exams! Like, what if I die or something, or get moved down to A-grade…”

Lyra rolled her eyes. They had been through this song and dance multiple times before, and her response was always the same. “Zoe, you know that’s not going to happen. Stop being dramatic.” Unfortunately, being dramatic seemed to be a universal truth for her sister. It was also, ironically, why she got the most attention from their parents.

There was Zoe, the prodigy , and Nova, the scientist, and then there was Lyra, the…middle child, if they were being generous. 

But who could blame them? It wasn’t like Lyra was anything impressive. She tried her hardest on tests, but it was like there was some blockade on her mind every time she did one. She swore that she knew all of the material on her science test, and she ended up with an eighty-six. 

Despite that, despite knowing that she was just neutral, Lyra wanted her parents to care . Or at least put in more effort. Lyra could be interesting, she just didn’t know how. Nobody ever wanted her to be someone.

So she was just nothing. Doomed to be a nobody, who only spoke when guys were being creeps. Was that really who she wanted to be?

No, of course not. But every year, an ache grew in her chest, an emptiness that threatened to swallow her completely whole. Who was Lyra Kasmin? When people said her name, they didn’t speak with fervor or relief or hatred or sadness. She was just set dressing.

And she had to do something to reverse that.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Andromeda Laboratory, District Three, ‘112

5:52 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Lyra phased back in after a dedicated period of spacing out, the scent of the stiff, medical laboratory air entering her nostrils instantly. She slid her hand across the cold, metallic surface of the table to wake herself up. It was only then that she realized Nova was staring at her.

“Lyra, are you sure that you’re okay?” She asked, her blonde waves shifting over her shoulders as she approached, worry tight on her face. “You’re not all there today. Did something happen at school?” Her sister leaned down next to the bench and lifted a box full of beakers.

Lyra thought to Tucana, worrying her lip absently. She still was puzzling over why she had done what she did. But she didn’t say anything, and Nova took that as a signal that her sister was back to her introspective self.

“Help me move some of these boxes,” Nova said, giving her most winning smile. The same smile that had accelerated her through all S-grade classes, no doubt, and the same one that earned her a raise into a bigger, more secluded laboratory. There was suddenly a ringing sound from a nearby room’s wall phone. “I’ll go and take that call. Be right back.”

Lyra obediently lifted a smaller box. Even though the space was technically Nova’s and not hers at all, she had a feeling that she would miss the place. It was where she had spent almost all of her after-school time doing homework. She hardly remembered when she even began accompanying Nova to work in the first place—all she knew was that she wanted to get a good word in with her big sister’s boss.

Lyra accidentally fumbled with the box, and the contents from the cardboard spilled out. They were all various papers, what seemed to be blueprints for ways that basic technology could be improved. Her chest swelled slightly—it was just like Nova to want to help people. 

What caught her interest, however, wasn’t the blueprints. It was a little, folded sheet of paper. Lyra opened it and recognized that it was a map of SATA instantly. Not just any map, but one she had penned herself.

“Oh geez,” a seventeen-year-old Nova said. “We’re totally lost. Don’t tell Mom.” 

As per usual, Lyra had been following Nova around SATA. She looked around, but it seemed like they were close to North Bridge due to the odd destitution and lack of stressed pedestrians or white-coated lab workers out for lunch. 

Well, Lyra’s mother always told her it was like there was a book of information that she could page through in her brain all the time. Lyra thought back to a book she’d read only a month prior— History of District Three— it had a map on the back, didn’t it?

She closed her eyes, thinking, remembering the feeling of her thumb tracing the lines. Lyra turned to her older sister, intensity in her eyes. “Give me a piece of paper.” After a moment, she added, “and a pen.”

Nova opened her school bag and produced the items. Lyra laid out the paper against the cement and began to sketch in pen. In the distance, she could see the river that wound between North Bridge and South Bridge. Well, that was northeast of the Justice Building. And the Justice Building was six blocks away from Third Star Middle, which was then about eight blocks from Lyra’s apartment. She drew out the lines carefully, before making a sharp dot on the paper. “We’re here, and home is here,” she reported.

Nova blinked at the paper. “How did you—”

“Reading,” Lyra responded instantly.

Nova grinned and rolled her eyes. “My little sister’s so smart,” she chuckled, ruffling Lyra’s dark hair.

Lyra frowned slightly, looking up at her sister. “No, I’m not. I’m in B-grade classes, and you’re a supergenius.”

She sighed, her tone becoming slightly terse. “Grades don’t matter, nor do your classes. They judge you in one way—memorization, that is—and they’re not a good way to measure intellect. Plenty of people are smarter than me but are in technically worse classes. Besides, the divisions aren’t even balanced.”

Nova took a breath. “What I’m saying is, don’t be so hard on yourself. I don’t know too many eleven year-olds who can memorize a map like that. In fact—” she bent down to pick up the paper before folding it and placing it into her jacket pocket. “I’ll keep it. How about that?”

Lyra smiled at the memory. As Nova walked in, she pocketed the map in her right pants pocket. It felt like a little piece of hope, that she wasn’t just a lost cause. That someday, everything would work out.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Nova said again. 

“Yes, I am.” Lyra quickly shuffled the rest of the fallen papers into the box before placing it on the desk. “I still don’t see why you need to do all of this so close to the Reapings.”

“Don’t you remember what Dad says? ‘Whenever you have an opportunity, you should take it,’” Nova mimicked their father’s gruff tone, a finger wiggling over her lips as a false moustache. “Anyways, thanks for the help.” After a moment of silence, she reiterated, “But remember, if anything is wrong, you always have me.”

Lyra nodded. “It’s just Zoe,” she lied. 

Nova huffed. “Listen, I know it’s hard to be in the same grade as her, even though she’s three years younger. But who cares? I mean,” she leaned down to her sister so that they were a similar height, before placing a hand on her shoulder. “ I know that you’re going to do a great deal of good when you’re older.”

Lyra thought then of the unabashed thankfulness in Tucana’s eyes. “Right,” she agreed. “Yeah, maybe I will.” Nova gave her a tight embrace then, her brown eyes sparkling under the harsh lights, before she exited the room.

Lyra’s hand moved instantly to the slight weight in her left pocket. She opened up the paper she had left there earlier. Dear Nova, I wanted to inform you that I’m going to volunteer for the 112th Hunger Games…

She shook her head. How silly , she thought, before trashing the sheet and leaving the room behind.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Barker School, District Twelve, ‘112

Yorkie Serry, District Twelve Male, 15 (he/him)

“ Split open, watching my heart go / ‘Round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

cw: animal gore and descriptions of physical illness, homophobia

The morning, for all intents and purposes, was a typical one in Twelve. The cicadas buzzed loudly, thankful for a relatively cool day among the scorching summer hours, and Yorkie was watching his friends play an intense game of three-square.

“You’re out, Elise!” Rob shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the girl. A rubber ball was tucked neatly under his other arm. Yorkie focused back on whatever was going on—he had busied himself by trying to catch an annoying fly near his head.

Elise shook her head intently. “ No ,” she responded, a power behind her voice. She gesticulated wildly with slightly brown-stained hands from her most recent vocation in the mud near the backwoods of the school. “That was on Luke’s line, can’t you see?”

The named boy squinted quizzically at the hazy chalk lines, which were mostly smudged from the ball hitting them. “I mean, maybe,” Luke frowned, making big eyes at Elise. The girl didn’t even look at him twice, instead busying herself by trying to pick up a nearby worm. 

Yorkie stared at his friend. Luke had recently hit the expected teenage growth spurt, and was also putting on some muscle from his frequent playing of afternoon sports. Yorkie, on the other hand, was still relatively short for his age, and while he wasn’t malnourished or anything, he had always been called willowy.

Rob sighed, annoyed by the two other’s lack of competitive spirit. “Yorkie,” he said, turning slightly towards the faded bleachers where he was sitting. “Did you see anything?”

“Er, no, sorry,” Yorkie muttered apologetically.

Luke tilted his head to the side. “Why’re you sitting up there anyways?” He asked, a bit of his Twelve drawl coming through. “Come down and play with us. We need a fourth to make it four-square, man.”

“Oh, I’m doing…homework,” he said, looking dejectedly at the stack of papers that he had long pushed to the side. “Sorry.”

Luke squinted, but didn’t point out the lie.

“Come on, Serry!” A sudden, jeering shout came as another boy approached the court, pushing through the heavy gate with ease. Harlow Fell, Yorkie recognized instantly, knowing his mean sneer and hulking stature anywhere. “We all know it’s because you’re a homo!”

Yorkie shrunk backwards in shame, despite the words being untrue. His friends simply stared at Harlow, although Elise at least made the effort of spitting on the ground as the boy passed to go and join some others in a game of basketball.

Luke nearly looked compelled to join, but instead he seemed to hold onto his senses. He walked off of the court and slung his backpack over his shoulder before hefting the strap of Yorkie’s with ease. He approached the bleachers. “Ignore him, Yorkie. He’s just some fucked-up cobbler kid. Why don’t we head out?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rob agreed, the dark blonde-haired boy punctuating the sentence with a yawn. “ So much homework. My linguistics teacher…” he muttered curses under his throat. Elise, bidding a saddened farewell with her new worm friend, also grabbed her backpack. As she approached, Yorkie’s nose slightly scrunched at the stink of dirt. He wondered how Luke put up with her so much.

The little group began to head out, with Luke naturally taking the lead. 

A certain tense calm had settled over Merchant’s Square, like the anticipation before a thunderstorm. Of course, Yorkie knew that the skies were actually quite clear and the thunderstorm was actually the Reaping set to be in a few days.

Yorkie always had an irrational concern over the Reaping. Logically, he knew that it was rare for kids like him to get Reaped. Most of the time, it was kids with coal dust caked on their hands, olive skin, and gray eyes. Seam kids. A few Seam folks were smattered across the clearing, shouting for their wares or bartering with vendors. 

Yorkie looked away as one of the Seam women gave him a quizzical stare. He was never quite sure how to act around them, and thought frequently of his mama’s advice. Don’t make eye contact, speak curtly and leave as fast as possible .

So, he sped up a bit in pace, pulling up next to Luke and Elise. Luke was blabbering about some quiz on the First Masquerade, the glorious event which led to Prometheus Cardew’s presidency or something, while Elise looked rather bored.

It wasn’t only Seam who were giving them funny looks. It was rare for even Merchant kids to stay in school for so long. In fact, Yorkie’s class had shrunk from forty-six when he was twelve to roughly nineteen as he stood now, in ninth grade. All of the Seam kids left as soon as they legally could, and Merchant kids also entered their family business.

Yorkie quite liked school, though. It prevented him from just dilly-dallying around in the shop all day, and he got to see cool people like Luke and Rob. Besides, there was never any harm in learning.

He was about to take another step on the dust-covered pavement, when he saw an abrupt flash of gray in the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he made a quick twist of his foot to avoid the thing while jeopardizing his balance. Luke tugged on his backpack to pull him back onto two feet. “Oh, don’t look—” He began, but it was far too late.

Yorkie looked. He really, really didn’t mean to, and he cursed himself instantly for it. The gray lump was a deceased rat, the thing covered partially in a tiny cloud of flies. It was twisted in a dreadful way, green-tinted intestines spilling from its side. And, most peculiarly, in place of its eyes were two acorns, placed with a fair bit of menace.

“What the fuck,” Rob deadpanned, staring down at the incomprehensible horror laid in front of them. Meanwhile, Elise grinned and leaned down for a closer look, mumbling some gibberish about the fascinating way it had been laid out.

Yorkie swallowed a hard lump in his throat. His own insides felt twisted. He wanted nothing more than to avert his eyes, but they felt trapped on the image, even as he blinked. A small amount of juice was leaking out of the side of the rodent. Not the crimson of blood, but instead a clear liquid. Yorkie realized that somebody must’ve stepped in it, and he was going to be sick—

He quickly ducked into the nearest gap between two houses and emptied his breakfast of spinach omelet onto the ground, sweat dripping from his forehead. 

Yorkie suddenly felt the feeling of a palm on his back. He straightened instantly, fairly embarrassed to have been caught in such a state. “Everything alright?” Luke asked. “The others went ahead, but…” The boy trailed off, lost for words for a moment. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he clarified.

“I hate rats,” Yorkie muttered as an answer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

“Yeah, whoever set that up really has a grudge, huh? Nightmare fuel,” Luke shuddered, but Yorkie could tell that he was just exaggerating to make him feel better. Nonetheless, it was appreciated.

He finally straightened, though his knees were shaking like trees in a strong wind, and his brain felt foggy. The vision of the rat was smeared in the back of his head, a painting with sharp edges. He lurched, and Luke instantly startled to help him if he needed it, but Yorkie waved him off. “I’m fine,” he affirmed after a moment, though his heart was smacking against his chest. “I’m all good.”

“If you’re sure,” Luke said cautiously, not moving an inch. “I can carry your bag home, if you need—”

“No, that’s okay,” Yorkie took a step back. They had barely talked for months, and Yorkie would hate for Luke to be forced into close proximity with him just because he was a pussy. At Luke’s concerned expression, he nodded. “I swear. I’ll ask my mam—my mother —to make some tea when I get home.”

“Okay,” Luke nodded slowly, running a pale hand across his own cheek. “Okay.”

As the other boy left, Yorkie swiveled and began walking home. His mind felt drained, and the events of the day mixed in an odd haze. Gray fly, gray eyes, gray rat. Everything was all gray, in fact. The walls around him, the ground beneath him. Oh boy , Yorkie thought. I’m going to be sick again. 

He was close to home. It was just a block away, in fact. He passed the March apothecary, the strong scent of mixed herbs and spices from the always-open door not helping much with his nausea. 

He crashed into the gray ( Oh my Panem, why is everything this ugly color , Yorkie thought with exasperation) wall of his own residence and fumbled for the key to the storefront in his bag. All of the lights were off and the candles blown out, because it was supposed to be his shift next. 

Yorkie fumbled with the lock and finally entered. The scents of cinnamon sticks and saltwater taffy were like a balm to his illness, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Everything was going to be fine.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Serry Sweets, District Twelve, ‘112

12:05 PM (Local Time) 

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Yorkie liked to think that everytime he sold candy, it made someone’s day better, if only for a moment.

With Reapings around the corner, it was clear that people really needed something to lighten up their morning. Already, multiple mothers had come in with children fretting about being Reaped, unable to soothe them until a truffle had been stuffed in their mouth, or maybe several.

He couldn’t blame them—every time he thought about what he would be doing tomorrow, trapped among a group of other boys, waiting in bated breath as a name was pulled, his heart stuttered in fear. 

The bell located at the top of the door gave a hearty jingle as another satisfied customer walked out, some thirteen-year-old from a different part of the District who had bought one of their largest lollipops.

“How’s my sweet boy doing?” Mama asked, the door to their home closing behind her. She wore a slightly ratty apron that smelled strongly of cinnamon and paprika.

Yorkie pointedly drank another sip from his slightly-cold cup of ginger tea. “I’m good, Mama,” he said, a typical chirpiness in his voice. “I don’t feel sick anymore.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I’d hate for you to feel all topsy-turvy before…” she trailed off. “Um, Papa will be home soon. Just had to run off and grab some ingredients right before rush hour hits.” Mama sighed, checking the analog clock they kept on the wall. She was right—it was already past twelve, which was when the shift of miners switched.

She turned back towards her son. “Anyway, you sure that you have everything down here all handled? I’m just prepping some dinner in the back, so you can call me if you need. And, I can get Ellimae or Missy—”

“No, that’s alright,” Yorkie insisted, although he was slightly insulted. Missy was just seven, after all, and Ellimae was a bit too shy to be a good cashier, both things that his mama knew well. Was she disappointed that he was such a wuss?

Before he could contemplate further, the bell jingled again. This time, it was a woman wrapped tightly in a cloak. As she approached, her chin still tucked downwards, he could see that coal dust lined her palms.

Finally, she lifted her head. Her eyes were pools of gray, gray, gray, with no other color in them. Yorkie felt a lurch in his stomach.

Mama stiffened next to him. “Ah, why don’t you help this kind woman, son?” She asked, the word ‘kind’ forced out. She quickly pivoted on her heel before exiting through the back, leaving Yorkie alone with the stranger.

“Hi,” Yorkie smiled, though his voice was a bit hesitant. He mentally kicked himself, before saying, “Haven’t seen you ‘round these parts before. What can I help you with on this fine afternoon?”

The woman blinked. “She wanted some fudge,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder and out of the window. Out there, a kid with nearly snow-colored skin and light hair with just a hint of red was peering in eagerly. 

Yorkie looked between the two. Were they sisters ? No way the woman was her mother, or related to her at all. “Well, she can come inside…it’s an oven out there, this time of day.”

The woman gave a laugh—a sharp sound that nearly made Yorkie flinch. “Trust me, buddy, you don’t want her to.” From the way she spoke, Yorkie realized that she couldn’t be older than eighteen. 

Yorkie quickly leaned below the counter, concerned that his flustered expression would scare her off. “Did she say what kind of fudge? We have salted dark chocolate, caramel, peppermint chocolate…”

“A square of caramel is fine. How much?” Luckily, the woman didn’t seem to care at all as she reached into a pouch. 

“That’ll be 5 solvex,” Yorkie smiled. “Uh, we don’t accept scrip, just so you know.”

She gave him a strange look which made sweat gather on the back of Yorkie’s neck. “Right…” she muttered, before pulling out the money and passing it across the counter. In response, Yorkie used a knife to delicately cut a one-fourth pound square for her.

“Thank you for shopping,” he smiled, putting the coins into the register. “Have a wonderful day!” He tried to infuse the phrase with as much cheer as possible, but it just felt disingenuous.

“Thanks,” the woman said, although a bit sharply. He flinched, feeling bad that he had bothered her.

As soon as she left, Mama reentered. “Could’ve hurried along that encounter a bit faster, in my opinion,” she said, as if she had listened to the whole thing. “I think I’ve seen that girl before. One of those no-good crooks who try to game you out of every coin in your purse.” Her lip curled.

Yorkie felt like he should say something, as if to advocate for the girl, but the words died in his throat. She was just a stranger, and it wasn’t like he would ever see her again. “Sorry, Mama,” he muttered, gazing downwards.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You’re young, you know? But them Seam folk know how to prey on innocent minds like yours, which is why parents have to guide you onto the right path. The next time one of her type comes in, just tell her we’re about to close.”

“That seems rude,” he insisted.

“Well, they don’t take anything but rude,” Mama scoffed. 

“Okay,” Yorkie shrugged, giving up and backing off because he knew that in the end, his mama always knew what was good for him. 

“I’m gonna go back to making dinner. Lemon pepper chicken, that sound good?” Yorkie’s mouth watered at just the thought, and he quickly nodded in affirmation. She always made the best meals before Reaping day. “Why don’t you sweep up the floor? It’s looking a bit dusty in here,” she told him, before leaving once more.

Yorkie’s shoulders slumped as she did. She only had him sweep up the floors when he had done something real bad. He looked forlornly at the large broom in the corner before grabbing it. After all, he was a good, obedient boy, wasn’t he?

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Abandoned Track, District Six, ‘112

Morgan “Gani” Calloway, District Six Female, 17 (she/they)

“ The flags go up / Churning and burning, they yearn for the cup”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

The smoke of exhaust clogged Gani’s throat, but she quite liked the sensation. It felt like a breath of fresh air after being trapped in the compact seating of her car, the scent of sweat hanging heavy within. They quickly handed off their helmet to the nearest helper.

“And we have Gani Calloway with her second championship win!” The announcer shouted with flourish. A golden trophy was practically shoved into her hands, the top of it practically overflowing with solvex. Gani grinned at the sight—it was worth about two months of tesserae.

For a moment, they wondered if they should approach Luca and Reese, but they both looked quite busy. She saw her brother’s wiry form slithering through the crowd, gathering last-minute bets that had been made before Gani’s decided victory. Reese was attempting to direct those whose cars needed maintenance towards his shop.

Gani removed her gloves and shoved them into her twill uniform jacket, wiping her sweaty hands against her long pants. They saw that Luca was now hollering while holding up a piece of paper, standing on top of a discarded pile of tires. “Has anybody seen this boy? Name is Arden Miccile, height is 5’10”, hair is brown and eyes are dark brown, last seen in Erith—” 

Right. Gani kept forgetting, despite the event happening weeks ago. How could a boy be there one hour and gone the next? People didn’t just disappear, not like that. Especially Arden. He was far too clever to be caught like that. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. 

She didn’t want to believe he was dead. But as each day crawled by, it seemed more and more apparent. Six was huge . Hell, maybe he even escaped to somewhere nicer, found a job in the Gild. He always had a strong work ethic, anyways. 

As the last of the crowd began slipping from the gates, Gani approached. “No dice?” She asked hopefully, though she deflated instantly as she saw the sad shake of Luca’s head. “Well, I hung some more around the Mouth…someone’s got to have seen him, right?” The words felt hollow in her throat. She clutched the trophy at her side a bit tighter.

Luca looked out, beyond the track. “This is when he used to take me out to get candy.” He frowned. “Gerry’s. Best caramels out there. And he always paid, too.”

“Yeah.” Gani sighed. Back then, they had him to watch their back on the streets, had him to cover up any mistakes they made. Well, now they had to watch their own hide. Not that she had any issue with that, really, but it filled her with bittersweet longing, a feeling she quickly brushed aside. No use dawdling in the past. It was time to move on towards the future.

“Congrats on the win,” Luca said, brightening slightly. “They never even stood a chance, not against my sis.” His chest puffed out with pride. Gani chuckled and ran their hand through his ratty black hair. 

Gani looked over towards the fencing surrounding the track. One of the posters was flapping in the wind. MISSING , the top part of it read. In the center was a photo of Arden, his eyes as knowing as ever. And at the bottom: 1K SOLVEX REWARD. Gani had scoffed at that part of the sign when Reese wrote it out on his typewriter. 

( “Makes him seem like some sort of criminal,” Gani laughed. )

Sure, she’d found it funny then. Then, Arden had only been gone for a few hours. He would come back home. Now, she stared bleary-eyed at the words. They would give it all to have him back. Things weren’t the same around the shop, not without Arden whistling discordant tunes. It felt like there was a permanently gray cloud hanging around her head, deafening the world around her and making her brain foggy.

Gani heard the distinct stomping of boots against concrete. A squad of Peacekeepers were marching, hauling what appeared to be a teenage boy between them. His hair was a mop of brown, tinged faintly auburn. When he turned his head, his eyes were deep brown pools, a large bruise blooming beneath them. For a moment, that spark of hope was reignited.

Gani squinted, though. No, that wasn’t Arden. The boy in front of her was smaller in stature. Despite malnourishment, Arden always had a bit of muscle on him. And his nose wasn’t crooked like Arden’s was.

“Poor guy,” Luca muttered. “Looks like a scraper kid.”

“Wow. Really doing Panem such a great service , bringing in starving kids. What was his crime? Stealing an extra solvex for his wage? Taking scrap he wasn’t supposed to?” Gani scoffed, tilting her head away from the sight and towards the sky. “Pathetic, what this District has become.”

“The extra Peacekeepers they hired have to go away soon,” her brother said. “I mean, they’re bound to run out of reasons to arrest people soon. Capitol can’t have this much of a force concentrated, anyways. Has to be impractical.”

“Right,” Gani nodded. 

There was a shout as the kid found a gap in the patrol of Peacekeepers. He made off like a startled mouse, running down the street. The Peacekeepers chased him with the energy of a pack of hounds, quickly surrounding him again. Gani’s view was blocked by a field of white, but she clearly heard the cries of the boy as the Peacekeepers brought down their batons, heard the squelch of flesh and saw blood spray across uniforms.

Gani thought momentarily that they should cover Luca’s eyes—he was only twelve, after all. However, his eyes blazed as he watched the violence play out. “We need to do something. They’ll respect you, you have your chain—”

“ Luca ,” Gani snapped harshly, making him flinch. “No, the Peacekeepers don’t care who we are anymore.” Even though she did have her reinforced chain on her, she could be arrested for possession of an unregulated weapon, leaving Luca on his own. Besides, their ribs were still sore from a brief scuffle they had gotten into with one of the Peacekeepers over a little girl they accused of stealing an apple.

Gani watched, powerless, as the Peacekeepers finally moved off. The one that appeared to be their leader gestured, and they began dragging the boy roughly down the road. The leader hung back, maybe catching his breath. He took his helmet off, revealing close-cut blonde hair.

His head turned towards them. A faded pinkish scar ran through his right eye, although he had gathered a few more on his ugly face. Gani swore that they made eye contact for at least a minute. “Hope you enjoyed the show, racer girl!” Scar-Eye shouted, giving her a cruel grin.

“Fuck off,” Gani snapped, raising him the finger. 

Scar-Eye decided to do the opposite. In fact, he approached closer. “You know, they’re planning on giving me another promotion. I’m already captain of my squad, but they want me for a general.” His eyes wandered over to the poster. “Aw, your little friend is still missing? Tragic,” he snarked. “Hope you find him soon.”

Now it was Luca who had to hold Gani back. “You want to fight?” They snarled at him. “Let’s do it. Let’s do it right now, you fucking pig.” 

Scar-Eye seemed about ready to accept the challenge, when there were sudden yells from down the road. “Alas, duty calls. I would advise against it, though. Unless you want to end up like your friend there.”

As Scar-Eye walked away, Gani felt like her chest was caving in. How dare he hold Arden’s disappearance in front of her like that? She was suddenly aware of the plop of a fat drop of rain on her nose. 

And as things often worked for them, they were suddenly sent back to a different time, some three months ago…

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Erith, District Six, ‘112

2:39 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

It was a rainy day in Six—odd, given the season, but welcome, as the petrichor seemed to overwhelm the usual scents of smog and filth. Such scents only got worse as Gani approached Erith. Each step she took saw her retreating further and further into herself—she didn’t know these parts, not like she knew the Mouth. “Stay close, Luca,” she muttered to her brother, eyeing the passersby with suspicion.

“We’re almost there,” Arden informed them from up front. He tended to take the lead whenever the group had to go out. He had known the streets the longest before coming to Reese’s shop, after all—it was only natural. 

As the steps and gray buildings began to bleed together, Gani’s mind wandered away from the streets and, as they often did, onto the track. The opening race was happening in a few days. They had given their car a fresh layer of paint, made sure the treads on the tire weren’t too worn.

The tournament this year was high-stakes, according to Reese. He said that the Track Master had pulled in the greatest amount of racers seen in its eight-year lifespan. More racers meant more bets, and more bets meant more money for Gani. 

The crowds began to press in on the trio’s flanks as they got closer and closer to the Center of Commerce. “Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” Luca practically shouted, competing with the merchants lining the streets.

“I know this guy,” Arden affirmed. “Cheapest fuel salesman out there—” He wiped rain away from his eyes. “Just unfortunate he lives so far away from home.”

And they needed the fuel. Reese was the one who did all of the work on the vehicles between races, so if the cars weren’t all ready, Gani could be kicked out of the race just for the crime of being affiliated with him. Or she could disappear, like the racers caught cheating tended to do. The Track Master believed in fair, good-ol’-fashioned races, after all. Cheating simply wouldn’t do.

Gani shuddered, coming back to the present. They turned into the central square of Erith. The great steel fixture of the Reaping stage rose above them. Gani glared at it—in just a few months, two kids would be taken away from their families forever through that stage.

As they were walking, there was a sudden shout. “Hey!” The voice was strong and, although youthful, it was one that commanded attention. It came from an iron table outside of one of Six’s few establishments. There were three white-clad Peacekeepers sitting there, playing what appeared to be faro. 

Arden stopped and pulled aside to the wall obediently. Gani felt Luca’s hand snake around their wrist, his eyes darting around like a trapped prey animal. “Don’t worry,” Gani smiled. “We know these guys.”

It was true—Peacekeepers often came down by the Mouth to watch the races or do some underground shopping. Alcohol brought in from Seven, usually, or tobacco grown in Eleven. Stuff that was supposed to pass right through to the Capitol, but often ended up in Six’s lap. It was a fair trade. The Mouth inhabitants traded their wares, and the Peacekeepers let them be.

“Well, well, well,” one of the Peacekeepers said abruptly, sauntering up to them. It wasn’t a man who Gani recognized, which immediately struck her as weird. He had a blonde buzzcut.  “What’re you pack of street rats doing out in the rain? Escape from the orphanage?”

The man’s voice had a swell that told Gani instantly he was drunk. Her hand balled into a fist at her side, itching to reach for the chain she kept on her person, but instead Arden just gave him a smile. “Here on business, just like everybody else. And no, we’re not from the orphanages. From the Mouth, in fact.”

“The Mouth?” The Peacekeeper asked with a tinge of unfamiliarity. 

Arden nodded. “Aye—the spot furthest west, just before the Scrapyard. North of the Underground. You heard of it?”

“The Underground…where the junkies live,” the man filled in with distaste, crossing his gloved arms across his chest. “What sort of business are you three engaging in?”

Gani gave an annoyed huff. They pulled off their hood and looked the man in the eye. They noted that he had a scar through his right eye. “Racing business,” she informed him, waiting for her appearance to click in his mind. When it didn’t, she continued, “we’re not addicts. Why are you giving us trouble?”

“You Sixes are never up to any good,” the man said. “It’s up to us that you rascals are staying in line. Is this racing business of yours administered by the Capitol?”

Gani felt Luca tense beside her. Arden spoke again. “Well, sir, you may like to know that the betting pool is very large—and the winnings, well, even larger—so, Peacekeepers like yourself are welcome to participate! In fact, they probably make up twenty-five percent of the viewers, haha.” Despite his amiable disposition, Gani could hear the tensity in Arden’s voice.

“I’m sorry, I thought you would recognize me,” Gani put in with her most friendly voice. She had been told by Arden that said voice was offset by her ‘resting bitch face’, whatever that was. “Anyways, it’s rainy, so I guess we should be on our merry way—” she started, beginning to step away, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

A rough hand wrapped around her lower arm. “Hey, let go,” she snapped with a tug. “What’s you guys’ deal anyways? Where’s Murray? What about Three-Quarters?” She thought especially fondly of the latter. Despite losing a fourth of his pointer finger, he maintained a respectful attitude. He was one of her most frequent patrons, in fact.

“Wow, you can’t wrap your head around this, can you? Six is a fucking shithole, that’s what. They’re increasing security here tenfold. Too many drugs moving around unsupervised. Too many kids like you dirtying up the streets.”

Arden wrenched the Peacekeeper’s hand away. “Back off,” he said, his voice more forceful, unlike his typically calm demeanor. “We’re not asking for issues. You’re making something of nothing. Is this really your way of ‘maintaining the peace?’”

The Peacekeeper scoffed, his hand reaching for a moment towards the baton at his side. Arden seemed to hold his gaze through the mask, and the Peacekeeper abandoned the pursuit in favor of pushing Arden back. Gani caught him and gave the man her trademark leer. “If you kids try to stir up trouble here again, we’ll escort you out to the fucking Scrapyard, you hear?”

Gani rolled her eyes as the Peacekeeper returned to his buddies. It looked like they had been watching things play out. The teens made themselves scarce soon after. She was glad that Luca stayed silent during the entire exchange, although he immediately spoke afterwards. “The fuck was that?!” He yelped, his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Unsettling, that’s for sure,” Gani muttered, rubbing the spot on her arm that was beginning to fade to an unflattering purple shade. “Fucking asshole.” She turned towards Arden, who had a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s up?”

“No, it’s just…throwing me off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many Peacekeepers gathered together, not in Erith. I mean, I heard rumors that there was a puzzling amount, even in the Gild,” Arden said thoughtfully. “And they’ve never been rough with us, especially you,” he suggested, acknowledging Gani.

They sighed, satisfied with the idea that the bruise on their arm would fade in due time. “Well, let’s be glad it’s over. ‘Sides, we still need that fuel, yeah?” 

“Right…” Arden huffed. “All I’m saying is, things are changing in Six. Best be ready for it.”

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

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Adaba Apartment, District Eight, ‘109

Viola Adaba, District Eight Female, 18 (she/her)

“Because the price is paid / And there’s nothing left to grieve ”

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The closet air was stifling, Viola’s breath coming in short gasps. Her face was pressed close against the slats of the doors, seeing flashes of the horrors outside. Fara was slumped against her, shaking. Viola wasn’t sure whether to cover her eyes or her ears or her mouth, wasn’t sure whether to lie to her sister that their parents were okay or to tell her that their father was lying in a pool of blood.

Mom screamed, a noise that dissolved into something of a choked cry. Her voice came muffled through the wood: “Please, please don’t do this. We didn’t know that— Wait! ”

The gun went off again, followed by a thump as her mother hit the floor. Viola felt Fara startle from beside her, saw her face collapse into a sob in the darkness. Before the wail could come out, Viola pushed her hand against her mouth and shook her head. 

One of the two assailants was speaking. Viola had only seen a flash of them before throwing herself and Fara into the closet—dark clothes, a tattoo like a web creeping up their shoulders and necks. The voice was soft, yet sharp as a knife. “Thought they had kids, too. Don’t suppose they’re in here?”

“Whatever,” the other man scoffed. “I’m more interested in what these idiots have on them. Let’s sack this place.”

Their silhouettes moved away from the closet, but the siblings didn’t dare move. Viola’s mind was preoccupied with worrying about how much Fara had seen. The thought that her sister’s soul had been tainted with the sight of murder made her nauseous. Not Fara. Not the purest girl she knew.

Noises of rummaging and destruction filled the apartment. Of the miscellaneous sounds, Viola identified one: the smashing of a vase, no doubt her father’s favorite porcelain one. The Adaba family heirloom, he called it. The symbol of their pride, of their inevitable rise in the social classes.

Yeah, like that did them much good. 

After what felt like an eternity—but was more like fifteen minutes—the men seemed to get bored, and after one final slam , they were gone. Viola waited a few beats, and then emerged from the closet slowly. She saw her parents, discarded by the bed, their faces stuck in horrific positions. 

Before Fara could step out, Viola made sure to cover her eyes. The area smelled of coppery blood. “What happened to Mommy and Dada?” Fara asked, her voice still in the shrill range of youth. A heaviness fell over Viola’s heart. Just five, and she has to deal with this shit. 

“We’re going to walk together to your room,” Viola said, taking on that gentle tone she always used with her sister. “And we’re leaving the apartment.”

“Why?”

“To go on a trip, of course! Haven’t you always wanted to see the rest of Eight? Well, that’s where we’re going.” Viola struggled to keep her voice cheerful as she helped Fara navigate blind over shattered glass and red-speckled wood. Her eyes moved back towards the corpses—and she didn’t see her parents.

( Hope was lying on his side, his face bloated with sickness. His breathing came out labored and wet, pitiful whimpers escaping his throat. )

Viola failed him, but she wasn’t going to fail again. They passed the fallen vase and moved towards the cramped hallway with the three bedrooms. Viola saw that all three doors had been practically thrown off their hinges. As they reached the sanctuary of their shared room, Viola released her sister.

Luckily, the men had mostly avoided her sister’s things. Some of Viola’s few nice things—her Reaping dress, for example—were gone, but that was fine. She took her satchel and threw as many clothes as she could, and then emptied out her school bag.

The sight of stuffed notebooks gave her pause. How many hours had she spent stressing over doing homework on time, making sure her grades were as close to flawless as they could be? Just to get out of a shithole.

Well, she could never go to school again. If anybody found out that her and Fara were now orphans, they would be sent to a Community Home, where nobody became anything but dead before their time. It would be impossible to disguise the horrors of the world from Fara if they surrounded her on all sides.

Viola swallowed harshly at the thought, and decided to get her mind away from the idea. She gathered up any loose solvex she could find, which wasn’t much with both the Adabas’ low household income and the ransacking. It ended up being about 450 solvex, enough to at least get some food and buy essentials.

As she passed her parents room, she stopped. A few weeks ago, she had heard them discussing something in low voices. Something about debts, and being hunted.

Something about Weavers .

The word sent a shiver down her spine. The Weavers were a bedtime story, something to frighten your kids with and make sure they stayed in line. Her Dad used to warn her that if she didn’t eat her whole meal, then the Weavers would be after her. Of course, she never quite knew what they were. The way he said it was enough to inspire fear.

She would never have guessed that they were some kind of gang. Or, more likely, a secret society. Something about the obvious nature of the criminals who killed her parents told her that there were higher ups. 

Would they return, trying to find her and Fara? Sure, the men had decided not to, but that didn’t mean that they were safe. They had to leave this part of Eight, that much was certain. Viola’s pace quickened so that she practically ran to grab her jacket and Fara’s cap. They would need to fly under the radar to stay safe.

Viola moved past the kitchen, the kitchen where her parents used to worry about rent money and feeding four mouths instead of the intended three.

Viola turned as she retrieved the items and jogged back to her and Fara’s room. Luckily, Fara was perched on the edge of her bed, humming and swinging her legs. Her little bag didn’t have clothes or anything in it. Instead, she put a toy and a book inside. She gave Viola a faintly worried look.

Viola moved to her sister’s drawers and took out three fresh shirts and two pairs of pants, putting them into her own bag. “Are you ready?”

Fara frowned. “Are Mommy and Dada going to say goodbye?”

“They’re at work,” Viola said instantly. Fara seemed to take that answer without question, because the Adabas were often at work. Work that used to just entail clocking in eight, maybe nine, hours at the factory, but suddenly became secretive ventures at night, whispers of deliveries and ‘the stuff’ always circulating through the kitchen in the early hours.

“Okay,” Fara murmured. “Do we gotta go now?”

“Yeah, we gotta go. Are you scared?”

She gave a pronounced sniffle. “A lil,” she mumbled out.

Viola leaned down to her sister so that they were matched in height. “Don’t be. I’m right here, right next to you. We’re going to stick together, and I’ll keep you safe. I’ve always kept you safe, haven’t I?”

Fara blinked tears from her eyes. “Y-yeah,” she sniffled again. Viola gently ran her hand through her sister’s soft curls. They were perfectly springy and fluffy—unlike Viola’s dry ends and slightly tangled hair. Her palm moved down to her sister’s hand, their skin the same shade of light brown.

“Let’s go,” Viola said, standing. 

Holding hands, the sisters left behind their home forever.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Jacquard’s Apartment, District Eight, ‘112

7:09 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Viola dropped the lamp with shaking hands. The rest of its fragile body shattered on the ground, glittering beads of glass scattering among the pile of disfigured flesh that used to be her boyfriend.

Her eyes felt glued to the sight. Bits of brain leaked from what remained of his head, his expression undistinguishable through the blood and breakage. She had seen his last one, though. Anger, because he had been angry at her lately.

Well, Viola didn’t take kindly to being treated like a servant. She had toyed with the humiliation for a while, because she needed the damn money . But what Jacquard had just done—calling her spoiled , after all she’d endured, as if he wasn’t the one with half of Larnwick in his pocket—was inexcusable.

And now he was dead.

Viola didn’t know why she did it. Now, she was starting to hate it. This rot that was creeping all over her, a feeling of snapping. She was unaware how much rage she had built up over the years, hiding it under her skin as she had been disregarded and made to fend for herself again and again . Knowing that her life was going to come to a tragic end, just because she hadn’t been born lucky.

It felt good. It felt sickening.

And it was all over nothing. 

( Viola, stressed after trying to buy food at the cannery, came to her boyfriend’s apartment exhausted. Looking for a bit of comfort, even. 

But a part of her knew it wouldn’t happen. Jacquard had been showing his privilege that came from a comfortable birth recently, demanding things of her that he hadn’t before. Things he could do, like the laundry or making dinner.

She walked in, hung up her coat, and Jacquard asked for a coffee. Viola made it as he liked, with two sugars and a splash of cream. 

But Jacquard said —insisted— that she made it wrong. Viola reassured him that wasn’t the case, yet he kept on getting angrier about it, raising his voice until he was screaming at her, his face red as he called her ungrateful.

He raised his hand and struck her. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one that stunned Viola for a moment. As her head jolted in response, she saw the lamp on the table.

She reached for it. )

“How did it ever get like this?” Viola murmured, blood dripping from her right hand. Things had started out fine. Jacquard seemed at first like a lucky break. Offering to care for her, even though she’d tried to pickpocket him. Even when Viola caught his advances, she didn’t care.

As long as Fara got to keep a full belly for another day, she didn’t care about what it took at all. Sure, now her arrangement with Jacquard was a bit…screwed, but she could work with this. She’d worked with worse.

Viola grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept the glass into it. Her mind raced. There’s no way she could erase all evidence of the crime, but she could at least make it harder for the Peacekeepers to track her down. She would be long gone anyways, and once a case was open long enough, they typically gave up.

That’s what had happened to her parents.

She then grabbed a bottle of spray disinfectant and the mop and cleaned the blood. Running to the sink, she washed it from her hands. She threw on an extra t-shirt she had left in his bedroom, discarding the bloodied one in the trash.

Finally, Viola found Jacquard’s wallet. She emptied it of any identification and then pocketed the absurd amount of solvex he kept on his person. Seriously, why would he ever need this much on him? No wonder she had attempted to pickpocket him around a year ago.

A part of her was pissed still. At the world, and at herself. Why did she always end up cleaning up after messes? Why was she doomed to fail, again and again? Why did she endure Jacquard’s bullshit for so long instead of walking away?

She knew the answer to the last one: desperation . The kind that any Capitolite would scoff at, the kind where you clawed your way upwards even if it meant abandoning morals. The kind where the gang-heavy streets of Eight seemed more like a kindness.

Viola refused to turn to being a gang member. Getting mixed up in criminal activity had led her parents to their graves, and the Weavers were everywhere now. She’d learned much about them from both rumor and first-hand accounts at the Pincushion market. 

They were a society—more accurately, a cult —composed of only the richest of Eight’s population, willing to do whatever was needed to keep themselves on top. It was a disgusting idea to Viola. They already had everything, and their only purpose was to make sure that the rest of Eight stayed miserable. 

After that, it was time to go. She gathered anything she needed and fled the apartment, running down the fire escape. Viola carefully stuck to alleyways and less occupied roads as she approached her own, crappier apartment. 

Fara was drawing in her sketchbook as Viola flew in. She gave her sister a startled look. Viola panted for a moment, regaining her senses. “Listen, we’re moving again.”

“Again?” Fara protested. “Hasn’t it already been like ten times?” Viola loathed that she was already beginning to sound a bit too cynical, a bit too much like her older sister. She was only eight. 

But she was also right. Before getting with Jacquard, Viola and Fara had moved from abandoned factories to even squatting in houses. “This one’s the last big one, okay, and then we’ll be settled. We’re going to Larnwick—you’ve always wanted to see the Center, haven’t you?”

“You said that last time,” Fara clarified, her eyes the same sparkling blue as their father’s. Nonetheless, she got up and began gathering anything she could find in their crowded apartment.

As Viola watched her sister move away, she deflated slightly. Fara didn’t know that all Viola had done was for her. That was always the truth, the one constant in the chaos of her life. 

Even when Fara was born, when her parents had told Viola that their newest daughter was an accident, and that they wouldn’t have much time to care for her. Viola made a promise that day, that Fara wouldn’t end up like her.

She was going to stick to it, whatever it took. But there was only so much she could do. As a result of her protecting Fara, Fara also couldn’t understand some things. She didn’t get why she couldn’t attend school, why Viola couldn’t work in the factories like the majority of the District.

Viola wanted to tell her the truth, to tell her all of the struggles she had gone through. But then that would taint her perfect sister, and Viola would have nothing left. She waited patiently at the door of the apartment, and noticed that the paint was peeling.

Fara emerged after a moment, and Viola took her sister’s hand, before guiding her gently down the steps. Outside, the flowers were beginning to bloom as it moved from winter to spring.

Viola knew it then, for the first time in her life: good things were coming.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Crest Hill, District Eleven, ‘111

Thatcha Reed, District Eleven Female, 13

“ So, for once in my life / Let me get what I want”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

In Eleven, the trees meant life. On Field 789, where the Reeds worked, when the orange trees began to bloom, it meant that summer was fast approaching. And with summer came profits, as they sold any extra oranges. Most of the time, the Reeds barely scraped by. But in summer, with the trees, Thatcha could rest knowing her belly would be full for the rest of the season.

The trees weren’t supposed to betray them. They weren’t supposed to become choked up and shriveled, producing misshapen fruits that the Capitol nor the marketplace wanted. And they weren’t supposed to give their caregivers sickness.

It started as just a mild cold. Thatcha’s Ma, ever the kind woman, gave people herbal remedies out of their apothecary. But then people started collapsing in the street, too weak to keep on moving, gunk streaming from their eyes and their lungs all clogged. Some died right there, some later in their beds.

The fields were shut down by the Capitol, however their help ended there. The only way to receive a cure was to join the Peacekeeper corps—not available to Thatcha until she turned eighteen, as well as not being something she would ever pursue. So, the Ravage kept on spreading.

It took Thatcha’s Ma silently. Thatcha’s Ma didn’t cough, didn’t complain or cry, just said she was tired and laid in bed for a while. And in the morning, when a customer came by and Thatcha had to wake her up, her Ma had shrivelled like the orange trees.

Now, a month later, there was rot all around. The trees that used to spread petals across the ground were dry, brownish husks. The Capitol had issued a statement a few weeks prior—they believed it was coming from the pollen of the trees, contaminating the lungs of those who inhaled it. The only way for the sickness to end was to wait for people to become immune.

Well, Thatcha wasn’t going to wait. She wasn’t going to just lay down and die, not when her Ma had died and now she had her freshly sick Pa to care for. Even at eleven, she still walked outside of her home, still picked up the handle of her Pa’s old wagon. They used to use it to sell oranges and their homemade orange juice, but now it was a cart for Thatcha to bring home anything she could scavenge.

The market of Crest Hill used to flourish. The people of Eleven called Thatcha’s home the ‘True Market’ for a reason, after all. The streets used to practically overflow with people from near and afar, looking at the various goods offered.

Now, Thatcha could count the merchants on the main road on her fingers. Eight, she saw. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Tea for Pa. 1 Loaf of Bread. 1 Milk Bottle. 1 Vegetable . For the tea, she would need to visit her Ma’s old supplier, just down the way. 

Mace Conroy was smoking, as always, when Thatcha entered his shop. Thatcha figured he grew his own tobacco. Silver dappled his curls, but he always seemed to have the energy of youth. As soon as he saw her walk in, he grinded it out in the ashtray. “Morning, sprout,” he said, his voice husky as always. When Thatcha was younger, he always just called her Ma by Reed, so Thatcha supposed sprout was his way of continuing the legacy.

Herbal scents curled around Thatcha’s nose. While her Ma had always been Cedar Hill’s best healer, Mace grew all of the things she needed. They were something of family friends—the first time Thatcha came in, he told her that the only reason he bothered with her was because of him liking her Ma. 

It made no difference to Thatcha. The only important thing was that her Pa needed the medicine. “What’re you lookin’ for today?” Mace asked.

“Peppermint, chamomile, ginger.” As Mace approached the jars on the walls and procured the proper herbs, Thatcha drummed her fingers against the table. Her Pa had complained recently of his throat. “Maybe also honey, if you have any?”

Mace eyed her. “Alright, but it’ll cost extra.” He pulled a jar of the stuff from under the table. “You’re lucky I grow my stuff indoors.”

“True.” Thatcha smiled, watching as he fiddled with the register. As he read the total—19 solvex—out to her, she pulled out her own (well, really, her mother’s) wallet and began rifling around for the money.

Filling the awkward silence, Mace huffed. “How’s your Pa, sprout?”

“He’s not terrible,” Thatcha said honestly. “On the up, really. He’s been talking more, walking around the house. Doing well, I think.” Not like Ma. He’s not just going to die out of nowhere. He can’t .

“Oh,” Mace breathed. “I see.” 

Thatcha pulled out the money as she found it. 5 solvex, then 10, then 15. But she only had 3 more, meaning that she was a whole solvex under the price. “Oh no,” she whispered, panic tightening in her chest. “I don’t have enough. I can’t—I need this .”

Even if she got food, her Pa could regress without anything to keep him up. The teas she brewed were at least helping keep his symptoms at bay. Thatcha was thankful her Ma taught her how to make it when she was young. But if she didn’t have ingredients, then she didn’t have tea. And if she didn’t have tea…

Thatcha didn’t even realize she was crying until a sob escaped her throat. It felt embarrassing. To cry, anyways. She was supposed to be mature now, because she was eleven. And she had to be strong for her Pa. How would he feel if he saw her like this? It would be so humiliating.

It would show what she’d known all along—that she was just a scared little girl , who had no clue what she was doing. That she was afraid of being alone, more than anything else. 

And, most clearly, that she was just a fool. A fool who thought she could change fate, save his life if she couldn’t save her Ma. Thatcha felt the world twist sickeningly as she plunged into the sea of her mind, a sea that threatened to swallow her whole…

“Oh geez, don’t cry, sprout,” Mace muttered. He looked around for a moment, before leaning forwards. “Listen. Hey—” He snapped his fingers in her face, resulting in Thatcha wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’ll cover you on this one, ‘kay?” He leafed through his own pockets before placing a solvex on the table. 

“Are you sure?” Thatcha asked, her voice warbling.

“It’s my shop. I can do whatever. And it’s fine. It’s just one solvex.” He pulled away, crossing his broad arms over his chest. “It’s like people have forgotten that it’s okay to help each other.”

“Probably ‘cause we all need a little help right now,” Thatcha filled in.

“Well, it’s never too hard to give someone a little light, especially when they’re trapped in such darkness. When I heard the news of your Ma’s passing…” Mace trailed off. “We went to school together. It was only eight years—you went to school, didn’t you?—but we always ended up close together. She was sweet. Always had some love to give.” Mace stared down his nose at her, pausing. Thatcha knew what was coming next.

“You remind me a lot of her, you know. You have that same—” he waved his hand, as though searching for the correct words, “ emotional intelligence about you. It’s a good trait to have, I think. Keeps you open-minded, fair and all that.”

Thatcha had heard those words a thousand times, mostly from Pa. They didn’t stop hurting, though, because of course she knew she was just like her Ma. Her Ma was all she knew, really, had taught her the most about life. Of course, Pa was good too, but he was more interested in helping Thatcha learn how to navigate the commercial world. 

“Thanks a lot,” Thatcha said. “For paying, I mean. It means a lot.”

“‘Course. It was nothing, really. As an exchange, tell your Pa I said hello.” Mace smiled. He was surprisingly warm today. It was at times like these that Thatcha wondered the most about the man. He said nothing of a family, but he didn’t seem to have friends either. Where had he learned to be so…fatherly?

“I will,” Thatcha said. She took the stalks of the herbs and the honey and placed them gingerly in the wagon. She worried for a moment about securing the honey—the roads home could be treacherous, after all, as they hadn’t been repaired in some time.

“Take care,” Mace waved. “And remember that even when you’re faced with hard challenges like these, you should always keep your chin up. You can do anything, with a mind as sharp as yours. Keep your head up, don’t let the world break your spirit. That would be sad to see.”

Thatcha looked over her shoulder, smiling at him. “I won’t,” she giggled, beginning to walk towards the door, the wagon’s axel squealing behind her as it spun.

Maybe things were looking up, after all.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Saker Keep, District Eleven, ‘112

 11:23 AM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

“ Thatch !” Thatcha looked up, perplexed, to see Sedia staring at her with wide, dark brown eyes. “Are you alright? I said your name three times. You’ve been spacing out a lot recently.”

Thatcha made a disgruntled sound, looking up from her desk where the other two were crowded. Sedia, as always, was bouncing faintly on the balls of her feet, as though bored. She seemed to get like this most when it was the end of a work day. “You were saying we’re ending early?” Thatcha said, addressing the older woman to Sedia’s left.

Mrs. Reaver gave a terse nod. “Exactly. Reapings are tomorrow, we’ve barely had customers today. When you two finish pinning up that dress, you can take some extra time off. Prepare for tomorrow’s events.” Right. The Reapings—something Thatcha used to fret about, but had since ceased in troubling her.

Thatcha stared with wonder at Mrs. Reaver. The old woman carefully avoided her searching gaze. Mrs. Reaver often only spoke in short clips of sentences, mostly thanking Thatcha for her diligent, hard work. Recently, though, she was becoming kinder. Letting the girls keep extra money, giving them nicer food.

Thatcha hated it. If only Mrs. Reaver could know what happened to people who decided to be kind to Thatcha, who decided to waste their time on her when she was just cursed, plain and simple.

( There was too much evidence. Her Ma. Her Pa. Maze. All of Crest Hill, really, outside of her, Sedia, and a handful of other young and elderly folk. They had died because Thatcha had brushed their lives. )

“Thatch! Wow, you’re really having a rough time today, huh?” Sedia chirped in her typical light tone. Thatcha looked up to see that Mrs. Reaver was gone, probably to tally up the total for the day’s services. They usually made plenty of money—tailors were hard to come by in Eleven after all, and most of their customers were people who could afford to have their clothing refitted.

Thatcha blinked. “Just thinking,” she said. “Can you hand me a pin?” She extended her hand as Sedia carefully dropped one in, and then slid the silver end into the dress where Mrs. Reaver had marked it.

“This is such busy work,” sighed Sedia from beside her. “I mean, when I signed up for that exam, I thought I was going to get something fun, like, I don’t know, cutting hair.” She spun a finger through one of her springy curls as she spoke.

Thatcha couldn’t quite remember why she had signed up. Maybe it was because she couldn’t bear being alone in the overcrowded orphanage anymore, or maybe it was because she just wanted to feel like she meant something. When she saw her name on the ranking list, in the top twenty, she expected to feel a weight lifted off her chest.

It just seemed to get heavier.

“I don’t think it’s too bad.” Thatcha shrugged. Then again, her and Sedia had two very different upbringings. Sedia had left Crest Hill almost instantly after the Ravage took hold, sent off to the orphanage by her remaining family. Even before the illness, though, she had lived on one of the private farms.

“Hm,” Sedia hummed with a bit of disappointment. “Do you ever think about what it would be like…if…you know…”

Before Thatcha could answer, the bell at the front door rang, signifying a customer. Thatcha waited for Mrs. Reaver, but the woman must’ve left the store to attend other business, as there was a prolonged silence. “Hello?” The customer, sounding like a young woman, said. 

Thatcha sighed and stood, motioning for Sedia to wait as she walked into the main parlor. Mannequins and fabrics were left around the storefront, as long as a list of customers. “Good morning, ma’am. Were you aware the store is closed?”

The woman scoffed flippantly. “Why, how rude. Of course I was aware . However, this is urgent .” She looked around briefly. “Is Tawny not here? When did she start hiring depressing children to work for her?” She glared down her nose at Thatcha.

Thatcha’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The woman rolled her eyes. “I mean, seriously, would it kill you to smile? It’s like you don’t want to make money.” Sedia curiously peered around the corner.

Keep your head up . That’s what Mace had said. Thatcha should’ve defended herself, because the woman was being plain rude, but instead, with great effort, a smile crawled its way across her lips, in a motion that felt like a grimace. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mrs. Reaver is indeed not here. You’ll have to come another day, but if you truly need her attention so badly, there is a list of waiting customers on that wall.” Thatcha passed a pen across the counter. “You can write your name on it.”

The woman rolled her eyes again but sourly took the pen, walking over to scrawl her name on the paper, before practically storming from the shop. 

Thatcha released a sharp breath as Sedia entered. “Why did you let her be so mean?” Sedia asked, her voice quiet, as though they were sharing a secret.

“I dunno.” Thatcha shrugged. Well, she did know. Because she knew that was what she deserved. This was all some comeuppance for the things she had brought to Crest Hill, upon her own parents and Sedia’s as well.

“I’m sorry,” Sedia said.

“Wha—don’t be,” Thatcha insisted. “It’s fine.”

“...Okay,” Sedia murmured, before brightening, like the sun when it emerged from behind a cloud. “Well, I was thinking, maybe we could spend some time together? You know, weather’s nice, you haven’t really been out in a while. Thought it could be fun?” There was a hopeful sparkle in her eyes, a sparkle that slowly burned out as Thatcha shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m not sure, Sedia,” Thatcha said. “I just…I’m tired.” It was the same excuse she used every time, and Sedia must’ve noticed too, because her lips became a thin, sad line.

“Oh, that’s alright.” A crack opened in Thatcha’s heart at the exhaustion tinging Sedia’s tone. She knew that they both had been hurt by the Ravage, but Sedia seemed ready to make peace with the events that happened in Crest Hill.

Thatcha just couldn’t . Every time she even dared to entertain the thought, it was like she could hear her parents screaming at her that she was leaving them behind. And the thought was horrifying enough. She found that she could no longer remember the exact sound of her Ma’s voice, nor her Pa’s stories, not even the scents that hung in Mace’s shop.

Even the idea of feeling uncontained joy made her feel like she was turning her back on her parents. Besides, Sedia would see it too—would see that Thatcha had become nothing but a hollow shell, and she would be disgusted at the amount of misery Thatcha held within her, the tides of the black sea rising until they seemed like they were about to swallow her.

All Thatcha had to do was reach out. Take hold of someone who reminded her what was important. But what if she just lost them again? What if they drowned with her? That’s all Thatcha did. Lose, lose, lose. She felt words rise in her throat. I really want to be friends, I do, but I’m having a hard time. I don’t think I’m worth it.

Thatcha’s mouth moved, but different words came out. “Maybe next time, but I think I’m gonna go upstairs and read.”

It was just the safer option. That was all.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Dam Sector, District Five, ‘112

Watson Jovi, District Five Male, 13 (he/him)

“ I scramble, fight like a child / I’m stayin’ hungry, I’m stayin’ hungry ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

cw: verbal + physical child abuse (beginning)

Mam was supposed to have picked Watson up from school three days ago. School ended at the same time every day, 3 PM. It didn’t change. He went to their apartment, but she was gone. Maybe she had gone out with her friends without telling him—she tended to do that frequently.

Watson had to admit though, he was worried. For multiple reasons. He was seven and alone, which he knew was not a great thing to be in Five, and he had heard news of a meltdown that took the life of his father just a few days prior. From his math teacher, instead of his own mother .

The knowledge still shocked him—his father was really his hero. He was so smart, and seemed to know how to navigate every situation, whether social or experimental. He longed for his Mam, but she was nowhere to be found.

Watson wandered the streets of the plant sector, until he came across one of the sector’s few marketplaces. It was open towards the sky, and a flag with a banner of the sun emerging from behind clouds revealed it to be one run by the Clean Air religion. Watson blinked at the flag. He had long held fascination with the religion, had picked up little bits and pieces of their traditions, even if his parents scorned him each time he did.

The air was heavy in the busy marketplace. Watson was able to navigate quickly through the crowd with his small stature, until he almost crashed directly into a woman wearing floral-patterned skirts. He looked up to see the same shade of auburn-brown hair that was on his head.

“Mam,” he gasped out, clutching the fabric of her skirts.

Mam looked down at him. Her eyes widened and then became cold. “Oh,” she said. “You.” The hatred in her voice made Watson flinch away, although he still stayed close to her. Had he done something wrong?

“Mam, I’m scared. Where were you?”

“God, you’re so stupid , Watson!” Mam shouted. “Does it look like I want anything to do with you, you idiot? Does it?”

“I—” Watson blinked up at her. Tears pricked at his eyes and threatened to spill over. He bit his lip to stop them, although they trembled. “I don’t get it.”

“I can’t deal with you anymore, alright? Your father is dead. Did you know that? Sacrificed himself, like the dumbass he is. I don’t have the money to care for the both of us. So leave me alone .”

With that, she brought her leg back and kicked—it jolted into the soft flesh of his stomach, and he was forced back a few steps. Watson made a pitiful sound, and watched as his Mam hurried away, never to see her again.

Six years later, and the memory still stung every time it resurfaced. It was usually in his dreams, but sometimes Watson’s mind wandered, and he ended up on that street, in that marketplace. Oh well. He couldn’t focus on that now.

He had a heist to plan.

Dim sunlight filtered through the clouded windows of the abandoned factory, now affectionately referred to as the headquarters for Watson and his crew. Watson leaned backwards on his throne—an old, rickety office chair that spilled filling every time it moved.

He stared down at the paper. “We need to figure out an exit route,” Watson pointed out, gesturing to the corner of the laboratory. “Solar Labs has bodyguards posted here and here. We know already that we’re going to pretend to be a student group to get in, but that doesn’t mean we have a solid way out.”

“Are we even sure this is a good idea?” Torben piped up.

“If we want to eat this week, then we kind of have to. We haven’t gotten better opportunities. Solar has the weakest security of the public-accessible labs, and if we scrape enough, we could be set for the next month,” Watson explained. 

“For the next month?” Amaya, on Watson’s left, repeated. She was eleven, yet probably more mature than the older Watson and Torben. She also wasn’t the biggest fan of their theft-based life, and probably wanted to avoid it for the longest amount of time possible. 

“Yes. So this is a big one, which is why it’s important to figure out our escape route. Now, we could take our chances with climbing down from the roof, like we did with the heist on Caine, but…” He trailed off, looking at their youngest and newest addition. Talia was perched on the edge of Amaya’s lap. The older girl’s hands worked carefully through Talia’s tangle of brown hair. “It might not be safe for everybody now.”

“What about there?” Torben asked, pointing instead towards the second floor. “Last week, when we scoped it out, I think I remember an outcropping from the next building over stretching under the second floor. If we jumped onto that outcropping, we could make it down to the dumpsters.” After a moment, he added, “actually, could be dangerous. There was a big gap.”

“We have no better options,” Petir put in, spinning in his chair and not paying too much attention. “Who cares if we have to jump for it?” Watson sniffed at Petir adding something. Him and Talia were both newer to their life of thievery, and they weren’t too good at it yet. Watson preferred for him and Torben to do most of the legwork, even if he agreed with Petir’s thoughts.

“Okay, how about this.” Watson stood so that he could point easier. He lifted the pen, tapping it briefly against his chin, before drawing three dots. “Petir, Torben, you guys watch for any security guards getting ideas at this stairwell. Meanwhile, Amaya, Talia, and I will be going through the rooms and looking for anything we can sell. Talia and I will fill our boxes with the goods. Amaya will make the first jump and make sure no guards are down there, and then the rest of us will come down with the boxes. Sound fair?”

“Are we sure about sending Amaya in alone?” Torben muttered. 

“Of course, of course! We already know their security guards aren’t armed, so no big issue there. And I wouldn’t have suggested it if it were anybody but Amaya up for the job. You’ve got this, right Amaya?” Watson said, raising a closed fist.

She bumped it. “Yeah, I do. Don’t worry about me, Torbs. We’ve done much worse.”

“If you say so…” Torben sighed. 

“Well, that was a productive meeting. We’re adjourned for the day. Waking up early tomorrow though, so everyone be ready for that, ‘kay?” Watson announced, clapping his hands together.

As a chorus of responses shot around the room, everyone stood and slowly trickled out, probably headed for their sleeping quarters for some rest or maybe to the stockpile to see what slim pickings they had left. Watson turned and leaned against the window, spreading his hands out and staring into the mostly-empty streets.

Their little sanctuary was placed at the very edge of the dam sector. Even though the majority of the dam sector was woods and suburbs, there was a part that had meant to be developed into a space for factories and their workers. The project fell through, as things seemed to always do in Five, and there were only skeletal factory buildings left to prove there had ever been such a project in the first place.

Watson wasn’t surprised by any metric to hear someone walk up next to him. “What, are you nervous?” He asked, just barely acknowledging Torben with a tilt of his head. Torben tried to stumble out a response, but ended up mumbling some unintelligible jargon. Watson laughed. “That’s weird. You’re never nervous.”

“I just…I dunno. I feel something strange. In my bones, I mean.”

“Torben Mellan, superstitious? That’s even weirder. I mean, don’t be afraid. This isn’t scarier than the…what, eight?...other heists we’ve been on, and it was only the two of us for half of those. We got off scot-free. We always do!” He clapped Torben on the back, and the other boy flinched.

“Well, you’re not invincible, Watson. There’s a lot of things that could go wrong. Like, having Amaya on sentry duty in an area we haven’t explored. And having Talia on the crew at all…” Torben paused, shaking his head. “There’s just too many variables we can’t control.”

“I’m taking the most precautions I can with Talia. She’s doing probably one of the least dangerous jobs. ‘Sides, I need her with me in the lab because she can reach into smaller spaces than I can. We never know what they’ll be hiding around.” Watson shrugged.

“Well, maybe. Are you nervous?” Torben asked, and the directness gave Watson pause. Of course he was nervous, he was always nervous. He loved his weird little group, and the thought of losing any of them made him feel sick inside. 

Instead, he just smiled. “‘Course not. We got this!”

“Yeah, sure…” Torben responded hesitantly, before staring out of the window and into the light.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Dam Sector, District Five, ‘112

  5:45 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

“Hold still,” Watson murmured, carefully peeling away layers of white bandage from Amaya’s side. They had only been on for what, three hours? And yet they were already soaked through entirely with brownish-red fluid. Blood . Watson had never seen so much of it in one spot.

Amaya made a hissing noise and gave his arm such a grip that it left red marks where her nails dug in. Watson could barely see the wound under the amount of red. It had been three days since the disastrous heist, yet the wound wasn’t healing.

There wasn’t much they could do about a damn bullet . Watson felt Amaya’s eyes on him, waiting for him to say something, anything. A confirmation of how fucked she was, maybe. Instead, Watson cleared his throat. “I’ll dress it again.”

“Okay.” Watson hated how weak her voice was. It was hardly a burble. He took a piece of cloth and wiped the thick layer of sweat away from her forehead. Carefully, he propped her up on a mat. Turning to their first aid kit, populated only by a roll of bandages— shit, they were almost out . Watson began wrapping up the wound again. Once four layers were packed around her torso, he backed away, rubbing his hands together.

He looked down. They were covered in sticky red. 

“I really screwed up, didn’t it?” Amaya asked. Curled up on the mat, Watson felt suddenly reminded of how young she was. Eleven, and now their faces were posted everywhere like real criminals. Watson scoffed at the thought. They hadn’t even stolen a quarter of their predicted winnings, yet Solar Labs had the Peacekeepers after them.

As if they weren’t already in enough shit. 

( The plan was going perfectly. Watson’s arms were heavy with the weight of equipment, and Talia was practically being swallowed by her boxes. Amaya lingered on the edge of the window, straddling that so that one leg was hanging precariously out. “Ready?” She asked, staring at the two. 

“Go ahead,” Watson confirmed with a nod. 

Amaya disappeared through the window. Watson and Talia ran over to the window to watch her descent. For a moment, she was suspended in air, her arms spread wide like the wings of a bird. 

Then, Watson saw a figure moving below on the street. The flash of a badge, shaped like the sun. A badge worn only by the security guards of Solar Labs. 

And in his hands, a gun.

Watson could only watch as a shot rang out and the bullet struck true. Suddenly, Amaya was flailing, and then limp, careening towards the balcony.

Her wings had been clipped. )

“No, don’t say that. You were great, alright?” Watson said. 

Amaya made a humming noise, and her eyes fluttered close. Watson practically lunged forward, finding her pulse on her neck. It was weak, but still consistent enough. She was probably just exhausted.

“Didn’t we agree I would be the one doing the medical work?” There was no greeting, no friendliness as Torben walked up. His hands were placed on his hips, and his gaze swept across the scene. Then, in a lower voice: “How’s she holding up?”

“Uh, not very well, as you can see.” Watson’s voice was evenly cool. He stood from his crouched position to be on an even plane with Torben. 

“And who do we have to thank for that?” Torben glared at him. His hands were in tight fists at his sides. 

Watson took a deep breath. It felt like he had gone over the sentiment multiple times, but Torben just didn’t get it. “I didn’t know the security guards would have guns. They didn’t before—we both saw! They must’ve increased security.”

“And I told you to take it slow!”

( Watson hit the balcony with a dull thud, his knees quickly absorbing the impact. He sprung off with a bit of imbalance, practically stumbling to Amaya’s side. Red was spreading from her side and quickly pooling beneath her. “ Shit ,” he huffed. There was a sudden bang as the security guard fired again. Watson hit the deck. “ Shit!”

Amaya was completely passed out beside him. He held only one box, and heard two thuds followed by a hesitant third from behind. Watson whipped around to find both Petir and Talia empty-handed, and Torben in the same state. “Where the hell did your boxes go?” He demanded.

“Does it matter?” Torben cut in, a hint of panic in his voice. “Wats, Amaya just got shot ! We gotta go.”

“But the money—”

“The money can wait,” Torben snapped sternly. “Help me get her up.” )

“You told me to leave behind the biggest bounty we’ve ever seen. The equipment was right there,” Watson insisted. “And I know there was an injury, but it wasn’t my fault—”

“Then whose?! You’re supposed to be our leader, Watson. Not rash, like you have been!” Torben shot back. 

“Again, how was I supposed to guess that a normal lab would have security like that?” Watson groaned. “Normal guards don’t carry guns, so…”

After a moment of seemingly thinking out a response, Torben snapped, “I could’ve guessed! I told you, before we went in, to take it slow—”

“Hey guys,” a third voice muttered from below them, weak as a falling petal. “Can you be quieter? I’m trying to die in peace here.”

“You’re not going to die!” The boys shouted at the same time, before sending each other a cautious glare.

Watson backed away, saying nothing. He whisked around and stormed off to the little area they called their sleeping quarters. He merely stood, staring down at his bed. His vision swam, at first with rage, but then with…something else.

They were so angry at him. Of course, Torben was the most vocal about it, but Watson could feel the tension with the others. Talia wasn’t so shiny anymore. Petir didn’t make strange comments about the weather. The last time someone had been this upset with him—

( “Does it look like I want anything to do with you, you idiot? Does it?” )

It hadn’t ended up so well. And Watson refused to be abandoned again. He collapsed into the pile of blankets and thin, stained mattress he lovingly referred to as his bed and stared up into the tall darkness of the factory. 

Fine. If they wanted to abandon him like Mam did, he would just have to leave first.

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Miracle Hospital, District Nine, ‘112

Blythe Ballantine, District Nine Female, 18 (she/her)

“ Let me put my lips to somethin’ / Let me wrap my teeth around the world”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

It was Blythe’s eighteenth birthday, and Pa was leaving her. It wasn’t fair, not at all. He had done everything he was supposed to—prayed to Father Earth every night, working diligently in the Mayor’s office, loving his daughters. And yet, sickness still came for him. And yet, he was about to die.

Blythe was slumped over the bed, staring down at her Pa. His breathing was shallow, coughs racking his body. The doctors had already told her that Kerner Ballantine was going up to the heavens to be with the Father. Blythe found it funny that they never mentioned how those still alive were being left alone.

Her shoulders shook as she stared over his weak form. All of her work, trying desperately to hold every seam holding her family together, for what? As soon as she reported her father as dead, Haven would be taken. Blythe felt a strange warmth pressing up against her eyes. Tears .

Pa’s voice came out shaky. “Don’t cry, girl. Don’t cry. I ain’t…I ain’t gonna leave you with nothin’.”

“But you’re already leaving,” Blythe whispered. “Father Earth’s takin’ you away from me and Haven.” Her sister was at school— damn, how was she supposed to tell Haven the news ?

“I still got things to say,” Pa rasped, another cough attacking him. “You don’t let—you don’t let nobody walk over you, alright? You’re the strongest of your sisters, don’t forget it.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The day was over at The Father’s Fix, and Blythe was exhausted. As her other co-workers got up and left, abandoning their stations and talking among each other while giving her a wide berth, she slowly raised herself from her seat. As per usual, nobody gave her any trouble. Why would they? She was just little Blythe, the only girl in the office, a decent writer who would never become anything because of her anatomy. There was no reason to even glance twice at her.

On her way out, she passed a painting of the Father himself. His arms were stretched out, as though in welcoming. Rays of golden light extended out from around him. His eyes—light blue, the same shade as the sky, seemed to peer directly into her soul. Blythe’s lips twisted downwards, and she tilted her head away. The painting wasn’t accurate, after all.

Father Earth had long turned his gaze away from her. 

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Blythe blinked at him in surprise. The words he’d said—to not take any shit, essentially—well, she’d never heard such things in her life. Girls were supposed to be submissive, patient. Father Earth decreed it so, after all. His lands were meant to be inherited by men, with women there to assist when needed. 

Blythe had been carefully following those rules. At the Fix, she’d been treated kindly as one of two girls there, at least for a while. And then things transitioned from being the mysterious new girl to just another co-worker. Sure, she was overlooked constantly, but that was how things were supposed to be.

“I’m serious,” Pa insisted after a moment. “I don’t want any daughter of mine to be hindered just ‘cause people think she can’t fend for herself.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Blythe slipped out onto the streets of Wimborne, the yellowish stone smiling brightly up at her. She closed the door to the Fix behind her. It was beginning to turn to dusk, streaks of orange chasing each other across the ever-expanding sky. A perfect night for a walk, at least to clear her head. She moved away from her typical route and walked instead through the back of the city—less populated, thinner roads that felt more like alleyways.

It was after less than a block that she realized she was being followed. Out of the corner of her eye, Blythe recognized the silhouette quickly. “Hi, Foster,” she smiled, turning on her friendly ‘work voice’. She mentally groaned, however. The last thing she wanted to do on a Friday night was talk to Foster Teague.

“Hello Blythe,” the boy grinned. Hanging around his neck was a badge that indicated he was a mid-level writing role. It sparkled in the late sun. “I just noticed you didn’t make the paper this week. That’s so sad, especially for a girl like you. So pretty, and all.” Foster’s eyes curiously ventured up and down her frame, and Blythe suppressed a shiver. Foster always had a unique way of flirting with her while still putting her down. He walked around her so that he was standing in front of the way home.

Her jaw clenched. She wasn’t in the mood today. Blythe attempted to move around him, but Foster pushed her back into place. “Come on now, I want to tell you about my article!” He whined like a toddler.

“Foster, I’m not interested. I gotta get home, ‘kay?” Blythe’s hand moved towards her coat pocket, her fingertips brushing wood.

“Wow, Ballantine.” An ugly snarl marred Foster’s frequently-complimented features. “You’re so lame, you know that? Maybe that’s why you’ll never get promoted. You’re no fun. And you’re just jealous of me, ‘cause I’ve always been better, and—”

There was a flash of metal in the afternoon sun.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Are you sure?” Blythe asked, placing a hand gently within her father’s palm. His skin was cold to the touch, like he was already gone. Despite that, there was still a glimmer in his eye. Pa’s other hand moved over, and he placed something into her fingers.

Blythe opened them. “Your pocketknife?” The handle was made of immaculate wood, the blade coming out at a slight curve, the edge serrated. It was one of her Pa’s proudest possessions. Even though Nine preached pacifism, Pa figured that it was never a bad idea to carry.

“I have the feelin’ you’ll be needing it soon,” Pa insisted. “Those things are trusty, and you don’t need much skill to use one. Can do a fair bit of damage, too.”

Well, Blythe didn’t want to turn away a gift from her dying Pa. She carefully slipped it within the pocket of her dress. It wasn’t like she was going to use it, anyways. What was the harm?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The thin edge of the blade shot right through Foster’s fancy work shirt, the one he always flaunted about being oh-so-expensive. Instantly, blood soaked the crisp fabric. Foster’s pale hand moved to cover the wound. He looked around, his throat bobbing as though in a panic. Blythe stumbled backwards, stunned at what she’d done. He seemed ready to scream, but upon seeing that the surrounding streets were empty, he turned instead to Blythe, fire burning in his eyes. 

“Did you really just fuckin’ stab me, Blythe? Who do you think you are? Do you know how much you’ll have to pay me? I’ll tell the Peacekeepers, the boss’ll fire you! Why would you even do that—” He seethed, taking a threatening step towards her, so that his breath bounced and scattered across her face.

“Shut up!” The scream tore raw from Blythe’s throat. The knife, as though having a mind of its own, danced forward again. Foster yelled in pain, raising a hand to strike her. Blythe ripped out the knife and stabbed it back in.

Foster persisted, somehow. His nails, now red with blood, dug into her shoulders painfully. Blythe shouted, stabbing him again and again and again. It took seven hits for him to finally pause, choking on a breath he never got to take. It tried to say something, some last diminishing remark, but the word never got out. 

Even when Foster fell to the ground, Blythe still brought her knife down three more times, as though he would rise and attack her again. The sight was sickening—blood pooling, staining her nice shoes. Splatters on her dress and hands.

She felt so alive.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Good.” Pa’s voice was becoming weaker, his eyelashes beginning to flutter. “Remember that I’ll always be proud of you. Whatever you set your mind to, I’m sure that you can do it.”

Blythe’s mouth hung agape. Her father’s way of thinking was so new to her, but she couldn’t deny that it sounded attractive. A world where she didn’t have to wait to be told what to do, where she could choose her own path.

Her Pa didn’t talk anymore after that. He gave a gentle gasp, and his head lolled off to the side as the last seconds of his life ticked down. The monitor he was hooked up to ticked down and down, and suddenly doctors were rushing in.

Blythe watched the sight, detached. A doctor navigated over to her and murmured that Kerner Ballantine was dead, as if Blythe didn’t already know. As if she didn’t know that she would be saying goodbye to Haven, who would surely be whisked off to the orphanage. 

She could only stare, helpless and unable to do anything. But Pa hadn’t left her completely alone. He had given her something special in his last moments. A renewed philosophy, a spin of her moral compass. 

One thing was certain: now, for Blythe Ballantine, anything was possible.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

The Father’s Fix, District Nine, ‘112

12:22 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Blythe sat patiently at the typewriter, tapping her nails against the desk as she awaited her appointment. Her eyes momentarily caught on her shiny feature writer badge, instead of her lowly columnist position from before…the incident. 

It was strange. She had felt bad for some time, but then the shame and sadness just seemed to melt away, replaced by relief. She didn’t have to wait to be saved, for someone to actually care. She had decided to care for herself.

( And if it left behind a dead body, oh well .)

Foster didn’t really need his position anyways, now that he was dead. Blythe could take it rightfully from his grip, could make all of the foolish men at the Fix stop ignoring her and brushing her off. It felt like freedom, to finally be acknowledged. But it was never quite enough.

After all, she was still a girl. Her colleagues had merely gone from complete ignorance to slight remarks here and there. Heard the weather’s nice today, Blythe. See you later, Blythe. Have a good one, Blythe . The only other girl who had worked at the Fix was gone, not that Blythe knew her well. 

It just meant that now, at work and at home, she was truly alone. Her mother and Felicity had both left the burning remains of the Ballantines before they could be swallowed, both gone without a trace. Her father was dead, the only one who had ever truly believed in her. And Haven…Haven was the reason for it all. Every time there was a visit day at the orphanage, her sister looked positively miserable. She needed an out.

Oh, what would Haven think of her now?

Blythe was snapped out of her thoughts as Darro settled into the seat beside her. The man’s hair was threaded thickly with white, the tips of his fingers stained near-permanently with ink. Although he smiled and gave a quick greeting, his eyes still lingered on other workers. Looking past her, as always.

“I thought you might like this one,” Blythe said, showing him her writing. 

“Ah,” Darro nodded. “You remind me a lot of Foster, kiddo. He was so vigilant. It’s so sad we lost him early. He would’ve made an excellent news editor.”

“Right.” Everyone still keeps on shoving it down my throat. I have potential too. You’re just blind and a man. “Anyways, my article?”

Darro grunted, and slid on his reading glasses. As his eyes trailed over the paper, Blythe could practically see the words in her mind. She had poured over them for hours, making sure they came off and earnest and saddened.

TRAGEDY STRIKES HOME: THE UNEXPECTED SUICIDE OF FOSTER TEAGUE

by Blythe Ballantine, Feature Writer

Shock took the city of Wimborne by storm earlier this week after Feature Writer at none other than The Father’s Fix , Foster Teague, went missing and was later found to be dead after extensive search. The story of Foster Teague is sad but relevant—how the pressures of Nine’s society reflect on the minds of those in its youth, and how such pressure builds and builds until people simply…snap.

But how do such things happen? As a close friend of Teague myself, he confided in me on multiple occasions about harsh feelings of self-hatred and depression, which I also felt. I interviewed some of his family to see if they ever noticed such things with their son…

Darro was already almost finished with the article, which told Blythe that he didn’t actually pay much attention. “Wow,” he said. “This is…really deep, girl.” Why don’t you just call me my name? “Your prowess really shines through here.”

Sure, the words were kind, but they carried little weight. As Darro began to stand, alarm bells went off in Blythe’s head. “Wait!” She exclaimed, maybe a bit too loudly, as a few colleagues turned their heads. Blythe’s hand was holding Darro’s in a harsh grip. Darro gave her a surprised look, as though in disbelief that she would ever think of shouting or touching him out of turn.

She gently guided him back into the seat, although Darro looked a bit concerned. Blythe gave him her best winning smile. “I mean, if my article is so good—and they’ve always been good, ‘cause you never have any criticisms, don’t you think it might be time for a bit of a…change?”

“A change?” Darro repeated.

“I mean, you know, I’m already doing great as a feature writer, so…”

“You want a promotion?” Darro filled in, his thick brows raising above the frames of his glasses. He sighed, taking them off and rubbing his nose with his hand. “Listen, kiddo. I understand that it can feel weird to be one of the lowest positions and then suddenly have more responsibility. But that shouldn’t make you want more, you know? I can already tell that you’re spread thin.”

“No, I’m not,” Blythe responded. “I’m handling my duties perfectly well. I just think it’s time for some of my work to be a bit more acknowledged, that’s all.”

“And trust me, kiddo, I completely understand why. But also believe me when I say that you would hate the amount of pressure. And trust me, I can tell you’re under pressure. I know people, y’know?” You know men. “So, what I’m saying is, it’s a no for now. But keep up the good work.”

“Right. Thanks for your time.” Blythe nodded. With that, Darro stood, turning just before he could see Blythe raking her nails against the polished wood. It was always, ‘ keep up the good work ’, even though if she was any of her other colleagues, it would’ve been an instant, ‘ yes, of course you can be promoted !’

Blythe sighed into her hands. She would just have to do even better next time. Besides, the important part of that article was that nobody questioned it, nobody thought to look around. Why would they? It wasn’t like it was common for pearly bones to be found in someone else’s backyard.

She could do this. Killing Foster was a sign—maybe not from the Father, but that was okay—that she could take the reins, choose her own destiny. Good things had come from that. She had better income, and was closer than ever to getting Haven back.

It was all a matter of time.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Bitterroot Residence, District Seven, ‘112

Rosebay Bitterroot, District Seven Male, 18 (he/him)

“ Not to laugh, not lying / Not the vacant wilderness vying ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Rosebay really didn’t understand why his father insisted on having parties. He heard the reasons all the time— ’to show that we love our community, to give back to those who have loved us all these years, to honor those of years past ’—but still, it was hard to celebrate something the day before the Reapings.

And yet, Rosebay appeared to be the only person holding such an opinion. Of course, it wasn’t like he disagreed with his father. He loved the community, his community. It felt nice to walk into a room of people and knew that they understood you. 

( Or at least a part of you .)

At least half of the village had to be out in the woods behind their home. Kids ran around with toys and sticks, playing games of tag. His father was busying himself by cooking over the fire, a few other men laughing along to some story that their next-door neighbor Ivo was telling. His mother was gossiping with some of the village’s older women, whispers carrying over on the wind of terrible crimes such as stealing recipes and having stains on one’s clothes.

Rosebay, meanwhile, was perched on the edge of one of his parent’s folding chairs, staring out into the deep woods of Seven. Crickets chirped loudly as the sun deepened in the sky. Rosebay heard multiple pairs of footsteps approaching, the gaits uneven with new unexpected growth. It was the younger kids of the village.

“Rosebay, Rosebay!” The leader, Phoenix, shouted. “When are you putting on another puppet show?”

Rosebay hummed, putting on his formal voice. “Well, it depends how the Reapings go, kids.” His eyes moved over their heads, towards where Kaya was enjoying another glass of lemonade and chatting with some of her classmates. And then to Anemone and Arnica, who were together as always, annoying his mother with most likely pleas of doing something stupid.

There was a collective mutter of disappointment that spread through the gathered crowd of children. Rosebay gave them a gentle smile, although a flash of annoyance shot through him. Children of a higher status always seemed to have a hard time comprehending the tragedy that the Reapings were. Although Rosebay’s family was well-off, perhaps the fact that he had a stake in the Reapings through his younger siblings made him more wary.

As the children finally stumbled away, Rosebay continued peering into the woods. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. Any sign of excitement, maybe. Anything was better than the party. It was pitiful, in a way, the way everyone pretended to be fine.

( As if things in Seven were ever fine.)

Yes, there had been issues. Issues that only Rosebay seemed able to see, or to acknowledge. He had only heard rumors—such things spread quickly within Seven’s high society, after all. The man who polished the Bitterroot horses’ tack had mentioned that tensions were rising between workers and Peacekeepers. More frequent beatings at the mills, which had turned to whippings. 

And when Rosebay had sold some of their chopped wood to the nearby Kinders, Manuka Kinder had told him in hushed tones that one of her cousin’s mill worker friends had been executed . So much was changing in Seven. He had hardly ever heard of such violence. His parents had always said, there is a certain understanding between worker and law. Do as you’re asked, and the law will protect you. Stand against the law, and you will be confronted with justice.

But…was it possible that every worker in the lumber mills was that rebellious? Rosebay frowned at the thought. If the Peacekeepers were becoming violent, breaking the understanding that his parents had told him when he was young, then they should be ready.

Instead, Rosebay was stagnant, like the lazy stream that wound by his house whenever the warmer weather came in the summer. The notion frustrated him to no end, but nobody else seemed to care. He was swimming against the current, but the more he kicked, the more he became ensnared in the whims of those around him.

So he was just…stuck.

There was a sudden hush about the clearing, save the flapping streamers in the breeze. Rosebay looked up to see that Phoenix was clutching the back of his father Ivo’s shirt. Rosebay’s own father was standing hesitantly, the pair of tongs hanging limply in his hands. The entire crowd was staring toward a spot near the front of the woods, where there was an opening into the road. Rosebay heard the soft huffing of multiple horses which had been hitched to the post by their home.

And, in that gap, stumbling from the dark into the lights which had been strung up around the trees, with a white glove raised to his face, was a Peacekeeper.

His gate was uneven, and he was notably unmasked. Instantly, Rosebay’s mother stood, walking away from her companions and towards the Peacekeeper. There was a welcoming smile on her face, the same she used for shopkeepers in Colkirk. “Good evening, sir.” She said. “My name is Cedar Bitterroot, I’m the hostess of this party.” She swallowed as the Peacekeeper didn’t respond. “We have a g-grant from the local Holding Center to have a social gathering here. The paperwork is just…over…there?”

The Peacekeeper continued staring blankly. “Who do you think you are?” His voice came out awkward. “Speaking to me with such disrespect.”

His mother blinked innocently, her dark lashes that had gained her status as one of the most beautiful of their village moving up and down. “Oh, sir, I meant no offense.”

He lurched forward, and the crowd gasped. He had his mother’s arm in a harsh grip. “How rude. I should teach you a lesson.” The way his words warped—Rosebay had heard such ways of speech before, when his father occasionally got a bit too deep into a bottle of whiskey.

Rosebay’s eyes travelled over the other members of the crowd. His mother was fighting to free herself, nervously laughing and gently trying to pull herself free. Wasn’t anyone going to do anything? He looked to his father, and was surprised to see his father looking back. Rosebay shot to his feet. Someone had to do something.

He caught his father’s near-imperceptible nod. Well, Rosebay was tired of staying silent.

He moved quickly over the grass. A few people pointed him out, made demands for him to watch himself—his father among them—but Rosebay didn’t stop, not until he was beside the Peacekeeper. With arms that were honed by years of chopping wood and handling horses, he shoved.

It was like trying to topple a boulder over. He hit a wall of hard muscle. The Peacekeeper, already shaky, stumbled back a few steps, his head lolling to the side as he stared at Rosebay. His eyes moved lazily up and down.

“Rosebay!” His mother’s voice had an edge to it. She clutched her arm, which had turned a deep shade of red. “By the spirits, what has gotten into you?”

He turned, as though to respond, when something smacked harshly into his ribs. It was a baton, one that sent a stinging sensation through his entire body. Rosebay tried to breathe, but his lungs squeezed up, and his throat made a pitiful wheezing sound. The Peacekeeper made a sound that sounded awfully similar to the growling of a stray dog, and spat a glob at Rosebay. 

Rosebay started forward again, but a body intercepted him. Josiah Bitterroot had a look of pure fury on his face as he glared at his son, one that spoke of a punishment to come. Then, he sighed and turned to the Peacekeeper. “I sincerely apologize for my son’s behavior, mister. Here, I’ll lead you back to the road.” He grabbed the Peacekeeper’s shoulder and practically pulled him away. Some guests followed the two, the beginnings of a scandal already passing between their lips.

“Rosebay,” his mother said again as they left. “What were you thinking? You put yourself in danger…I—” There was hurt in her voice, hurt that stung harsher than his ribs.

“He was hurting you.” His voice was weak. 

At the same time, Cedar finished her sentence. “...I didn’t raise you like this.” Her hand reached up, her skin soft against his cheek. 

The words felt like a slap to his face. For years, he had been brought up with one goal in mind: to be a pillar of the community, a continuation of the legacy of the Bitterroots, who were always helpful, always respectful, always polite. Never took issue with anything. And Bitterroots certainly weren’t violent, certainly not rebellious .

Shame suddenly lingered over him. But didn’t she understand? Hadn’t she heard of what Peacekeepers were capable of? Sure, the drunk man had used his baton, but he could’ve reached for his baton. And what was Rosebay supposed to do? Let it happen? 

“I helped you. I’m sorry that offends you so much. Besides, it’s time to stop pretending that we should lay down and let them walk all over us.” He gestured with his chin towards where the Peacekeeper had left.

“Them? But the Peacekeepers have always protected us. There’s no ‘them’. We’re a community. Are you alright? You look flushed.” Her hand moved up suddenly to his forehead, the way she always used to check for a fever after he came in from a day of playing in the snow.

“I’m alright,” he snapped, batting away her hand. “And thanks to me, you are too.” 

With that, he walked off, all notion of dignity and formality lost.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Bitterroot Residence, District Seven, ‘112

12:21 AM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

It was a cloudy night, just like the one Rosebay had left. The clouds were thicker, though, a malevolent layer of shapeless forms that spoke of misfortune and decay. The moon was completely blocked out, leaving everyone below cast in complete ebony. Screams echoed from the clearing, and Rosebay loved it. They were the sounds of revolution—people laying down all that they had to protect those they cared for, even if it put themselves on the line.

The violence was not organized. It was a brutal affair. Rosebay wound through people clinging to each other, slashing each other with knives and axes and smacking with batons and the ends of guns. It was far too risky to shoot. 

There was a shout, and someone who Rosebay identified as a Peacekeeper fell without much grace. His fingers twitched in the throes of death, and Rosebay’s nose scrunched up. He brought his boot down onto the man’s white glove. With some satisfaction, he recognized the outline of the face of the drunkard who had tormented his mother hours earlier.

The crowd pressed further together. There was blood and death and cries of pain, and some part of Rosebay savoured it all. Multiple shapes were beginning to become clear against the forest floor. “Continue on,” Rosebay shouted. “For a better tomorrow! For your families!”

Because it was all for his family. Rosebay felt the faint sting of open wounds, but they were all dulled by the knowledge that he was keeping those he cared for safe. There was a snarl, and someone barreled him over with all the respect of a bloodhound. Nails tore at Rosebay’s face—he tasted flesh in his mouth as fingers tried to scratch over his lips. He managed to kick the assailant away, standing and searching for his next opponent. 

Who was winning? Rosebay hadn’t the faintest idea. There was nothing to distinguish the revolutionaries from the Peacekeepers. All he knew was that he would keep on fighting until his body gave up on him. Seven would have its freedom, and it was his job to ensure it. 

There was the sudden sound of boots. A new flood of Peacekeepers was pouring into the area, through the brush. Rosebay hoisted his axe over his shoulder and let it fly. It sunk deep into the upper chest of one of the shadowed figures. Rosebay was upon them at once, lifting the blade up and bringing it down again and again and again and aga—

“Hey!” He felt the butt of a gun smack into his arm. Rosebay turned his eyes onto another assailant. This one was shorter than him, and Rosebay knew instantly that they would make an easy target. However, he heard a sharp pop, and his left arm went numb. The Peacekeeper’s face was lit for a second, and Rosebay caught what must’ve been horror in their expression. They were peculiarly unmasked, and something strange was playing at the side of Rosebay’s brain, trying to worm inside…

He shook out his doubt. He swung his axe, which dug deeply into the Peacekeeper’s uniform. They gave a cry of pain—but it sounded oddly young. Rosebay blinked in surprise as they stumbled back. They weren’t even fighting back anymore. 

In fact, they were making a strange sound. It was hard to hear over the noise of the battle, but Rosebay realized that they were sobbing, making pleas. “Wait, please. Please, Rosebay, please.”

Rosebay took a step back, breathing heavily. Why did they know his name? Surely this was some sort of trick. And well, that flicker of violence he held so close to his heart had already been ignited.

There was no backing down. Not anymore. Not after all he had unleashed. He had to finish this. Rosebay lifted his axe, and the Peacekeeper’s voice had faded to burbling pleas. Suddenly, they turned tail, and ran.

He nearly laughed at the cowardice. For so long they had tortured the citizens of Seven, the citizens who Rosebay loved so dearly, and now this fool was running away, thinking they could turn their back on all of the damage they caused. Rosebay decided to indulge in the game. The person vanished briefly into the crowd, but they were limping heavily from the blood loss, and Rosebay had them isolated once again. “What’s wrong?” He sneered. “Are you scared?” Even with the darkness, Rosebay had a sense that the Peacekeeper was looking at him with wary eyes. “Well, isn’t that so unfortunate. You’re not getting any sympathy from me.”

There was a sudden flash of lightning as Rosebay lifted his axe with the grimness of an executioner. Something about the Peacekeeper was wrong. The long, coarse black hair. They extended their hand as the clearing was lit up by the flash, and Rosebay saw a freckle on the palm of their hand.

There was only one person Rosebay knew with such a marking. But the wicked blade was already in the air, was already in the Peacekeeper’s chest. They made a burbling sound of agony, clutching at the wound as though they could close it. Rosebay released the handle, allowing them to crumple to the ground.

Slowly, the clearing transitioned from the completely black it had been in into the soft, silvery glow of night. The moon was coming out from its cradle, casting aside the blankets to shed light on those below.

Brown fingers were revealed first, one hand of the Peacekeeper emerging. The freckle was still there. And the long, coarse hair. Two brown eyes, just like his own, now open up towards the expanse of stars. Rosebay shouted in alarm. This was no Peacekeeper. It was Anemone, in her dress from the party.

Her breaths came in short, frightened gasps, reminded Rosebay of when he shot a deer in the improper spot and it had been left, bleeding out. Just like the deer, her eyes rolled in her head, exposing pink-tinged whites. Her party dress from earlier had large stains on it. “Why? Why?” She yelped. 

“I—I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

His sister looked at him, but her eyes were lifeless. “Your…fault.” She whispered, before the pool spread. It spread and spread, rising in red waters and dragging in all of those who were still fighting. Rosebay fought to stay above the tide, but he was pulled under by small hands.

Rosebay woke up screaming. Weak light was pouring in through the window, showing that it was just after dawn. He looked around his room for a moment, his fingernails digging into the sheets. His heart pounded. His forehead felt covered in sweat. Everything spun. Finally, he began to return to his senses. He wasn’t going to drown in a pool of blood. Anemone was on the other side of the wall, sleeping soundly. 

It was just a nightmare , he assured himself. Nothing more .

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Accles Ranch, District Ten, ‘109

Totolin Accles, District Ten Male, (he/him)

“ Although we were bred to fight / I reach for kindness in your heart tonight”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Before Totolin went to speak with Ebenen, he’d promised to conduct himself with as much diplomacy as possible. He’d known it would be hard, especially knowing his family. The Accles had one mighty mean streak, or at least the majority of them. His eldest sister Cuanaca and his father seemed to be the only ones immune to swooping down to such levels.

So, Totolin reminded himself carefully not to get upset. It also didn’t help that Ebenen was one of the biggest brats Totolin had ever met that wasn’t a pale, and that was just unfortunate. Well, Totolin was done with getting all of the gritty chores Ebenen didn’t want to do. He had cleaned out the coops too many times for comfort in the past month. Ebenen and his father worked for the Accles, damnit, not the other way around.

He walked across the dusty path that connected all of the parts of the Accles Ranch. Distant brown dots of their surplus of cattle spotted almost every field, and it was a rather serene view paired with the pale clouds dotting the sky. They didn’t do much to block out the strong sun—sweat was already present in the nape of Totolin’s neck. 

He passed the chicken coops and finally made it to the smaller homes for the helpers of the farm. His father always thought it was fair that they provided year-round shelter for year-round help. 

If Ebenen was one thing, it was a guy who stuck to his word when he saw things were serious, even if he slacked off in practically every other category. He was leaning against the back right wall of the Willows’ home. Totolin was pretty sure that Mister Willows was out helping his own father with sexing the newest generation of chicks. So, if anything, Ebenen couldn’t try to rely on his father. It would just be them, having a chat.

Ebenen’s eyes locked on to Totolin almost as soon as he rounded the corner. He was flicking what appeared to be a lighter open and closed. Just like Totolin, he was at that awkward age where he was on the edge of manhood but still filling out his body. His pants were a bit too big for him and probably from Mister Willows’s wardrobe. Knowing Ebenen, it was probably to make him appear tougher. 

Abruptly, Ebenen pulled out a white, long object. Squinting, Totolin recognized it to be a cigarette. He watched Ebenen hold it gently to the lighter and then press it into his lips. Noticing he was looking, Ebenen’s head cocked to the side. “Want one?” He drawled.

Totolin swallowed. “Ebenen, we’re fifteen.” The words seemed to mean nothing to the other boy, who simply looked more confused. “No, I’m not interested in smoking with you.”

“Right, right.” Ebenen snickered, putting away the lighter. “You Accleses—Acclesi?—are so business-like. Anyways, what’d you even call me here for? I’m a busy guy, y’know.”

Totolin’s eyebrows shot up without warning, and he practically gawked at the other boy. “Surely you are, because you haven’t been doing your chores since, by my count, early May.” It was late August. He kept his tone light.

Ebenen shrugged. “So?”

Something snapped violently inside Totolin’s chest—he fought hard to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “It’s a ranch, Ebenen. We must all collaborate to ensure the finest quality of product is being produced—”

Ebenen held up a hand. “And why should I care? It’s not my ranch. Only reason why I have this job is ‘cause my father works here. You think I wanna be here? Fuck no! I’m tired of shoveling shit all day. It’s ridiculous.”

Totolin blinked in surprise at the outburst. “Then…why are you still here?” 

A chilling grin crept across the other boy’s features. “Because I get paid.”

“But you’re getting paid because it’s assumed that you’re doing the work,” Totolin frowned. “You’re making my life harder, and that’s not fair at all. Listen, we can change it so that you’re doing different chores, but you have to do something.”

“Ha!” Ebenen barked. “You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to work with you . And what’re you gonna do about it, huh? You’re just some rich kid who thinks he’s the shit. You can’t do anything to me.”

Totolin was tiring of the fruitless conversation, and he froze as Ebenen continued to goad him. Unsure what else to do, he took what he hoped was a threatening step forward.

Ebenen, who had about five inches on Totolin, merely stared at him and laughed again. “Ooh, I’m so scared! Little Toto thinks he has some bite, huh? You really think you’re scary? Why don’t you piss off and cry to your daddy?”

The pressing against Totolin’s chest got harder, and he wasn’t sure what to do. But deep down, he knew . He knew he couldn’t let Ebenen insult him, insult his father, insult everything they worked for. And clearly talking wasn’t working, so…

Totolin had never punched someone before, and it was frankly more awkward than what he pictured. He had sure seen people do it before, but they’d made it seem so easy. Totolin’s elbow stuck out awkwardly, his hand travelling at a speed that made the air feel like molasses. 

Ebenen’s head shot to the side, and his eye slid to look at Totolin before his chin turned. When their eyes met, Totolin knew he was beyond screwed. He was fucked . He suddenly felt the other boyram into him, felt Ebenen’s breath against his neck as they both hit the ground.

Oh boy. I’m in for it now , Totolin thought with dread. But more than anything, he just felt mad. He wondered what his father would think of him, stooping to the level he always warned Totolin of. “To be strong is to have the ability to restrain yourself, son. Never forget that.”

He had forgotten that. Or, more accurately, thrown it to the wayside. Besides, he definitely had more important things to worry about, such as the fact that Ebenen’s hand was burying itself in his gut, and Totolin wasn’t sure what to do about that. He just made a sound that was very much like a whimpering dog and spat out the phlegm that rose in his throat.

Totolin managed to push the other boy off. They were both standing for about two seconds until Totolin forced him up against the wall. “We could’ve just talked,” he pointed out, knocking away Ebenen’s hand as he attempted to shove it into Totolin’s mouth . (What the hell ?)

“Nah.” Ebenen grinned. “This is more fun.” 

Totolin never would have anticipated what happened next. Ebenen drew his head all the way back and bashed it into Totolin’s skull. Black clouds blew across Totolin’s gaze, and he stumbled back. He felt wetness against his lip and discovered with some alarm that his nose was bleeding.

He didn’t really know what happened after. His vision went dark, mostly from the shock but also partially from something else, some nameless beast that lay dormant within him. Little flashes came to him: Ebenen shouting as his head hit the wall of his house, Totolin’s fingers raking down the sides of his neck, bruised ribs and puffy lips and violence without any formality. The sort of thing he was supposed to avoid. It made him sick, really, how much he was enjoying this.

All he knew was that at the end, Ebenen was on the ground, and Totolin was still standing. He didn’t feel like he won. He didn’t feel all that bad, either. He just stood and stared.

Ebenen seemed to be in a similarly frozen state. He looked up at Totolin, breathing heavily. “That was cool.” His voice was rough, trying to speak around a bleeding lip which Totolin faintly remembered yanking on just minutes before. “I didn’t know you were like that.”

Totolin blinked. “I…didn’t know, either.”

“Hm. I think I’ll get to shoveling that shit tomorrow,” Ebenen said, standing. Totolin stared at him, not moving. His head felt hot, and his shoulders were faintly shaking as he came out of his anger. Ebenen looked messed up: along with his lip, one of his eye sockets had practically swallowed his eye, and one of his fingers looked swollen. He leaned heavily against the wall, using it as a support to limp away.

As soon as he was gone, Totolin fell into the grass and threw up.

• • ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Corrado Ranch, District Ten, ‘112

4:39 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

It wasn’t even that hot inside of the barn, yet when Totolin went to wipe his face, it felt like he just went for a swim in one of Ten’s few ponds. He wasn’t the only one, the nearby attendants also sweating buckets. Ebenen was breathing heavily as he tried to keep the rope holding the bull’s front and hind legs still. 

“What are you seeing?” Mister Corrado asked from the side, peering over from the safety of the stall door. “He’s my only bull that is a successful breeder every time. It’s important that he gets treated.”

Despite the man’s anxiety, Totolin responded calmly: “Of course it is, sir. I can assure you that I will try to determine the best way to handle his problems. But it’s going to take some more time.”

He heard the disappointment in Mister Corrado’s tone. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ebenen jumped in. “Why don’t you just let the professional do his work, huh? He trained in Three Knives for this shit. He knows what he’s doing, rest assured. Why don’t you run off and get your workers to stop gawking?” He pointed an accusatory finger at the slowly growing group of individuals who were curiously watching the procedure.

“O-of course.” Mister Corrado proceeded to speak to the workers in low voices before storming past them. 

The workers appeared back at the edges of the barn within a few moments, causing Ebenen to sigh. “Well, I tried,” he pointed out.

“Thank you for your attempt.” Totolin cast him a sideways smile before turning back to the bull. It was thrashing slightly—Totolin could tell it was in a lot of pain. There was significant inflammation in its lungs, and from the way its nostrils were flaring, it appeared to have some sort of blockage in its respiratory tract. So, it was most likely some sort of infection.

( It wasn’t Totolin’s first time treating such an infection. He still remembered putting down entire coops of chickens, then being the one to toss them and grind them down for disposal. His stomach used to turn at the sight, but…

Well, you had to become used to things eventually. )

Although it was an easy thing to figure out, the bigger issue was treatment. Totolin would’ve typically wave his hand and suggest some sort of medication, but he could also tell that the creature was in a great deal of pain. It had clearly been overbred, and it was showing signs of aging that weren’t making matters easier. 

And damn, the thing wouldn’t stop struggling. Even though Totolin had sedated it twice, it was still thrashing against the ropes. Fighting, even though everything was against it.

( Totolin’s head smashed against the ground, a heavy palm resting on top of it. He tasted blood in his mouth, his eyes rolling wildly. Spectators blurred in his vision, some of them shaking out solvex and making bets against him. “Why are you still trying?” The boy above him snarled. )

“So, doc, what are you thinking?” Ebenen asked. The bull suddenly thrashed, and he showed his teeth as he struggled to maintain control over the ropes. “Maybe make it quick, though.”

“I’m going to have to get closer to its chest cavity,” Totolin explained. “I want to listen to its breathing.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Ebenen frowned.

Totolin shrugged, pulling out his stethoscope from his kit. “I’m going to have to try.” Besides, if it was the infection he was thinking, then listening to the lungs was an imperative part of diagnosing the correct form. He held his breath and moved slowly—the bull’s eyes shot over to him, trying to assess if he was a threat. As if to calm it, Ebenen raised a hand.

The rope holding the bull’s back legs slipped from his fingers. Everything moved in slow motion. Ebenen lunged after it. Totolin felt something ram into his chest, felt himself fall back a few steps, felt the internal crunch of multiple ribs not just breaking, but sh 

at te

ri ng .

( It wasn’t his first time being on the ground. Nor would it be his last. Totolin’s head throbbed with what had to be a concussion. His teeth rattled as the boy ground his head into the dirt. “Come on, fight back,” he cackled into his ear. Totolin had to fight. 

Didn’t he? )

Totolin gasped for air that refused to come. By some miracle, he continued standing, but swaying heavily. The gathered workers gasped, and Totolin heard some woman scream, “Should I call a doctor?” Another worker hurried out, presumably to fetch Mister Corrado.

“No, it’s alright.” Totolin rasped. “Let me continue my work.” Thankfully, the woman listened. His blurred vision fixed on the bull. Due to it moving, it had actually shown him all he needed to know. It wasn’t breathing at a consistent rate, which meant that it had a serious amount of water in its lungs. An amount that meant permanent damage. He gave a weak cough, and blood scattered on the ground.

He felt that press against his chest, that feeling which had been so carefully extinguished. “We’re sending you to Three Knives,” his father had said. “To try and get some of that anger out of you. You’ll be studying under a veterinarian your mother used to go to school with. Her name is Llanura. She’ll teach you well. ”

She had. Remembering her exercises, Totolin took a slow, deep breath in. He wasn’t going to let his anger conquer him. “It’s the tendency of those born in the Month of the Bull to feel as though anger is the only way out. This isn’t true, boy. To keep a stable mind is the best way to navigate any situation. ” It was one of his mentor’s favorite teachings. If the bull couldn’t control itself, then Totolin had to be the one to do so.

Mister Corrado rushed in, rushed to the stall door. “Oh my…you’re red all over,” he frowned, although clearly not out of concern for Totolin's health. He sounded as though he was counting the extra solvex it would be to handle the injury. “So, what do you think? Is there a cure?”

“The wisest decision is to put it down.”

“No, but he’s my finest sire!” Mister Corrado complained.

Totolin took in a gasping take of breath. “True as that may be, you haven’t done the finest job of taking care of him. This infection is going to take his life in a far more painful way than lethal injection. I can provide the service for you…” His vision went partially black. “If you like, that is.”

Mister Corrado hesitated. “Fine, if you truly believe it’s best for him.” He nodded and took a step away from the stall door.

Totolin motioned for Ebenen to fetch the things he needed. Luckily, the two had been working together for long enough for Ebenen to know the exact things, and once the needle and poison was in Totolin’s hand, it didn’t take much longer for him to approach the bull, taking an approach that ensured he was out of harm’s way.

“My sincerest apologies,” he murmured, before finding the proper vein. The bull gave a shocked bay, as if it knew what was coming for it. Totolin breathed in, before jabbing the needle into its tawny neck. After just a few moments, it stopped struggling.

( Totolin managed to shove the bigger boy away. He laboriously lifted himself to his feet. The boy sputtered. “You’re seriously forfeiting? But the money—” He was cut off as Totolin slipped into the crowd and was spat out of the other side.

Sometimes, it was better to just walk away. )

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Kirchner Household, District Thirteen, ‘111

 Micaiah Kirchner, District Thirteen Male, 15 (he/him)

“ I wanna grow the apple, keep all the seeds / But I can’t help but get so angry”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

“Micaiah!” Oh, how Mateo’s voice vexed his entire system. Micaiah jolted in his seat, casting the closed door an annoyed glance. Sun forbid someone actually did work. Well, homework. Close enough, really. It was better than rotting away in some factory, in any case. “Micaiah, get down here or Morgan’ll eat your entire plate before I can stop him!” Micaiah rolled his eyes at the genuine seriousness in his brother’s tone.

He cast a mournful glance at his work. Tomorrow, an exam on how the history of Thirteen made a perfect environment for the Capitol to grow a medicinal industry. And a check on what drugs worked for suppressing pain, although Micaiah practically knew that by heart. It wasn’t what most students got for schooling. Well, thank the Sun and his Messenger that he wasn’t ‘most students’.

He heard his brother begin to yell again, and finally stood. He shouldered on a hand-me-down sweater—Morgan’s taste was so…different to his—and opened the door to his bedroom-turned-working space. Because he didn’t do much sleeping anymore. 

A rush of cooler air hit him as he did so. They had stopped paying for the District-offered heat services a few months ago, a decision that seemed like a brilliant cutting of costs when they did it in the sweltering summer. But now, when it was far colder, the chilliness didn’t help his general irritation.

He entered their pitifully small kitchen—not due to a smaller home, or anything, just because their parents had for some unknown reason chosen to make it as cramped as possible so they had more ‘lounging room’. Not that there was anyone to lounge in it.

Micaiah rubbed his eyes as he entered the room. “You look like shit,” Mateo observed callously from the table. Morgan, two years Micaiah’s senior, was charged with sorting out any expenses that had mounted on the house, so he was mostly preoccupied with that. 

Micaiah didn’t respond and instead approached the pot on the stove. It was piping hot, and the broth smelled of nothing particularly good. It was an odd, almost soggy scent, and Micaiah wasn’t surprised to see that the broth was just cabbage and a meager amount of lamb they had scrounged up. “You’re not much of a cook,” he said.

“Actually, Morgan made this one.” Mateo grinned.

Morgan frowned down at the paperwork, massaging his temples. “This is a nightmare without…” As soon as he trailed off, Micaiah felt all three pairs of eyes wander towards the two empty seats at the heads of the table.

“Wasn’t she supposed to be here?” Micaiah asked, taking his solitary seat across from his brothers. 

“She had to take another late shift,” Morgan explained, taking a cautionary bite of the soup. “Oh jeez, Teo, you have to start using actual spices or something. This tastes like water.” There was no bite to his words, not like how his brothers exchanged blows. 

“Well, we’re not exactly living in the Capitol, now are we?” Mateo hissed through his teeth. “You guys should be thankful that we actually have food on the table.”

“It would help if you worked,” Micaiah muttered, covering it by a cough into his napkin. 

“What was that?” Mateo snarled. “Mom trusts me to care for you two, and all you do is complain. I have to do literally fucking everything.” Morgan stared down at his paper again, obviously proving the opposite.

“At least I’m trying to have a good future, you ribald,” the younger boy observed. Mateo blinked for a moment at the unfamiliar language, which made Micaiah grin in satisfaction. Mateo had only gone to the District-mandated fourteen years of school, after all. 

“Oh yeah? Wanna get all smart with me? At least I have friends. All you do is sit in your room all day, doing homework, and getting ready for your glorious destiny. It’s like you’re a fucking robot, or something!”

Micaiah’s lip curled. The first few comments bounced off of the well-procured shield that had built itself around his heart long ago—the third found a well-placed crack and slid itself in. The cruelest knife. Well, Mateo wasn’t the only one who knew where it hurt. “And at least I’m not afraid of being Dad .”

It was like a string snapped. Whereas Mateo had been sitting on his side of the table, scooping the nasty soup into his mouth, if a bit tensely, he suddenly lurched across it. Micaiah had neglected to remember that while Mateo had only done the minimum amount of schooling in Thirteen, he had also been at the top of both his school’s respective track and boxing teams.

He cleared the table with ease, and Micaiah’s chair snapped , the wooden leg creaking in despair before giving in to the unprecedented weight. It toppled backward, and a searing pain shot up through his back as his spine crunched against the non-padded backing. He spat out the watery soup that had been on his mouth, and some of it was dripping off the table from where Mateo had knocked the bowls over.

Micaiah used his skinnier stature to finally worm out from underneath his brother, but not before catching a palm across his face. He suddenly felt like a passenger in the vehicle of his own body. He felt himself strike back, but he didn’t think of doing so. 

(Was this how his Dad felt, when he had gotten into that bar fight? The feeling of losing sense, a panicking overdrive that took over every rational thought?)

Morgan was standing over them now, trying to wrestle Micaiah away. Even though Micaiah was practically a stick in terms of weight, he was still a good six feet tall, and he made his best attempt to continue the struggle.

He had to be the best. 

“You two need to relax and apologize!” Morgan shouted, blocking Mateo from slapping Micaiah again. “We’re a family, remember? Why am I the only one who cares about that?”

Neither boys had a response to that. Micaiah safely found an escape route, worming himself between both Morgan’s arms and Mateo’s violence, before pinning himself against the corner of the room.

“Coward!” Mateo shouted.

Micaiah desperately wanted to respond that he was right, that Mateo was just like their father, but he…wasn’t any better, was he? He had fallen into that same pattern of violence. 

(Had his Dad also felt the crash, the realization that what you did was permanent ?)

He was being senseless. Mateo had started the issue, anyways. But it did make him think. 

It had started when their father had been arrested for disorderly conduct and assault. While both of the Kirchner parents worked similar, dead-end jobs in one of the District’s manufacturing factories—which were, to Micaiah’s understanding, the pure opposite of One’s luxuries in terms of quality—one of their moneymakers leaving had caused a serious issue. 

The Kirchners hadn’t been rich in the first place, more like Thirteen’s lower-middle class, but they had plummeted straight down. Mom had started showing up less and less, and Mateo had to pick up the duties of child-rearing, even though Micaiah felt personally far more mature than his brother.

It was from that that the arguments had began. Petty, brotherly things at first, that just built, and built, until it became brief spouts of violence. Morgan was usually the peacekeeper, but even he lost himself among the hatred.

Perhaps that was just in their blood.

Mateo huffed, staring at Micaiah in the corner with all the ferocity of a hunting coyote. “Well, that was eventful.” Morgan sighed. “Are we all chill now?”

“That was pathetic,” Micaiah said. “Couldn’t even beat your fifteen year-old brother as a twenty-year old?” He asked.

“Micaiah, really? Can you think of other people, like, once?” Morgan begged, devastation clear on his face. Meanwhile, Mateo was practically frothing at the lip trying to find a way around the boy.

Just as he began to charge forward, there was a loud creaking of the door. Rafaella Kirchner coughed, her lungs heavy with whatever they pumped in the air. She entered the house, bags weighing her down. Morgan, ever the dutiful son, rushed over to relieve her, with Micaiah and Mateo trailing behind at a safe distance from each other. “What happened in here?” Rafaella asked.

“Just an accident,” Micaiah explained. 

Luckily, his brothers were content with keeping the false peace. No protests were made. It was just another day of pretending that everything was fine, after all. 

The life-long Kirchner performance never seemed to end.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Solstice’s Apothecary, District Thirteen, ‘112

1:01 PM (Local Time)

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Herbal scents wafted into Micaiah’s nose as he washed out another cloth, before returning it to the woman leaning next to the man. “Breathe in and out, slowly. Don’t panic; it will just constrict your system and result in more blood loss. We’re going to get you out of this.” She nodded to him in appreciation, before pressing it to where the scrap metal had punctured his chest to slow the bleeding.

Micaiah was glad that his mother had never gotten into such an accident. The man squirmed in pain, sweat on his brow. Micaiah almost wanted to scoff—why had he even pulled the foreign object out of his chest in the first place? But he had no further comment to make.

Those who got into such accidents often just waited to die. There wasn’t a precise science to preventing it from taking lives; more just like a gambit of life or death. But Micaiah was confident that they would make the patient see it through.

It delighted him to be able to address Solstice as an equal. When he had first come to her doorstep, looking for apprenticeship, he had been desperate and afraid, fresh from his devastating fight with Mateo. She had easily taken him in, older and beginning to frail. At first, he had been almost entirely overshadowed by her. But Micaiah leeched on to whatever he learned, and she had seen that too. For once in his life, he wasn’t being looked down upon.

He was knocked out of his divine recollection by the noise of the man retching. Solstice looked to Micaiah. “What do you think is the best course of action?”

Micaiah blinked. His eyebrows knotted in concentration. He approached the man, leaning down to the chest seal that Solstice had placed on the wound. “Exhale,” he instructed the man. “ Deeply. ” There was a quiet whooshing of air, and Micaiah turned to Solstice. “Medical tape,” he requested.

As soon as it was in his hands, Micaiah ripped it into three pieces, before applying it on the bandaging. If any air got into the wound, it would be disastrous. Solstice gave him an approving smile.

Micaiah sat back. His gloves were stained with red. He didn’t mind the sight much. In fact, it had the nostalgia of revisiting an old friend. Solstice abruptly beckoned to him, pulling him out of earshot. “Listen, we try our best to save patients, but sometimes it just doesn’t go our way.”

Micaiah looked over his shoulder. The man was breathing heavily, and his face was rather pale. “But we did all of the right things, didn’t we?”

“...We did, however, that man needs serious medical care that we simply can’t offer him. He’s going to need intense surgery at the least. Whatever scrap struck him did it right through the top of his lung.”

“Then we should get him to the hospital,” Micaiah pointed out.

“It will take too long.” She frowned. “Micaiah, sometimes you have to let—”

“ No! No, I’m not going to just let him die. There has to be something we can do. We could try to stitch it, or—”

“Micaiah…”

“We could do the surgery here!”

A firm hand landed on his shoulder just as he began to turn around. He felt like a cornered animal. Death wasn’t supposed to slip past him. That’s why he had asked for the apprenticeship in the first place. “Micaiah. It’s honorable that you want to help the best you can, but we both know that we aren’t surgeons, right? Botched surgeries might also lead to death.”

“You said might ,” he snapped, turning away. He returned to the man’s bedside, only to be greeted by a sight of great horror. The man’s head had tilted off to the side, like he had fallen asleep. But his eyes were wide open, staring up into the ceiling. “Fuck! Come on, wake up.” He jolted the man roughly, shaking him and trying to rouse him. But he knew. He knew it was over. He bit down the tears before they could even rise.

“I’m sorry,” Solstice murmured. “Sometimes it just…doesn’t work in our favor. He was desperate and dying, and we did the best we could. The most important part of being a healer is that you have to accept when you can’t do anything more.”

“Well that’s idiotic,” he snarled. In school, he had never let his grades slip past As. He always got the last word in arguments at home, except for that one peculiar occasion, which was an outlier. Micaiah didn’t fail. 

“You need to take a breather,” Solstice said. “You’re letting your ego impact your job.”

“ I don’t have an ego! ” He screamed. As soon as the words left his mouth, he had the sudden urge to vomit. He had only heard Mateo lose his temper in such a way, or his father.

(The apple didn’t fall very far from the tree. How hypocritical it was to accuse Mateo of being the sole reflection of their dad’s influence.)

He breathed heavily, turning away from whatever Solstice said next. He shouldered on his bag. “I’m going to return home,” he informed her. “I’ll be back with extra supplies.” She stared at him, bewildered at the outburst. Micaiah himself still felt a bit dizzy.

“Micaiah,” she cut in before he left. “I apologize for setting you off. I didn’t know you were so—”

Wounded? Frail ? Micaiah flinched. “No, I should be the one apologizing. You’ve been nothing kind to me. I…don’t quite understand what’s wrong with me.”

Solstice’s brow raised. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re allowed to feel upset. And it’s fine to show emotions. I’ll never be upset with you for losing your temper. It’s just…human nature.”

Maybe human nature is flawed then, he wanted to respond. He didn’t even have the energy. “Listen,” she continued. “Do you remember what I said to you when you first came to my door?”

Micaiah thought back for a moment. “‘I expect nothing but dedication to the craft.’”

“And during our first lesson?”

“‘Emotions mean healing. We should engage in them, use them to our disposal. Those who have control over how they feel make for the best healers.’ But isn’t that a contradiction to what you said first?”

Solstice’s eyes widened, like she had a revelation. “This is precisely the issue: you believe that our work and emotional expression are two separate worlds. You see it only in black-and-white.” Micaiah glanced down at the floor. It felt like getting his skin ripped off, letting all those around him see the rawness underneath. “But it’s far more complex than that. Healing is one of the jobs that requires the most empathy, the most vulnerability , in all of Panem. It’s why few are good at it.”

Micaiah stared at her. Just stared. He couldn’t compute what she was saying. Whenever he was in school, he had shoved his emotions aside to allow a better workflow. And he had done the same for the past six months working with her. He didn’t understand that there was a flaw in his system. The nausea returned like a drum against his skull. “I’ll…return with the supplies.”

Solstice just frowned, clearly saddened that she hadn’t broken through him. Somewhere within himself, he felt the same. “Thank you.”

He left, a new weight on his shoulders that hadn’t been there when the day began. 

Chapter Text

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

MEMENTO VIVERE, ACT II

Khalepa te Kala

“ Guard down / Floor’s yours / Last man standing / Can we just get it over with?"

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Victors’ Village, District Two, ‘112, 11:33 AM

Colston Glazebrook, District Twelve Mentor, 41 (he/him)

“ I keep my closet free of skeletons / ‘Cause I’m much better at digging graves ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

Colston looked to the tall mansions of the Victors’ Village and then to Caduceus. “Are you sure we’re allowed to be in here?” He pressed, gesturing with his chin towards the homes that laid in front of them. 

They were all uniquely imposing, with sharp edges and large windows. Something about Two’s Village was specifically opulent—to the degree that it almost made Colston’s own home feel like a shack in comparison. It also helped that it seemed to stretch on and on. 

Colston wondered briefly how many living Victors Two actually had, and not for the first time he felt a burn of resentment in his throat that he never received any help in mentoring despite the excess of talent in this District alone.

Caduceus, who had been giving the Village a similarly hard stare, shrugged after a moment, their eyes narrow and calculating. Colston considered himself good at reading people, but something about the man was like trying to interpret the emotions of a brick wall. “I suppose we’ll see.” He stepped forward.

The gates to the neighborhood were made out of what appeared to be entirely gold. Two Peacekeepers perked up from their slightly slouched positions, one of them discreetly stomping out a lit cigarette.

“State your business,” the one with the cigarette said in a gruff voice. 

Caduceus’s eyebrows slightly tensed. “We’re Victors,” they replied, their tone surprisingly neutral, “do we have to?”

“If it’s not your own District’s Village, then you have to for security reasons. Can never be too comfortable with your species.” Colston felt his nose instinctively scrunch at the mention of ‘species’. He couldn’t tell if the Peacekeeper was referring to District folk or Victors—and he didn’t know which option  he disliked more.

“We’re just here to visit one of our fellows,” he decided to put in, trying to activate the rusty charm that used to get him through so many Capitol parties. Unfortunately, the only person it consistently worked on was Kirrily. 

The Peacekeepers glanced at each other, before the cigarette one raised their brow from behind their face shield. “Which one?”

“Astarte Calhoun,” Caduceus responded instantly, a robotic quality to their voice. Their posture remained stiff, their hands deep in the pockets of their comically large trench coat. “Victor of the 80th Games? Around fifty years old.”

They looked at each other again, before making choking and snorting noises. Colston realized after a moment that they were holding back laughter. He looked at Caduceus, who merely sighed and shook their head, muttering something or other about the lack of professionalism.

Finally, they stopped. “Okay, whatever you say. I mean, best of luck.”

“Why?” Caduceus pressed immediately.

“Oh, you’ll find out,” Cigarette-Peacekeeper replied, a mean grin sliding across their features. “Anyways, we’ve got to check you for weapons.” Seeing what Colston assumed was a miffed look across his own face, they sighed. “Protocol, man. Like I said, can never get too comfortable.”

He scowled deeper for a moment at the reference, before forcing his face back into neutrality. He had always been teased by both his wife and Emmy that his face could be read like a book, which he assumed wasn’t too good for investigating things. Then again, he knew hardly anything about investigating. He didn’t understand how Caduceus was so good at it.

After being thoroughly patted down, the two Peacekeepers seemed satisfied, and they moved away. “Enjoy your time,” the second one said, grinning. “We sure will when you’re inevitably chased out by her with a knife!” They both resumed cackling as they pushed open the gate doors. 

The Victors entered, beginning to walk down the long, long road of homes. Some of them seemed to be legacy homes—deserted, and marked with a placard in the yard. Colston approached one to see that it read 6th Hunger Games on the bottom. He internally sighed, before rejoining Caduceus.

Might as well make conversation on the long walk, he figured. “So, let me get this straight. You’re investigating these four missing Victors, who seemingly vanished off of the face of Panem, and you’ve been interviewing people to try and get to the bottom of it.”

They blinked. “I suppose that’s the simplified story, yes.” The way they spoke was fascinating to Colston—he pronounced his words with the same articulation as the educated Merchant folk in Twelve. 

“But…why? Why do all of this? I mean, sure, they’re missing, but plenty of people go missing all of the time. What if they fled?”

Caduceus gave him a stern look, surprising despite their difference in years. Not for the first time, Colston worried about how much sleep they were getting, seeing the dark circles under their eyes. “Maybe they did. But we won’t know for sure unless we find out the truth. And I must have the truth.” 

They said the words with a certain degree of fervor, so insistent that Colston knew there had to be some hidden meaning in the phrase. He considered saying something about this all being some coping mechanism from the Games, but the phrasing escaped him, so he let Caduceus continue. 

“Besides, let’s say they did leave. Firstly, where would they all agree to go? And why leave? I mean, outside of the obvious options. It could be an accurate theory for Hyda and Conveyor, but what about Charikleia and Scow? Everyone knows that Career Victors have it the easiest.” They shook their head, making his curls bounce to-and-fro. “It just wouldn’t make sense. Nonetheless, I’m more concerned about the ‘where’ than the ‘why’ for now, and also the when.”

“I mean, that makes sense, I suppose,” he relented. Again, Colston knew almost nothing about investigating. Caduceus, on the other hand, reminded him of the detectives in murder mystery novels he used to read when he was younger. The scathing personality, the dramatic coat, the mysterious interest.

“This is ridiculous,” Caduceus sighed, changing the subject. “My District has about eight homes. This place has to have upwards of twenty.”

“I don’t think I’ve been to Thirteen before, outside of my Tour. How is it there?”

They cast him a sidelong glance. “Not much better than Twelve, I would assume. More organized crime, though. It’s alright if you get into a good school.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Colston inquired. “Did you get into a good school?”

They laughed humorlessly. “No. My sister did, though. I actually failed out of school.”

“...May I ask why? I promise I won’t judge. I was never really properly schooled. I was lucky enough to be taught how to read by my mother.”

“It’s a bit hard to focus when your parents die in an explosion.” At Colston’s sharp inhale, they shrugged. “Mayor keeps on trying to revive the old underground facilities, hoping to build more hospitals like the one built for Victors. Never goes well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Colston trailed off, worrying his lip. He had lost his mother to a winter illness a few years after he had won, but by then he had been mostly well-adjusted and independent. And he had Kirrily supporting him.

He considered telling Caduceus that, but it didn’t seem like they were interested in being comforted. “It’s fine. At least my Victory did what they always wanted: it got me into a top school in Three.”

“Right.” Colston squinted at the next plaque, seeing Astarte Calhoun laid out clearly in the bold font. “Seems like we’re here.”

“Yes. Before we go in, let’s make a plan.” They paused for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing their chin with their thumb. “If she’s as unstable as what the Peacekeepers suggested—which is highly unlikely—then we should try and make our approach as casual as possible. I sent her an email indicating that we would be coming to speak with her about old Victories for a project, but I don’t think she read it. Don’t make any sudden moves, and absolutely do not mention that we’re investigating something.”

Before Colston could reply, there was the clear noise of a door opening and closing to his right. He recognized the sharp eyes and lifted chin of Istra Miletus, dressed like she was going out for some form of party. “Hello, gentlemen,” she greeted gruffly, walking over from two mansions down. “Any particular reason you’re loitering outside of the resident old lady’s house?”

“She’s not ol—” Colston insisted before being cut off by Caduceus.

“Just for a project,” they said. At Istra’s disbelieving look, they nodded. “Don’t worry, we’ve heard about her temperament. I’m doing a study on older Victors is all, and Colston ended up being interested in the concept.” They glanced at Colston, who immediately began to nod eagerly in agreement. “Besides, I don’t think you’re the only one who should be asking questions here. Going out before Reaping day?”

She shrugged. “Never too late for a party, right?” She asked, grinning maliciously. “No, I already have all of my sponsors lined up. Just grabbing Hearth. So, you two should really be leaving—”

“I presume he’s at a bar?”

Her smile abruptly dropped at Caduceus’s question, her eyes narrowing. “How did you—” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t even care. You're just a freak. Yeah, he has some habits, especially this year. It’s whatever.” With that, she marched off, muttering curses about ‘Outlier weirdos’ and the like.

Now Colston was the one to send Caduceus a disapproving look. They crossed their arms. “What? It was the only way to make her leave. Two’s really prideful—they may try to bark at you, but they can’t handle a bite.”

He stared after Caduceus as they began to walk up the front path and to the door, eventually trailing behind. Colston noticed the absolute excess of locks on the outside, and the overgrown shrubbery around the home, ivy creeping up the walls.

Caduceus knocked once and then twice. After a considerable amount of time—half of which included the turning of locks-–the door cracked open slightly, and a sliver of a pale, older face popped up. “Who’s there?”

“Caduceus Petrarch, District Thirteen Victor, we’re here to ask some questions about a project—”

The door slammed shut, and Caduceus heavily sighed, knocking again. When there was no response, they merely spoke in a loud tone. “We’re only here for a project, understand? Nobody is going to get hurt, you’re safe. We were looking for some information on—”

“ I don’t want to hear it!” Astarte shouted through the door. “ You’re just stupid if you think you can get information out of me. ”

Caduceus scoffed, taking a step back and running his hand through his curls. “ Fuck. We might not be able to get through to her,” he hissed quietly, before giving the door another firm bang . “Miss Calhoun, you have to reconsider—!”

A few seconds later: “ I won’t !”

He cursed more harshly. “I can’t believe it. This is the thing that’s going to freeze this investigation? Some woman who is too paranoid to talk to me?”

“Let me try,” Colston replied after a few moments. At the younger Victor’s distrustful look, he gave them the most comforting smile he could manage. “Listen, I have two children. I’m used to calming down people who seem unconvinceable. Besides, you wanted me to help in the investigation, right?”

They looked away and downwards, looking suddenly very young. Colston remembered then that Caduceus was only around half his own age. “Fine. Give it your best go. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to go and join Hearth at the bar.” From the deadpan way they delivered the quip, Colston had a feeling they weren’t joking.

He swallowed and turned, approaching the door, before giving it a more gentle knock. “Hi, this isn’t Caduceus. This is Colston Glazebrook. I, uh, won a few years after you, if you remember. Listen, this isn’t actually a project. We’re looking for—”

He suddenly felt a hand clap over his mouth. “What are you doing ?” Caduceus snapped in a low tone. “She can’t know !” With unsurprising ease given their two very different physiques, Colston pulled the hand away and waved them off, continuing.

“We’re looking for Hyda, Scow, Conveyor, and Charikleia. Do you remember them?”

The door cracked open. Colston shot Caduceus a winning smile. They grunted in relent, nodding with approval as the woman stepped out. She was fairly tall, and with quite a lot of muscle as well. Her hair was tied back into a restrictive bun, and she wore a many-layered ensemble of deep, earthy colors. 

Astarte Calhoun peered at them both with wary blue eyes. “I haven’t heard those names in decades,” she stated simply, before chewing on her bottom lip. “Sorry about all this. It’s been…hard to trust people. But, if you’re really trying to get the answers—I have too, trust me—I’ll do anything I can to help.”

Colston watched Caduceus carefully pull a small device from his pocket, reaching behind their back and tapping a button on the top. Seeing a red blinking light activate, Colston realized that it was a recording device. His brow furrowed, and he considered telling them off for not informing Astarte beforehand that her words were being recorded.

“Is there a particular reason?” They asked. “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with us.”

“The Capitol isn’t very fond of when you try and forge a new life for yourself without their express permission,” she replied flatly. “For example: trying to marry and settle down with a man from Twelve.” She moved her hand and pressed a pipe into her lips, blowing smoke off to the side.

“Man from Twelve? How’d you two meet?”

“By accident. He was one of my attendants for the Victory Tour. Spilled wine all over my lap, and it all unraveled from there. Tried to marry me, and he was pulled for mandatory Peacekeeper service in Eleven. Some bull about family debts, and I was given some threats of being next,” she explained, before grunting. “Not important, though. What do you want to know about those four?”

Caduceus explained what they already knew: that the general public seemed to believe that the group had just risen and fallen to and from fame rapidly, but that they were nowhere to be found in any of the Victors’ Villages. “...I spoke with a few other Victors, and that’s essentially all they had for information. And then I spoke with Charikleia’s mentor, Androkles Vyce. He was pretty dodgy, insisting that her Games weren’t rigged.”

She laughed drily. “Oh, they love to rewrite their stories. Her Games were absolutely rigged, are you kidding me? Twelve had strong tributes and they actually came close to winning, if I remember correctly, so they panicked and basically gave it to her.”

They nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Out of pure curiosity, is there a chance the reason the Capitol cracked down so hard on your pursuits with the Twelve man because of some sort of romance between Scow and Hyda?”

“Absolutely. See, this is great. I’ve been waiting for someone to talk about this for years. I tried to keep their memories alive, tried to say that them vanishing after my Games was odd. But I was shut down, and the threats started again—” Tears suddenly appeared on her lash line, and Colston offered a steadying hand. Astarte nodded in thanks. 

Caduceus was a bit less patient. “So, this group. Were they popular?”

“Oh, yes. Even if you weren’t that into the Games, you knew about that squad. They were on every billboard, usually together. People were involved insanely in their drama. Everyone thought Hyda and Scow should get together, but when they actually dared to announce that they were—” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It was a controversy. Especially because Conveyor started speaking out against it.”

Caduceus’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s that?”

“He was jealous, I think. He said that outliers should be with outliers, and, well. Careers with Careers. The Capitol mostly agreed.”

“What was Charikleia’s stance on the whole thing?” Colston asked, suddenly invested in the story.

“Well, she was closest with Hyda. Took her under her wing and all of that. So she was on their side, naturally.” Astarte took a long drag on her pipe. “You know what the most interesting part is?”

“What?” The two Victors asked at the same time.

“ If my memory serves me correctly, and I know that it often doesn’t—she and the rest of the group had accusations of criminal activity less than a month after she said that in an interview.”

Colston’s eyes widened, and he looked to Caduceus to see them staring back with almost the same expression. Guess we discovered the ‘why’. 

Neither of them noticed the figure slipping quietly out of the hedges.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Tribute Train, ???, ‘112, 10:24 AM

Caduceus Petrarch, District Thirteen Male Mentor, 21 (they/he)

“ I’ve gotten good at leaning on metaphors / I’ve gotten good at living on someone else’s page ”

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

“I’ve checked every Holding Center across all of Panem. I’ve called in every favor, I even talked to Emmy ,” Colston’s voice crackled over the speaker of the phone, spitting the name out with considerable disgust. Caduceus sat, one hand posed on the fancy table with his fingers tapping a random pattern. The Thirteens had all just watched the Reapings together, and then Jaceona took Viva away to go and discuss strategy. Micaiah was showering.

As if there was any strategy to be had for her. Poor girl. So innocent and clueless. Caduceus had seen multiple tributes in his time who were just like her. They all went down quickly—and at least they knew what the Hunger Games were. She seemed to be completely unaware. “And nothing?” They asked.

“ Absolutely nothing ,” he confirmed. “ I’ve even bribed a few Peacekeepers—I’m not on speakerphone, right?—to try and get execution records. They’re nowhere. I’ve been in One, Four, Six, and Seven. It’s like they don’t even exist. ”

He leaned forward, taking a sip from his coffee mug. Suddenly, they heard the clear noise of Viva bursting into tears on the other side of the door. It seemed like Jaceona had finally broken the news to her that she was being sent into a death pageant. “No you’re not on speakerphone. And, we’ll just have to look harder,” they decided. “Have you spoken to any Head Peacekeepers?”

“ Not yet, ” Colston admitted. “ I wanted to hear your thoughts on everything before moving forward. This is your investigation, not mine. ”

“Well,” Caduceus considered, scratching their eyebrow absently. “It’s possible that they were imprisoned somewhere that’s not exactly public. I wouldn’t put it past the Capitol, anyways. Or, there’s also the potential that they weren’t imprisoned at all. Astarte just said that they were accused of criminal activity.”

“ And she said that her memory isn’t the best, ” he added thoughtfully.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that they used the accusations of criminal activity just to get them out of the public eye.”

“ Is it ?”

They inwardly sighed. It was easy to tolerate Colston for a time—including his frequent use of bee puns and dad jokes—but sometimes they forgot that he was just a father from humble origins in Twelve. Nonetheless, he was still useful. They would never have gotten to Astarte if it wasn’t for his help.

(Besides, it was…kind of nice to not be alone anymore.)

“Yes, I’m pretty certain. Sun above.” They laughed drily. “Maybe they just broke down their doors and shot them dead. Have we considered that?”

“ Seems pretty obtuse for Cardew. And I’m sure someone would’ve remembered that. ”

“Fair point,” he sighed, drinking the coffee again. It scalded the back of their throat—just the way they liked it. Traditional caffeine had long lost its effect on them, so the only way to stay awake was from the distress signals the burns sent to his mind. Gruesome? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. “We can try our luck with the Head Peacekeepers, but they’re pretty bribe-proof, and loyal to the Capitol.”

They wished that they had their board. It had been so easy to organize things on it—everything had a clear place. The images of the Victors, and the red thread that connected them to his various notes. “ That’s true. ” The Victor on the other side of the call paused. “ So we’re really at a dead end, aren’t we ?”

Caduceus stirred a bit as the shower water turned off. “It would appear so.” A burning feeling in his throat, distinctly not the scalding coffee, began to press on his mind. It was the same feeling as what he had felt at Astarte’s, when they thought their investigation was all over.

(Shame. Failure.)

( “A C minus?” Mom frowned. “Oh honey. You can do better than that.” )

They could do better. They could be better, they had to be—

Their phone buzzed. From the way there was the sudden irritating noise of a hoard of flying bees, Colston’s notification sound, Caduceus deduced they received the same message. They opened it.

NO ID AVAILABLE: Greetings. I heard news that you’re looking into some old information about Victors. I figured it would be appropriate to invite you into the Gamemaker Center, where we hold all records—including confidential ones—of Victor statuses. Please text back ‘Y’ if you’re interested.

“ Shit… ” Colston muttered under his breath. “ Did you just— ?”

“Yes.”

“ Seems like a trap, doesn’t it ?”

“Absolutely,” Caduceus grunted. How did this person even hear about the investigation? They puzzled through it in their mind. Maybe Vyce grew a spine after all and decided to use it to try and fuck me over , he considered. But it was still unlikely.

Colston cursed again, louder this time. There was a distant shout, and then he exclaimed an apology to his wife. “ So they’re onto us. ”

Caduceus glared downwards, scanning over the message multiple times. Where we hold all records. I figured it would be appropriate. Why even try and lure them in if they were going to be practically informed that they were caught? Why bother at all? If they found out, they could’ve already had both Victors dealt with right now.  “I don’t think it’s a trick, actually.”

“ Really? But…I don’t know how I feel about trusting someone who can’t even reveal their identity,” Colston said warily.

“I don’t either. But it’s the best lead we’ve got, and if they’re willing to defect, I see no problem. Maybe they’re just as interested in the truth as us. We should just count our lucky stars that they didn’t end up telling everyone they know about our little escapade.”

“ If you’re sure. I just can’t bee-lieve it. ” Caduceus could practically see his goofy grin through the screen. They had been relentlessly tortured with such jokes on their way to and from Two. Apparently, the man even carried a book of jokes and studied it with the same dedication that Caduceus used to study textbooks with.

“I dislike you so much,” Caduceus sighed, although there was a touch of humor in his voice.

He laughed, deep-throated, each contortion of his stomach clear in the sound. “ Don’t worry, I know. ”

Caduceus sighed, leaning back. Their coffee was too cool now. Besides, they were wide awake with the amount of possibilities that laid ahead. “This could be a major breakthrough. We’ll never have access to information like this again. But we’ll have to play it smart. It’s not every day that Victors just happen to be in the Gamemaker Center.” 

 “ True. What’s the cover story, then ?”

“Let’s just say that we’re researching Victors. Some stupid story about trying to get better at mentoring by seeing what’s worked before. If there’s anything I know about Gamemakers, it’s that they underestimate anyone who they view as a tribute. We can look at files of more recent Victors to throw them off, and hopefully find an inconspicuous way to pick up the files for the four older Victors—if they still exist,” Caduceus replied, thinking out loud. 

After all, the Capitol thought that they would do anything for a Victor. Colston, he understood, was somewhat desperate, but he had also gone a far longer period with no Victor. As for Thirteen, it was just unlikely, given the frequently Reaped children. It didn’t matter how much he taught them. Nothing could ever prepare anyone for the Arena. They decided that Colston could be the one to mostly push the ‘desperate for a Victor’ narrative.

They looked up as the door suddenly opened. Micaiah came out, his hair still looking a bit damp but otherwise he was dry and dressed in lounge-worthy clothing. He sat across from Caduceus, beginning to say something.

“Hello, are you even going to listen—?” They held up a patient finger to cut him off, before gesturing to their phone. Micaiah rolled his mismatched eyes, crossing his arms sternly across his chest. He slid forward in his seat, however, as though hoping to listen in on the conversation. Caduceus promptly lowered the volume, which made the boy sigh in annoyance.

“ I’ve talked to Emmy about Gamemakers before. According to her, they always keep their records, even if they become irrelevant. She’s been given special tours of the Center before. They have records up to the very first Hunger Games. ” Caduceus resisted the urge to question who Emmy was, instead merely humming in thought.

“We’ll go,” he decided, typing out ‘Y’ and sending it to the unknown number. 

“Seriously, what the fuck is your—”

“Sounds good. Now, can we discuss the deal?”

“Of course we can,” Caduceus replied, shushing Micaiah harshly. It only appeared to infuriate the boy more.

“ Is someone yelling in the background? I’m having difficulty hearing you .”

“The deal’s fine. I just have to—”

“You’re my Mentor, remember ?!”

“I have to go.”

“ Okay. Talk later? ”

“Naturally,” Caduceus replied stiffly, before ending the call. He then fixed Micaiah with what he hoped was his most fearsome stare. The boy’s lips quirked briefly, obviously glad that he had made his mentor annoyed. “Are you done throwing your temper tantrum?”

“Just glad that you finally decided that I’m worth your attention,” he snapped sourly, his smile dropping as he slouched slightly on the bench. “What’s this deal, anyways? ‘Use phone calls to piss my tribute the hell off and hopefully they die in two seconds so that I never have to feel bad about it again?’”

( “Are you even going to try?!” Sixteen-year-old Caduceus screamed, glaring directly into Jaceona’s sorrowful eyes. “Stop looking at me like I’m already a corpse !” )

(They had to be better.)

“No, that’s not the deal.” Caduceus gave pause for a moment. Twelve’s tributes wouldn’t be Reaped for a few more hours. Who was to say that they would even produce two worthwhile competitors who would be good for the plan? What if there were two more lambs to the slaughter, and he really was just dooming Micaiah?

“Then what is it? Or is it for you and your side piece only, you giggolo?” Sarcasm dripped from the boy’s tone.

They frowned for a moment. “Don’t look so smug. I know what that term means, Micaiah. And that was Colston Glazebrook, I’ll have you know,” Caduceus said. Micaiah’s brow raised in response. “We were just trying to work some things out.”

“Instead of mentoring me, your tribute?” He inquired flatly, eyeing the coffee with a judgemental glare.

“No. The deal is actually deeply entwined with mentoring you.” More than you know.

“Okay, so when do I get to hear it?” Micaiah pressed, digging his nails into the wood. There was a certain cold intensity to his expression, one that felt painfully familiar. Caduceus knew the face of someone who had lost something integral to their life. 

“If you must know, it’s simply…” Caduceus explained the details, walking him through parts of how the deal had come about as well as what it entailed from both of them.

Micaiah’s face went through every stage of grief. A whirlwind of emotions, all put clearly on display before becoming cold defiance again. “You can’t be serious. No, you can’t be serious. First you show me that you clearly have no time for me, and then you make a plan with this other mentor, before even asking for my thoughts on it.”

“This is above you,” Caduceus said evenly. “And face it: it’s most likely a better idea than whatever plan you had. This ensures that we can pool together all of our resources, making a more likely chance that you’ll win. Believe me, I’m not trying to desert you. You are my greatest priority.”

Micaiah promptly ignored the end of his statement, his lip twitching in irritation. “My plan is great , I’ll have you know. Actually, I’m just peachy with it. You know, you can’t force me to do shit . I mean, who says that the Twelves will even be into it? This just seems like a way to force us to all hold hands before we inevitably die, because people in that situation always die—” Micaiah’s eyes narrowed, his fingers leaving marks on the table.

“I didn’t,” they responded quietly.

“Yes, because you got lucky. But me? I don’t get lucky. I just get unluckier and unluckier until it’s a damn miracle I’m alive at all, okay? So yeah, I’ll be out there on my own. I would much rather be out there on my own, where at least I can see the threats before they stab me!” Caduceus began to interject, but he continued. “I mean, it doesn’t even matter. The Games only have one Victor, right?”

“Yes, but it could be beneficial—”

“ Whatever . My answer is still absolutely-fucking-not . I would rather have my organs scooped out a thousand times over by Careers instead of having to do that .” With that, he stood, storming off to return to his private cabin.

Caduceus sighed, rubbing their temples. This would be harder than he thought. How was he supposed to balance a tribute and his investigation all at once?