Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I roll over once more in my bed, my soft, thick blanket pulled up to my ears. From downstairs, I hear the TV on, voices muffled. "Ampert, come downstairs," my mother calls. I groan softly. It's so comfortable lying here.

"In a minute, Mom," I mumble, closing my eyes again. As I try to drift off, it suddenly dawns on me—I just turned 12. And today is the day of the reaping.

My body jolts awake. My mind floods with thoughts. What if I get reaped? There are double the number of tributes this year. But my dad works for the Capitol. We'll be fine... right? But Mom—she's pregnant. She can't be stressed now. I shoot up and start getting dressed, grabbing my blue trousers and a nice blue polo. I make sure I look presentable. As I tie my shoes, there's a knock on my door.

"Ampert, sweetie, are you awake?" It's Mom.

She opens the door, and I see she's wearing a dark blue dress with small, light blue butterflies on it, her growing belly stretching the design slightly. Her dark hair is tied into a bun, a few strands framing her face. She smiles.

"I see you're getting ready—great. Today is a big day."

She sits beside me on my bed, the metal frame creaking slightly under her weight. I hear her breathing—shallow. Maybe from climbing the stairs. Maybe from stress. Maybe both. 

"Mom?" I look up from my shoes and meet her eyes. She looks tired, but her skin glows. Her eyes, though, tell another story—red and swollen, thick with exhaustion. Like she's been crying. As soon as she notices me watching, she pulls me into her arms.

"It's going to be okay, hun," she whispers.

I can hear her breathing quicken. She's trying to suppress her emotions, but I can feel her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her hand trembles as she wipes at her tears. Lying in her arms, resting against her soft bosom, I can feel her heartbeat. It's fast. Too fast.

"Will I be picked?" I ask carefully, my voice muffled against her body.

I hear a sharp sniff. She doesn't respond. No reassurances. No words. Just the sound of the TV, her sniffling, and my breath quickening.

After a while, she takes a deep breath and steadies herself.

"Let's eat some breakfast together, shall we?"

She ruffles my hair and stands up. As she walks past my desk, she straightens the small metal squirrel sculpture I made last year in class. It must have toppled over when I threw my backpack down yesterday after school.

As I descend the stairs, I let my fingers glide along the railing. We're one of the only families with a two-story house. Except for Wiress, who won last year, we were always the only ones living in Victory Lane. Dad says we used to live in a small, modest house near the factory where he worked. That's where he met Mom. She handled calls, kept track of workers clocking in—small tasks, nothing important, she always says.

When he got reaped, Mom realized what she might lose. And when she said goodbye, they kissed for the first time. He always says she's the reason he won. The reason he wanted to win.

I can smell the baked bread. Dad always makes the best bread—small, square-shaped rolls, easy to take to work. He says that's how they're supposed to be made.

The table is covered with a blue cloth, silver plates, and more food than usual. As I step into the room, I notice Wiress who has joined breakfast this morning. She looks nervous, fidgeting with her butter knife. When she sees me, she looks up and smiles.

I remember watching her on TV last year. She's smart—like my dad. She knew how to use the arena to her advantage. That arena was a nightmare, all mirrors and reflections, impossible to navigate. But she figured it out. She always says she has my dad to thank. He mentored her. Now it's her turn, mentoring other tributes. 

Dad was just happy to see a tribute survive. The Games always weigh on him. During the broadcasts, he barely sleeps. We know not to call him when he's up late, sending sponsor gifts in the middle of the night, doing everything he can to keep them alive. But when he comes home, he retreats to his workshop. Mom says that's his happy place. The only place where his mind can rest.

I sit down, trying not to drool at the sight of all this food. Dad takes off his apron and sits beside me.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, grabbing one of the warm bread rolls from the silver plate. "It smells delicious." He chuckles. "You're very welcome, Squirrel." He ruffles my hair.

I try to flatten it again. "Dad, I need to look presentable. Like you said, it's important for the reaping." The room shifts. The soft conversation between Wiress and Mom falls silent.

Dad freezes mid-motion, his hand hovering in the air, a bread roll still clutched between his fingers.

"Yes, the reaping," Dad says softly, slowly resuming his movements. His face is tense, distracted.

"It'll be okay, right?" I say, taking a bite of my roll. "We don't have any extra slips with my name in it. Not like Coil or Fran."

Coil and Fran—classmates. Sisters. Their parents are factory workers, the lowest class. They barely have enough to eat. Dad always gives me extra rolls to bring them during lunch. "I would've needed that bread too,"  he tells me sometimes, "if I hadn't won that year."

On factory days—every Wednesday—I carry a big box filled with rolls. I try to hand out as many as I can without the Peacekeepers noticing. Luckily, at twelve years of age, they don't watch me too closely.

Wiress nods. A little too fast. Her head jerks with each movement, and she whispers something under her breath. I can't make it out. She scans the room frantically before snatching an apple from the bowl in front of her.

"Sweetie, let's just focus on eating first, okay?" Mom's voice is gentle, but her eyes betray her. She's trying to hold it together.

The TV hums in the background, the voices a little clearer now. It's a replay of President Snow selecting the envelope for the 50th Games—this year's Games. Back in the spring. The moment we learned there would be double the tributes.

I glance at Dad. His eyes are puffy and red, like he's been crying. In silence, I finish my breakfast, the voice of President Snow repeating in the background. The more I listen, the more it feels like he's forcing enthusiasm. Almost like he wants more kids to die—like he enjoys it.

After we clear the table, we move to the living room. Dad turns off the TV, then sits down, taking a big breath. Mom sits next to him, and he wraps an arm around her. I sit down, and Wiress sits on the other side of me.

We all watch in silence as Dad seems to be considering what to say. He pushes his big metallic glasses up, and then, finally, he speaks.

"Ampert, as you know, this world is not always fair," he says, swallowing hard.

I nod. Is he going to explain how he thinks the Hunger Games aren't fair? Because that, I already understood.

"Today, the reaping will come, and names will be pulled—four, two girls, two boys." He pauses, his voice thick. "Amongst those names..."

He stops, and I can see tears well up. He takes a deep breath, his chest rising with effort. "Will be yours."

I feel my heart sink. Mine? Why?

As I let it sink in, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Wiress tries to comfort me, but I can't hold it in anymore, and tears start streaming down my face. How is this possible? Why me?

Mom and Dad both move forward, pulling me into a tight hug. I can feel their bodies pressed against me, the love overflowing, their warmth surrounding me. Wiress sighs softly in my ear. "It's not fair. Just not fair," she whispers.

"It's my fault." I hear my dad's voice crack, and I look up at him. His tanned face is now red, his eyes thick with tears streaming down his cheeks. Mom is heaving, but she manages to whisper a soft "No." 

"Why?" I ask between sniffles, wiping away snot.

"I tried to do better," he responds, his voice breaking. "How long—" I can't finish the question.

"This morning. I heard it this morning." He sits up a little straighter, but he doesn't let go. "I tried to prevent this—the games, the reaping, the hurt, the death. But now... My biggest fear..." He falters, unable to finish. His body shakes, and I can feel my mom's hand move to his back, trying to comfort him.

"It's not your fault," she says, her voice firm, though her own tears are evident. "It's theirs." Her eyes glance toward the blank TV screen, then narrow. "It's his."

"I thought you worked for him?" I ask. Dad nods. "I did, but I also worked for the future."

The future. He means a future without the reapings. "You sabotaged something, didn't you?" I say. He nods again. "Their communications. It's one of their most vital parts of the Capitol and Panem. Without it, a revolution could spark."

His eyes glint, and I can see he wants this, but he didn't expect me to be the victim of his actions.

"But they found out," I respond, a bit flabbergasted. He doesn't get caught easily. I've seen him do things—so carefully, so smart. "It was probably someone low-level, someone who needed something extra, someone desperate," he says.

He often uses his old colleagues, friends from the factories, to get equipment or parts—things he can't obtain through the Capitol. "They must have been rewarded heavily," I whisper. Every day, I see the pollution, the factories, the grim circumstances everyone works in. I hate Wednesdays—the brief glimpses into our future. We, the children, get a taste of the bleak life ahead of us. No one escapes the factories. Everyone needs food, needs an income, and even though we're District 3, we aren't rich. Not by a long shot.

Sure, there are a few wealthy people—those who can afford the gadgets we make: the automobiles, the gears, the tech. But for most of us, we make these things with our hands and dream of one day driving them.

I remember the day the Quell card was read, when the whole district seemed to erupt in revolt. Even the Capitol had a shortage of gadgets. But that came with a heavy price. We were punished. No breaks, a curfew straight after work to get home. For some, a public hanging. I'll never forget the day Mom came home—her face pale. She knew one of the people who was hung. An old friend.

They had worked together in the desk office back in the day, clocking in workers who were late or didn't show up, making sure no one got caught. But in the end, it was Mom's friend Jan who was caught. Mom said Jan stood tall during the hanging, proud in the face of it all. Everyone showed up to protest, yelling, throwing nuts and bolts at the Peacekeepers. But in the end, she still died. And then we all went home, like nothing happened.

The biggest threat to the Capitol is that the more they punish us, the more knowledge we lose. Dad says that's why most rebellious actions go unnoticed—because the Capitol can't afford to lose more of us to their cruelty. And that's why, even now, some of his old friends remain loyal. But with the reaping looming so close, and with double the tributes this year... anyone would do anything for the right reward. To lower the risk that their child might be sent to the Games.

"I am so sorry," he whispers, pulling me into another hug. I hold him tight, not knowing what else to do. I don't blame him—he's done everything for me. He thought he was risking his life to protect me, but now... he's risked mine.

"What can I do, Dad? Do you know anything?" I ask, my voice shaky. He often mentions secret meetings—sometimes about the Games.

He looks up, his gaze sharp, and I see that familiar glint in his eyes. "We're going to make a plan, squirrel, you and me." Mom looks up at him, her face creased with worry, but she knows. He needs a plan. Something to focus on. Something that isn't me dying.

The word "squirrel" lingers in my mind. It's a nickname he gave me because I'm small, quick, and a good climber. At school, we often climb poles for fun, and I remember the day Dad asked me to climb up a lantern pole to replace a bulb. I was so eager to show off my skills, but now I realize he didn't really need me to do it. He replaced those bulbs often enough in Victory Lane; it wasn't about the light. It was about making me feel needed. 

I hear the speakers turn on outside, calling everyone to assemble. As District 3, we're always one of the first to get reaped. Since they broadcast it, and we're quite the chaotic people to work with, they want us ready early in the morning.

Wiress lets go of me. "I'm going to prepare myself," she says, leaving the living room. When she opens the front door, I hear the peacekeepers through the speakers. "All citizens are expected at the reaping to-" but the door slams shut, and their voices are muffled again.

"We have to be quick." Dad stands up from the couch, hurrying toward his workplace, hidden behind a bookshelf. There aren't many books there—mostly trinkets he or I made. He pulls on a squirrel trinket, turning it towards him, the same one I have in my room. Mine's based on his, but his is much more detailed. He's an artist, though he'd never admit it.

The door creaks open, and Mom gets up, kissing my forehead. "Let's get ready." She grabs my hand and leads me to the workplace. I was never allowed inside before—he'd never risk it. Sometimes he worked on secret Capitol-related projects, though I now doubt those were ever meant to help the Capitol.

Inside, it's dark, the room filled with blueprints and technical drawings. Magnifying glasses, torches, and other equipment are scattered across pegboards and organizers, which, instead of tidying things up, only add to the room's chaotic energy. Small boxes filled with screws, wires, and bolts are plastered with handwritten size labels. On his desk, a bright lamp casts light over a stack of papers, and a square object with wires lies unfinished beside them. A large magnifying glass, attached to some sort of holder, looms over it.

I smile. My dad is the coolest man alive. He rummages around and pulls out a pair of cuffs—peacekeeper cuffs. My eyes widen. "Wow, how do you have one of those?" I ask. He must've stolen it, or maybe gotten it from one of the workers who made it.

"Doesn't matter," he says. "What does matter is that you need to learn how to escape from it."

I frown. "Why?"

"Because once training starts, people need to believe you're useful, and climbing and being small isn't the most important part of survival. Escaping and being smart is. You need people to see that."

He rummages again, pulling out a small pin. "This should be all you need. Now, what I'm going to teach you isn't an invitation to free yourself on your own. You need to behave, okay?" He pauses for me to confirm, and I nod. He attaches the cuffs to my wrists. I can see my mom struggling with this, her face a mix of concern and resignation. She knows—this will be real in just a few hours.

"Will being smart be enough?" I ask.

I see my dad swallow hard. "It has to be. Last year, Wiress won because of her brains. No one knows the arena. Maybe brains are necessary again."

Once the cuffs click in place, he hands me the pin.

"Now, you want to insert the pin under your right pinkie and move toward your wrist. There's a small gap there—an opening to the chip that controls the cuffs. If you place the pin carefully, it'll short-circuit the chip, and the cuffs will open. But if you pry too hard, you'll break the chip, and they'll only open manually, with a tag from the peacekeepers."

As he explains, I try to maneuver the pin under my pinkie, poking myself a few times. Eventually, I feel it slide between a small gap in the cuffs. "Why do you know this?" I ask, concentrating.

"Because when you do what I do, arrest is always an option, and I wanted to make sure I could escape." I nod slowly, contemplating his answer. He seems to have always expected to be arrested for his crimes. I feel the pin hit something and gently push it forward until I feel a small shock. The cuffs click loose and drop to the floor.

"Wow," I let slip.

Dad smiles, and Mom's face softens in relief. "I knew you were a good student," he says. I smile, "If only my teachers saw that too. They think I'm too chatty." I chuckle, feeling a bit proud of how quickly I caught on. But that pride fades as I hear a knock on the front door. Peacekeepers. Must be here to escort us to the reaping. As victors, we're usually given special treatment, but since I'm still in the reaping, we'll probably be divided like everyone else this time.

Dad closes the workplace door behind me as I slip on my jacket. Mom helps me with it, then quietly passes me the pin. "Hide it," she whispers. She opens the front door, greeting the peacekeeper with a smile. I quickly slip the pin inside a small pocket within my trousers, one my mom sewed in since I always lost my keys when climbing. 

"Almost done," she says, rubbing her belly. "I'm not so fast now."

The peacekeeper doesn't respond, stepping back and giving us space to move outside. Wiress is already ready, a bag in hand. As a mentor, she'll be accompanying the tributes to the Capitol. She'll be joining me.

My legs grow weaker with every step we take toward the car waiting outside our home. I used to love reaping days—getting driven around in a car always felt so cool. But I was young back then, didn't understand the real meaning of the reaping. After seeing the games last year for the first time, I feel different now. Scared. Nervous. Even more nervous knowing my name will be called.

Chapter Text

As we step into the main square of District 3, I notice how everyone looks cleaned up, their clothes pressed, their faces carefully neutral. Normally, I would stand with my parents, their reassuring hands resting on my shoulders. Back then, I thought I never had to worry—my name would only be in the bowl once. We never have to struggle for food or money like so many others here, especially the factory workers.

The engineers, the ones who get the chance to prove their knowledge, are the only ones who could be considered wealthy. They design software, program security systems, and maintain the technology that keeps the Capitol running. But you won't hear them bragging. Some even find it shameful, knowing their skills help uphold the same system that oppresses us. Others see it as an opportunity to fight back, slipping in vulnerabilities, hidden lines of code, tiny acts of defiance.

Chip, a boy in my class, learned that lesson the hard way. His mother was publicly punished after inserting a backdoor into a security system meant for Capitol doors. Whipped, until the sun went down. We could even hear her screams, her begging for them to stop. She was lucky she wasn't hung, though dad suspected it was only because she was pregnant. The Capitol has been worried about our birth rates for years.

My class has only fifteen students. The one below me has just eleven. Too many women have spent their lives in the factories, breathing in lead, handling toxic metals—poisoned before they ever had a chance to bring new life into the world. My mom getting pregnant this year is nothing short of a miracle, one Dad had long since stopped believing in. They had given up on a sibling for me years ago, convinced I was their only chance. Their greatest miracle.

Though, if you ask me, Dad winning the Games was the real miracle.

Mom's hand slips from my shoulder. She's been walking behind me in silence, only the occasional sniffle breaking through. She's trying to be strong. To seem calm.

She has no reason to be emotional. Not in the eyes of the crowd. To them, we should have nothing to fear. My name is in the bowl only once. No extra tesserae. No desperate chances taken for food. I should be safe.

But we know better.

"Vera," a soft voice calls from behind.

I turn to see Zinka approaching, arms outstretched. "Are the hormones getting to you?" she teases, drawing Mom into a comforting hug.

Mom nods, fresh tears falling onto the dark blue fabric of Zinka's blazer. The thick shoulder pads give her petite frame a more commanding presence. Zinka is one of District 3's lead engineers in food and entertainment. Just last year, she designed a voice-activated meal dispenser, just say what you want into a mouthpiece, and the machine creates it instantly.

It was a sensation in the Capitol.

And, if the rumors are true, tributes might even get to use it when they arrive for the Games. I might get to use it.

Because that's the reality: we won't get to use it. Not here. Not at home. 

Zinka steps back and places her hands on my mother's shoulders, gently wiping away her tears. Concern flickers across her face, her dark curls framing sharp cheekbones as she squints at my mother with deep brown eyes. I know that look. Confusion. Suspicion. My mother has no reason to be this emotional, at least, not one she can admit.

I know Zinka's daughter, Dio. She's striking, the perfect image of her mother, with dark chocolate skin and big brown eyes. She always refuses my extra bread rolls, insisting they have enough food at home. But once, on a factory day, she helped me conceal them from the Peacekeepers. That's when I knew Dio, has no love for the Capitol either.

"Ampert is going to be fine, just like Dio," Zinka says, her voice steady but not quite convincing. She knows the truth, even if she won't say it aloud. With each passing year, fewer children are born, fewer names fill the reaping bowls. The odds aren't what they used to be.

Dio is one of the Capitol's so-called Brilliance Initiative children, a product of their grand experiment. They handpicked engineers, matched them up like lab specimens, and encouraged them to have children. To preserve intelligence. To secure the future of innovation. Those families received extra food, more money, better resources. Factory families were furious. Some even revolted. But the Peacekeepers reminded them of their place, swiftly and mercilessly.

I don't know if there was ever any love between Zinka and Kai, but they've always been kind, and as Dio's parents they seem to be doing well in raising her. My mother, however, is struggling to keep it together. I can feel her avoiding looking at me, her composure fragile. Zinka gently rubs her back, offering comfort before a peacekeeper steps in, directing her to move.

Once Zinka is out of sight, my parents pull me into a tight hug. For a moment, I feel my body relax, a rare sense of security in the chaos of the day. Dad will be with me. Just like Wiress, he's a mentor and a former tribute. I won't be alone, not really.

The hug mutes everything around me, and I don't even notice the peacekeeper until they gently ask my parents to step aside. They let go, and I turn for one last glance. I wave, my hand trembling slightly, but my parents return the wave with steady hands. I catch a glimpse of my dad wiping away a tear. The peacekeeper pulls my dad away from my mom, and they exchange one final, long hug before he heads toward the stage.

I move toward my spot in the square, trying to calm my shaking hands. As I walk, I spot Dio. She stands with a quiet grace, her dark blue dress complementing her curls, which are pulled back with a small blue bow. She looks cute, and for a moment, her smile brings a small measure of relief.

Dio isn't alone. On her right are Fran and Coil, holding hands tightly, their nerves apparent in the way they shift uncomfortably. They glance at me and whisper a shaky "hi." Their trembling hands grip each other even tighter, and I can't help but feel a pang of guilt. But then the reality hits: I will be picked. The weight of it presses down on me, and I find myself retreating into the stillness of acceptance.

The square fills with kids of all ages, their anxious faces blending into one blur of fear and resignation. I spot my dad standing by the podium, scanning the crowd. As usual, we're placed at the back, far from where he stands, where his eyes will inevitably lose me. After a moment, I watch him give up the search, and my heart drops just a little.

Then, all of a sudden, a large screen flickers to life above the podium. The anthem of Panem echoes through the square, sharp and hollow. We're greeted by a montage of past Games, a brutal highlight reel of violence and despair. My father's face flashes across the screen, among other victors, and lastly, Wiress, all are looking worn, almost broken. There's no trace of victory in their expressions, only exhaustion. I've never been able to watch my father's Games in full, and even this brief, recycled clip is enough to twist my stomach into knots. The death, the blood, the pain, it seems unbearable.

The footage shifts to the rebellion, the war, and the familiar reminder of why we endure this so-called punishment. The Capitol's message, sharp as ever: This is what you deserve.
I catch murmurs rippling through the crowd. Quiet, but restless. Then the screen switches to a live feed of the stage. A man in a blindingly bright yellow suit steps forward, his long blue hair trailing almost to his waist. Even from here, I can see the glittering eyeliner framing his eyes, catching the light with every movement. He flashes a wide grin, revealing golden teeth and sharp, pointed fangs.

He introduces himself as Cassian Glimmerwell, the same way he does every year here in District 3. As far as I know, he's always been our reaping host. He doesn't look a day over thirty, but my mother once told me she remembers him from when she was young. He must be nearing sixty by now. The Capitol's obsession with cosmetic procedures keeps their people looking youthful far past their years. Cassian always seems especially thrilled to present our district, more so since we had a victor last year. He adores the gadgets and sleek tech they present him as a "token of appreciation," though we all know it's less a gift and more a requirement.

As Cassian's excitement builds, his voice grows brighter, almost gleeful, as if this is the highlight of his entire year. He claps his hands sharply, beckoning us closer to the dreadful moment. The crowd falls into a heavy, uneasy silence, as if the air itself thickens with dread. With a practiced sweep of his arm, Cassian steps toward the two glass bowls — one for the boys, one for the girls. They glimmer under the harsh stage lights, filled with neatly folded slips of paper, innocent-looking but carrying the weight of lives.

I already know my name is in there. Maybe it's on every single ticket. How else would they make sure I'm the one they pull? But they can't fake the whole thing. They still need to draw another name for the boy. My heart pounds in my chest as Cassian's perfectly manicured fingers hover over the bowl.

Cassian gives a big smile, his golden teeth sparkling in the sunlight. "Coil Ferrox," he announces, his voice bright and theatrical.

My heart sinks.

I hear a sharp gasp next to me, and my eyes flick to Fran, who is slowly letting go of Coil. The color has completely drained from Coil's face. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes wide with terror. As Fran turns toward her sister to pull her into an embrace, a peacekeeper starts pushing his way through the crowd.

Then the realization hits Coil. She begins to beg, her voice shaking. "Please no, please, I'm only twelve."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd like an electric current. Fran's sobs grow heavy and ragged, but it doesn't matter. Before anyone can do a thing, Coil is dragged up onto the stage, her small frame trembling like a leaf. 

Coil, with her trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks, barely old enough to carry her own weight, let alone a weapon. My chest tightens painfully. The crowd is a blur around me now, their whispers blending into a low hum in my ears. I lock my jaw, forcing myself to breathe.

This is the truth of the Games. No matter how young, no matter how terrified—they are all enemies the moment they step into that arena. Even Coil. But before I can steady my thoughts, Cassian is already unfolding a second slip of paper.

"Dio Linken," he announces, his voice sharp with delight.

My knees nearly buckle. Dio, who has been standing beside me all this time, lets out a sharp gasp, her breath hitching as she stares ahead in disbelief. I can hear her trembling, small sniffles breaking through the tense air. Not far off, Zinka's cry pierces the crowd. "Dio!" she calls, her voice raw with desperation.

The murmurs ripple louder now, uneasy and full of shock. Two twelve-year-olds. One is rare, but two? That's almost unthinkable.

I feel my heart plummet, the weight of it heavy in my chest. I know I'll be the third twelve-year-old. It's inevitable. I glance around at the few others still standing here—Ohm, Chip, Kelvin, Lect, Lyra, Tess, Luma. 

Then, before I realize it, I see it. A Peacekeeper seizes Dio by her small arm, and her blue dress crumples under his harsh grip. Her eyes lock with mine in a desperate plea as she reaches for me. I don't think, I just act, grabbing her hand, but before I can even squeeze it, the Peacekeeper yanks her away, her fingers slipping through mine like sand.

Her sobs echo through the crowd, piercing the uneasy silence, as murmurs ripple through the gathered people. It's chaos now. I know they can hear it—feel it—just as I do. The crowd is turning colder, their collective breath held. Then, Cassian, either oblivious or simply indifferent to the agony around him, reaches for the boys' bowl. It doesn't matter; his fingers close around a slip of paper, unfolding it with a theatrical flair. I brace myself, knowing it's coming. My name will be next.

"Lect Cira."

I turn around, my heart sinking, and there it is—another 12-year-old from my class. Lect. The shock of it hits me like a cold wave, but it's nothing compared to the noise that follows. Parents are screaming, their voices shrill, desperate, pleading. Then I hear it—sharp, cracking sounds that echo like whips snapping through the air, each crack followed by a cry of pain and then a sickening silence. It feels like the sound of something being struck with something electrical, but I can't place it. A taser maybe?

But Lect, standing next to me, doesn't flinch. He is unnervingly still, his face a mask of stone. His eyes, though, are empty—hollow—yet a single tear slowly begins its descent down his cheek. I watch in silence as he makes his way to the stage, a peacekeeper roughly prodding him with every step, but he doesn't resist. Lect is tall for his age, olive skin, with dark hair and freckles scattered across his face. His body is still too thin, almost fragile. As he steps onto the stage, I can't help but notice how he's almost as tall as Cassian, towering over the others.

A cold wave of dread crashes over me. I'm next. Cassian's hands hover over the bowl, his manicured nails gleaming under the stage lights. And then I see it—one slip rising, almost as if drawn by an invisible force, clinging to his nail. Is this how the kids are chosen this year? Is that why all the names pulled so far have been 12-year-olds? I watch in disbelief as Cassian swiftly places the slip in his palm, unfolding it with a flourish.

"Ampert Latier."

The glimmer of hope that I'd clung to vanishes in an instant. My legs tremble as I see Fran, collapsing to her knees beside me, her sobs nearly deafening. Luma and Ohm both reach for my shoulders, offering silent support as I slowly, numbly, step toward the stage. The peacekeeper doesn't even touch me. I knew this was coming. I knew it would be me.

And then it hits me—like a hammer to the chest.

If I want to survive, I have to kill Coil, Lect, and Dio.

Chapter Text

As I stand on the stage, my legs tremble beneath me, refusing to hold me steady. My heart thunders in my chest as I glance at my father, standing at the side, wiping tears from his face. His attempts at a smile are painful, forced, but soon crumble into silent sobs. It must be unbearable for him, watching his only child, his miracle, be torn away. Every second feels like an eternity. I can feel his eyes burning into me, and though his mouth is silent, his pain is loud.

My gaze flickers to my mother. She stands beside him, she seems to have been allowed to stand here after I was reaped. Her hand rests on her belly, but it's not a tender gesture—it's more of a shield, a protective instinct. The other hand is tightly clasped in my father's, her knuckles white with the pressure. She isn't crying. She's angry. Her eyes shoot daggers at Cassian, who stands with a twisted grin, ready to celebrate us, the tributes of the 50th Hunger Games. 

"May the odds be ever in your favor," he says with a nod toward us, voice dripping with false sweetness. I can see the line of his wig from up close, it barely hides the cracks in his image. He's cheap, even by Capitol standards. He's the kind of man who might look good in a crowd, but up close, everything about him feels wrong. 

He extends his hand, and I hesitate for a fraction of a second before gripping it. His nails are perfectly manicured, normal to the eye. But as I touch them, I feel something odd—a sharp, static spark that runs up my arm. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but it's there. Is he electrified? I can't help but glance at his face again, noticing how he's looking past me, grinning, his golden teeth show my reflection. He is looking past me, like I am just another cog in the machine. 

Cassian turns around to bow, but the crowd is eerily silent. There are no cheers, no applause, not even the usual murmurs of discontent. It's as if the entire district has decided to hold its breath. Then, a loud boom splits the silence, followed by a trail of blue smoke that rises into the air. But there's no panic—just a tense stillness hanging over the crowd. Another boom echoes through the square. More blue smoke appears, creeping from different corners, coating the faces of the people, the children, the parents.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts. The adults push forward, while the children scramble to the sides, trying to find safety. The Peacekeepers, move quickly into the fray, but they're too late. A few of them are already close to the stage. I hear the sharp crackle of electricity, followed by cries of pain. Parents are collapsing to their knees, their bodies jerking with the force of whatever is happening. It's chaos, unlike anything I've ever seen before. The air is thick with the scent of blue dust, and all around me, faces blur into a whirl of movement and fear.

Still on the stage, I spot Cassian, his expression twisted in frustration and confusion. He dashes off the stage, fuming over the blue specks that mar his pristine suit. 

But the crowd—this is not just a protest anymore. Factory workers, engineers, people I've seen with their heads down, working in silence, are fighting back. They're armed with strange, small devices—sticks with rings attached to the ends. When they strike a Peacekeeper, the air crackles with electricity. The soldiers convulse, shaking violently before dropping to the ground. 

In the madness, my father's presence is the only thing I can cling to. He runs up to me, his arms reaching for me. Without a word, he pulls me into a tight embrace and pulls me and the other tributes to the side, out of the line of fire, where my mother already stands. "You're safer here," he says, his voice calm, as though this were all part of some twisted plan.

I look up at him, confusion and disbelief racing through my mind. His face betrays no surprise. No shock. How could he be so composed in the face of such madness? Was this all planned? Had he known this would happen? When did they organize this? Was he part of it?

The questions swirl in my mind, a storm of confusion and disbelief. For the first time, I wonder if I've been blind to something far larger than the Games themselves. "What is happening?" I ask, my voice barely rising above the chaos, my eyes scanning the crowd. They seem to be gaining the upper hand, pushing back against the Capitol's enforcers. The blue smoke still lingers in the air, thickening the tension.

"A protest," my father answers, his voice steady but his eyes darting nervously, scanning for any sign of danger. His calm demeanor unsettles me—how long had he known this was coming? Was he prepared for it?

Without another word, he pulls us off the stage, urging us to move quickly. Our footsteps are loud against the sudden silence that falls over the square. The crowd's energy is palpable, a mixture of anger and hope, as we push through the disarray.

As we make our way toward the train station, I glance back, my heart skipping a beat. Coil is lagging behind, her gaze locked on something—or someone. I follow her line of sight, and my breath catches. Fran is running toward her, her sobs shaking the air around her, desperate and raw. "I can't leave!" she cries, her voice breaking as she stops in her tracks, waiting for Fran to catch up. The crowd parts just enough to allow their paths to cross.

The moment feels like an eternity, a fragile pause in the chaos, as Fran reaches her and pulls her into an embrace. No Peacekeepers rush forward to break it up. No orders are given. For a brief moment, it's as though the Capitol's iron grip has loosened, and nothing else matters but the raw, unguarded humanity of two sisters caught in a fleeting, tender connection.

The sight of that moment, so pure, so unaffected by the violence around us, feels like a silent protest in itself.

I hear more yelling, the sound of frantic footsteps, and before I can process it, the parents and siblings of the other tributes are running up to us. It's as if they knew exactly where we were going, as if they had all been waiting for this moment. The plan. Was it a secret shared between them? Or was this something bigger than I ever could have imagined?

Zinka and Kai stumble forward, their clothes coated in the same blue dust that now lingers in the air, the faint shimmer of it clinging to their skin. Coil and Fran's parents follow closely behind, carrying a smaller boy in their arms. I don't know his name, but it's impossible not to make the assumption that he's their little brother. They embrace the two girls with a tightness that says more than words ever could.

Zinka and Kai, their faces streaked with tears, lift Dio into their arms. The child's hair, once a vibrant shade of dark brown, is now dusted with blue, the powder settling in messy clumps. The blotches appear on her face as well, but Dio doesn't seem to care. The tears streaking down her cheeks seem to break apart the blue dust on her face. 

Lect runs toward his father and older sister, his fragile body trembling as he collides into their arms. They wrap him up in a tight hug, pulling him close as they all exchange quiet words, tears mixing with the dust.

The family huddles together, and for a moment, time slows. The world is chaos around them, but here, in this fragile moment, they're just parents holding their children, siblings finding solace in each other's presence.

Dad grips my hand tightly, his voice steady but urgent. "We are going to escape," he says, his eyes scanning the chaos around us. I glance past the hugging families, their embraces offering the only semblance of peace in the madness. The adults are still fighting the peacekeepers, but with the blue dust clouding the air, it's hard to distinguish one from the other. Despite the chaos, it's clear that many peacekeepers have been taken down, their bodies jerking from the electrical weapons, but the resistance is far from over.

I look at my parents, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I see something new in their eyes—a glimmer of hope, fragile but undeniable. "Where are we going?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.

"To Twelve. The woods in Twelve," Mom answers quickly, her gaze never leaving the crowd.

District 12 isn't far from here, but as far as we know, there's nothing beyond it—nothing left, at least. District 13 had once been a part of the districts, but it was destroyed long ago, buried under the Capitol's fear. "How?" I ask, my mind racing, but my question goes unanswered. Instead, I catch the worried look in my parents' eyes as they peer over my shoulder, their expressions shifting into something darker.

I follow their gaze and my blood runs cold. A peacekeeper is storming towards us, their boots heavy against the ground. Lect, who is further away, notices too. Before any of us can react, his sister, eyes wild with determination, charges forward, slamming into the peacekeeper and knocking them to the ground.

Lect's father, still holding onto his electrified baton, rushes to join the fray, beating the peacekeeper with quick, efficient strikes. Lect watches this scene unfold with a mix of confusion and fear, his young eyes wide at the violence. The peacekeeper finally stays down, twitching and unmoving.

Lect's father and sister quickly regroup, moving toward us. The other families—Coil's and Dio's—are ready to go, their tense expressions mirroring the urgency of the moment. The peacekeepers are starting to realize that we've gone missing, and their focus shifts to finding us.

"Let's go," Dad says, tugging me forward, his grip firm and reassuring. We move quickly, slipping through the chaos, heading towards the uncertain refuge of District 12. The blue dust hangs thick in the air, swirling around us as the crowd continues to clash with the peacekeepers.

As we push closer to the train station, my gaze shifts to the looming mayor's building ahead. A cold, metallic structure that towers over the rest of the town. Its walls are adorned with twisting gears and rings. Electrical waves flicker like bizarre lightning across the facade. The soft hum of power pulses through the air, but it's drowned out by the sound of distant yelling and the crackling of electricity from the ongoing battle.

Through the chaos, I spot the camera crew. They're rushing inside the mayor's building, Cassian among them, his face tight with worry, his suit now speckled with blue dust.

We finally reach the train station, and my heart sinks as I spot the Capitol train in the distance, but there's something else, something even more unexpected—a black car with tinted windows, almost hidden in the shadows. It's not what I had expected, but my dad opens one of the doors with urgency, and a sense of dread creeps over me.

But before I can climb in, a sharp cry cuts through the chaos. I whip around, my breath catching in my throat as I see Fran's mother being seized by a peacekeeper. She struggles, but he's too strong, and then more peacekeepers, a dozen of them, begin to flood from the Capitol train. They swarm like locusts, and with their batons raised high, they begin dragging and beating the parents of the other tributes.

My dad shoves me into the car, and I can hear my mother's frantic footsteps behind me. But as soon as I sit down, a terrifying scene unfolds in front of me. Chip's mother is pulled from the driver's seat by her long, brown hair, her body slammed to the ground. The peacekeepers show no mercy as they beat her senseless, her defiance still evident even after all the years. The cruel lashes from last year clearly didn't stop her from resisting the Capitol, and they make sure to remind her just how little they tolerate any rebellion.

My father is torn from the car door, his body yanked backward by one of the peacekeepers. I hear my mother scream, "Beetee, no!" but her voice is drowned out by the thundering of fists and the crack of metal against flesh. The peacekeeper's baton strikes my father's body, and I watch helplessly as he crumples to the ground, clutching his stomach.

But then, from somewhere above the fray, a woman's voice cuts through the noise—a voice sharp and commanding. "He's a mentor. A victor. We need him."

The peacekeeper freezes, the baton lowered, his grip loosening. Slowly, my father rises, pain evident in his every movement. His hand clutches his side, but he doesn't make a sound. I want to scream, but the knot in my throat won't let me. The woman, the head peacekeeper, steps forward, her eyes cold and calculating. She doesn't care about the violence, about the pain, as long as she can control the narrative.

"Put them in the train, now!" The head peacekeeper's voice rings out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a knife. The peacekeepers shift their focus, their hands now harshly pulling the children, including us, toward the train.

Wiress appears almost out of nowhere—quiet and determined as always. Without hesitation, she moves to my mother, gently helping her out of the car. The head peacekeeper doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps she doesn't care. My mother's pregnant belly stands out starkly in the madness, a shield of sorts, a fortunate circumstance that keeps her from the same fate as the other parents. I can't help but think it: What if she wasn't pregnant? Would they have beaten her too? Guilt rises in my chest. The other children, the other tributes—they've already endured so much.

As I'm pulled aboard the train, my heart feels like it's being torn from my chest. Wiress and my dad are right behind us, both of them moving quickly, trying to keep pace as peacekeepers shove us forward. My mother's face is wet with tears, her hands still protectively cradling her belly. The head peacekeeper, holding her with one arm, forces her away from the train, her body stiff, but she doesn't resist.

She looks at me, and though her face is strained with fear, she manages a small, sad smile. Her eyes flick to my father, who is already boarding behind us, and then back to me. She nods, a silent message, her lips barely moving, "Come back to me"

And in that moment, I see it, the strength she's always had, even when everything around us is falling apart.

Chapter Text

We've been stuck at this fancy dinner table for over an hour. There are at least ten peacekeepers in the room, all pressed against the walls, guns ready. I know they're not here to guard the food.

Cassian joined us quickly after we were forced to enter the train. He's loving every second of it, grinning like this is just another show to him. I wonder if he even cares what's going to happen to us. The other kids are quiet. Coil sits across from me, staring down at her plate like she's trying to disappear. Lect hasn't touched his food at all. Dio's staring out the window, probably seeing a blue sky for the first time. I catch glimpses of it too — it's so bright, so calm. We never get skies like this. Back in our district, the factories have polluted the air so much that it's usually just gray clouds. Seeing this, it almost doesn't feel real.

My dad's next to me. He hasn't let go of my hand since we got here. His grip is tight, like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll be gone. I try not to think about that. The food looks perfect, but I can't eat. Not with my stomach twisted up like this. We're still trying to process everything that happened. The violence, the fear, not knowing if our families are even alive. The train keeps moving, the ride to the Capitol feels endless. Everyone sits quietly, lost in their own heads. I keep thinking about my dad — about how he fought back.

Coil sits across from me, her eyes fixed on her empty plate. Lect is staring at the floor, like it's going to give him the answers he's looking for. No one dares speak. It feels like the words would make everything too real.

Then, Cassian breaks the silence. He raises his glass, offering a toast, "To the 4 tributes this year from District 3, may the odds be ever in your favor." He drags out the word four, making sure everyone hears it.

Nobody raises their glass. Nobody even looks at him.

I keep my gaze fixed on my hand, looking at my dad's hand on top of it. His fingers are rough, calloused, with small scars from burns and cuts. Cassian sighs, clearly frustrated. "Well, you're no fun," he mutters, and I can practically picture the grimace on his face.

Wiress has left the table. She grabbed a roll of bread and is now sitting in one of the fancy blue chairs by the window, slowly tearing the bread apart, eating it piece by piece.

Despite how hungry the others must be, the food doesn't seem to matter. Normally, they'd be drooling over all of it. But right now, their minds are too occupied to care. I try to break free from my spiraling thoughts and pick up a small roll of bread, placing it gently on Coil's plate. She looks up at me, her gaze distant, like she's not fully aware of what's happening around her. I smile at her, hoping she'll feel safe enough to eat. She smiles back, her eyes still a little unfocused. But then, she picks up the roll and starts eating it, slow, like she's processing every bite.

I sigh softly in relief. Lect seems to have found his appetite too, and begins picking at the fresh berries in a small golden bowl in front of him. Dio, though, is still staring out the window, her brown eyes reflecting the bright sky outside.

"Dio?" I whisper, not wanting to snap her out of her thoughts too harshly. She blinks and turns toward me. "I think it's good to eat now, while we still can," I say, immediately regretting the choice of words.

It's logical—true even—but mentioning the possibility of starvation in the arena feels wrong. It's harsh. I brace myself, ready to apologize, "Sorry, I—"

"It's okay," she interrupts, her voice soft "you're right, we need to be well-fed". Her eyes are glassy, distant, as she picks up some bread, chewing slowly, still lost in her thoughts. "She'll be fine," I add quickly, trying to reassure myself more than anyone. "They'll all be fine. Our parents are too valuable to the Capitol."

I feel my dad's grip on my hand tighten slightly, like I've said something wrong. I glance up at him. "Mom will be fine too," he adds, his voice steady, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

After a long while, the train begins to slow down for a quick fuel restock. "Is this normal?," my dad and Wiress nod, confirming it. I allow myself to slouch into the velvet blue couch that faces the front of the train. Ahead of me, there's nothing but endless railroad, no buildings in sight, barely any trees. But on the side, I catch a glimpse of a small station, built solely for fuel stops.

We're not allowed to step outside. The peacekeepers stand guard at the door, making sure no one leaves. Soon enough, we're all escorted to our own bedrooms further back in the train. Each room is lavishly decorated in shades of gold and blue.

My dad has a separate bedroom. "Do you want me to stay with you?" he asks, his voice trying to sound casual, but I can tell he's desperate to spend every moment with me while he still can. I nod, feeling both relieved that I won't have to be alone and guilty that all the other kids are stuck here by themselves, without parents or siblings.

"Maybe we can all sleep in the front of the train, together?" I suggest.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," my dad says, ruffling my hair and smiling proudly.

I share the idea with the other kids, and they all seem relieved not to have to be alone tonight. As the train starts moving again, we move all the pillows, mattresses, and couches to the front of the train and build one big mattress. We each bring our blankets, and soon it looks like an ocean of blue blankets, pillows, and cushions. It's chaotic, but it feels perfect.

The peacekeepers don't seem to mind. In fact, it might even be easier for them. They can keep an eye on us all without needing to check every single room. Only Cassian seems bothered by the mess we're making.

"Don't put those expensive pillows on the ground!" he protests, trying to gather some of them back onto the couches. "Cassian, just go sleep in your room if it bothers you so much," dad replies. "You might find a bit more peace there." As the train grows darker and the sun begins to set, casting gorgeous orange and pink hues on the golden accents, we start to get ready for bed. Each of us has been given a blue pajama set. Wiress and Dad sleep on the outside edge, I sleep next to Dad, Dio is closest to the window, and Lect and Coil are in the middle.

When I close my eyes, I feel myself being pulled back into the chaos—the blue smoke bombs, the beating, the screams. My breathing quickens, anxiety creeping in. But then, I feel a hand wrap around me, pulling me close. I don't need to open my eyes to know who it is. It's Dad. I can feel my body relax, and soon, I drift into sleep.

I'm woken by the sounds of crying. When I open my eyes, I see Lect sitting up straight, his face etched with distress. Wiress is rubbing his back, Coil is cuddled into his left arm, and Dio is looking at him with wide, frantic eyes.

When Dio notices I'm awake, and my dad starts to move away from me, she crawls towards me. Her curls are frizzy, still some blue specks in her hair, but she's clearly washed her face. "He had a nightmare," she says, her voice soft but anxious. "He was crying, kicking, and screaming... he accidentally hit Coil. He didn't mean to." She seems startled by the intensity of it all.

I've heard of this before. Mom used to say Dad had those dreams when he first left the arena. He had them for weeks, and she'd make him tea every night. Eventually, they passed, but during the yearly reaping, he'd sometimes have one, haunted by memories of the previous years.

I glance around for my dad, who is already boiling water. "He had them too," I say quietly, still watching him.

"Really?" Lect sniffles.

"Yes, and me too," Wiress adds softly. "It just happens when your brain sees things it can't process."

Dad returns with a blue mug filled with steaming tea. He hands it to Lect, who takes it gratefully, sipping it carefully. I can smell it—chamomile, just like Mom makes it. Sometimes she adds honey. She gave it to me on my first day of school. Lect visibly starts to relax. It's still dark outside, and now only two peacekeepers are guarding the room. They seem unfazed, their weapons no longer actively held. I think they've realized that a group of engineers and 12-year-olds having a sleepover isn't much of a threat. As we all slowly settle back to sleep, Dio doesn't move back to her original spot. Instead, she grabs her blanket and mattress and moves it next to me. Lying down, she faces me, her hands tucked under her cheek, her hair flattened by the pillow. Her big brown eyes twinkle slightly. "Ampert," she pauses, "how are we going to survive this?"

She doesn't seem afraid—more curious, like she's already trying to figure out a plan.

"I don't know yet," I reply, the truth heavy in my voice. How are a bunch of 12-year-olds supposed to survive the Hunger Games, especially one with twice as many tributes?

"I think we have to stick together," she says, offering a small smile as she reaches out a hand to me. I grab it, softly squeezing it—just like I wanted to when she was taken by the peacekeepers.

"Seems like a good plan," I reply, yawning and betraying how tired I really am. "We can discuss it tomorrow, together?" I suggest.

She nods and yawns too, closing her eyes. A small smile tugs at her lips as she drifts off. We're awoken by the elated tone of Cassian. "Up, up, tributes! Time to get ready! We're here, at the Capitol!" He sounds almost too excited, probably because he's back home, away from the polluted, grimy atmosphere of our district. He strides over to the window, crossing his arms but flicking his wrist dramatically as he speaks, his nails catching the light. "The bright blue sky, how blessed we are with this weather."

We all drag ourselves out of bed, reluctantly returning our mattresses to their rightful places. Dressing ourselves in the new clothes laid out for us, basic blue jumpsuits, nothing special. Our old clothes are gone—only a piece of black cord with a small nut bolt wrapped around it remains on my bed. The necklace I had made out of boredom in class, it must've been still in my pants. The train has been cleaned by the staff here, Avoxes my father explains quietly, people who are not able to talk due to their tongues being mutilated. He said that these are people who the Capitol sees as betrayers, but are often people who tried to resist or flee. 

I wave of fear washes over me, what if one of the other kids their parents are punished like this, what if mom is punished like this? 

Chapter Text

As we pass President Snow's mansion, we enter a huge building known as the Tribute Center. When I look up, it's almost dizzying how tall it is — like it scrapes the clouds.

Inside, we're split up right away. I catch a glimpse of Dio and Coil being led off by a bunch of brightly colored men and women, their faces twisted like they've just been handed something awful. Like they can't believe they have to work on filthy, scrappy kids like us.

Lect and I are handed off to another group of brightly colored adults, who immediately start chirping their names at us in these high, sugary voices. They actually seem happy about something, I catch a few of them saying how lucky they are that we're only twelve, since it means there's not as much waxing and shaving to do.

I glance at my father. He gives me this slow, tight nod, his lips pressed in a straight line like he's holding something back. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it's words he can't say. Either way, I get the message.

I guess I'll just have to accept this.. 

One of them is Elexia. She's got bright pink hair that looks like it's been dipped in neon paint, orange-tinted skin, and lips so white they look like chalk. She sweeps me away to a room she calls the "base-prep room," like I'm some broken machine getting cleaned up.

For the next hour, they pluck at me, scrub me, and wash me until I feel like I'm going to slide right off the chair. When I finally look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. My thick eyebrows are now thin lines, my hair is neatly trimmed, and I sort of look... shinier? Like a new circuit board fresh out of the factory.

Tivven, who I think is a man, but honestly, I'm not totally sure — not that it matters — has long yellow hair with green stripes tied into a bun. Tiny gemstones sparkle on their cheekbones and temples, like they glued stars to their face on purpose. They take my hands gently and start polishing my nails, painting them a deep blue.

"You will look electrifying," Tivven says, finishing with my pinkie.

I'm still confused, so I finally ask, now that one of my prep team has started talking to me instead of each other, "What's all this for?"

"For the opening ceremony, of course!" Tivven says, as if it should be obvious. They see the confusion on my face and explain further. "Oh, yes, you're only twelve. Well, every year, the tributes are introduced during the chariot ride, and the best looks make the best impression. That means more sponsors for you, of course."

They blow lightly on my nails. I try to block out all the conversation happening around me, but it's hard — the prep room is full of bright voices and weird smells and glitter that never seems to settle.

Elexia is chatting with someone I’ve now learned is named Zephyra — a tall woman with bright orange hair and skin that looks like it’s been pulled back at the sides, held in place with... rope? Or maybe tape? It’s hard to tell.

“Does it really work?” Elexia asks, pointing with her long neon-pink nails at Zephyra’s stretched face.

Zephyra laughs, a high, sharp sound. “Yes! When I take this off in three days, I’ll look younger than this twelve-year-old,” she says, gesturing at me.

I don’t say anything. I just sit there while Tivven carefully starts painting the other hand, pretending it doesn’t bother me to be compared to someone who literally stretched their face into a younger version of themselves.

“Well, now you’re ready to be styled,” Tivven says brightly. Honestly, they feel like the only one acting even kind of normal — aside from the gemstones glued to their face and the yellow-and-green hair.

They hand me a robe to cover up and guide me down the hall to the District 3 suite. The doors slide open to reveal something clean, modern, and way too big.

My dad is already there. He stands up from the massive grey couch in the center of the room the second he sees me. He pulls me into a tight hug.

“They didn’t change you too much,” he murmurs, like it’s a relief.

I want to tell him I feel totally different — like I’ve been scrubbed and trimmed and filed into a shinier version of myself — but I don’t. He looks pleased, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe he expected worse. Bald? Tattooed? Gold teeth?

We sit in silence as the others start to trickle in.

Dio’s curls bounce more now, less frizz and more Capitol-style shine. Coil’s long dark hair is smooth and glossy, draped neatly over her shoulders. Lect looks about the same. His curls were already short, and they haven’t touched much of his face yet. He gives me a small nod as he passes, like, you survived too, huh? 

We sit a little nervously on the couch, not wanting to spread out. Not wanting to split up — not again.

Lect is the first to speak. “We should stick together,” he says. “Even in the arena.”

I see the relief flash across Coil’s face. She nods right away. But Dio looks doubtful, her arms crossed tight.

“But eventually…” she doesn’t finish the sentence.

I nod anyway. “Yeah. But we’re stronger together. Maybe other tributes will want to team up too. We don’t stand a chance against the Careers alone.”

The Careers. I’ve heard about them, from dad. Big, brutal eighteen-year-olds who actually volunteer to go into the Games — all from the rich districts: 1, 2, and 4. They train for this. They want it. For them, it’s an honour. Last year, Wiress survived only because the arena didn’t need strength — it needed brains. She figured something out with light beams, patterns or something. I don’t know the full story, but my dad says she noticed what no one else did. 

“Maybe it’ll be like last year,” I say, trying to sound hopeful. “Something we can outsmart.”

I hear my dad take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“They wouldn’t do that twice in a row, right?” Dio asks, glancing at him.

Before he can answer, Wiress walks in from her room. She looks a little out of it — her eyes darting around. It must be strange, being back here just a year later.

“They don’t,” she says quietly. “They change it every time. But your dad…” She looks straight at him. “He found a way to win without needing brute strength.”

I turn to my dad. It hits me that I don’t actually know how he won. I never asked. I think I was scared to. What if it was something violent? What if it hurt him to talk about it?

“He built a trap,” Wiress continues, almost gently. “An electrical one. The Cornucopia was made of metal, and he used that. Took out six tributes, with just one electrical shock". 

She pauses. “He wasn’t strong. Just smart.”

My dad lets out a quiet protest at the “not strong” part, which makes all of us laugh a little.

He’s smart, sure — probably the smartest person I know. But it’s true. He’s never been someone who lifts heavy things or does workouts. Just an average-looking guy whose brain works extraordinarily fast.

We talk a bit more, tossing around ideas, but the plan to stick together stays.

“Tomorrow, during training, I’ll try to find others who might want to join us,” I say, just before we’re all escorted off to our stylists.

Mine is a woman named Vortessa, who doesn’t say much as she dresses me in dark blue clothing patterned with jagged lightning bolts. It’s… fine. Pretty much what I expected. I’ve seen the outfits from previous years — District 3 tributes never look stylish, just kind of gimmicky. Always something blue with wires or blinking lights slapped on.

Last year, Wiress wore this shimmery blue dress with sleeves covered in little chips and coils. It looked ridiculous — like she’d gotten caught in the trash bin at a tech shop.

This year’s not much better. We all look the same, matching dark blue suits like we’re part of some weird electricity club.

When we’re placed on the chariot, I glance at the other districts. No one really stands out — except for District 12, they look exactly the same as last year. Their outfits don’t even seem tailored to the actual tributes.

The girl in front of the chariot of 12 has pigtails, and she’s talking with an older boy who has dark hair. They seem… normal. Like kids. Maybe I’ll ask them about an alliance later.

We start to move, but the horses seem to have trouble focusing. In front of us, Districts 1 and 2’s chariots are filled with strong, big tributes. They wave and smile at the crowd like they’ve done this a hundred times. The Capitol loves them, and the audience is eating it up.

The cheers are deafening. Shouts echo around us, and people dressed in every color imaginable are yelling and clapping. Some gasp when they see us. Four 12-year-olds on a chariot — it must look tragic. Only Lect might look older, just because his height makes him stand out more. I try to wave, force a smile, but then—

A loud bang. The horses panic. I see a chariot speeding toward us, the tributes inside frantically trying to control it. They miss us by a hair, barely dodging us as they charge ahead. The crowd, partially drunk, partially screaming, seems thrown into chaos.

Some horses are pulled off to the side. Others are frozen in place, and it’s District 12 that’s startled, hurtling uncontrollably toward the front. Even passing District 1. The screens displaying the parade blink off, cutting us all off from the view.

I try to see what’s happening, but our chariot’s being pulled to the side, taken out of the parade. Just as we turn the corner, I see that the chariot of 12 hasn’t stopped voluntarily.

Chapter Text

After the chaos of the chariot ride, everything feels weirdly quiet. Like the whole square is holding its breath. We're waiting around—no adults hovering over us for once, just a few Peacekeepers strolling around, pretending not to watch us.

I fiddle with the cuffs on my wrists, the plastic digging into my skin. I think it wouldn't even be that hard to break out of them. Probably just needs a good lock-pick and a little pressure in the right spot.

Across from me, I see a boy sitting alone against a pillar, older than me but not by much. He looks... normal. Not like the Careers, all big and shiny and proud. He's just sitting there, quiet, his face kind of blank. He seems to be looking at the names on the board. I follow his gaze and see my own name—no last names.

Probably because they don’t want people to know I’m a victor’s son.

I figure it's worth a try.

"Hi," I say, stepping closer. "I'm Ampert. I'm from Three."

He looks up and gives a small nod. "Hi, Ampert. I'm Haymitch. How old are you?"

"Twelve," I say. Then, because it seems fair, "You?"

"I turned sixteen yesterday."

I blink. That stinks. Getting reaped the day after your birthday. "That stinks," I say before I can stop myself. I squat down next to him.

Haymitch smiles a little—not a big smile, but real enough.

I can't help messing with the cuffs again, feeling for the locking mechanism. "I could open these in a jiffy if I had a hairpin," I mumble, mostly to myself.

I hear Haymitch chuckle. "Or a key."

I grin. "You sound like my father. He'll laugh when I tell him that." Dad always thinks of the logical solutions first, and a key would be the logical solution. Then I pause. Mentioning my dad might be weird. Most kids here will never see their families again. But Haymitch doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a safety pin.

"Try that, buddy."

How did he manage to bring that?

I take the pin and start feeling around the cuff, looking for the spot Dad showed me once. I think it’s better not to mention too much about him. He already got in trouble.

"They don’t really teach us this stuff in school," I say, focusing. "They stick to the tech we use in the factories. But my mother taught me. She’s the mechanical one. I know lots of things that should be useful in the arena. If you'd like to be my ally."

We’d already decided to look for more allies. Just to not be alone. And Haymitch seems capable. More capable than me or the other twelve-year-olds.

Haymitch's face shifts—not mean, just... sad.

"I had an ally," he says quietly. "And she’s already dead."

I remember the panic during the parade. All the shouting, the horses, the chariots pulling away. In all the chaos, we managed to get off ours and onto the square just in time to see Haymitch holding a small girl in his arms. The girl who’d stood beside him on the chariot.

Dio knew her name. She’d overheard it—Louella McCoy. Dio had called it brave, the way Haymitch had held her up to the president, made Snow see what had happened. A child. A tribute. Someone he had hurt. But I’d thought she was only injured.

Now I realize she was already gone.

"I'm sorry. I thought she was just knocked out. Louella McCoy, right? She’s the one you made President Snow own?"

I try to sound casual, but the words come out more rebellious than I meant. Haymitch doesn’t seem bothered.

He just shrugs. Says he’s not really “ally material” and that I should try the other districts.

I bluff. "Oh, I already have. But I’m trying to build a bigger alliance to counter the Careers."

I scramble to think of which districts I can claim. "I’ve got all of Seven and Eight on board, and Eleven’s thinking it over."

He looks surprised. Honestly, I’m a little surprised myself.

Without really thinking, I twist the pin and pop my cuff open. Now he looks really surprised.

“I’ll teach you later when we’ve got time,” I offer. I slip the cuff back on and keep the pin. For teaching. Or escape. Just in case.

"If you change your mind, I’ll be around."

I walk back to Dio, Lect, and Coil.

“We need to form alliances with Seven, Eight, and Eleven,” I say, quietly enough not to be overheard.

They glance back toward Haymitch.

“He wasn’t really up for an alliance yet. Also…” I turn to Dio. Her big brown eyes are already watching me.

“Louella is dead. Haymitch says she was dead.”

I can see her trying to work through it. The sadness. The way it lands differently when the dead girl looks just like you.

We get escorted to a van where my dad and Wiress are already sitting. They all look a little shaken.

"Are you okay?" my dad asks immediately as I slide in next to him. I give him a big side hug.

"What happened?" Wiress asks

Dio starts explaining the situation — what happened with District 12 — while I stare out the window, watching the Capitol flash by in blurs of light and color. My dad strokes my hair gently, and I feel myself start to relax, just a little.

The guilty feeling of having him so close during all this — when so many others have no one — gnaws at me. But I try to let it go. These might be some of my last moments with him. I should take them.

"We're trying to build an alliance," I say once Dio finishes talking about Louella. "I tried the boy from Twelve — Haymitch, the one who held her up — but he wasn’t ready yet. I think he just needs some time."

Wiress nods silently. She seems distant, like she’s somewhere else entirely.

"But I’m thinking of forming an alliance with Seven, Eight, and maybe Eleven too. All the districts that aren’t Careers, really," I add, trying to push some hope into the conversation.

"That’s a very good plan," my dad says, smiling proudly. It’s the same smile he gives me when I help him with a tricky project — warm and a little amazed.

"But you can help us as our mentors, right? Help us beat the Careers?" Coil asks, her voice a little desperate.

I see my dad try to hold onto his smile. But Wiress lets out a soft sigh.

"I won’t be mentoring you," she says quietly. "I’ve been asked to mentor Twelve. Since they don’t have a victor."

I stare at her. She looks so sad, like the decision wasn’t really hers. How long has she known?

"Maybe you can help convince Haymitch?" I ask, trying to spin it into something useful. If she’s mentoring him, maybe that can work for us too.

When we arrive at the Tribute Center, I notice we’re one of the first to get there. All the tributes are herded inside.

Wiress gives us each a hug — tighter than usual. When she hugs me, she leans in close.

"Stay close to your dad," she whispers in my ear.

I nod. I wasn’t planning on leaving him anyway.

As she pulls away, I see the heartbreak in her eyes — for him, for me, for my mother.
We were her only friends. Her only family in District 3.

Chapter Text

When we get back to the suite, the lights are dimmed low — Capitol mood lighting, like we’re supposed to feel relaxed instead of terrified. Our stylist is draped dramatically across the curved purple armchair, dressed in swirling sheer plastic and iridescent feathers. Her name is Glymara Vex, and she looks like a hummingbird collided with a disco ball. Dio mutters that Glymara spent at least five minutes fussing over what to do with her curls. “They’re so wild,” Glymara had said, turning Dio’s head this way and that. But in the end, she didn’t really do anything to them. Dio had insisted — firmly — that nothing be cut.

“Oh, my stars, you children nearly died out there!” she says dramatically, rising in a flurry of translucent wings. “I was having palpitations — actual palpitations. I had to take a vial of eucalyptus-scented vapor to steady myself!”

"We're okay," I mumble, flopping onto the couch beside my father. His hand finds mine and squeezes it tightly, and for a moment, I let myself pretend we’re just at home. Maybe on the couch watching the recap of the Reaping together. Except now I’m part of it.

Dad gives her a flat look. “Can we have a few minutes?”

Glymara flutters her fingers in mock offense but glides toward the hallway. “Fine, fine. Just don’t strategize yourselves into a frown — you’ll ruin your face symmetry.”

Once she’s gone, Dad turns to us and lowers his voice. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“We need to build alliances,” I say, sitting forward. “We can’t face the Careers alone. We’re too young. Too small.”

“But you’re not stupid,” Dad says. “That’s your edge. You and the others.”

“I said to Haymitch I had Seven, Eight, and Eleven thinking about it. That was a bluff.” I look down. “But I think it could be true. District 10 seemed social, I think Lect already talked to Buck? And I saw Ringina from Seven watching the Careers during the parade with this kind of disgust. We just have to talk to them.”

“We?” Lect asks.

“All of us,” I say. “Tomorrow, in training, we split up. Not all the time — just enough to feel people out. Make connections. Offer something.”

“Offer what?” Coil asks, nervous. “We’re four twelve-year-olds.”

“We offer not being alone,” I say. “We offer numbers. If we can get most of the non-Career districts on the same side, we outnumber them three to one. That’s huge.”

Dad nods slowly. “Divide and conquer. But in reverse.”

"If we want to recruit them, we need to be early," I say. "Maybe even the first ones there. Just a bunch of twelve-year-olds who take this seriously." I glance at Lect. "I can try talking to Seven first. Lect, can you take Ten?"

Lect nods without hesitation. "Buck seemed nice. I think he'd be open to an alliance."

Dio and Coil exchange a look. They seem less sure.

"But what if no one joins us?" Coil asks, her voice small. "I don’t even know what I can do."

I can feel the fear in her — all thin and shaky, like a wire about to snap. She’s just a kid, the same as me, but somehow she looks even smaller sitting there.

"Coil," I say, leaning toward her a little, "you’re one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever met. You’ll be perfect to talk to District Eight. They're the ones in peach-colored clothing."

She nods slowly, and some of the panic drains from her face.

"We’ll need to make the alliance obvious during interviews too," Dio says suddenly. Her voice is stronger now, steadier.

I nod. "Yeah. We need to make it us versus them."

We sit there a little longer, sketching out a battle plan we barely know how to fight — but it’s better than sitting around waiting to be picked off one by one.

Once everyone starts getting ready for bed, Dad pulls me aside and into my room. He closes the door gently, then looks around, like he’s making sure no one’s listening. “I’ll be there too, Ampert,” he says.

I frown. What does he mean? He can’t come to the arena. He can’t follow me there.

“What can you even do?” I ask. “During training?”

He exhales slowly. “I’m going to teach the tributes about electricity,” he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world. “How to conduct it. Using a potato.”

“A potato?”

He nods. “A very harmless-looking potato.”

“Why?” is all I can get out — but deep down, I already know. Because he’ll be watching me. Watching his twelve-year-old son, no fighting skills, no muscles, no chance, surrounded by killers. He will see the hope die in my eyes himself. And there is nothing he can do about it. 

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in closer. “I want you to bring Haymitch to me.”

I blink. Then, slowly, I smile. So Dad has a plan. Of course he does.

We might make it, I think to myself. 

He moves to my nightstand and picks up the lamp there. “Ampert, the arena — you have to see it like a machine. And like any machine, it can be broken.”

He clicks the lamp on. “It needs electricity. Everything here does. Cameras, traps, barriers, light, water pumps — it’s all run by power.”

Then he clicks it off. “But what if you don’t just turn it off…” He unscrews the lightbulb slightly, until it flickers and dies. “What if you break the one part that keeps it all running?”

“The vital part?” I ask.

He nods. “The relay system. The conductive junction. Whatever it is — it’s always somewhere. Usually hidden. But if you short it, or overload it…” He taps the base of the lamp. A tiny spark flares — then nothing.

He adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. He always does that when he’s talking about technology — something he understands so well it’s practically part of his body, part of the way his brain breathes.

“If we fry that part, the whole arena goes dark. The system crashes.”

I sit down hard on the bed. “But what happens then?”

He hesitates. “Some arenas have fail-safes. Others… don't. The one you’ll be in — I’ve seen blueprints. There’s a central tank below it. Massive. Cooled water. If the power grid collapses and reverses, that water won’t just stop moving through the vents — it’ll flood them. The entire arena.”

My heart pounds. “So... we drown it?”

He meets my eyes. “We drown it, if we have to.”

He gives me a goodnight hug and turns to leave the room.

Just before the door closes, I call out, “Did you know his birthday is the same day as the reaping? He just turned sixteen.” Dad pauses, hand still on the doorknob. I watch the thought land — the math adding up.

“That’s sad to hear,” he says quietly. “It means I was reaped the day he was born.” For a second, he’s not here with me. He’s somewhere else — in his own Reaping, in his own grief. But then he blinks it away, offers me one more soft smile, and closes the door behind him.

I realize I haven’t asked what he needs Haymitch for — but I think I already know. Haymitch is brave. Rebellious, even. He might be the only one with the nerve and the strength to actually pull this off.

But where would we even go, once we’ve drowned the arena? Is there a safe place somewhere? Or is escape just a delay?

I fall asleep with too many questions and no answers, dreaming not of escape but of baked rolls from home. Of my mom, sitting late at night at the kitchen table, flipping through a stack of papers. Of my dad, rubbing her shoulders gently on the couch when she was too tired to speak.

Of Wiress joining us at breakfast, her voice bright with excitement, telling us how she taught a few kids at school to make working earpieces.

For a moment in the dream, I forget where I am. And then I don’t want to wake up.

But I do. I wake up.

There's a knock at the door — light but insistent.
"Wake up! It's time for training. You wanted to be early birds, remember?" Glymara’s voice rings out like a Capitol alarm clock.

When I step out of my room, she’s already dressed — if you can call it that. She’s wearing a huge coat covered in bright blue feathers, and her hair is piled into a giant bun that looks suspiciously like a donut. She looks ridiculous, again. Who is she even dressing up for?

After breakfast — which none of us really eat, just push around our plates — we make our way nervously to the training center. We're the first ones there. Just as planned.

I head straight for the knife station. They're still setting up. I pick up a knife for the very first time, and it feels heavier than I expected.

Behind me, I hear a soft chuckle.

“You're holding it wrong,” says a girl.

I turn to see a dark-skinned girl with slick black braids, dressed in rusted brown clothes. She steps up beside me, picks up a knife with practiced ease.

“If you want to throw it,” she says, “hold it at the very end.”

She throws — the knife slicing through the air, thudding into the target just shy of the bullseye.

I recognize her. She was the one from the parade — her face had been an open book. She looked disgusted by the Careers.

I glance around. The other District 7 kids are nearby, watching.

“Thanks,” I say softly, adjusting my grip. “I’ve never held one before.”

Her expression softens. “Be glad.”

A woman approaches — tall, sharp eyes, clipboard in hand.
“I see you’ve already started,” she says, eyeing the knife in the target. “I’m Hersilia.”

Ringina just shrugs and grabs another knife.

“Now you go,” she says, nodding at me.

I steady myself. I try to aim, turn the knife just like she did, and throw. It hits the target — but with the blunt end — and clatters to the ground.

I brace for laughter. But none comes.

Ringina presses her lips together, then says, “Not bad for a first time, kiddo.”

I breathe out. Just a little.

“I’m better at other things. I promise.”

She smiles. “I know. I saw you yesterday.”

Yesterday? She must’ve seen me with Haymitch — when I picked the cuffs.

I smile back. “Then you know what I can do.” I pause, then push forward. “But I was also wondering... if you want to team up.” I try to sound confident. Not like a naive twelve-year-old. Like a smart twelve-year-old.

She frowns slightly. Thinking. Or maybe testing me. “Why team up?”.

“Because together we can defeat the Careers,” I say. “It’s three to one, you know. If all the non-Career districts join forces.” I bluff, again. “We already have Eight. And we’re working on Ten.”

I glance over at the rope-tying station. Lect is there, just like we planned — and Buck from District 10 has joined him. Ringina follows my gaze. She doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t walk away either.

“Seems smart. For the start, at least,” she says.

“Exactly. Once the Careers are gone, it’s every tribute for themselves. But until then, we stand strong. Together.”

I try not to sound desperate, like a twelve-year-old begging for protection. This isn’t about me surviving. Not entirely. It’s about making sure the Careers don’t. She glances back at her district. They’re all dressed in that rusted brown, blending in like bark on a tree. One of them — a small boy around my age — has long, dark curls tied in a bun. He looks nervous. Like he’s not sure what he's doing here either.

Ringina nods slowly. “I’ll consider it.” Then, without another word, she turns back to the knives and throws again — clean, straight, solid.

I take that as a win and walk off to find Lect, feeling… proud. Not safe. Not confident. But proud.

As I’m practicing some rope-tying, I overhear Buck and Lect talking. They seem friendly with each other, quietly comparing snares and knot types. Buck even shows him a method I haven’t seen before. Then I notice him hand Lect something small, and a moment later, Lect heads over to me.

I’m just finishing up my first snare — it’s not beautiful, but it holds — when Buck approaches.

“Looks good,” he says. His voice is lower than I expected, calm. He’s not much older than us, maybe fourteen, but he carries himself like he knows what he’s doing.

“Thanks. I’ve never set one before, but it seems pretty easy,” I reply, smiling.

His crimson red suit could be intimidating if he weren’t smiling back. He nods toward Lect, who’s playing with a black cord around his neck.

“I made that for Lect. Thought maybe you’d want one too, since we’re teaming up.” He hands me a black lariat — lightweight, looped, and smooth to the touch, like a lasso you could hide in your sleeve.

I thank him and wrap it around my wrist a few times until it feels snug. The moment it’s on, I feel... part of something.

Then I hear it.

“So, Ampert says you all are—”

Haymitch’s voice is cut short by a blur of green flying past me. Knives clatter to the floor. A sick, heavy thud.

I freeze.

Haymitch is on the ground, gasping. Panache from District 1 stands over him, fists clenched. It happened too fast to process.

I can’t move. I just stand there, heart pounding, gripping the cord tight around my wrist. Then I hear the snap of a taser. Panache crumples, shaking. Three Peacekeepers rush in and drag him off like trash.

Haymitch stays curled for a few seconds. Wyatt — the other boy from Twelve, I think — helps him up. Other tributes begin collecting the scattered knives.

I look around. Most of us are armed. There are barely five Peacekeepers.

I catch Ringina’s eye. She’s holding a knife. So is Haymitch.

There’s something shared in their expressions — something electric. A moment where I think… they might do it.

But they don’t. Hersilia steps in with the knife basket. Ringina hesitates, but after a tense pause, she drops hers in. So does Haymitch. I watch Ringina check his ribs. They speak, low and close. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I see how upset he looks. Then I notice the cameraman nearby, moving in. They converse, Haymitch and Ringina seem upset with what he is saying. 

I pretend to be adjusting my snare, giving them time. When I see him rejoin the District 12 group, I take my chance. I unwrap the cord from my wrist and jog up to him, doing my best to sound casual and cheerful.

“Hey, Haymitch! District Ten is in. They’re the ones in crimson. I met them during knot-tying. Buck — one of the guys — made me this lariat.” I lift it. “I was thinking of turning it into a token since I didn’t bring one.” I slip it over my head. “Then I can unwind it in the arena and use it if I need to.”

The girl beside him — blonde, sharp — wrinkles her nose. “Well, you can’t wear it like that. It’s not the least bit ornamental. You look like a weasel caught in chicken wire.” I try not to laugh. So that’s the way in. Let her fix me. “I do?” I ask, eyes wide with pretend innocence.

Haymitch tries to say something — maybe to defend me — but the girl’s already unwrapping the cord from my neck, focused. She twists it around her fingers, feeling the tension and flexibility.

“You could do a braid necklace,” she muses. “That’s a one-strander. It’d look something like this.” She pulls out one of her own — a beautifully braided black piece, neat and tight. A small medallion etched with a flower sits in the center. “No flower, obviously.”

“Okay,” I say, impressed. “Can you make me one?”

“I guess I could, but I don’t have any tape, so you’ll need to hold it down while I work.”

“I’ll hold it,” I say quickly. “And there’s nothing to hook it, so we’d have to tie it off, which is never my first choice.”

I remember the safety pin from Haymitch — still tucked in my pocket — and fish it out. “I’ve got this.”

She takes it, weighing it in her hand. “All right. Just be careful if you take it off, or the whole thing could unravel.” She starts walking toward the bleachers without looking back. “Come on.”

I almost follow her — almost. But I remember what my father said.

“My father wants to meet you,” I say to Haymitch, quickly, low enough that only he hears. “He’s at the booth with the potato.”

I don’t stop to explain. I don’t want her getting too far ahead. But I know Haymitch heard me. I know he’ll come.

Chapter Text

Maysilee, already halfway through braiding my cord, suddenly says, “I’m Maysilee, by the way.” Then, without missing a beat: “I have to say — the suits you wore during the parade? Absolutely awful.”

She doesn’t try to soften it. It’s clear she’s been watching everyone carefully, already forming opinions not just about the stylists, but probably about us, too.

I laugh. “I don’t know. I thought it was at least better than last year. But yeah — we did kind of look like we were part of an electricity club.”

She chuckles. “Better than my atrocious mine worker costume. It didn’t even fit properly. Our stylist is a wreck.”

There’s a flash of real frustration in her voice. Not just about the costume. About the whole thing. Maybe, somewhere deep down, she’d hoped the Capitol would give her a chance — even in this horrible, twisted context — to finally wear something bold, something expressive. Maybe she even dreamed of becoming a stylist. Not for the Games, of course. Just for people. For people who don’t know how to show who they are through what they wear.

She talks about how Haymitch told her to stop critiquing everyone’s looks. That she’s being “too much.” But I don’t think she is. I think it matters to her — feeling like herself. Looking like herself.

We talk, and we laugh, and the tension thins between us like mist burning off in the morning. Haymitch joins us just as she’s finishing the braid. She holds it up — tight, clean, elegant.
I run my fingers over it. “It’s beautiful. And perfectly symmetrical. I wouldn’t believe it’s all one strand. You’re really clever.”

She smiles. “And you have good taste.” She slips the cord over my head, adjusting it so it sits just right. There’s something about her — the way she focuses when she works, the way she shrugs off rules she doesn’t believe in. She reminds me of my mom. Not in an adult way, more like... a sister.

Maybe the baby my mom is carrying is a girl. Maybe, if things were different, I’d have a sister. But I’ll probably never know. She’ll probably never meet me. Before I can stop myself, I say it: “I wish you were my sister.”

She blinks. I see the words hit her — see her trying to figure out what to do with them. For a second, I panic. Maybe I said too much. Maybe I ruined this. Maybe she thinks I’m weird or too clingy or—

But then she smiles.

“I’ll be your sister,” she says softly.

“Great! I’m going to show my father!”

I hug her before she can change her mind. She stiffens — surprised — but I don’t give her the chance to pull away. I grin and run off toward my dad, the necklace bouncing against my chest.

“Dad, look! Maysilee made this — from District 12!” I hold up the cord proudly.

A Peacekeeper, who had been pretending to be very interested in the potato on his table, quietly steps away. There are still a few kids from District 8 nearby. Coil’s talking to them, her voice calm and bright, explaining something about the circuit board laid out in front of them. She knows more than I expected.

Dad doesn’t interrupt. He just smiles, watching her with a kind of quiet pride, then turns to me and greets me with a warm smile.

He takes the necklace gently in his fingers, the same way I did. “I have to admit — excellent craftsmanship.”

There’s a glint in his eyes. Something both amused and thoughtful. He leans forward slightly. “Maybe she can tie in something useful? Something small.”

I glance at the small metal discs on his table — thin, shiny, not much bigger than a coin. “Maybe,” I say.

I walk around the table and wrap my arms around him. “Will it be a girl?” I ask, my voice muffled in his coat. “The child Mom is carrying, I mean.”

His arms close around me, holding me tight. “I don’t know. Would you like a sister?” I look up at him. His eyes are glassy, he is thinking about mom, about a child I will never get to see, about a future without me. 
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just asked Maysilee if she wanted to be my sister. I like the idea. But it doesn’t matter what it is.”

My eyes sting. I press my face into his chest to hide it. He squats down slowly and pulls me into his arms, resting my head against his shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter what it will be,” he says gently. “Because you’ll always be their older brother.”

I hear him sniff — just once. And I let go. I let the tears come. 

As I wipe my tears away, I hear the call for lunch. We’re each assigned a section of the bleachers and handed a box of food. I look across the room and spot Haymitch, Maysilee, Wyatt — but no Louella. Her absence is sharp, like a missing tooth. They must feel it even more now, holding an extra lunch they don’t need. A reminder.

“Maybe we can join them,” Dio suggests, watching Haymitch too.

I nod. “Good idea.”

I force a smile and glance back at my dad. He’s still at his booth, chewing absentmindedly while watching the tribute stations. I want to go to him, to crawl into one of those hugs and stay there. But I can’t. If I want to survive — if I ever want to meet my sibling — I have to try. We all do.

The parade of colors begins moving toward the bleachers — peach from District 8, brown from 7, red from 10. I spot them all together.

“I asked them this morning,” Coil whispers beside me, twirling her black cord like a bracelet. “They’re coming.”

Together we head toward the District 12 section. I take a breath. “Can we join you?”

Haymitch nods. “Sure.” He doesn’t say much more, but it feels like a win already. We climb up beside them. Names are exchanged — Ringina from 7, Buck and Lannie from 10, a few others. I try to remember them all, but my head’s still full from everything this morning.

“Ampert, this is your show,” Haymitch says. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve got in mind?” I sit up straighter. This is my chance. “It’s like this,” I begin. “The Careers win most years, even though they’re only one quarter of us. We’ve got the numbers — three times more. So what if, just this once, we don’t play their game? What if we hunt them down before they can hunt us?”

Lannie from 10 looks uncertain. “Can we do that, do you think?”

“We don’t have to buy into their mind game,” I say. “That somehow they’ll always beat us. People act like the odds aren’t in our favor — but I think we can beat those odds.”

Wyatt blinks at the word odds. “Well, we’d have to factor in their stature, training, temperament, and sponsor gifts...” His eyes go unfocused. “That’s normal,” Haymitch says to the group. “He’s running the numbers.”

We wait. Finally, Wyatt says, “It’s not a high probability. But it’s a real possibility. If we can get nine districts.”

“We’ve got most,” I say. “Seven, Eight, and Ten are with us. Six—” I glance toward the dove-colored uniforms, “—wanted to stay neutral. They’re scared the Careers will target them.”

Nobody speaks. Then we see it. The Careers, tossing their empty lunch boxes and striding over to District 6. They steal what’s left of their food, like it’s a joke. One of the girls — small, frail, wrapped in gauze — sinks to the floor, sobbing. 
Haymitch is already moving. He grabs his untouched lunch, then Louella’s. Walks straight over. I don’t follow, but I watch.

He kneels beside the crying girl and holds out the box. She flinches, but takes it. The wheezing boy next to her accepts the other. Haymitch says something low. I can’t hear it, but I see the moment she calms, just a little. When he comes back, the four of them trail behind him. Silent, like shadows. Wellie. Miles. Atread. Velo.

“Six makes six,” Wyatt says.

“We need a name,” Ringina adds. “If they’re the Careers, who are we?” Ideas fly — Loose Cannons, Dark Horses, Invaders.

“No,” Wellie says firmly. “Those sound like we’re trying to be something we’re not. We’re not trained. We’re not tough like they are. What we are is inexperienced.”

“Is that a selling point?” Lannie asks. “In a way,” I say. “It means we haven’t spent our lives trying to win the Games. We’re not collaborators.”

“But we’ll fight if we have to,” I add. “We need a name for people just starting something hard. Something that sounds like… beginning.”

“Like Neddie Newcomer,” Haymitch says. I laugh — it sounds silly coming from him. “No, really,” he says. “In the mines, that’s what they call you when you’re new. My pa used to say it all the time. ‘Come on, Neddie Newcomer, let’s learn to tie those boots.’”

“I like it,” says Wellie. She’s still pale, but now there’s a flicker of something alive in her face. “We’re the Newcomers.”

Ringina nods. “And proud of it.”

Dio, Lect, and Coil gather around Wyatt, visibly intrigued by his odds system. They bombard him with questions.

“But what are the odds of me hitting a bullseye?” Dio asks, almost like it’s a dare — but there’s something superstitious in her voice too.

Wyatt studies her with the same quiet intensity he applies to every calculation. “You’re small,” he says finally, “but your arms are strong. You’ve got sharp focus, and I’d guess you’re patient. So the odds of you hitting a bullseye right away aren’t high — maybe five percent. But after a few tries? About ten percent. You’d definitely hit the board, though.”

Dio grins, clearly satisfied with that answer. Coil throws in her own question about slingshots, and soon Wyatt’s completely absorbed, sketching probabilities in the air with his fingers as he explains. For once, he looks like he’s actually enjoying himself.

A little ways off, I notice Maysilee now at the center of a small crowd, surrounded by tributes from nearly every district. One by one, they hand her their tokens — odd, mismatched objects — and she finds a way to make each of them beautiful. Her fingers twist and braid like they were made to give meaning to junk.

I glance over and see Lect watching her. Really watching her.

Then he reaches into his pocket and walks over, holding something round and brass. Maysilee blinks in surprise, but recovers fast. In no time, she’s looping the black cord Buck gave him through the object, threading it tightly until it looks like it belonged there all along. A doorknob turned into jewelry. Into memory.

When Lect comes back, I can’t help but ask. “Why the doorknob? It looks great, but… why that?” He smiles a little and holds it out for me to see. Even in the gym’s strange light, you can still make out the faint smudges on the brass.

“My older sister. Lin,” he says. “One time, she had her hands covered in lubricant from the factory. She came home and tried to smear it all over me — we turned it into a game of tag. I locked myself in the bathroom and yelled at her to leave me alone, laughing the whole time.” He shakes his head, fondly.

“She pulled and twisted that doorknob until it broke off. My dad was furious, but we couldn’t stop laughing. Later, we saw the lubricant had made her fingerprints stain the metal. I fished it out of the trash and kept it.”

His voice quiets. “She works her ass off to take care of us. My dad too. But she’s the one who barely sleeps, barely goes to school anymore. I just wanted to carry something that still had her on it, also as good luck, during the reaping.”

He tucks the cord back under his collar, his fingers lingering on it a second longer than necessary.

As we walk back to our van, everyone’s got a token now — something small, but beautiful. Dio’s blue bow is a bracelet around her wrist, all neat and knotted. Coil only had this scrappy piece of wire, the kind of thing most people would throw away. But she’d had it in her pocket when she was reaped, and Maysilee turned it into a little flower, braided and pinned onto Coil’s suit. It actually looks kind of amazing. Makes us look more like a team. Feel more like one, too.

Maysilee would’ve made a great stylist.

Dad’s already in the van, waiting. When he sees us come in, all showing off our tokens like trophies, his face lights up, asks questions about each one, actually listens. When I tell him what Lect’s is made from, he whispers softly. “Smart,” he says. I think that might be the biggest compliment in his vocabulary.

I tell him about the Newcomers. The way his eyes flash — that glint again — I know he’s already coming up with something. A plan. "You need district 9 too, they are more useful then you might think". We all agree to try to get them on our team tomorrow. 

After dinner, back in our room, he pulls me aside. Bedroom talk again. That usually means secrets. He sits on the edge of my bed like he’s about to tell me how to build a bomb.

“I spoke to Haymitch,” he says. There’s something smug in his voice. Like he knew this moment would come. “He brought up the arena himself. Said he’s been thinking about how to break it.”

He’s rubbing his hands together now, and he stands up and starts pacing. That always means he’s excited, which isn’t always a good thing. “He understands enough of the basics. He’s fast, smart. Good aim. Ampert…” — he stops and grabs my shoulders — “this could be our chance.”

Then he hugs me. Tight. Like he’s trying to squeeze hope into me. “I’ll get you out of there,” he whispers. I pull back, frowning. “How much do you even know?”

He looks away. “Enough,” he says. “A while ago, before they stopped trusting me, they showed me some things. Not a full arena map, but blueprints. Weak spots. Ways to maybe mess with the systems, just long enough.” He lowers his voice. “Tonight, I’ll talk to Haymitch again. But it’s better if you don’t know the details.” I nod slowly. My chest feels tight.

“But I need something from you.” His voice is serious now. “You have to help Haymitch in the arena.” I look at him. “Help him… how?”

“Stick with the Newcomers at first,” he says. “But once most are gone, leave. Find Haymitch. He’ll have his own plans by then.” I freeze. “That’s betrayal,” I whisper. “I can’t just leave them.”

“You won’t. Not at first,” he says quickly. “But when it comes down to it… this is bigger than them. Bigger than any of us.” I don’t answer. I just look down at my hands. They’re shaking a little.

Chapter Text

The next morning, just after breakfast, Dad flashes me a quick thumbs up. It’s subtle, but I know what it means — the plan worked. He spoke to Haymitch last night. I didn’t even see him leave. He must’ve snuck out somehow.

In the gym, the Newcomers start drifting together. I notice something immediately — District 12 isn’t hanging around with 3 anymore. Instead, there’s a new girl with them. Brown hair, really skinny. Louella?

I stare. Something’s wrong.

Haymitch catches my eye and presses his lips into a tight line. That’s not nothing. He told me she was dead. Swore it. So either he was wrong… or lying. Or the Capitol… can bring children back?

Can they do that? Was she saveable?

I don’t get to ask right away. When Haymitch finally breaks off from the group, I go to him fast. Dad said not to know too much, and maybe I shouldn’t ask about Louella. So instead, I tell him what I can. “My father says we need to get Nine to join our alliance.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. We both glance toward the kids from Nine, dressed in faded yellow, working together to turn a tarp into some kind of shelter. They’re efficient. Careful. Like they’ve built a thousand things out of scraps before.

“Any specific reason why? I mean, Five and Eleven aren’t committed either, and they look a lot stronger,” Haymitch says.

“He just said Nine was essential.” I pause. “I tried talking to them on the first day, but they brushed me off. I think maybe they think I’m… stuck-up or something.”

Haymitch frowns. “You? Why would they think that?”

I laugh, a little embarrassed. “Because I’m from Three. Because I know the tech stuff. Maybe they think I’m all circuits and no common sense. People call us eggheads.”

“Egghead’s not so bad.”

“It’s not a compliment,” I mutter. “Anyway, they’re not big talkers.”

Haymitch nods slowly. “I’ll give it a shot.”

That surprises me. And gives me hope. Maybe they’ll listen to him — a tough sixteen-year-old — more than they would to a skinny twelve-year-old tech-nerd.

“Why don’t you try Eleven?” he suggests.

I nod and take off across the gym. I spot them in the corner — dark green uniforms, clustered together, talking. One boy stands out — massive, all muscle. Hull. He’s the one who kicked Panache in the showers on the first day and, yesterday, I overheard someone say he beheaded a dummy with a pitchfork.

Next to him are two girls and another boy. All strong. But they don’t look unfriendly.

I take a breath. “Hi! We haven’t talked yet. I’m Ampert.” They glance at each other, then all turn to Hull, who grins and ruffles my hair like I’m a puppy. “Aren’t you a cute one,” he says. “I’m Hull.”

He holds out his hand. I shake it. His grip is firm, but not crushing — he’s not showing off. He doesn’t need to. “These are Blossom, Chicory, and Tile,” he adds, pointing to each in turn. I nod. “I’m here with Coil, Dio, and Lect — but they’re with the others right now. We call ourselves the Newcomers.”

Tile smirks. “So I’ve heard. You’re lucky we never liked the Careers. Especially not Panache. Otherwise, we might not be so eager to see an alliance like that forming.”

He nods toward the group in snot-green uniforms sharpening knives like it’s their job. “We want to stick together,” I explain. “We’re inviting anyone who isn’t a Career to join us.”

Blossom smiles. “We already guessed. We’d love to join. Looks like you could use some muscle.”

She’s not wrong. Most of our team is built like broken umbrellas — shaky and about to fold under pressure.

“We just want to make sure one of us wins,” I say. “Not a Career. We stick together as long as we can and then…”

I trail off. I don’t want to say it. Not out loud. “We get it,” Chicory says. “We’d rather not face the Careers alone — and definitely not without you guys.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. “So you’re in?” Hull grins. “We’re in.”

Around lunchtime, after chatting with Dad — just like old times — we all sit down together. And it’s clear now: District 5 has joined the Careers. Probably saw us as some kind of threat. With them, the Careers have 4 districts. But we have eight. Eight districts strong. That’s something that’s never happened before.

Wyatt practically buzzes with excitement about our odds, and I catch the Gamemakers watching us — whispering, pointing. Changing something. They weren’t expecting this. No more solo tributes. No easy targets.

It’s time for the private sessions. Being from District 3, I’m lucky I don’t have to wait long. But still, I doubt the Gamemakers will be impressed by a bunch of fragile twelve-year-olds following two waves of bloodthirsty Careers.

Dio’s been practising with a bow — she landed a fair shot earlier and plans to show that. Lect is doing ropework. Coil spent time with District 8 this afternoon and learned how to build shelters. As for me, I’m going to show them something simple. Expected. Boring.

I’m going to light a bulb with a potato. Why? Because I can. And because the last thing I want is to stand out. We Newcomers need scores that are decent — not dramatic.

Dio and Coil go in first. Lect waves at me as I’m called. I walk into the wide, echoing room. The Head Gamemaker, Faustina Gripper, sits in the middle. She’s short and round, wrapped in snowy white robes with a purple fur collar, and her curls are chopped close to her scalp — shimmering gold and silver, like wires. She looks at me over her glasses and says flatly, “Tell us about yourself.”

She doesn’t sound particularly interested. “I’m Ampert Latier,” I say.

A couple of Gamemakers gasp. Chairs scrape. A few lean forward. There it is.

They’ve been waiting for me. The son of Beetee. The ultimate Capitol drama twist.

“My father is Beetee Latier. He’s a Victor.” Faustina places a hand to her heart, theatrical. “How tragic,” she sighs. “How very unlucky your family must feel.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t say what I want to say. They don’t get to call it unlucky.

They planned it.

“Very unlucky,” I say calmly. “Today, I’ll show you something my father once taught the other kid—” I stop. “—tributes.”

I pull out the supplies. The wires. The battery. The potato. I connect everything, make it neat, let the bulb glow. Just for a moment. A soft, warm light in a sterile room. The Gamemakers give a little applause. Pity claps.

Good.

I bow quickly and walk toward the exit. At the door, I’m stopped by a Peacekeeper. He’s tall. His beret is crooked. Something’s off.

He doesn’t look at me directly, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth — a smile trying not to happen. “Your token,” he says, gesturing to the basket.

I hesitate. The braided necklace feels warm in my hand. But I drop it in the basket.

And that’s when I notice — the basket has no Capitol logo. Not even a barcode. I glance at the Peacekeeper. He meets my eyes. Just for a second. Then nods, slow, and tilts his head slightly toward the exit. I walk out, pulse thudding.

Dad’s waiting for me. “How did it go? What did you do?” he blurts. I tell him about the potato. He seems relieved.

“We didn’t talk about the sessions,” he mutters. “I should’ve. I’ve been so—” He shakes his head, pulls me into a hug, and rubs my back the way he used to when I had nightmares.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “What are you even doing here?”

“As a trainer, they let me stay,” he replies. “Since I’m more than just a mentor.” That glint’s back in his eye.

Lect joins us soon after, and we all return to our living quarters, waiting. Dreading. Guessing. At dinner, Glymara’s clearly cracking under the tension. “My goodness,” she gasps. “I do hope you young ones get decent scores — you’ll need sponsors. Desperately.” She keeps eyeing Coil, who’s shaking so badly her fork scrapes across her plate like static. “Don’t worry,” Glymara says, trying to sound chipper. “I’ll make sure you all look electrifying for the interviews. We need color. Drama! Something memorable!”

She keeps muttering about hair, fabric, accessories — but I tune her out. Then the screen blinks on. Capitol seal. Anthem. Everyone goes quiet. District 1 and 2 go first, of course. High scores. Especially Panache. Then Dio — a seven. Glymara claps like she won the Games herself. Dio grins, proud.

Coil gets a five. She exhales hard, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

Then me.

A five.

Probably a pity score. But that’s fine. It’s enough.

Lect scores a solid six. We’re doing well. Most Newcomers get good numbers.

Except Lou Lou. A three.

And Haymitch?

A one.

Dad frowns. “That’s… risky,” he mutters. “He should’ve kept a lower profile. Now he’s a target.” He doesn’t say it to me. Not really.

But I can hear the calculation in his voice. The pieces moving in his head. One Victor's son. One rebel mentor. And a Game they’re trying to crack from the inside.

We practice our interviews under Glymara’s watchful, dramatic eye.

“You need to come across more confident,” she tells Coil, waving her arms for emphasis. “You can be a small strong girl. Give me a small strong girl voice.”

Coil just looks at her, blank. “I am a strong girl,” she says, her voice shaky but firmer than before.

Glymara sighs and throws herself into a full Capitol-worthy performance, bending backward with the back of her hand on her forehead. “You are quite the challenge, girl.”

She keeps on, correcting posture, tone, even blinking speed. The one who needs her least is Dio. Of course.

“I’m going to talk about the Newcomers,” Dio announces, arms crossed. She’ll be the first one from our group to interview. She’ll set the tone.

“Good plan,” I say. “The more we mention our group, the stronger we look. We should all talk about the group.”

We nod. It becomes a kind of strategy meeting.

“Should we mention our skills?” Lect asks, looking down at his hands. “I’m not that special.”

“If you don’t know what to say,” Dio tells him, “talk about the group. How we met, how we work together. How together, we’re stronger.”

She says exactly what I’m thinking. She always does. She reads people like it’s a skill she was born with.

“I’m happy and sad at the same time to be with you guys,” Coil says.

Her words settle like a stone in the room. It's the truth, and we all feel it. We’re a team now — but only until the Careers are gone. After that, it’s every tribute for themselves.

“Me too,” I say quietly, and take her hand.

Lect reaches out, and Dio follows. We sit there, all four of us, our hands linked. Silent.

For a while, we just stay like that.

Eventually, we go to sleep. Dad joins me in my room, like he used to back home. He lies down beside me, stroking my hair.

“You’ve done great, squirrel,” he murmurs. “And you’ll do great again tomorrow.”

I smile and nuzzle into his hand. His touch still makes me feel safe, even here.

“I just wish I knew how to fight,” I admit.

If I did — if any of us did — maybe we wouldn’t need Haymitch. “Why do we need him, anyway?”

Dad sighs. “He’s strong. Bigger. He can handle an axe, and he’s not afraid to do what’s needed. Not that you don’t have guts — you do — but I don’t want you to take risks like this.”

“Risk what?”

He pauses, hand still in my hair.

“Risk your life trying something that might not work.”

Might not work? That means Haymitch is risking his life — and it might be for nothing. But isn’t that what the Hunger Games is, anyway?

“But I don’t want him to die. Not because of me,” I whisper.

“You’re the one who’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Dad says. “You’ll get your token back. And it’ll be different. Just like the ones from District 9. Just like Maysilee’s.”

I nod.

“Have you looked closely at Haymitch’s token?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“His is already useful. Secretly. Yours and Maysilee’s will be too.”

He resumes stroking my hair, and I finally let my eyes close.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of my dad snoring softly. He stayed with me all night.

I decide to surprise him. The mouthpiece in my room — the one Dio said her mom made — delivers food in under a minute. I use it to order our classic District 3 bread rolls, his favorite drink — fresh orange juice — and some fruit. I wake him gently and present the breakfast. We sit on the floor and eat together, quietly, like we used to before everything changed. When we arrive in the dining room later, Glymara gasps. “You haven’t eaten yet? You need to eat! You’re so small and fragile—” she pinches my cheeks like she’s assessing a piece of machinery.

I roll my eyes, grinning. “I’m fine. Dad and I had breakfast together.”

She huffs dramatically but lets it go. Dio, Coil, and Lect are already digging into their food without complaint. As we eat, our tokens are returned to us — handed over by a Peacekeeper with no ceremony. I take mine carefully. The braided necklace feels just the same in my hand, its weight familiar. I resist the urge to inspect it too closely. That might draw attention. On the outside, it looks unchanged. Perfectly normal.

But something must be different. Something hidden. Something my father and whoever helped him managed to do without the Capitol noticing. Or so I hope.

Then come the prep teams. We’re whisked away and dressed in shimmering, electric-blue outfits — dresses, suits, and more flamboyant extras. Lect has wires sticking out of his sleeves and shoulders. Somehow, it doesn’t look bad.

Even I have to admit: it kind of works. We’re bright. We’re bold. We look like a unit. But underneath the glitter and wires, we all know the truth.

Tonight, we dazzle the Capitol.

Tomorrow, we fight for our lives.

Chapter Text

Districts 1 and 2 take the stage first, predictably focused on their physical strength. Muscles flexing, weapons at the ready, their smiles hard and cold. It's a well-oiled show, and one the Capitol eats up every year.

Panache of District 1, tries to dominate the stage with his usual blend of arrogance and brute force. But when Caesar starts prodding at him, the cracks start to show. “So, what do you bring to the table besides sheer power and a pretty face?” he asks, a playful smirk on his lips. The crowd laughs, and Panache's posture stiffens for a moment. It’s subtle, but it’s the first sign that the Careers aren’t invincible. They might have strength, but they lack something else.

Up until this point, no one in the Capitol even knows the Newcomers exist. The air is thick with anticipation, but no one mentions us.

Then Dio steps onto the stage.

Dio steps up with effortless grace, her confidence radiating like a beacon. There's no hesitation in her voice; it’s steady, assured, and undeniable. "We are the Newcomers," she announces, and the Capitol instantly falls silent, hanging on her every word. "We’re a coalition of districts who know that alone, we’re weak. But together, we’re stronger than anyone expects." The room buzzes with interest, her words already sparking a ripple of intrigue.

She’s stunning in the spotlight, her curls catching the light, framing her face like a halo. Her blue dress flows with her every movement, the sleeves catching the air, making her seem almost ethereal, as if she were a part of the Capitol's extravagant dreams brought to life. I watch her, caught between awe and something I can't quite define, my heart skipping a beat. There’s a pull in my chest—a strange flutter, a warmth blooming in my stomach that I can't ignore. As she smiles, her eyes scanning the room with quiet confidence, I realize something I hadn’t quite allowed myself to see before: I have a crush on Dio.

I’m suddenly aware of the heat on my cheeks, the flush creeping up without warning. I glance away, trying to steady myself, but I can’t help but be swept up in the moment. Her power, her presence—it’s all-consuming. And as she speaks, it’s not just about the Newcomers or the alliance we’ve formed; it’s about Dio herself, the way she commands attention without asking for it, the way she can turn an entire room into a captive audience with nothing but her words.

She names every member of our team, detailing our skills. There’s no hesitation, no faltering. “We’re here to win as a unit, not as individuals,” Dio continues. “And we’ll use everything we’ve got to outsmart the Careers.”

The Capitol is stunned into silence. The buzz in the room shifts, like everyone’s realising they’ve been blindsided by an alliance they didn’t even know existed.

It’s Coil’s turn next. She steps forward, her small frame looking even tinier under the spotlight. But she doesn’t shrink back. She stands tall, even though her voice shakes at first.

“Well,” she begins, eyes scanning the room, “we might not look like much, but we’ve got brains. We’ve got a team, and that makes us dangerous.”

Caesar leans forward, a glint of interest in his eyes. “What exactly makes you dangerous, Coil? You’re not much of a fighter, are you?”

Coil looks him square in the eyes, her voice steadier now. This is what Glymara would call her strong girl voice “You underestimate us, Caesar. We don’t need to be the strongest to win. We’ve got each other’s backs. And when you’ve got a team that works like ours, you don’t need to be the biggest or the toughest.”

"People often think District 3 is all about technology, and that's true—we’ve got gadgets and wires. But what we don't always show is how those skills can be used for something more than just building machines." She gives a brief, thoughtful smile, like she's about to reveal something the Capitol isn’t ready to hear. "It’s not just about knowing how things work. It’s about understanding how to make them work for you. And that’s where the Newcomers come in."

She doesn’t miss a beat, her words coming out sharper now, more calculated. "Alone, we’re all vulnerable. That’s the truth of the Games. But as part of a group—one built on trust and mutual respect—we’re more than the sum of our parts. We bring brains, strategy, and adaptability to the table, and when you’re facing something as unpredictable as the arena, that’s a game-changer."

Coil shifts slightly, folding her arms with the kind of ease that signals a sharp mind at work. "We’re not the biggest, and we’re not the most intimidating, but that doesn’t mean we’re weak. In fact, I’d argue it makes us stronger. We don’t need to play by the Careers’ rules—we’re making our own. Whether it’s leveraging our skills, staying hidden when it counts, or outsmarting the competition, we’re playing a long game."

Caesar Flickerman, ever the showman, blinks once, clearly impressed. His wide, Capitol-famous smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of genuine admiration in his eyes. He leans in, his face lighting up as he begins his response.

“Well, well, well,” he says, his voice dripping with that characteristic, slightly theatrical enthusiasm. “I think we may have just found one of the smartest tributes of the Games!” He chuckles, the audience following his lead with a ripple of laughter. “You know, most tributes come out here boasting about their muscles or their weapons, but you, Coil, you’re talking about something much more... cerebral.” He taps his fingers together in mock thought, as though considering her words.

“It’s not every day we hear a plan that isn’t centered around, well, killing the competition. You’re talking about trust, unity, intelligence... It almost sounds too good to be true. Do you really think this alliance will work? Can you really trust all of your teammates, especially when the pressure is on?”

His voice softens just a little, almost as if he's genuinely curious, though he still maintains that air of being the host in control of the conversation. The Capitol audience seems to hang on her every word, intrigued by this new, unorthodox approach.

"And just for the record," Caesar adds with a wink, "I'm betting the Careers are shaking in their boots right about now, because what you just described doesn't sound like any team I've seen before."

But before Coil can respond, the timer goes off and she is waved off with a loud applause, Dio planted the seed and Coil really made it grow, now its up to me to convince them even more.

When Caesar calls my name, I take a deep breath, give a smile, which I hope doesn’t look too forced, and walk up to the stage. I step into the light and try not to squint — it’s so bright up here, and Caesar’s smile is even brighter. He gestures for me to sit, and I try not to fidget as I lower myself onto the ridiculous silver stool.

“Well, Ampert,” he says, drawing out my name like it’s a piece of taffy. “You’re our youngest tribute this year, only turning twelve a few weeks ago. And yet, I’ve got a feeling we’re about to hear something very big from you.”

I grin a little. “I guess we’ll see.”

Caesar chuckles, leaning in. “Your teammates from District 3 were pretty striking tonight. Dio introduced us to this… what did she call it? The Newcomers?”

“Yeah,” I say, sitting up straighter. “That’s what we call ourselves. It wasn’t some master plan or anything, really. The four of us—me, Dio, Coil, and Lect—we’re all twelve, which means we’re the smallest team. But we thought... maybe that could actually be a strength. If we work together, combine what we’re good at, and stick with others who see things the same way—maybe we’d have a shot. A way to change the games for us all”

There’s a hush in the audience. I can tell they didn’t expect that.

Caesar tilts his head. “But that’s not just strategy. That’s philosophy. You think there’s something wrong with how the Games usually go?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve been watching the past Games for years. I noticed a pattern—how many times the Careers win, how other districts get picked off early. It’s not just skill. It’s repetition. It’s training them from the start to believe they’ll win, and training the rest of us to believe we won’t. It’s not exactly mind control, but it might as well be.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Caesar’s eyebrows lift. “You’re saying it’s rigged?” he says, amused but not mocking. “That’s a bold theory, Ampert.”

“I’m saying it’s predictable,” I reply. “Until someone breaks the pattern. Like my dad did.” The crowd perks up again. I don’t even need to say his name. Everyone remembers Beetee.

“He didn’t win with brute strength. He won by electrifying the Cornucopia. And last year, Wiress won in the mirror arena—the hardest one in over a decade—because she could see patterns no one else saw. That’s what we do in District 3. We look, we think, and we find another way.”

Caesar leans back, nodding slowly. “And you think the Newcomers are another way.”

“We know we’re not the strongest,” I say. “But we’re not the weakest, either. We’ve got ideas. We’ve got a plan. And we’ve got each other.”

He gives me a long look. Then he smiles, softer this time. “Well, I have to say, Ampert… you’ve given us a lot to think about.”

I hop down off the stool, my heart pounding, and join the others. Coil pats my shoulder as I sit. Dio’s grinning at me, and I can’t help grinning back, the butterflies now roaming free in my stomach. Maybe that went okay. I am called back to reality as Lect steps into the spotlight like he’s done it a hundred times before, not a hint of nerves. He’s wearing the suit with the wires Glymara insisted on — thin copper strands tucked into the seams, catching the light every time he moves. He looks like a walking circuit board, and weirdly, it works.

Caesar greets him warmly. “Another twelve-year-old from District 3 — but you all speak like veterans. What’s in the water over there?”

Lect gives a small smile. “Just a lot of thinking.”

The audience chuckles, but he doesn’t seem to be trying to be funny. He folds his hands in his lap and sits tall. Caesar leans forward. “So, your teammates talked about the Newcomers. You’re part of that alliance?”

“Yes,” Lect says. “It’s not just about District 3. It’s about a lot of people who know they won’t survive alone.”

“And you think together, you can beat the Careers?”

“I think it depends on how you define strong,” Lect says. “District 11 is strong, no question. They’ve got raw power, and they know how to survive outdoors. District 12 — they’re smart in a different way. There’s variety there. One of them’s strong, one of them has trap skills, and they all have skills that are useful to us.”

Caesar raises a brow. “You’ve been paying close attention.”

“We all have,” Lect says. “That’s the point. District 8 knows fabric — that doesn’t sound like much until you’re freezing at night or trying to carry something heavy without the fabric ripping apart. And I understand that more tributes die from natural causes than fights. Dehydration, starvation, infections, poisonous plants, and more. Underestimating people because they’re quiet or don’t look dangerous — that’s a mistake.”

Caesar sits back, almost thoughtful. “So it’s not about being the biggest or the loudest.” Lect shakes his head. “It’s about being prepared. And about helping each other survive longer. The more of us there are, the better the odds that one of us makes it.” There’s something steady and honest in his voice that lands hard. He’s not selling anything. Just stating facts.

“Well,” Caesar says after a beat. “I think I just learned more about this year’s tributes in five minutes than I have in the last week.” Lect stands, gives a respectful nod, and walks offstage, applause erupts as people now clearly seem to be impressed by us as tributes. 

District 4 goes up next, all glittering scales and sharp tridents, but they weren’t ready for Caesar’s questions. He’s clever — sly, even — and starts poking right where it hurts. “Those kids from 3 seemed pretty bright, don’t you think?” “What’s your plan for them?” They stumble, obviously not prepared for the Newcomers to be taken seriously. And just like that, the audience is buzzing.

During the break, District 5 huddles in the green room like their outfits caught fire. They’re the last real Career district standing, and Caesar basically handed them a pop quiz they forgot to study for. I see Haymitch making a beeline to the punch and my dad immediately joins him. Haymitch and the others from 12 look very fancy — their stylist must have arranged something new — and even Maysilee looks kind of pleased with her outfit. She’s definitely showing it off in front of District 8.

I take the moment to sidle over to District 9. We’re allies, technically, but they’ve been... quiet. Their sunflower tokens look good — maybe too good. I make a mental note to ask dad how I am supposed to use their tokens. I discuss quickly with them and with the other allied districts to mainly focus on the group and showcase a little bit of your own skills in case that is possible. And all agree, happy to not be picked apart by Ceasar for skills they don't have. 

After the break, District 5 tries to save face, but it’s a mess. They can’t decide if they’re staying together or splitting up, if they’re a team or four solo acts. One says they’ll share food, the other says they’ll hoard it. And the worst part? They talk more about how we’re small and untrained than how they’re going to win.

Then Wellie steps up in all her ruffles and just owns it. Calm, sweet voice, but every word hits. She answers Caesar like she’s practiced for this her whole life: yes, we’ll share food. Yes, we’ll split up if needed. No, we don’t have one leader, but we have a plan. “Ampert brought us together,” she says, “and we’ve sworn to protect each other to the end.”

I almost choke. I didn’t even know she was going to say that. But it sounds good — better than anything I could’ve written.

One by one, the rest of the Newcomers hold the line. They highlight our teamwork, our brainpower, how being small means we can hide better, eat less, climb faster. We’re coordinated. And I realize, all at once — we actually sound kind of unstoppable.

Until Caesar gets tired of noble intentions and turns his sights to District 12. He teases Maysilee into roasting the front row, the guy in the money suit looked like he might actually cry, lets Wyatt do some math that leaves the Capitol Gamemakers blinking like confused pigeons, and gives Louella just enough rope to strangle someone with.

Which is almost what she does — metaphorically. She growls at Caesar. “You’ll murder us.” And then again, louder. “You’ll murder us.”

Why is she acting like this? She’s been weird since yesterday. Not just acting weird — looking weird. Off. What did they do to her?

Even Caesar’s famous cool starts to crack as he tries to salvage the moment, dancing awkwardly after her like she’s just dropped the punchline of a joke no one asked for. “Okay, Louella… Louella! It’s unfortunate, but the Games can only have one winner. Louella! She’s certainly determined! A little help here, please?”

Louella seems to faint, right there on the stage. She’s dragged off. And it’s not good. Something’s wrong. I need to talk to Haymitch. But he’s already up. He steps onto the stage like someone who just left a bar, all cocky smirks and drink-in-hand swagger. Not the boy who helped a girl with her lunch tray. Not the boy who lifted Louella up in the parade. Now he’s acting like a real ass.

Maybe this is strategy. A low score, a rebellious angle. Maybe he’s leaning into some kind of daring, provocative thing. And the Capitol eats it up. Laughs, applause, gasps. He defends the Newcomers too, which is great — even if he’s doing it with a wink and a burp.

And just like that, the interviews are over.

Haymitch closes it out with a joke, and somehow the mood lifts. Not for the Careers — they sit stiff and scowling — but for everyone else, there’s this flicker of hope, of possibility. When Haymitch stands up and steps off the stage, I watch him. His body shifts from the confident rascal to himself, soft and kind. He hugs Wiress. He hugs Mags. They both look relieved. Like maybe they were afraid for him too.

Just as we’re being herded into our transport van, I spot him again. The cameraman from earlier — Plutarch, I think — approaching Haymitch. There’s something in the way they speak, he is suggesting something and they join him.

Then I hear my name.

“Ampert, wait!” I turn. Wellie is jogging toward me, breathless. Her mentors and the rest of District 6 are hanging back — she must have told them to wait.

I step off the ramp, just a little. “You did amazing, Wellie,” I tell her. She hugs me without saying anything, thin arms around my back like she’s afraid if she lets go, I’ll vanish. Her body is still trembling a little.

“I’m so glad we’re in this together,” I whisper. She smiles against my shoulder. “Me too.” Then she pulls back, eyes searching mine. “But... there’s something you should know.” My stomach drops. “Haymitch is going off on his own,” she says. I blink. “What? Did he say why?” She nods. “He didn’t want to put anyone else in danger. Said with his low score, he'd just drag the rest of us down.”

That makes no sense. We’re all weak — kids from districts that never win. Haymitch is one of the few who could actually fight. Why would he think cutting himself off would help?

Unless... Unless my dad told him something. Gave him a map. A signal. A route.

I have to talk to him tonight.

Chapter Text

We drive back to the Tribute Center with Dio and Coil chattering excitedly about their interviews — how well they spoke, how the audience laughed at Lect’s joke. I smile along with them, but I’m not really there. My mind’s already in the arena.

If Haymitch is really going off on his own… should I follow him? No. I can’t. Wellie made me the face of the Newcomers. If I abandon them, it won’t just be betrayal — it’ll be a death sentence for all of us. We’re only strong because we’re together.

I have to stay with them. Stay alive for as long as I can. If it comes to it, I’ll collect the tokens from Nine. I’ll look for Haymitch. But only once the worst of the bloodshed is over. If we wait too long, though, whoever’s left will be the strongest. If they catch us while we’re trying to break the arena...

My thoughts spiral into timelines and risk calculations. Triggers. Escape routes. It’s like a fever in my mind, too many variables at once. The van slows to a stop. Dio rests her hand lightly on my leg. “We’re going to be okay,” she says, smiling gently. Her voice cuts through the noise in my head. “I’ve never seen you this quiet.”

The others are already filing out. It’s just the two of us left in the van. “I’m just… nervous,” I admit. “I don’t want to lose you guys.”

And I mean it. Every word. I try not to think about their deaths, but it's hard not to when the arena is all that’s ahead.

Dio leans in a little. “We’ll always be the Newcomers, Ampert. No matter what.” She says it with the kind of certainty I wish I could hold on to. We step out of the van together.

“You know,” she adds, “I think we should do the big sleepover again tonight.” I nod. “I like that. I need to talk to my dad first, but… yeah.” We step into the elevator. The doors close behind us. “Dio,” I say, glancing sideways at her. “Aren’t you nervous?”

“Of course I am,” she says, matter-of-fact. “But being nervous doesn’t help me. So I look for the chances I do have. And I work around everything else.”

I admire that about her — always have. While I’m busy spinning every possibility in my head, she’s already picking the best one and moving forward.

She doesn’t get stuck. She acts.

Everyone is busy laying out mattresses and pillows to create the biggest, most comfortable sleepover the Capitol has probably ever seen. And despite everything — despite what tomorrow is — I can’t help grinning. Coil is dragging enormous pillows from the couch, and someone’s already stolen all the blankets from the hallway closets.

Glymara stands frozen in the middle of it all, horrified. “It is absolutely disgusting! We are not animals!” she declares, waving her hands so dramatically that her feathered sleeves puff up like startled birds.

No one listens. Someone tosses a blanket down right in front of her. Glymara gasps and flutters toward the door, calling for avoxes.

“I need help! Sweep this — all of this! Before they add another mattress! Oh, I have to leave, I can’t bear the sight of this!”

She throws her arms up in defeat and swishes out, feathers ruffled and in full Capitol retreat. I catch Coil and Lect snickering. Even one of the avoxes cracks the tiniest smirk before sweeping again.

For a moment, it almost feels like a party.

But just before we all settle in for the night, I tug my dad’s sleeve. “Can we talk?”

He nods immediately. “Bedroom,” he mumbles. “It’s better there.”

Once inside, he closes the door gently behind us. I don’t wait.

“Dad, what’s going on? Why is Haymitch going off on his own? What happened with the tokens?” I fire the questions like they’ve been bottling up all day — because they have. “I need to know. Tomorrow we’re in the arena. I want answers.”

He walks over, gestures for me to sit on the bed beside him. His voice is low, measured. “Haymitch will go north,” he says. “You will not. You stay with the group. Stay with the Newcomers as long as you can.”

I nod, not because I agree yet, but because I need him to keep going. “You need to collect as many tokens from District Nine as possible,” he continues. “They only need water, like flowers do. Look for Haymitch once most of the Newcomers are gone.”

The air thickens with meaning. I hate that he says gone like it's a guarantee.

He adjusts his glasses — the way he always does when he’s about to explain something delicate. “He’ll stay near the north quadrant, searching for an entrance. They're concealed. I don’t know how exactly. But if you see mutts, or anything moving where it shouldn’t be — that’s likely where they’re coming from.”

I try to take it all in. My brain is already spinning, playing out the map.

“I’m not going to put you in more danger by giving you too many details,” he says. “But Haymitch knows the plan. You know how to make what he needs.”

I mouth the word without speaking it: bomb.

He nods. My fingers brush the edge of the cord around my neck — the one Maysilee braided for me, so carefully. So beautifully. So deceptively. 

“Don’t unwrap it now,” my dad says softly. He lifts my chin, and I meet his eyes. They’re full of fear and pride, tangled up in equal measure.

“You’ll need it when you find him.” I swallow hard. There must be a fuse woven into it. Something to ignite. Something to trigger. Maybe copper strands braided inside, maybe a reactive strip coiled between the loops. And something else — something I haven’t found yet — to make it all go boom.

I nod again. Slower this time. My chest tightens — not just from fear, but from the weight of what’s been handed to me.

“I also need you to trust me,” my dad says. His voice is low. “At any moment — any moment — if I say something, you do it.” I shake my head, confused. “We can’t communicate in the arena.” He nods once. “Don’t worry. You’ll know.”

That’s all he gives me. No explanation. No plan. Just trust. I’ll have to keep my eyes open. For whatever that means.

I return to the living room, dressed in electric blue pajamas. The others have already settled in. Dio saved a spot for me next to her.

"I ordered some milk and cookies," she says. "My mom always said they help you calm down."
She hands me a glass of warm milk and a few chocolate chip cookies. I practically drool. Capitol food never really interested me, but food with a memory? With meaning? That does something to me.

I take a sip, the warmth spreading through my chest, and for a moment, I feel okay.
"Thanks," I say, wiping my mouth. Dio has a little milk mustache too, and she wipes it away, grinning.
"Your mom’s right," I admit.
"She always is," she says, with a playful roll of her eyes.

She leans in a little. "It must be nice, having your dad here now," she whispers, so he won’t hear.

"Kinda. It hurts, seeing him see me scared. But it’s good, too. I get to say goodbye. You didn’t… and I’m sorry for that."

She shakes her head. "Don’t be. Knowing my mom, she’d rather see me go down fighting than crying. And I got to hug them. That was enough."
She tries to make me feel better. But she shouldn’t have to.

"No, you should’ve had more time."
Anger rises in me. At the unfairness. At the Capitol. At everything.

"We all should’ve had more time," she says softly, placing her hand on my arm. It calms me… but also sends a jolt of butterflies through my chest.

This crush is going to make everything harder. I should’ve known — I always noticed her smile, her big brown eyes, the bounce of her curls. I’ve never looked at another girl the way I look at her. She’s kind, smart, strategic.

She leans in closer, her breath warm on my cheek.
"I have a secret," she says with a smirk.

I smirk back. "Do tell." She lifts her blue bow bracelet and flips it inside out. There’s a small piece of metal hidden in the fabric. Scratched into it are three names: Ampert, Lect, Coil.

My throat tightens. "We’ll always be together," she says, then turns it back.

It’s an uneasy night. I twist and turn, haunted by nightmares about the arena. Maybe it’s all water—I can’t even swim. Or maybe it’s a desert, slowly killing us with heat and dehydration. Or worse: maybe it’s one big open arena with nowhere to hide. Maybe they’ve changed everything to favour the Careers, just to kill us faster.

But I won’t know. Not until I’m in it.

When I wake, the others are still asleep. The first rays of light stretch across the room. It’s early, but I don’t mind early.

Ignoring my dad’s warning, I quietly reach for my necklace. The cord is tightly wrapped, almost invisible. My finger comes away slightly smudged black. At the very centre, I find it—a blastcap. I recognise it by its shape alone. The sunflowers might be paste of some kind. If I gather all the tokens and bring them to Haymitch, maybe it’ll work. But he has to find a way in. He has to get into the vital part of the arena. It’s a long shot—but it’s also hope. And I’d rather chase hope than die for nothing.

I glance at Dio. She’s sleeping peacefully, her curls wrapped in a silky scarf, her hands tucked under her face. She looks calm. Pretty. Rested.

I hope she makes it. Maybe she even wins. She’s smart enough. But she cares too much. She might die because she won’t leave the rest of us behind. Maybe she could join me in finding Haymitch—but that would endanger the plan. The others would think we’re deserting them, planning to betray them. It would break everything we built.

Still, she might be able to find the entrance. Maybe she can help Haymitch. He could keep her safe.

But every plan I make seems to come at a cost. And I can’t hurt the Newcomers.

Slowly, everyone wakes. Glymara enters with theatrical flair.
"Today’s the big day, my little birds. Time to show them your claws!"

She means to sound inspiring, but it comes off as condescending. Dio rolls her eyes, and I chuckle despite myself.

Dad sits beside me, slowly picking at a bread roll. He doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t say much. He barely even looks at me—like he's afraid it really is the last time.

After breakfast, I stand and wrap my arms around him in a tight hug. His heart is pounding. He places a hand on the back of my head, gently combing through my hair with his fingers. "I’m so proud of you," he says. His voice wavers. I can tell he’s struggling to get the words out. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to see him cry.

But I do.

"And I’m proud of you too," I whisper.

He pulls back, breathes out slowly. And then he lets go.

He has a different job now. He can’t protect me.
He has to guide me.
He has to watch me through a screen.

Dio walks up to me "You ready?" she asks.

I sigh. "I have to be. You?" She sighs too, and nods. That’s all the time we get.

We’re escorted into a van. A Capitol officer injects a tracker into our arms. Glymara waves us off, one hand to her heart.
"Goodbye, my little birds."

Coil’s eyes widen. "She thinks we’re going to die, doesn’t she?"

"Like she’d survive one day in the arena," Lect mutters, his voice sharp. Understandable. We’re loaded into a hovercraft. The Careers sit around us, their heavy frames making us seem even smaller. No one speaks. Eventually, we’re separated and brought underground. We walk a curved path—it must be circular. I see the number 1 marked on a door four times. Then 12 on my left, and on it goes. It doesn’t take long before we find our doors.

Dio, Coil, Lect, and I exchange a hug. Our bodies shake. I can feel their heartbeats, heavy and uneven. 

A girl from District 4 snickers. "Scared? You should be."

I break the hug and ignore her. She’s not worth it.

Dio gives me one last look, then disappears behind her door. I do the same. Inside, my electric blue suit is folded neatly on a chair.

"Welcome to your launch room," a voice announces through the intercom. "The tributes are to change into their new outfits, courtesy of the Capitol."

Well, thank you, Capitol, for choosing the most unnatural color I could wear in an arena. I sigh and change. The suit fits well—stretchy, not too thick. So probably not a freezing arena. That’s something. A knock at the door. One of my prep team members enters—Tivven.

"Glymara was too busy with her own outfit, so she sent us," they explain. Honestly, I’m relieved. Tivven is easier to be around. Less dramatic. Their yellow hair has blue stripes now, and their electric blue eyeliner matches my suit, but somehow, they still seem calmer than the rest. Normal, even—by Capitol standards.

Tivven instructs me to enter the tube, and the voice crackles through the intercom: “Tributes who are not in their tubes in thirty seconds will be disciplined.”
Tivven gently helps me lay the necklace across my chest. They give me a small, sad smile.

“Can you tell my dad I love him?” I ask. “I forgot.”

They nod solemnly, already understanding what I mean. I think I might die.

“I will,” they promise. “But I’m sure he already knows.”

“I know. I just want to be sure.”

I think of everything I said to Dad. How we spent our final days talking about the plan, not about us. We were focused on the mission, as if that would make the fear go away. He must’ve done the same—distracted himself from the possibility of losing me. But at least we had time. Mom didn’t. I think of her watching the Games now, terrified of losing someone who didn’t even know she loved him. And now she might lose her son, too. I hope, if I die, it’s quick. So she doesn’t have to imagine me suffering.

The tube seals shut and begins to rise. Light slowly filters in as I ascend. When I emerge, I’m standing in the middle of a stunning green meadow. Songbirds chirp. Wildflowers sway. The sky is impossibly blue. I’ve never seen it that blue before.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer calls, “Let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!”

I spot Coil eyeing a small blue butterfly. Dio is already focused, like always. I focus too. The Cornucopia. The sun. Where’s the sun?

Dad said the Capitol sometimes manipulates the sun’s position to confuse tributes, but if it's accurate today, Haymitch needs to head into the woods. That means the Newcomers—our group—go the opposite way: the mountain.

I scan the field. The Careers flank us, as expected. Our allies are on the far side. We’ll need to regroup first, grab what we can, and head for higher ground. The woods might be safer, smarter—but we can’t risk crossing paths with Haymitch. He needs to find the entrance unnoticed.

The gong rings.

I sprint toward the Cornucopia. The Newcomers do the same. The Careers hesitate. We don’t.

Kerna from District 9 grabs a spear. Hull from 11 spots a backpack—so does a girl from 5. A boy yells, “Potena, grab it!” She dives, but Kerna drives her spear into him. Kerna freezes, horrified. Potena screams, snatches a knife, and lunges. Midge and Clayton—also from 9—tackle her, but a District 1 girl, Silka, wielding an axe, hacks at them away like it’s nothing.

The bloodbath has begun. Louella races toward a shiny sword. Panache from District 1 stomps her hand, making her scream. Wyatt barrels into him, unarmed. They scuffle, but Panache’s male district 1 ally tosses him the sword. A moment later, Wyatt is run through. I hear Maysilee gasp. She stares in horror—then turns and bolts, grabbing a pack on the outskirts. She’s heading toward the mountains, but more to the side, away from all of us. So much for staying together.

“We need to go!” I shout. “To the mountain!” But some of our allies are already trapped. District 8 clashes with 4. A few from 9 try to avenge Kerna. The kids from 6 run but get tripped by the Careers. It’s chaos.

I race to Kerna’s body. Hull appears beside me, backpack in hand. He nods. We’re leaving. I snatch Kerna’s token—bloody, but intact—and yell for the others to follow. Another girl from 9 falls. I divert, trying to reach her, but the girl from 4 steps into my path—same one who mocked us before.

“Where do you think you’re going, egghead?” she sneers, standing over the girl’s body. Her trident gleams. “I’m no threat. Let me go.” I try to move around her, but she’s already poised to strike. This is it. All our planning, and I die in the opening minutes.

I dive low, hoping to roll away—She screams. Tile from 11 crashes into her, wielding a pitchfork. They fight. She bleeds. I don’t wait to see who wins. I snatch the necklace from the fallen tribute and bolt. Ahead, I spot flashes of electric blue, grey, brown, and red—Newcomers in their Capitol suits, still alive, still running. But out of the corner of my eye, I catch flashes of green, purple, and orange. The Careers are running with us.

We need to hide—fast. I glance back and see Louella break away, sprinting toward the woods. I hope Haymitch or Maysilee finds her before someone else does.

As we run, it hits me—we barely have anything. Hull’s the only one with a pack, as far as I know. No weapons. No real supplies. I glance back again. The Cornucopia is almost cleared out. Most tributes have already vanished into the trees or hills. Panache is still there, swinging his sword at two grey-suited tributes. But otherwise, it’s quiet.

I make a split-second decision. “Keep running!” I yell over my shoulder. And I turn back. Lannie and Peeler race after me. “We need weapons,” Lannie pants, not breaking stride. I nod, trying to conserve my breath.

Sunlight catches something metal—a glint just past the Cornucopia. We dart toward it. Packs, scattered on the ground. But they’re on the same side as Panache. He sees us. Smiles.

Behind him, Silka comes jogging over, blood smeared across her face. “Oh, want some more?” she sneers. I swallow hard. Don’t let emotions get in the way. Focus. Opportunities, not fear. Dio’s voice in my head steadies me. You don’t need feelings right now.

Lannie and Peeler are faster—they reach the packs first. I spot a small axe lying in the dirt and grab it. Bloodied. No idea whose. Doesn’t matter. Peeler gets her hands on a pack just as Panache barrels into her. His sword slashes across her thigh. She screams. Lannie lunges forward with Kerna’s spear, trying to protect her, but Panache is too fast. He pins her down next.

In a final, desperate motion, Peeler hurls the pack toward me. It lands just in front of my feet. I grab it. I don't think—I just run.

Tears stream down my face. I can't stop them. I'm sorry. I’m so sorry I turned back. Behind me, I hear Silka and Panache laughing, weapons rising and falling. The girls scream. Beg. It doesn’t stop.

The pack isn’t heavy. Hopefully, that means useful, not empty. I don’t know what the mountains hold. But we’re going there with or without gear. I run until my legs give out and I collapse behind a jagged outcrop of rock. Panting, I pull the two sunflowers from my pocket and tie them gently around my neck.

Then—footsteps. I flatten myself to the ground, heart pounding. “Ampert,” someone hisses. A sharp whisper.

“Ampert, I saw something blue. I know it’s you.” Dio.

I rise slowly. She’s behind another outcrop, waving me over. I run to her, straight into her arms. For a moment, just a moment, I feel safe.

She leads me through a narrow crevice between boulders, and I see what’s left of us. Two from 6. Two from 7. Two from 10. Three from 11. And all of us from 3.

“Are you all okay?” I ask. Wellie stands up the second she sees me, throws herself onto me in a hug.

“Oh, Ampert. We were so worried. I heard you went back. For supplies.”

Stamp and Buck watch me hopefully. “Where are Lannie and Peeler?” Buck asks.

Lect looks at me, eyes wide, silent. “They didn’t make it,” I say, barely getting the words out. “But they helped me get this.” I hold up the pack. Hull lifts his as well.

“I only got this one,” he says. “Lect has a dagger. Wellie picked up some apples, but that’s it. The Careers, they...”

He trails off. I nod, unable to speak for a moment. Then I open my pack. Inside: a handful of potatoes, a few pieces of fruit, and one bottle of water.

“It’s not much,” I say. “But it looks like the arena has food we can gather. Look.”
Around us, berry-laden bushes cluster between the rocks, and apple trees reach up toward the sun.

Hull opens his pack. Inside is a larger bottle of water than mine, a few apples, and something thick and amber-colored in a glass bottle—syrup, maybe.

We’re not safe.
But we’re alive.
For now.

Then we hear it.

Boom.
Boom.
Boom.

Seventeen times, we count the cannons together.

Seventeen dead.

Only two of the Careers, at most, are gone—if Louella and Maysilee survived. My voice comes out more hopeful than I feel.

Chapter Text

“Anyone see Louella? Or Maysilee?”

They all shake their heads.

“It’s better to call her Lou Lou,” Chicory says, gently.

I frown. “Lou Lou?”

“She’s had… some brain damage from the accident. So now she prefers that name,” Chicory continues.

But something about it doesn’t sit right. If that were true, wouldn’t Haymitch or Maysilee have said something? Wouldn’t I have heard it during training?

But I can’t unpack it now. My brain’s too full.

I look at Wellie beside me. “I’m sorry. About Miles and Velo.”

She places a hand on my shoulder, quiet and warm. “And I’m sorry for Bircher and Heartwood. And Lannie and Peeler. Tile. All the kids from Eight and Nine. Wefton, Notion, Ripman, and Alawna. Ryan. Kerna. Clayton. Midge.”

We fall silent as the names hang in the air.

There’s something sacred about saying them.
Even here, even now—especially now—it matters that we remember.

Dio breaks the silence. “We should find water and something to eat. Let’s not touch our packs yet.”

Wellie nods. “We can go foraging. Hull, would you come with us? Just in case?”

Hull nods silently and stands, brushing dirt from his Capitol-issued trousers. Most of us are miraculously unharmed—just scratches, bruises. Hull has some scrapes, but nothing serious. Lect, Coil, and Dio look untouched. I suspect they ran the moment the gong rang.

Blossom, though—she’s the exception. There’s a gash across her stomach, and Coil is already at her side, trying to clean and patch it with shaky hands and whatever supplies we have. None of us really knows what we’re doing.

I decide to join the foraging group. Partly to help, partly to scout, mostly to keep moving. The Careers will come for us. They saw us run—saw that we ran together. They’ll know we headed for the mountains.

We leave our rocky shelter carefully, spreading out in a loose line across the trees. Wellie and I stay close, while Hull, gripping my blood-smeared axe, lingers behind us like a silent shadow. His eyes constantly scan the trees.

We spot a thicket of berries—plump, crimson, sun-warmed. My mouth waters. Hunger claws at my gut, but I resist the urge to eat. We don’t know how long we’ll have food. Or how long we’ll live.

We start gathering. Then a sharp whistle. Hull.

He signals. Danger.

I freeze. Beyond a bend in the brush, I see them. Snot-green suits. District 1.

They move with slow, deliberate steps. Quiet. Too quiet. They're hunting. I drop to the ground behind the berry bush. Wellie is already down beside me, her wide eyes locked on mine, lips trembling. That’s when I notice her tokens—two. Her own, and another. A script-coin laced into a woven cord. Wyatt’s. She must’ve taken it from his body. A reminder. A promise. The Newcomers will be remembered.

The footsteps get louder. Closer. Hull disappears behind a tree. His brown suit blends into the bark and earth, making him almost invisible.

I, on the other hand, am a beacon. Electric blue. I press myself into the bush, heart racing. “Where are those little shits?” Panache’s voice cuts through the silence. Too close. Silka’s probably with him. She always is.

But then—
“Guys! I found something!”

A girl’s voice, calling from further off. Panache curses. Their footsteps shift, fading. She’s pulled them away. Whatever she found just saved our lives.

I don’t breathe until their voices are gone. We exchange a look—no words—and begin a silent, cautious retreat back to camp, our hands stained red with berry juice. Hull takes the rear, axe still at the ready, eyes sharp.

When we return, everyone perks up at the sight of the food. We divide the berries into small piles—barely enough to call a meal, but it’s something.

Lect and Buck don’t wait. They grab their shares and begin eating greedily.

“They’re so sweet,” Lect says with a crooked grin, red juice dripping down his chin. Buck hums in agreement, his mouth already full.

Coil is still focused on Blossom, trying to stop the bleeding. Dio and Wellie sit off to the side, deep in a low-voiced conversation about rations.

I take my own portion and bring a berry to my lips.

Then Lect stiffens.

He jerks violently, the berry in his hand squished between twitching fingers. His eyes roll back in his skull. Foam bubbles up from his mouth.

“Lect?” I gasp.

Buck collapses next, seizing on the ground beside him.

Then—
Boom.
Boom.
Two cannons. Already?

But they’re still breathing. Aren’t they? “Don’t eat them!” Wellie screams, leaping to her feet and smacking the berries from my hand. She’s already at Lect’s side, checking his pulse with shaking fingers. “They’re poisoned.”

Panic erupts. Stamp backs away from his berries, eyes wide in horror. Ringina stumbles forward, clutching her throat, her face pale and lips already foaming. “No, no, no—” Dio mutters, grabbing Ringina before she hits the ground. Wellie sprints to our packs, rifling through them until she yanks out the big glass bottle we found in Hull’s pack—the one with the thick, amber liquid.

“This might be an antidote,” she says, breathless. “My dad used to give me cough syrup in bottles like this—it looks like medicine.”

She uncaps it and forces the syrup into Lect’s mouth, tipping his head back. Some of it dribbles down his chin, but a good amount goes in. Then she does the same for Buck. Then Ringina. At first, nothing. Then the foam begins to change color—from white to a dirty amber. Lect lets out a rattling cough. Buck groans. Ringina shudders and vomits violently into the grass, but her eyes blink open.

Everyone’s frozen, watching.

“They still have a pulse,” Wellie says, her voice thin but steady. “They're going to live.”
Relief floods the camp like a wave, but it’s not warm. It’s cold, trembling. We almost lost them. Three more, gone, just like that.

I stare at the smashed berries on the ground—bright red, like blood.
Sweet doesn’t mean safe. Not here.

“Whose cannons were those?” Blossom asks, clutching her side, her face still pale.
“Well,” Wellie says, her voice low but tight, “maybe a few of the Careers ate some. We ran into Panache and probably Silka. They got called away—someone found something. Maybe it was these berries.”

She looks at me, eyes dark with something sharper than fear. Anger.
“I hope Panache ate some.”

I press my lips together. I don’t want to wish death on anyone. But I do. Just this once.

“But… these shouldn’t be poisonous,” Dio says, crouching beside the pile, inspecting them. Autumn scoots closer to look as well.
“They look exactly like huckleberries,” she says. “And huckleberries aren’t toxic. There’s not even a look-alike that’s dangerous.”

She must’ve been paying close attention in survival training. And now—now we Newcomers are showing the Capitol why knowledge matters. Why we matter.

“Wellie… you saved their lives,” I say.

She blinks at me. The words seem to land late.
“I just did what I could,” she says, then smiles. Relieved. Humble.

“We need to test everything before we eat it,” I say. “Maybe watch the animals—see what they eat.”

We slice up a few apples that we plucked and lay them near some bushes. Then we wait.

A squirrel scurries down the trunk of a tree, nose twitching. He approaches the apple slice, nibbles it, and pauses.
His body twitches. Foam spills from his mouth. Then a thin stream of blood. He collapses.

Dead.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. I crouch beside him, whisper,
“I’m sorry.”

I dig a shallow hole and bury him. I feel like I owe him that.
Mom and dad have called me squirrel my whole life.

“The apples are poisoned too,” I say. “Maybe… everything is.” Wellie questions.

A silence spreads. No one moves.

“We don’t eat anything from the arena,” I say again, firmer now. “Not unless we’re absolutely sure.”

We keep the fire small, the smoke thinner than thread. Just enough heat to bake a few of the potatoes we found in the packs. They're earthy, ugly things, but right now they look like gold.

We divide them into pieces, careful and even. No one moves to eat. The silence stretches.

Then Blossom speaks.
“I’m already wounded. If someone’s going to die first, it should be me.”

And before anyone can stop her, she eats. Just a bite. A soft hiss of breath escapes us. The syrup’s ready. We're all watching her like she’s the fuse of a bomb.

Seconds pass. Then minutes.

Nothing.

She blinks. Shrugs. “Tastes like dirt,” she says. “But I’m still here.”

The tension breaks. It’s not joy—it's relief, ragged and cautious. But it’s something.
We won’t starve.
Not yet. 

As we eat our potatoes, I spot Dio and Autumn huddled over the packs, quietly sorting what little we have left.
“It’s not enough,” Dio murmurs. “Barely five days’ worth, and that’s if we ration tight. The Careers must’ve taken almost everything.”
“And whatever was left,” I say, thinking back to the Cornucopia, “they’ve probably gone back for it by now.”

One by one, we settle down. The cold creeps in gently, not freezing, but sharp enough to notice. Through the canopy, we can just make out stars flickering against the sky. Then the anthem starts. All of us look up.

Faces flicker in the dark. A Career—then another. They must’ve eaten the berries too. The two we saw fall at the Cornucopia. And then the Newcomers. All of them.

So many young faces.
So many names I forced myself to remember.
And then no District 12—Maysilee. Haymitch. Even Lou Lou. They’re still alive.

We set watches for the night. There are enough of us that everyone gets more sleep than you usually see in the Hunger Games. But I can’t. I try, and I can’t. The images won’t stop—Lannie, Peeler, Wyatt, kids being hacked apart. Silka’s voice. Panache’s blade. It all loops, over and over.

Eventually, I give up on sleep and take over the lookout early. Dio joins me not long after.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks, like she already knows. She does. She’s seen me have nightmares before.
“It’s just... all this violence,” I say. The words sound too small for what I feel.

She rests her head on my shoulder, her curls soft against my neck.
“I know,” she whispers. “It’s terrible.”

We sit there in silence for a while, the fire low behind us.

Then Dio lifts her head, frowning slightly, like something just occurred to her.
“Do you know why Haymitch and Maysilee ran off?”

I hesitate. I can’t tell her the truth. Not about Haymitch, at least. But I don’t want to lie either.
“I think Haymitch was afraid the Capitol would target us with mutts if we all stayed together,” I say slowly. “Maysilee... I don’t know. Maybe she panicked after Wyatt died. Maybe she just ran without thinking.”

Dio doesn’t press me further. But I can feel the question still hanging between us, unsaid.

She lifts her head, offering a small smile. “You know, I’m really proud of us. We actually stuck together — shared our food, no backstabbing. I mean… most of us survived because we stayed united.”

I smile back, but then it hits me — not all of us made it. Tile, Lannie, Peeler. The kids from Districts 8 and 9. Bircher. Heartwood. So many gone. “I know,” I say. “But they might still be alive if it wasn’t for our alliance.” I swallow, the guilt thick in my throat. “Still, everyone knew what they were in for. And we all shared the same cause. No Career will win this year.”

I don’t say what I’m really thinking — that if Wyatt were still here, he’d probably calculate the odds differently. Maybe even say they’re not in our favour anymore.

We fall into silence again. Dio rests her head against my shoulder.

“I think I’ll have to find Haymitch at some point,” I whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear.

“Why? He left us,” she says, not unkindly.

“Because we barely have anyone left who can protect us. He’s strong.”

She says nothing. Not for a long moment.

Then, “We can bring it up tomorrow? Maybe he has more food than we do?” But I can hear the strain in her voice, like she’s trying to make it logical, trying to make it not what she suspects it is. She knows me too well. She’s smart enough to guess there’s more to this than just food and protection.

Slowly, we watch the sun rise. Neither of us wants to go back to sleep. We stay like that until the others begin to stir. There’s no rush—not yet. We have just enough food for today, but since we found out the arena is probably completely unharvestable, we try not to waste any energy. I find myself hoping that Maysilee, Haymitch and Lou Lou are aware of the dangers of this arena and will not poison themselves today. I don't know how many packs had a bottle of antidote, but we are sure lucky Hull took one with him.

Breakfast is quiet: a few slices of apple, a small sip of water. Then we gather to talk about plans.

“I think it’s best to stay hidden,” Wellie suggests. “At least until more Careers are gone.”

But Coil shakes his head immediately. “They have more food, and they’re fewer in number. We won’t have enough food to last another day.”

I hesitate. Should I bring up Haymitch now? Before I can, Dio speaks. “Maybe we can find Maysilee or Haymitch. They might have more food.”

There’s some murmured protest, but most of the group seems open to the idea. “But they ran off,” Buck says.

“Yes, they betrayed us,” Ringina adds bitterly.

“We don’t know why,” Wellie says, always trying to believe the best in people. “Maybe they were being chased. Or maybe they’re looking for us now.”

I hope her hope won’t get her killed.

BOOM.

A cannon fires. My thoughts jump to Haymitch, but we won’t know until nightfall. Maybe the plan to break the arena just failed. Maybe he ate some apples and died. “Maybe he’s already gone,” Ringina says, like she is reading my mind. There’s no bitterness in her voice now. Only grief.

“If he’s still alive by tonight,” she adds softly, “maybe Ampert could go find him?”

The suggestion catches me off guard. But slowly, the others nod.

Maybe it's the thought that we spent the day accusing him while he might have been dying. Or maybe it’s just the way fear and sadness settle into our bones, making us gentler. Whatever it is, something has shifted.

If he’s alive, I’ll go tomorrow.

We spend the day sitting tight, sharing stories about our districts and our childhoods.

Buck tells us how he once chased a sheep for hours, and just when he finally caught it, another boy swooped in and grabbed it instead — impressing Buck’s father more than Buck ever could. We laugh, even though there’s a tinge of something sad behind his smile. I tell them about the bread rolls I used to sneak into the factories, and I see Dio, Coil, and Lect smile at the memory.

“I thought District 3 was well off,” Autumn says, brow furrowed.

“Nope. Just a select few,” Lect replies. “Most of us grow up in factory families — poor, polluted areas, small homes.”

He glances down, avoiding Dio’s eyes. “Unless your parents are selected geniuses, you grow up like the rest of us.”

There’s a pause. Dio doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her stiffen beside me. Luckily, Ringina takes over, telling us all about her climbing skills and how she is one of the best in her class. 

We take turns caring for Blossom and try to stretch our food as far as we can. It must be a boring image — nothing to entertain the Capitol. Hopefully, something more dramatic is happening elsewhere in the arena. And as if my question is immediately being answered, I hear the canon.

BOOM.

The laughter dies. Two cannons today. It's too optimistic to hope they were both Careers. But maybe Haymitch or Maysilee took someone down. Maybe Lou Lou surprised us all.

As evening falls and the faces appear in the sky, our brief hope is shattered. One Career. And then Lou Lou.

“At least Haymitch and Maysilee are still alive,” Wellie says, but her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Lou Lou… you’ll be remembered.”

I see Chicory, Hull, and Blossom wiping away tears. They must have bonded more than I realised — maybe during training, or in the hovercraft. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know.

Morning comes.

I barely slept, but I decide to leave before the others wake. If Haymitch is north, it’ll be a long journey. But Dio is already up. She gives me a tight hug. I feel something flutter in my stomach — the first thing that isn’t grief or fear in days — and it makes me feel a little more alive.

When she pulls back, I look into her big brown eyes. They’re watery. I realize this might be the last time I see her. The last time I see any of them.

I glance around the group — my new family.

And then Dio leans forward and presses something warm and soft to my cheek. A small kiss.

My face flushes red. I try to stay casual. It’s just a goodbye. Just a goodbye.

“We’ll see each other again. I’m just going to the woods,” I say, even though we both know it might not be true.

She smiles through her tears, and as they trail down her cheeks, I feel my own eyes begin to sting. She hands me the ax and a hat made of leaves "Coil made it, she didn't want you to get burned", I smile. 
“Until next time,” she whispers.

“Until next time.”
The words catch in my throat. The tears are falling freely now. I taste the salt in the corners of my mouth.

And with the tightness of her hug still lingering in my chest, the softness of her kiss on my cheek, Wyatt’s token in my pocket, and the two sunflowers around my neck, I grab a few slices of apple and run.

This is it.

It’s time to find Haymitch.

It’s time to break the arena.

Chapter Text

I run as fast as I can, scanning for movement. I don’t want to bump into the Careers alone. The meadow near the Cornucopia comes into view — wide open, exposed. I slow, eyes darting. It looks clear. Empty. No packs. Just as we suspected. I dash around the Cornucopia and sprint toward the woods. My sunhat — the one Coil made — bounces against my head as I run. I hold it in place, trying to be quick, trying not to think about how exposed I am. My mind races anyway. What if Haymitch is hurt? What if Lou Lou— No. He wouldn’t have. But how did she die? How did she survive this long in the first place? Did someone help her? Haymitch? Maysilee?

Or maybe she’d been dying slowly, all this time. Starving. She was already so thin. I plunge into the trees, thoughts spinning. Will Haymitch be looking for me too? He was headed north. How far is north, really? And then I see him. A tall figure in black, perched on a rock with binoculars in hand.

My legs move on instinct — I sprint toward him and throw myself into his arms. He’s alive. The plan is alive. We might still have a chance to save everyone.

He hugs me back, strong and solid. He doesn’t feel starved. That’s good. “Hey, buddy,” he murmurs into my ear.

“The Newcomers need you back,” I say quickly, hoping the Gamemakers and the audience are listening. But Haymitch only says, “We talked about this. My scoring a one makes me dangerous to be around.”

I shrug. I don’t care. That’s not important anymore. Then I notice—he's alone. He’s lost his district. “Lou Lou ran off. Then we saw her in the sky,” I say. I can’t even form it as a question. I’m too tired. “Case in point,” he replies, letting go of the hug. “She found me. And she’s dead now. We didn’t see the poison flowers coming.”

I frown. “Those are poisonous too?” He nods. “At least the bee balm. The gas plants came in handy when I needed to barbecue some butterfly mutts. The Gamemakers sent those after me. You hungry?” I nod without hesitation. My stomach aches at the thought of food.

“How about a trade?” he says. “Some lunch for a mountain update?” He lays out food like magic — rolls, cheese, eggs, apples, even a wineglass of grape juice. I try not to feel guilty as I devour everything, savoring each bite. It’s more than I’ve seen in days.

When I finish, I wipe my mouth and let out a heavy sigh. “I wish I could’ve shared that with the others. The Careers got most of the food.”

Haymitch latches onto that. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s tough. We’ve lost seventeen now. All but Lou Lou at the bloodbath.”

He nods, then frowns. “Nobody got poisoned?”

“Oh, several of us did. But Wellie figured out almost everything right away. And Hull’s pack had a big bottle of syrup antidote. None of us died from it.”

“Syrup? I had these.” He pulls out some kind of tablets. “Else I’d be gone too.”

So he did poison himself. I shake my head. “Must’ve been bad. No one to look after you.”

He shrugs. “Wyatt?”

Just his name. That’s all he can say.

I reach into my pocket and hand him Wyatt’s token. “Panache killed him. And five others. With a sword. Maritte’s wicked with a trident. Silka’s got an axe like a razor. I saw...”

I can’t finish. I saw the kids from 9 and 8 die horribly. I saw Lennie. Peeler.

“I get the picture,” he says quietly. Then, “Maysilee’s okay, though, right?”

“I don’t know. She got separated at the bloodbath. We haven’t seen her in the sky. I’m guessing she’s still on the mountain, like the rest of the Newcomers. We’ve been trying to stick together. The Careers followed us.”

“Wherever she is, she’s making trouble for the Careers. You can count on that.”

He hooks Wyatt’s token around his neck.

We sit in silence, staring out at the deceptively beautiful meadow. The flowers sway gently in the breeze. It’s too beautiful for a place like this.

Haymitch pours me another glass of juice. I gulp it down gratefully.

“So you won’t come back?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“It wouldn’t help. I’m a mutt magnet. And clearly no judge of flowers.”

I try to laugh. “What a funny thing to say. Who could keep us safe, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence does. No one can.

“Can you show me around the woods at least?” I ask. “We need to get off that mountain, but no one knows if it’s worse here.”

He nods slowly. “If that’s what you want. But I can’t promise to keep you safe from the Gamemakers.”

“No one can,” I echo.

After we finish our juice, he leads me into the trees.

“Watch out for the stream,” he says. “It’s poisonous. And the fruit. And those flowers over there, too.” He keeps on walking, showing me all the plants and trees, he could have just said everything was dangerous but he doesn't he wants me to see something. Something we might need. And then he stops at a bush. This here’s where the butterflies went. The ones I didn’t burn to a crisp.” he explains. 

I look at the bush—just a single branch wedged in to keep it open. It creates a narrow gap, but enough. Enough to see that it’s real. That he found an entrance.

My heart leaps. He really found it.
My dad must be so excited, wherever he’s watching. We can do this.

“Do you think it’s safe to be near their home?” I ask. The word home sticks in my throat. For a moment, it’s hard to swallow—hard not to think about our homes. My mother. My little sibling. The families of Dio, Lect, Coil. All of them, staring at screens, waiting. Hoping one of us makes it back.

“Well,” Haymitch says, his tone a bit too casual, “I don’t really think anybody much is at home. There weren’t many left. No more than we can handle. And they don’t kill you when they sting, just give you a nasty shock. I had dozens and I’m fine. So it’s probably safer than a lot of places, since they tend to space the mutts out.”

Now that we’re standing still, I feel how tired I really am. The kind of tired that clings to your bones. Since we need to stay near the mutt entrance anyway, I ask if we can rest here.

“Sure,” he says, “I don’t really have any plans this afternoon.”

He rigs up his hammock, and I collapse into it, exhaustion dragging me down. Now that I’ve found Haymitch—and no cannons have fired—I finally feel safe enough to let go, just for a little while.

When I wake, it’s to the smell of something warm and the crackling of fire. Haymitch is cooking. We eat together—quietly, comfortably. It's one of the best meals I’ve had since the arena.

“I don’t want to go back this late,” I say between bites. “I might bump into Careers or mutts.”
It’s not a lie. But really, I just don’t want to leave him. Not yet. We need to talk through the plan. We need to start the plan.

He doesn’t seem to mind.
“You can stay,” he says. There’s a softness in his voice. A sadness too. I think of Lou Lou.

He tells me about the butterflies—how when he tried to burn them, his clothes didn’t catch fire.
That gives me an idea.

I take off my sock and carefully dip it into the flames.

At first, nothing, then they melt. 

So, they’re partially fireproof. Capitol-issued and fireproof. Why? There’s been no fire in the arena—no traps like that so far.

But maybe there will be. I look over at Haymitch, at the food he’s shared. I want to repay him. “Maybe I can catch something myself,” I say, pulling out my tokens. It gives me the excuse I need to work with the fuse, to quietly unwind it from the cord while pretending to plan a snare.

“Think the animals are poisonous?” I ask. “Maybe not the rabbits,” he replies. “I watched one die from drinking water—it seemed as susceptible as we are. Of course, they could be carrying rabbit fever.”

“What’s that?”

“Sickness. You don’t want it. But if we cook it through, it might be safe.”

We keep talking about rabbits while I tuck the blastcap away, safe. Hidden.

“Worth a try,” I say.
“I’ll give it a go in the morning. You can keep anything it catches.”

Then I hold up one of the sunflowers. The petals are starting to wilt, but it’s still bright. Still golden.

“Do you want a sunflower? I bet Nine would like you to wear one. You’re the reason they were in the alliance.”

Haymitch looks at it for a moment.
“It was really Maysilee who won them over,” he says. “You should’ve seen them stand up to Panache. Thought he was doing them some big favour letting them join the Careers, and they shut him down like that.”

He snaps his fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet. A small smile crosses his face.
“Yeah, I’ll wear one. They were good allies.”

I watch as he loops the bloodstained sunflower around his neck. It looks heavy somehow, but he wears it like it matters. Like it counts.

The anthem begins, but no faces show up in the sky.

“Still twenty-six of us,” Haymitch murmers, and I hug my knees. The fire crackles beside us, and the darkness beyond it feels way too big.

“Can we stay by the fire awhile?” I ask, my voice small. “I don’t like the dark.”

I try to sound casual, but I know it slips through, how the dark reminds me of the bloodbath.

Haymitch nods, not arguing. “We can sleep here if you want. I don’t think the tree will work for both of us. We can take turns being on watch. Go ahead and rest some more.”

“Can I have some water?”

He hands me the full jug, and I drink gratefully. I haven’t felt this safe in days — not really — and the water tastes better somehow.

“Wake me when you’ve had enough,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

I take one last sip, but don’t swallow. Instead, I curl on my side, cheeks puffed, keeping the water in my mouth. I take the sunflower in my hands and softly let the water go as I wash away the outer layer. Leaving only soft clayable paste. And I clay it into a block.

“Okay,” Haymitch says behind me. “Sweet dreams.”

I close my eyes and try to still my body, willing myself to rest—even if sleep won’t come. Beside me, Haymitch sits quietly. We don’t speak. We just exist, side by side in the hush of the night, holding on to the sliver of a plan that could change everything.

But I can’t sleep. I’m too wired, too full of nervous energy. He’s found an entrance—some kind of access hatch under the berm. If it really leads to a water tank, and if it connects to the arena’s core systems… he might be able to blow it. Drown the arena. Or at least short out its brain. If.

I hear him shift beside me, crouching down, then feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispers. “Let’s beat those odds.”

I’m on my feet in an instant. I press the coiled fuse into his hand.
“You’ll have sixty seconds,” I whisper back.

Then I give him the paste—carefully shaped into a small, dense block. He pockets both quickly. We walk toward the berm, side by side in silence. At the edge, he passes me the torch.

Then, using the spear he jammed into the gap earlier, Haymitch cranks open the hatch. It groans, protesting, then gives way. He wedges the spear deeper, enough to hold it open, revealing a rusted ladder leading down into the dark.

A mechanical hum rises from below. This is it. This is where we split up.
This is his part. Not mine.

I wish it were mine.

I hand him the torch.
“I’ll be here,” I say.

He slides a small knife into my belt, ruffles my hair just like Dad does.
“Best ally ever,” he says with a grin.

I try to return it. I really do. My heart pounds in my chest. This isn’t goodbye. It can’t be.

He climbs down, one step at a time, taking our only light source with him. Darkness wraps around me the moment he disappears below.

Panicked, I fumble around, find a sturdy branch, and make another torch from our campfire. The flames flicker to life.

Just in time.

I glance down and see Haymitch again—he’s scrambling, faster now. The fuse must be lit. Sixty seconds.

Then I hear it: shrill chirping, the rush of wings.

And I see them.

A storm of bright-feathered birds—no, bats, huge and shimmering, claws like blades—spiralling into the hatch. Straight toward Haymitch.

They don’t even look at me. They know who they're after.

“Haymitch! Catch!” I shout, tossing my torch into the shaft, praying it helps.

Light streaks past him, and then I hear him scream. Pain. Real pain. No. There’s nothing else. I spin in place, eyes frantic. Just flower berms. The fire. Nothing.

Think. Think, Ampert. I turn and run back to the camp. Maybe there’s a weapon, something I missed—

And then it happens.

BOOM.

The explosion rips through the night. I stumble. The ground trembles beneath my feet.

He did it.

He really did it.

The water will come now. It will flood everything. The plan worked.

Up in the trees, I hear a soft chittering. I look up—and there, perched on a branch, is a squirrel. Tiny. Still. Watching.

And I smile. That’s me, I think. I’m the squirrel. Until they show their long, rectangular teeth. 

Chapter Text

I realise the squirrels aren’t just watching me anymore. More and more appear, swarming the trees like leaves rustling before a storm. I edge closer to the campfire, heart pounding, unwilling to run unless I have to.

Then I hear it. “Ampert.”

I spin around. The voice came from the bluebell berm. There, partially hidden in the flowers, stands a man in a white suit, only his head and shoulders visible. A Gamemaker.

I freeze. What is he doing here?
Behind me, the chittering escalates. Too loud. Too close.

Pain lances through my right calf. I scream and look down—
A squirrel is latched onto my leg, its teeth sunk deep, tearing away a chunk of flesh. Tears spring to my eyes from the sudden, searing pain. The figure bolts toward me.

“Plutarch?” I gasp. Two more figures emerge beside him. One rips the weapons from my belt. Another grabs my arm and begins cutting into it—quick, practised movements.

Confusion clouds my thoughts.
Am I being arrested? Taken?

Then I see it—a syringe glinting in the light. Panic roars up in me like a flood. “No—stop!” I try to scream, but one of them plunges the needle into my neck.

My body goes slack. Half-conscious now, I hear the squirrels screeching louder. I’m being undressed—then redressed. Someone is laid out beside me. My arm throbs in agony. My leg feels like it’s on fire.

Voices swirl above me.

“We can’t close the berms. We have to go. They’re going to kill him!”

The chittering draws closer, frantic and unrelenting—but so do short, sharp zaps—the same electric crackle I remember from the protests.

Are they tasing the squirrels? I can't process it. Can’t hold on. Too many sounds. Too much pain.

“It’s going to be okay, Ampert,” Plutarch says, his voice far away, almost tender.

And then, as the world fades—

“Haymitch,” I whisper

I open my eyes to a blinding white light and immediately close them again. My body aches everywhere. Slowly, I blink again, trying to focus. I’m on the floor, beside empty chairs—like those on a hovercraft.

Am I on a hovercraft? An oxygen mask clings to my face. I lift it off, weak and trembling.

Then— “Ampert, are you awake?”

My dad’s voice. I turn my head, and he’s there. His hands are shaking as he removes the mask.

“Thank god,” he whispers, pulling me into a hug.

A sharp pain flares in my leg and arm, but I don’t care. I cling to him. Tears flood my eyes. “Dad, what happened? Is Haymitch okay?” I murmur into his chest.

I feel him heaving. Sobbing. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, rubbing my back.

But I pull away, needing answers. I glance down—
I’m wearing a plain grey jumpsuit.

“Where’s Haymitch?” I ask.

He hesitates, then speaks softly. “He’s still in the arena. It wasn’t as broken as we expected—just temporary. We only had enough time to get you out.”

I shake my head.
“No. He did it, Dad. He flooded it. It worked.”
Panic tightens my chest.

“Yes, it worked,” he says, colder now. “But they had a backup generator.”

I try to sit up, my breath catching. “What about Dio? Lect? Coil? And the other Newcomers?”

He shakes his head. So… they saved only me? “Where are we going? Home?” Again, he shakes his head.

“You’re going with your mom. To a different district.” I frown.
“You’re not coming with us?”

“It would be too dangerous. They’d suspect you weren’t actually dead.”

Dead? “What do you mean?”

He meets my eyes, and his voice goes quiet. “We faked your death, Ampert. They’ll never know you made it out.”

I stare at him, stunned. My mouth opens.
“How?”

He takes a breath—and then begins. He tells me how Louella died. How her body was never returned to her family. She was about my height.

My tracker—removed, implanted into her. My jumpsuit—placed on her body. And the squirrels, programmed to kill me, targeted her instead. The tracker and the clothing were all they needed.

By now, she’s just bone. Plutarch helped smuggle me out. And Louella became my body double.

Chapter Text

I watch the final day of the Hunger Games on a small, square TV. My grief for Dio, Lect, Coil, and all the other kids still sits heavy in my chest. But Haymitch is alive. I see him fight. I see him use the arena against itself. And through all the tears I’ve shed these past few days, a small smile finally breaks through. He made it. He survived.

My mom sits beside me, rubbing my back.
“At least one of your friends made it out,” she says gently.

It stings. I made it out, too—but no one can ever know. District 13 is buried underground, hidden from the world. My dad traded his knowledge—his life, essentially for ours. In return, they keep us safe. He discovered 13 while hacking into Capitol communications. A rogue signal, faint but steady. He traced it and realised what it must be. He made contact. And when it became clear my mother and I needed shelter, he made a deal.

He’ll never be able to visit. After our brief goodbye, he returned to the Capitol before anyone noticed he was gone. It felt like a goodbye for life.

After Haymitch his victory I try to see as much as possible of him, but the Capitol barely shows him and when they do, they make him into an asshole, a rascal, asshole. Like he is a cold-hearted, betraying ass, who left a lot of kids to die. 

We’re watching the 70th Hunger Games. A red-haired girl is frozen in shock as her friend is beheaded. She disappears, hides, until an earthquake ruptures the dam and floods the arena. Flooding the arena—Haymitch. My father. The memories come rushing back. I stroke my son’s head. His dark brown hair is soft, fine. He’s so small. So vulnerable.

My skin itches again—I scratch even though I’m not supposed to. I glance over. My mother is barely breathing, her brown hair has grey streaks in it. At least we’re quarantined together. I see my wife through the sealed window separating us from the rest of District 13. She offers a cautious smile, but I can still see the sadness behind her eyes. She didn’t get sick. Thank God.

But our son did. And so did I. Most of 13 is sick now. We’re packed tight into this makeshift, quarantine-proof hospital wing.

On the screen, the red-haired girl swims like a fighter, strong, fast. District 4, of course. She wins. Barely. Her name is Annie Cresta.

Finnick Odair. Enobaria. Haymitch Abernathy. Wiress. Beetee Latier. My dad. All victors.

But what did he win, really?

He lost his son. His wife. A grandson he doesn’t even know exists. He hasn’t seen us once in twenty years. After Haymitch, everything got worse. More Peacekeepers. Tighter surveillance. The Capitol clamped down harder than ever. According to President Coin, the districts are more broken than before. And 13? It does nothing. It survives, and that’s it.

I wish I could have done something—exposed them, made the world see how cowardly they were. But I can’t. Because my dad made the same choice.

He found 13, and instead of using it to help everyone, he used it to save us. His family. That doesn’t necessarily make him a coward, but it doesn’t make him a hero either. It leaves a mark on his name. One he can never clean.

My thoughts are shattered by the sharp wheezing beside me. My mother. She’s fighting so hard. She’s always fought. Monitors start to scream. A medical worker suits up in a hazmat suit and rushes in, but I already know.

That long, flat beep—
She’s gone.

She lost the fight, just like everyone else.

What happened to breaking the arena?
To changing the world?
To ending the Hunger Games?

But I will never see the world change. Not from here, buried beneath the ground. I don’t know how long I have left. I don’t know how long my son has.

He lies in my arms, still and silent. Not crying—just covered in rash. His big brown eyes stare up at me, glassy and tired. He’s only seven months old. Sometimes he smiles. But not lately. He probably itches as much as I do. He pukes often. Suddely, I feel nausea rising again. The worker who’s cleaning up my mother glances over. Her eyes are kind behind the fogged visor of her hazmat helmet. I know her—April. From military training. Always at the edge of drills in case something went wrong. She’s one of the lead doctors now.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, her voice muffled by the suit. I just nod. Words feel pointless.

The nausea crashes over me. She sees it coming and gently takes Mitch from my arms. I stumble toward the toilet and vomit—blood this time. That’s new. That’s bad.

When I return, April is gently rocking Mitch in her arms. “Thanks,” I say, my voice scratchy and thin.

“They’re working on a vaccine. A cure,” she says quietly, eyes on my son. A flicker of hope rises in my chest. Maybe… maybe he’ll make it.

I must have passed out. I wake to the sting of a needle in my arm, a drip hooked to my wrist. Machines beep softly beside me. The same kind that stood beside my mother. My heart lurches. Where is Mitch?

I twist, scanning the room—he’s not here, no one is here. I look toward the window and freeze. At first, I see myself in the glass—pale, sickly, face sunken, my dark hair shaved short.

But the reflection fades—and behind it, I see her.

Jess.

My wife.

She’s crying. Silent tears track down her cheeks as she lifts her hand to the glass. Her palm presses against it, desperate and tender. I try to move, to sit up, to reach her—but I can’t.

I can’t reach her. April enters the room in her hazmat suit. “Homes,” she says.

That name again. Not Ampert. Never Ampert. A lie to protect us—even now, even after all these years. Everyone here saw the Games. But names can vanish from records. And if we ever reach the outside world, better mine isn’t in it. Just introduce yourself as someone else, he’d told me. Over time, they’ll forget your real name. It’ll keep you safer, in case you ever get out.

“Homes, Mitch... he didn’t make it.” My heart drops.

A void rips open in my chest, swallowing everything. Grief drowns me, and the machines beside me begin to beep in protest. I sob, unable to stop. April leans in, holds me close through layers of plastic and filters. Jess watches from the other side of the glass, her face crumpling in silent agony.

“The cure?” I choke out between heaving breaths.

“We’re trying it,” April says.

A pause. Then:

“On you.”

That’s why I’m alone. That’s why the room is empty.

So I get to live. But he doesn’t. That’s not fair.

That’s not fair at all

President Coin’s voice echoes through the hall. What’s left of us after the Pox outbreak stands in silence, listening.

Jess grips my hand.

“We have decided to help with the rebellion,” Coin announces. Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“We will begin taking in refugees—to revive our community, and to help us survive.”

More murmuring. Some voices protest, but most sound eager. New people. New blood. Fertile people.

Jess is one of the rare few. She never got sick. Never needed the cure. Most who survived were left infertile—but not her. Still, we never wanted another baby. Mitch was irreplaceable. She’s been a surrogate for a few families, but never for us. Never again for us.

“We will also save some victors. Tributes in the coming Hunger Games.”

Gasps fill the room.

Tributes? Are they really planning to stop the Games? To pull people out?

“Tomorrow, the Reaping will occur. We are preparing for extraction. We have help on the inside.”

Help. That means someone in the Capitol—maybe even Plutarch. But my breath catches. The Reaping. District 3 has only two names in the pool: my father and Wiress.

They’ll have to go into the arena. Again. I remember that day. Seeing the announcement. Screaming. The anger overtook me. I wasn’t even allowed to hold my own weapon. They gave me dummies, watched me constantly, like I was unstable. Jess tried to vouch for me, to tell them I was okay, but they didn’t believe her.

I spent days locked away with Dr. Aurelius. Talking about grief. About Mitch. About survival. About guilt.

Eventually, he cleared me. I could return to training. And now—

“We are looking for volunteers to help us on this mission,” Coin says. “Volunteers may apply by speaking with Colonel Boggs.”

I don’t hesitate. My hand shoots up before I even think.

I want to save my father.

Like, he saved me. Across the room, Boggs stands near the wall, quiet, composed, watching.

I lock eyes with him. I’m ready.

For the first time in a long while, no schedule is printed on my arm. No training, no meal shifts. Just clouds outside the window — dense, endless. We must be almost there. Above the arena. “Homes, reporting for duty.” I speak into the intercom. It will let the people in the convention room know I’m here.

I hear someone talking with Plutarch. Plutarch — the rebel I’ve come to know as one of the most cunning and trusted inside men. The one who had free rein as head Gamemaker this year. But all along, he’s been planning this — filling President Coin in, discussing the arena, working behind the scenes. I was even called in for questioning, asked about being a tribute, and how to build trust and alliances. Since I was the first and only one to be able to unite so many districts together. I explained it’s about having a common enemy — something to unite people against. I mentioned the Career Victors, but they had President Snow in mind.

Then Plutarch says, “Come in,” and I hear the buzz as the door slides open. He’s sitting relaxed in a chair. Next to him, a man just a bit older than me, long dark hair, dishevelled, smelling faintly of alcohol. I shake his hand.

“Homes,” I introduce myself. “Haymitch,” he replies, barely looking at me.

My mouth drops open. This is Haymitch — my Haymitch. But he’s changed. A drunk. He can barely meet my eyes. I want to tell him who I am. But can I? Should I? The guilt of leaving him behind in the arena weighs on me. I never watched the Reapings — I couldn’t. I barely made it through the Games this year. And now here he is — alive, but broken. So broken.

“Homes, at midnight, the plan goes into motion. Report to Boggs in the cargo bay." 

“And Homes,” he says quietly, “remember your goal,” Plutarch adds as I turn to leave.

Remember my goal. My goal isn’t to save my dad — it’s to get Katniss out safely.

As I enter the cargo bay, Boggs turns to me, sharp and focused.

“Homes, I want you on the edge of the cargo bay. Weapon ready. Cover the team — eliminate any mutts, Careers, or obstacles. Understood?”

I nod, gripping my sniper tight. The cool metal feels familiar. Comforting.

We’ve been following the Games for days. Yesterday, Wiress died — killed by a Career. But my dad is still alive. And he has a plan.

Plutarch confirmed it — around midnight, they’ll use electricity to break the forcefield. That’s our window to extract them. Luckily, my dad has stayed close to Katniss — their top priority. That’s all President Coin talks about with Boggs: Katniss. The Mockingjay. The symbol. The spark.

As much as I care about the rebellion, I care more about my father. He’s supposed to help Katniss execute the arena breach. Plutarch made sure they had a coil for the job.

Coil.

The name hits me like a bruise. I push it away.

Tonight, I’ll be the sharpshooter. Cover the rescue. Take out mutts, Careers — whatever it takes.

Finally, something is about to change.

My dad—unconscious but alive—was in a hospital bed. Katniss Everdeen was resting in another bed beside him. I was only allowed in briefly. When she woke up, disoriented and wild, she lunged at Haymitch, had to be restrained, drugged, and tucked back under sedation. They stayed separated from us until we arrived back. 

Now, he sits in a wheelchair.

I enter quietly, Jess at my side. He’s hunched over a sketchpad, working—sketches of arrows, maybe concepts for some new weapon. He doesn’t turn. Probably thinks we’re medical staff.

“Dad,” I whisper, my voice small—like the child I once was.

He freezes. Slowly, he turns the wheelchair around. His eyes fill instantly.

“Ampert,” he says. “Is that you?” I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I throw myself into his arms and begin to sob. He wraps one arm around me, rubbing my back the way he used to. I cry into his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure you were alive,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Dad,” I choke out. “So sorry you had to go through everything alone.”

“I’m sorry too,” he says softly. “For not being able to visit. For not being there. For all of it.”

I pull back just enough to look at him, my voice breaking again. “Mom... she didn’t make it. The Pox…” I can’t finish. He chokes on a breath, staggering under the weight of it. 

He doesn’t know about Mitch. About the grandson he never got to meet. 

When we’re ready, I will tell him.

We hold each other tightly in silence. Just for a while. Just long enough to feel something settle—grief, maybe. Or forgiveness.

“This is Jess,” I say at last, pulling back. “My wife.” Jess steps forward, calm and composed as ever. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes shine with the same warmth they always have—the same light that’s kept me steady through everything.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” she says softly. My dad reaches out to shake her hand, but instead, he pulls her into a hug. I step forward, and the three of us hold each other. For the first time in years, something feels almost complete.

A knock on the door breaks the moment. April steps in, smiling. “I have one more visitor,” she says gently, stepping aside.

A young woman enters—she’s the spitting image of my mother. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, and she is wearing a grey jumpsuit just like the rest of us. My dad gasps. “Hi, Dad,” she says quietly. She walks in slowly, her steps uncertain, her eyes wet. She’d told me she was nervous about this moment—meeting him for the first time. I just told her to come in whenever she felt ready. 

“It’s me,” she says. “I’m May.”

I try to eat my lunch, but I can’t stop staring at him — at Haymitch. He sits hunched over his tray, barely functioning. He looks miserable. And here in 13, there’s no alcohol. That must’ve hit him hard.

Jess bumps my elbow. “Talk to him,” she whispers.

“I can’t. He can’t know,” I mutter back.

“You can still be there for him,” she says.

She’s right. I can’t tell him who I am — not yet — but I can be something else. A new friend. A familiar one, in disguise.

I nod and smile at her. She’s amazing. She always knows what to do.

I grab my tray and walk over. I sit beside him. The smell hits me first — sweat, stale clothes, no shower in days. Across from him sits Effie, his escort. The woman who walked Katniss and Peeta into the Games — twice. She gives me a small smile as I sit down. Without her Capitol makeup, she looks... normal. Kind, even. A quiet kind of beauty I didn’t expect.

“I can’t get him to eat,” she says with a sigh, watching Haymitch slouch over his tray. “He’s a mess.”

“I noticed. I’m Homes,” I say, reaching out a hand.

She looks at me with a spark of recognition. “Do I know you?”

I shake my head quickly. “How would you know me? I’ve been here.”

That seems to satisfy her. For now. Would she have watched the 50th Hunger Games? Would she have seen me? Heard me speak? Maybe she was even in the audience during my interviews. I remember Maysilee once mentioning an escort named Drusilla for 12. Not Effie.

“Just a feeling,” she shrugs. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t get him to do anything. Katniss is supposed to film her propo today, and he needs to be there.”

She talks fast, endlessly, like someone who hasn’t had a proper conversation in weeks. Maybe she hasn’t — not with Katniss breaking down, and Haymitch barely conscious.

“My poor preppers,” she sighs. “They were hurt here, you know? People thought they were evil, just for being from the Capitol. Haymitch defended me. But the others? They were locked up.”

“That’s awful,” I say, genuinely taken aback.

“Well, Coin isn’t exactly a sweetheart,” comes a voice — low and raspy.

Haymitch.

He lifts his head slowly and looks right at me. His eyes lock onto mine. For a second, something shifts in his expression — recognition? Confusion? Pain? His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something.

But instead, he turns to the side and pukes all over the floor.

The cafeteria falls silent. It wasn’t busy to begin with, but now no one moves. Effie shrieks. Someone runs to get a mop. The staff moves in quickly, quietly, trying to clean without drawing more attention. No one wants another incident — not after all the recent tension.

“That’s why,” Haymitch slurs, “you should’ve given me a drink.” His voice is bitter. The kind of bitterness that doesn’t wash away.

Here in 13, they avoid emotional messes — but the truth is, we’re drowning in them. There’s resentment everywhere. Because District 12’s refugees get bigger food portions. Because we have more freedom than the natives. Because some of us are still grieving while others are already moving on.

But right now, all I can focus on is Haymitch.

Because he looked at me.

And for just one second, I think he saw me.

As I tie my boots, I glance down at my arm. Today is all training — all day. I have to tell her.

“I’m in Squad 451,” I say to Jess.

“What does that mean?” she asks, confused.

“It means I’ll be joining the Mockingjay.”

Her shoulders slump, and she sits down heavily.

“It’ll be okay,” I say quickly. “She won’t be in real danger. It’s just for propos.”

“She’s the main target, Amp.”

She only calls me Amp when we’re alone, in our room.

“I know. But Boggs will be with us,” I try again.

It doesn’t help.

“Does May know?” she asks.

I shake my head. “She’s been helping Dad and Gale. She might’ve heard it from them, but I haven’t told her.”

Jess stays quiet, thinking. I keep talking.

“I’ll be training over the next few weeks. With her. With Gale. The others. I have to be ready — booby traps, Peacekeepers, mutts, even.”

She still doesn’t look convinced. “I can’t lose you, Amp,” she says, her eyes filling with tears.

“You won’t. I’m a sniper. I’ll be far away, watching over them.” I promise it, even though I don’t know if I can keep that promise.

I kiss her, hug her tightly, and leave for training.

On the way, I bump into May.

“Where are you going?” she asks, arms folded. Stern.

She knows. Of course she does.

I sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands.

“I only found out yesterday. Dad, he—”

“Dad already knew,” she cuts me off. “He’s upgrading your sniper rifle as we speak.”

Of course he is. He’s on the strategy board. He probably put me on the list. “It won’t keep you safe, you know,” she says. “It’ll be like an arena. Can you handle another arena?”

“Don’t talk about this here,” I hush her. But her words stick. I hadn’t thought of it like that — mutts, traps, death waiting at every turn. Maybe it is another arena.

“I’m sorry. I truly am. I wish I told you sooner... but I needed a moment for myself, too,” I say, trying to end the conversation.

She softens. “I’ll be helping Dad and Gale develop new weapons. I’ll try to help you from there.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“We’re eggheads, sis. We’re never stupid,” I say with a grin.

A grunt sounds behind me. “Eggheads?”

Haymitch slinks toward us. He looks better — cleaner, at least.

May nods at me and slips away. Everyone knows May is my sister, but no one knows that Beetee is our father. Our mother always said her husband was “someone of importance in 3.” I used to disguise myself more when I was younger, but puberty changed me just enough to move around without the hats and scarves. And now that we have been living here for so long, no one even mentions our origins. 

“Eggheads are from 3, right?” Haymitch asks, half-smiling. “Yeah, I think so,” I say casually. “But we’re smart too, so we claimed the name for ourselves.”

A small lie. He doesn’t need to know more. “But how do you know that term?” he asks.

His eyes sharpen. Damn. He got me. “I knew I recognised you. I just can’t place where from.” He steps closer. “The only ones I know from 3 are dead. Or Beetee.”

His eyes scan my face. I shaved this morning for training — the beard I usually wear is gone.

A flicker of realisation. He throws himself at me, pinning me against the wall. “Your name,” he hisses. “It’s not Homes, is it?”

I swallow hard. He grips my arms. “Who are you?”

“Remember who the real enemy is, Haymitch,” I say carefully. “Our common enemy.”

I could get him off me easily — I’ve had the training — but I don’t want to. I want him to know.

“My name’s not Homes. You’re right.” He relaxes slightly. “Who’s your dad?” he asks, voice quieter now. “I heard you talking about him.” I try to stay vague. “He works here. Mechanical department.”

Haymitch shakes his head, as if trying to shake a thought loose. Then his eyes start to glisten. He lets go of me, slowly. “How did you get out?” he asks, voice broken.

Tears rise in my own throat. I glance around for an empty room and lead him into a small conference space. I tell him everything. How Plutarch got me out. “So that’s what happened to her,” he says, like a weight’s dropped from his chest. He must mean Louella.

“She was the reason I could be saved,” I say softly. “They had time to prep her body. I’m so, so sorry, Haymitch. I’ve wished a thousand times it had been you instead of me.”

He just stares at me. “Your dad,” he says slowly. “He used me to get you out?”

“No,” I say quickly. “He wanted to get everyone out. He wanted to stop and break the games. But there wasn’t enough time. The arena — it was only broken for a short window.”

“And you were as good as dead to the Gamemakers…” He’s trying to make sense of it. “Did anyone else make it out?”

I shake my head. “No. Only me.” Silence fills the room like grief, thick and heavy.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Ampert,” he says at last, voice cracking. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. “You know who I really am,” he whispers.

And in that moment, I realise just how alone he’s been all these years.

Occasionally, Haymitch and I still pass each other in the halls. We nod. Nothing more.

Once, we met up just to talk about our arenas. Our Games.

He told me he hadn’t really watched his reaping or interviews until Katniss and Peeta brought him back into the spotlight. “I saw myself,” he said. “A little rascal. I became exactly what they wanted me to become. And now there’s no way back.”

“Maybe once this is over, you can reconnect to your past,” I offered. “In some way.”

But he looked hollow. He told me things I’d never known: about his brother, his mother. Even a girl — her name was Lenore Dove. The Capitol killed them all. Because of him. Because of my dad’s plan.

“It’s not your fault, kid.” He smiled faintly at the word kid. “You were only twelve. But your dad—” His expression darkened.

“I grieved for him,” he said, voice rising. “I thought he was broken like me. Because he lost everything.” He suddenly began hurling things across the room. “But he saved them. Just to lose them again.”

His fury gave way to confusion. To pain.

“But he didn’t lose everyone,” he added quietly.

Then he looked straight at me — eyes bloodshot, hollow. “I did. I lost everyone.”

I tried reminding him of Effie. Of Asterid. Even Katniss and Peeta.

But he shook his head. “No one will ever know me like Lenore Dove. Or Sid. Or my mother.”

He paused. “I even lost Burdock,” he muttered, before slamming the door.

We haven’t spoken since. Now, he just looks through me in the corridors, like I’m another ghost.

“It’s done,” Jess says.

I told her about Haymitch. About everything. And the creative soul she is, she made something for him — a small keepsake, something gentle and meaningful. She holds it up.

It’s a goose. Crocheted from white yarn. Small enough to tuck in a pocket.

“It’s perfect,” I say, kissing her. “How will you give it to him?” she asks, putting her tools away.

They were my mom’s — Dad brought them when he came to 13, hoping it would be for my mom. But eventually we gave them to Jess. I remember how happy Jess was to do something outside of her schedule, something hers.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “He’s angry with me.” Jess brushes some hair behind her ear and sits down. I toy with the ends of her long blonde hair as she speaks again.

“I talked to May yesterday,” she says quietly. “I’m going to help her. Design things.” I frown a little. Jess is smart, but not technical. Not like May.

“Cinna left behind a book. Full of outfits and sketches,” she explains. “It’s a way to honour him. Your dad and May asked me to help bring some of it to life. With Katniss’s old prep team. And Effie.”

She reminds me so much of Maysilee. Of Dio, too. Smart, creative, quietly fierce. “I even get to design your uniform,” she grins. “I’m going to make you the most handsome sharpshooter Panem’s ever seen.”

“Am I not already?” I tease, raising an eyebrow before pulling her down onto the bed. “Well, not with this baby face you’re not,” she says, stroking my freshly shaved cheeks.

“Then I’ll grow it out again,” I murmur, kissing her.

Her hand finds my neck. Mine finds her waist. We find our rhythm. Our love.

And after, with the soft hum of the air vents above us, we fall asleep — wrapped in each other’s arms, in warmth, in safety. 

I drag Boggs up the stairs with Katniss, my muscles aching with every step. My body hurts, but worse is the sharp ache in my chest. I try to push out the image of Mitchell dying, try to shove down the anger I feel toward Peeta. But I can’t ignore the trail of blood we’re leaving behind.

Boggs won’t make it like this. I know it. I tried to keep him alive—tried so hard.

Why did he transfer the Holo to Katniss? Why not to me? Or Jackson?

When we reach the apartment, a fight breaks out almost immediately. Jackson turns on me.

“Did Boggs really turn it over to Agent Everdeen?”

I nod, keeping my tone flat. “He did.”

She sighs, visibly frustrated. But I ignore it—I’m focused on Boggs. I try to stabilise him, but he’s slipping.

Then Katniss starts talking. About a special mission from President Coin. It sounds like a lie, a cover, a desperate grasp for control—but then Cressida backs her up.

That surprises me. Coin would never trust Katniss with something like this.

But if someone’s going to kill President Snow… it would be her.

We try to rest while the tar outside clears. When it’s safe enough, we move to another apartment. I carry Peeta. I trained for this—for evacuations, injuries. But carrying him feels wrong. He’s the reason Mitchell is dead. Every step makes that fact heavier.

Still, I stay professional.

Mitchell and I had gotten close over the last weeks. He was quiet, but solid. A good man. I actually knew him from before—Jess had been a surrogate for his family. They have a young daughter.

Now she doesn’t have a father.

We never really spoke, not until we started training together. He had a great shot. We used to joke: “We could shoot the dust off your boots at fifty yards.” When I told Jess that line, she just rolled her eyes.

We reach the next building. The door’s locked.

“Don’t worry,” I say, kneeling. “I can pick it.”

In my head, I thank my mother. She taught me well.

A few seconds pass, then click. The door opens.

I lay Peeta down on the sofa and sit, catching my breath. The Capitol broadcasts flicker to life. They’ve declared us dead.

I feel it in my stomach.

Jess. May. Dad.

They must think they’ve lost me. The guilt is overwhelming. This mission is more dangerous than I ever imagined. And now I’ve caused more grief—more loss. But I will get out, see them again, and this will all become a part of the past. 

Haymitch must think I’m gone... again. But he has something. A thread to hold on to. A reminder. I slipped the goose into his bag during the evacuation. I saw him find it later—he turned quietly to his bunk, curled on his side with it for hours. Said nothing.

But since then… he nods at me again in the halls.

The smell of the sewers has become less nauseating than when we first entered. The stairs leading down reminded me of Sub-A—how Haymitch climbed down into the unknown. Everything about this place is like our arena: dangerous, deceptive, never what it seems. But the Holo was right. The sewers are safer—for now.

We finally take a break. It’s hot, the air thick, but at least we can sit for a moment. I’m allowed a short rest.

Jackson wakes me. “Homes, get ready,” she says, handing me my weapon. Its shine looks out of place in this world of grime.

I hear Katniss arguing. Something about distracting the mutts. Then I smell it—blood. But also something worse. A cloying, nauseating sweetness. Like overripe flowers. Too strong. Wrong.

And then we see them. Lizards—but not. Twisted, engineered. Capitol.

I open fire. We run.

We reach the transfer tunnel. But Messalla doesn’t make it. He’s caught in a shaft of golden light that burns from floor to ceiling. Trapped.

Gale fires arrow after arrow, but nothing works. We can only watch as Messalla’s skin begins to melt. Slowly. Cressida screams. But there’s nothing—nothing—we can do.

The mutts are getting closer. Their numbers fill the tunnel like a wave. Jackson and Leeg 1 choose to stay behind. To buy us time.

We keep moving. The floor starts to open beneath us, blades flashing. We run harder. We see the light at the end of the tunnel. Almost there.

Then—pain.

A searing, ripping pain in my leg.

I look down.

One of them has me. Its head clamped around my calf, teeth buried deep.

And then—

Everything stops.

Jess. Her smile.

Mitch—his first laugh.

May's giggles. 

My mom’s hands are on my back.

My dad’s arms are around me.

Love, like a final breath.

Then darkness.

When I open my eyes, I find myself in a meadow. I see a wisp of blonde hair. But the figure is blurry to me.

“Jess?” I whisper.

A soft laugh. “No, silly,” says the voice. “It’s your sister.”

She comes closer. Maysilee.

She reaches out her hand.

Behind her stand Dio, Coil, Lect—all the other Newcomers. Wiress stands next to them, and at the very end, my Mother. 

In her arms: Mitch.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Ampert.”

Somehow, there’s no sense of time here—and yet, there is. Most have chosen to grow older, to greet their loved ones at the age they would be, had they lived. Only Mitch and I have stayed the same. Waiting for Jess.

And even though I long to see her again, more than anything, I hope she has a long, happy life.

Not too long after, my dad and May joined us. He finally meets his grandson. He pulls my mother and me into his arms. We sit together in the meadow, the sun warm on our faces, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels still.

Then, I hear someone walking up behind us. “Hey, kid,” he says.

He looks older than when I last saw him, but not as old as I hoped he’d live to be. Haymitch tells me about his geese. About Peeta’s and Katniss’s children. And as he looks at me, something shifts in his eyes—like he realises someone else should be here, too.

A soft tune is whistled from behind us. An older woman appears. Her green eyes glint in the light, her tanned skin warm, her hair touched with sunlit red. She wears faded overalls, a colourful patchwork shirt. She runs to Haymitch and wraps her arms around him. “Thank you for taking care of my geese,” she whispers in his ear. And he spins her around. 

Behind her follows another woman and a man, with a young boy at their side. And at last, Haymitch seems to mend. A peace washes over him, soft and whole. 

And one day, she comes.

Her hair is mostly grey now, shining. Her face is lined with soft wrinkles earned by time and love.

But the moment she sees me, she changes.

Back to Jess.

The Jess I knew.

And now, I, too, am whole again.