Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All I can feel is a metallic taste on my lips.

Bitten again until it bled. It's normal if you feel stressed, unsafe, or unsure of what to expect from the future. But I haven't felt safe since my first Reaping. I should have gotten used to it by now. And the future didn't hold anything unknown — everything was pretty logical, and therefore predictable.

Back in late spring, on the very last day of school, when we were all gathered in the main square to listen to another address from President Snow, I already understood everything.

His speech, as always, included the obligatory reminder of the Dark Days, of the inviolability of order and peace maintained by the Capitol, of the need to continue holding the Hunger Games every year. But then.

Usually, well, I mean, here in District 12, I don't know about the other districts, we have big celebrations — usually birthdays — on round dates. And if we follow that logic, the bigger, more spectacular — bloodier — Games should have been the 'round' Games — the tenth and twentieth. But as far as I know, the tenth was distinguished only by the fact that a girl from District 12 won, and the twentieth went as usual — the most unusual thing was that the tribute was the illegitimate daughter of Mrs. McGill, our Panem history teacher; everyone knew that her father was one of the exiled Capitol Peacekeepers, but by all the rules and laws, the girl was considered a resident of the district. The next morning, her father was found hanged in an old barracks. It was the second Reaping in my life.

So, the upcoming twenty-fifth Hunger Games were not supposed to be any different from all the previous ones, and after them my last, seventh in a row, Reaping would finally stop hanging threateningly over my neck like a sharp sword.

But something was wrong that day. Perhaps I got up on the wrong side of the bed, or my stomach was churning more than usual — so much so that nausea was dangerously close to my throat, but I felt in my gut that something would change.

And so, according to the plan of his speech, President Snow should have already thanked yesterday's schoolchildren for their diligent studies and wished them zealous — and profitable for the Capitol — work in the future, when suddenly he picked up a wooden box, which was solemnly carried behind him by a young man in a white suit.

“When the laws of the Games were laid out, they dictated that every twenty-five years the anniversary would be marked by a Quarter Quell. It would call for a glorified version of the Games to make fresh the memory of those killed by the districts' rebellion.”

What a stupid name. Aren't every Hunger Games just a massacre of children for the amusement of the Capitol crowd? Isn't it quelling enough?

Meanwhile, President Snow explains the new rules for the Games:

“On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district is made to hold an election and vote on the tributes that who would represent it.”

I give myself a few seconds to process it. Those blissful few seconds before I realize that this is probably the end for me. I grip my cane tighter so as not to collapse right here. No, it's logical — to send to certain death not your own son or niece, but a cripple without a family, without a name, from whom there will be no use — tomorrow is my first shift at the mine, but I already know that I will not be able to work at the same pace as the others. I will sooner die from coal dust than fulfill the work plan for the day.

President Snow then adds a few clarifications: that the voting will last all of next week, that only those who are nineteen or older will be able to vote, and that the opportunity to volunteer is being eliminated.

It's not like we've ever had anyone volunteer in our district — at the Reaping, it's every man for himself. But in the last twelve or thirteen years, after the Capitol began actively rewarding the winners and the districts they come from: more food, more contracts and orders from the Capitol, more product sponsorship, more everything — by the way, this idea was put forward by President Snow himself, who was still a green trainee at the time, only striving for the position of the Head Gamemaker, and then for the presidency — and districts that were geographically and ideologically close to the Capitol, such as the 1, 2 and 4 began actively training and preparing teenagers for the Hunger Games, so that they would be volunteering at the Reaping.

Of course, what would it cost a bull from the district 1 or 2 to take a spear or a sword and cut down the weaklings, which usually was represented by the tributes from the other districts.

The next week, everyone walked on eggshells — you don't want to be rude to your neighbor here, when he can cooperate with his mates and vote for your child. But the first candidates for expulsion were, of course, the outsiders — everyone who did not fit in, seemed too strange or too dangerous; no one wants to live next door to a troublemaker who will certainly attract unnecessary attention from the Peacekeepers.

So, yes. It was expected. And yet, the sound of my own name, announced in the deliberately cheerful voice of Drusilla Sickle, is so deafening that it rings in my ears. I don't know how I managed to reach the stage without stumbling once. It seemed that every muscle in my body was tensed, as if preparing to flee, but let's be honest — what kind of fugitive am I?

In the ringing silence of a stupefyingly stuffy summer day, the clatter of a cane on the wooden stage flooring sounds even louder. I approach — Miss? although, what kind of Miss is she, she is clearly over thirty, then, Mrs? Madame Sickle — today, apparently in honor of a peculiar anniversary, the numbers 2 and 5 are somehow present in the patterns of her outfit, and her earrings are actually a forged number 25, shimmering like gold in the rays of the sun.

My friend in misfortune is already standing next to her. Sky Young — I saw her at school; I think she was in the class below me. What did the people of the District dislike about her so much that she was chosen? Or did they deliberately not vote for her and it was just an unfortunate coincidence?

Dr. Gall, who serves as the second commentator alongside the Games' main host, Lucretius «Lucky» Flickerman, has a favorite expression that she uses every year, almost mockingly, to the future tributes; but we all know that odds are never in our favor.

I turn to face the crowd, but I can't bring myself to look up. They've done it. My neighbors, my former teachers, the women and men I've worked with, somehow, in the mine for the past month — they've decided to send me to my death.

But yeah, better me than their own kid. A tribute from the 12 will never have a chance to beat the guys from the rich, non-starving districts in a fight, and at least this way I'll die quickly — I won't have to drag my sore leg to the mine and back for the rest of my life.

I try to convince myself that this choice is logical. It is logical, which means there is no point in being offended. But I still feel offended.

I feel my lower lip begin to tremble. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people with cameras scurrying closer. I bite my lip harder. No, I don't want to burst into tears in front of all of Panem. There will be time to stew in a cauldron full of self-pity, but later, not now.

We are kept in the Justice Building, a sort of city hall and station at the same time, for another ten minutes or so. Time for farewells. I hear sobbing through the wall — it must be Miss Young's parents.

I'm still sitting there in a daze. I think I can afford to be in a prostration for a while. I'm not expecting anyone to say goodbye. I should be glad that Ma passed away this winter — quietly, peacefully, in her sleep — she and her bad heart would definitely not have survived today. And wait for my friends from school... I smile indifferently. The only one I could call — albeit a stretch — a friend was an old man who had almost settled in the Hob — an old coal warehouse that had been adapted into a covered market — living and working in his little shop with all sorts of junk. He allowed me to drop in sometimes and tinker with old, rusty parts, making something of my own. I don't think he ever left the confines of the Hob, so I'm not expecting him either.

The train whistle sounds, and the Peacekeepers escort Miss Young and me onto the platform. I try to walk faster, but the constant shoving of a rifle into my back doesn't give me any speed — I only successfully spread myself out on the ground until my cane almost flies under the wheels of the train. Our escort writhes in displeasure, but they allow me to pick up my cane and crawl into the car on my own. The heavy click of the lock cuts me off from the 12 forever. From home.

I want to hate this place — its citizens have unanimously decided that they do not need me, that I am worthy only of playing the role of a sacrificial offering. But I cannot find in myself either the necessary rage or the sufficient volume of resentment. I do not have the strength either.

I can only breathe a sigh of relief that the agonizing wait is finally over, and that no truly small children will be killed this year. At least that's some good news. Tribute deaths are always a loss, but it's especially hard when they're little ones who haven't even reached the age of fourteen yet.

I look around and notice the seats by the windows, one of which is occupied by the dejected figure of Miss Young. She keeps her head down and I can't see, but I know, that her eyes are still wet.

I land next to her as carefully as possible. My throat is dry, but I feel the desire to somehow cheer her up or, I don’t know, console her or something. Nothing sensible comes to mind, and although I don’t like it when people touch me without permission, I reach for her hand that squeezing the edge of the seat so hard her knuckles turn white. I put my hand next to her so that only our little fingers touch. She quickly looks up. As I thought, the tears are still here. I smile with the corner of my lips, hoping that she will interpret this correctly.

«Don't be afraid, you're not alone. I'm scared too, but at least we have each other, right?»

She purses her lips and nods sharply, wiping away tears with her other hand.

A guy, probably from the film crew, comes into the car and says that the way will take almost a whole day, food should be expected only in the evening, and that we can sleep in the car right behind ours, where, especially for the tributes — wow, what generosity — they installed beds this year.

As soon as he was gone, the door clicked behind him with a sound that did not suggest hospitality at all. Well, I suppose Madame Sickle does not and will not associate with the scum from the 12 any longer than her official duties require. I suppose she has every right to do so.

Immediately after a meager, by Capitol standards of course, dinner — simple pieces of fried meat with potatoes — I begin to feel sleepy.

Miss Young and I walk into the car we were directed to earlier and find two iron bunks bolted to the floor opposite each other. The mattress is pleasantly springy, but creaks disagreeably when I sit down on it. Instead of a blanket, there is a simple piece of thick fabric. I have never been what you would call a tall man, but even so, this semblance of a blanket only reaches my ankles. At least thanks for that.

The gentle rocking of the train and the distant rumble of the gathering storm were a great aid to falling asleep quickly, but I had a moment of weakness and self-pity scheduled. I might have felt better if I had cried, but the tears that had been choking me since morning were now gone. There was only a feeling of utter devastation. I imagined Miss Young was in a similar state, for she did not break the heavy, slightly tense silence.

I didn't want to think about tomorrow, about what would happen at the Games themselves. Extra worries won't do any good — they'll only wear me out mentally.

I fall asleep only when the first drops of rain start to tap on the roof.

In the morning, neither breakfast nor a change of clothes await us — the shirt, polished for the Reaping, is now all wrinkled and sticks unpleasantly to the skin. But in the carriage, there is a toilet with a sink. Having brought myself into some kind of order, I go out to the car where we had dinner yesterday. Miss Young is already sitting there, and a clearly irritated Madame Sickle, plus several other Capitol citizens.

“Finally. Just so you know, next time no one will be waiting for you personally. And this time I did it simply because I didn't want to repeat myself later,” she sat with one leg crossed and swung it impulsively, as if showing off her shoes with a threatening-looking long heel. Apparently, she thought that her position fully justified such familiarity. And we are strangers to each other.

“As soon as we arrive at the station, you will be taken to be prepared for the evening show. This year they promised something truly incredible — the best stylists of the Capitol were invited,” she falls silent and casts a disdainful glance at our shabby clothes. “And it is not yet known how long it will take to make both of you look like human beings.”

Like human beings, my ass, look who’s speaking — the embodiment of humanity itself.

I decide not to hold back an evil smirk. What? They're already taking me to the slaughter, what else can they do? Apparently, they'll put on a show like a parade: look, we've brought these urchins from all over Panem, choose who you'll root for, let's see if he can kill the rest!

Madame Sickle only glares angrily before wagging her finger at me in a didactic manner, the nail of which could easily be classified as a bladed weapon.

“You'd better curb your arrogance, boy! I personally know your stylist and can put in a good word so that you'll go out in public in your underwear. And then you won't see any sponsors or chances to win.”

As if the tributes from the 12 had sponsors in abundance before. But I just continue to silently frown at this woman.

«They promised something truly incredible». Well, yes, if you think about it, President Snow's second term was coming to an end this year and he urgently needed to assure the citizens of Panem, but I think more so the Capitolians, that under his rule the country was blooming and sweet smelling — and most likely, of roses — and the regularly, year-after-year held Hunger Games are an excellent example of this.

Soon the train began to slow down. Right at the door of the car, a whole squad of armed Peacekeepers was waiting for us. Their uniform was different from the one the military in our district wore, but even so, I can say with certainty that today these guys were in full dress. It seemed that everyone was really getting ready for a big celebration.

We were driven into the covered back of a military truck, so my plans to look at the streets of the Capital fell through. What? I wanted to at least see how wealthy people live before I died. Every year we are shown a full recording of the past Games, but the emphasis is always more on the tributes and their continued survival in the arena.

Miss Young and I didn't shake for long in the truck, but we were silent the entire way. And what was there to talk about? She was still in shock and in complete disarray — sniffling and trying to wipe away the tears that would not dry up. As for me, I had completely lost the ability to feel any emotions. At least, that's what it seemed to me.

This theory was quickly disproved when the Peacekeepers unloaded us in some dark brick building with the rest of the arriving tributes. Because there I clearly began to feel irritated.

We were given the following instructions: boys to the right, girls to the left, then take off our clothes and leave all our personal belongings behind. When I, having undressed, trying not to look at the other guys, wanted to hobble to the wall where the showers were located, similar to the outdoor pumps that miners used in the summer after their shift back in the 12, some particularly arrogant soldier pulled me by the arm.

“I told you to leave your personal belongings, are you deaf?!” he boomed, boring into my cane with a heavy gaze.

I pursed my lips. Was there any point in arguing, trying to convince him that I needed it, that otherwise I simply wouldn’t be able to get to the shower on my own? I guess there was no point. I had already started to extend the cane when suddenly an indignant voice echoed through the empty room: “Leave him alone! Can't you see that he's limping?! He needs that cane!”

Wow. Thanks, of course, to that unknown person for reminding me of my own inferiority, but I don’t think the Peacekeeper is blind or stupid, it seems he just decided to assert himself at my expense.

I turn around, but the speaker doesn’t give himself away, and my gaze rests on eleven unfamiliar pairs of eyes, who are watching the unfolding scene without taking their eyes off it.

“According to the rules, any personal items are prohibited,” the Peacekeeper barks, snatching the cane from my hand.

I immediately stagger a little due to the sudden loss of support. I clench my jaw. I won't show him that he really tormented me with this. Let him do whatever he wants, or whatever the rules tell him to do. I don't care.

I begin to limp inertly toward the shower, trying to put more weight on my left leg. After just a few steps, I realize what a terrible idea it was to try to preserve the remains of my dignity. What will this dignity cost when tonight I will be dying from a pain in my leg that will deprive me of all hope of sleep.

First, they doused us with water — thankfully not ice-cold, but just slightly cool — then with soapy water, and again with water, and anger began to join the already swirling feeling of irritation. We were treated like animals! Even worse!

I personally saw how the same Mr. Thompson, one of the few who keeps cattle in the 12, washed his goats with a hose, but with more tenderness than these, with your permission, servants of law and order. They might even demand gratitude form us for not being chafed with iron loofahs. Having thrown a large towel at our heads, in which I immediately wrapped myself, we were left to wait for the people responsible for preparing us for the parade.

A little later a group of young girls approached us, the oldest looked to be no more than twenty-five. And the one who called out to me — “District Twelve?”, to which I raised my hand — could have been taken for a schoolgirl, it is unlikely that she was much older than me.

It was impossible to keep up with her, leaning on the wall. She noticed my attempts and, turning her head, quickly found the confiscated cane on the table with other personal belongings of the tributes — I was able to see several homemade pendants on chains and ropes, a box of matches, glasses and a leather bracelet.

Another girl confidently walked up to the table and, completely ignoring the Peacekeeper standing next to it, took the glasses and brought them to her tribute — a boy with dark curly hair.

Soon the cane returned to me with the familiar feeling of rough wood under my palm. It was strange to thank her for returning my own property, but I managed to squeeze out a weak smile and nod. This answer seemed to suit her quite well.

She led me through the building to a separate room on the second floor, lit by cold electric lights, where she spent the next hour plucking me like a chicken for the coming soup. I never thought the people of the Capitol would care so much about the hairiness of my legs.

After this act of execution, I was finally allowed to put on at least underwear, and was led into the next room — there, on the couch, sat Miss Young, equally undressed, and therefore terribly embarrassed.

I sat down as far away from her as possible and tried to show with my whole appearance how much more interesting it was to look at the ceramic tiles under my feet.

Not even an hour had passed when, I assume, our stylist burst into the room. A heavy sigh was escaping from within. If this man represents the height of fashion in the Capitol, I don’t even know what to expect from our future outfits.

The man who introduced himself as Magno Stift was certainly a strange-looking man. His skin was covered in an endless stream of dark ink, depicting snake scales on his arms and neck, and extending under the collar of his equally scaly shirt.

The girl who had prepared me earlier and, apparently, the young man who was responsible for Miss Young came in with him. Mr. Stift was clearly already tipsy, and so he eagerly told us that the Gamemakers had decided to hold a special preliminary show this year — a Parade of Tributes, and therefore his primary task was to dress us so that we could stand out and be remembered.

As I understood it, it was decided to dress the tributes in costumes that reflected the essence of the district they came from. And while this was not a problem with some of them — the 4 has carte blanche for a marine theme, the 7 and 11 can use plant motifs in their costumes — our case was obviously a losing one.

How can one reflect in our clothing style that we are from a coal mining district? Apparently, put us in baggy overalls and put hard hats with flashlights on our heads — this is the decision made by our stylist. It would have been better to dress us in snake skin, even real one — it would have looked less pathetic.

Before we are taken down to the lower level, to the chariots, I fight for the right to keep the cane from Mr. Stift's hands. Although, I fight for it's too strong a word — I simply ignore him when he either asks or orders me to keep it; he did not particularly object — fortunately he was a bit drunk.

It is scary to approach the chariots — the harnessed black horses snort and stamp their hooves loudly. I hesitate.

Seeing my confusion, Miss Young apparently decided to return the favor - she decisively squeezes my hand and helps me climb the steps. The hardest part is over. All that remains is to grab hold of something tightly so as not to fly head first into the ditch.

The chariots set off for the parade according to district numbers, so while we wait for our turn, I have time to look at my opponents.

As I expected, many were dressed in the shapes and colors of the districts' occupations. Probably to honor our small motherland, whose residents sent us to the Games. Each of us.

For the first time, I'm thinking that maybe even the so-called Careers are outcasts this year. Although I'm not sure; the people who decided it was a great idea to train their own children to volunteer to kill other children every year probably had come together and vote for the most promising tributes.

I think we should still expect a Career alliance this year.

I glance at the chariots: in front of us are guys from the 11, both of them can't be more than fifteen, they are wearing suits embroidered with ears of wheat. Simple, but tasteful. Nothing to compare with ours.

I adjust my hard hat, which keeps trying to fall off my head — for some reason it had no straps. The only thing missing from my image is coal dust mixed with sweat on my face, and it would be the usual look of a miner returning from a shift. I have no idea how our exhausted faces in these bags are supposed to attract sponsors.

Finally, our horses begin to move. The sun is already approaching the horizon — I did not even notice how we were kept in this strange building almost the whole day.

The alley along which the procession goes is surrounded on both sides by high stands, from where the Capitolians shout deafeningly loudly and enthusiastically. They are celebrating — the cheerful crowd continues to shout out the names of different tributes in turn, it seems that they have already started to root for someone in particular. I try not to look at them. They are unlikely to like the expression of pure disgust, which I simply do not want to remove from my face.

I don't know how long exactly we ride like this — the alley seems endless. When my leg starts to tingle noticeably, we are already approaching a beautiful snow-white building. Of course, I know what this place is. When the chariots line up in a semicircle on the square, a figure appears on the balcony.

How pathetic a man can look when he has so much power in his hands. President Snow. Every year since his inauguration, he has watched — and apparently with pleasure, otherwise he would not have promoted the Games with such tenacity — as two dozen lives are wasted. Yes, two — even the victors, screw them, will never be able to return to their carefree past.

Whatever you say, those who are selected at the Reaping are children, even if they are taught to kill others from infancy. They may be morally crippled, but they are still children. We are all just children.

The hushed square is deafened by the measured tone of President Snow. And again, those words: about the inevitability of consequences, about the need to maintain order, about the pure and innocent Capitol, which was attacked without warning by fiends from the districts. No, I do not deny that perhaps it was true, and the districts themselves rebelled. But it can't be that simple, right?

After all, if you tell a child all his life that the grass is blue and the sky is green, it will not change the essence of things, only that the child may accept these words as a given.

After wishing all the tributes good luck, as if in mockery, President Snow takes a white rose from his breast pocket and throws it somewhere in our direction. What a show-off.

When our pair of horses starts moving, I notice that the rose has already been trampled by the hooves and wheels of the districts going ahead. I allow myself to snort smugly.

The chariots circle the President's mansion and approach a building with the words «Training Center» painted on it in large letters. So, this is where I will spend my last few days of life before we are all loaded into hovercraft and dumped somewhere in the fenced-off open field that has been designated this year's arena.

Having managed — not without Miss Young's help, to my great embarrassment — ​​the difficult task of dismounting from the chariot, I notice a man heading our way. I recognize him.

Every year during the Games season, the winners of previous years are dragged out for all to see, so they are all more or less familiar to me.

This is Woof, the second winner from the 8, whose victory was the most memorable so far — so much so that commentators during the Games and interviews with other tributes still bring it up at every opportunity. His appearance is also memorable — it was said that he went completely gray during his games.

And it’s no surprise — the arena that year was the ruins of a large city, where a rebel base had been bombed in the Dark Days. Then, eighteen-year-old Woof used a system of levers to shake the supporting beams, ultimately bringing down an entire building on the heads of his opponents — and on his own, too.

No one knew if there were any survivors, and Woof was declared the winner only two days later, when a squad from the Capitol was finally able to dig him out from under the collapsed remains.

Since then, the Gamemakers have stated that they now always have a hovercraft full of rescuers and doctors ready to provide the winner with the assistance, if necessary.

And although only 13 years have passed since those games, Woof looks like a man in his forties — deep shadows under his eyes, and the silver in his hair doesn't make him look any younger.

He quickly calls us over: “Twelve, follow me,” and leads us to the elevators. He presses the last button — our district number.

At home, I've only used this miracle of technology when going up and down a mine shaft, so I'm familiar with the principle of operation. But Ms. Young looks even more frightened when the heavy metal box starts moving upward. It's probably a good thing I'm not afraid of confined spaces.

Woof maintains a sullen silence until we enter the apartment that was apparently intended for our residence.

I glance around at the high ceilings, beneath which hang monstrous chandeliers that could light up at least half the block back in the 12, when Woof clears his throat and, with his back to us, begins to speak.

“I don’t know how to sweeten this pill for you, and I don’t want to — you’re not kids anymore. Not for the Capitol, that’s for sure. Your chances of winning largely depend on your physical abilities — on how well you have developed your survival skills, but the sponsors also play a significant role, but they’re not used to betting on dark horses. I’ll tell you right away, you both don’t exactly give the impression of being healthy candidates for victory,” I feel like this was a stone in my garden, “so you’ll have to win using your own brains. The Gamemakers were generous enough to share the information that this year’s arena will not just be a location in the wilderness — they designed it themselves, which means all the clues can be found in general training — pay attention to the surroundings, what skills you’ll be taught there, what weapons will be available.”

His directness may have seemed blunt, but he was right — from the moment our names were read at the Reaping, we were no longer children. Besides, he gave valuable advice and did not demand anything beyond our abilities.

Perhaps I was a little biased — after all, this man himself had once won, using not only brute physical force, and besides, the lack of a last name — no one was focusing on this anymore, of course — evoked a feeling of slight kinship, or something.

“I’ll try to get you a few gifts in the arena, of course, but most of the work is on your shoulders. Now I advise you to have dinner and go to bed. For the next three days, there will be general training at level zero, from eight am to six pm, with a break for lunch. On the third day, after lunch, there will be your personal demonstrations of skills in front of the Gamemakers, and by evening, each of you will receive a score from one to twelve points, depending on how great a chance you have of winning, in the opinion of the Gamemakes and investors. That same evening, at eight pm, there will be an interview with Flickerman, and they will begin preparing you immediately after completing training. And the next morning, you will be released into the arena. That’s all from me,” Woof says crisply, as if he had rehearsed this speech more than once. He sighs loudly and runs a hand over his face. Finally, as if gathering his strength, he turns around. Although he was looking straight at us, his gaze seemed to be directed many thousands of miles into the distance. Regret splashed in his dark blue eyes like a stormy rain.

“Good luck, kiddos.”

He quickly walks back to the elevator. Well, that was informative.

Only when I look at the table standing near the far wall, filled to the brim with all sorts of delicacies, do I realize that I haven't eaten anything since yesterday. My stomach also turns on and reminds me of itself with a loud rumbling.

The table is replete with a variety of dishes, but only familiar aromas inspire confidence — Miss Young and I, without prior agreement, gobble up the entire pot of stew between us.

The vegetables melt on my tongue with memories of home, except that in the 12 you'd never be able to make a stew with that much meat. I'm full quickly, but I'm in no hurry to leave the table — I don't know if I should clean up after myself, if we're expected to wash the dishes. Or do they really consider that we're animals, here in the Capitol? But the woman and man, standing quietly near the elevator the whole time, say nothing, so I suppose nothing is required of us.

We walk further with Miss Young through the apartment and come across two doors located close to each other. Apparently, our private bedrooms.

I nod goodbye and disappear behind the click of the closing door. The room is spacious. Even larger than my entire house with Ma. On the bed I find a set of clothes — soft pants with an elastic band and a linen shirt. With great pleasure I throw off the grave horror in which we were dragged through the streets and climb under the heavy blankets. They pleasantly press me to the mattress.

This is probably the most comfortable place to sleep that I could ever hope for in my life. But sleep doesn't come. Either it's because of the complete lack of sound — the soundproofing of the local walls is amazing, or because of the pain that's starting to twist my knee.

I throw off the blanket with irritation and head towards the kitchen. Having drunk some cool water from the tap, I listen. Opposite the dining table, a panoramic window stretched across the entire wall, through which the soft hum of the night city penetrated.

The inconspicuous glass door leading outside is not immediately located, and I am glad when I discover it is unlocked. The balcony wraps around the dining room and rises higher, with a disconcerting glass staircase leading all the way to the roof.

My bare feet stick unpleasantly to the glass, and my cane taps rhythmically against it, wedging itself into the hum of the machines and electrical wires coming from below, like something foreign. My heart starts beating fast — I've never noticed a fear of heights in myself, but this glass thing with a completely transparent bottom caused a slight awe.

On the roof, I find nothing less than an oasis in the middle of the urban desert: curved palm trunks covered on all sides by epiphytes, juicy monstera paws, soft to the touch ferns, flowers that make your head spin with sweetness. You could practically taste the air.

Here and there, wings flicker — between the rows of flower beds there are small lamps, and kaleidoscope of night butterflies flutter around them. At home, everyone disdainfully calls them moths, but I always considered them to be butterflies specifically. Yes, they may not be as colorful and pleasant to the eye as day butterflies, but even their faded appearance could not diminish their importance for the entire ecosystem as a whole.

I watch the flickering of wings with enravishment, breathing deeply, as trying to drink in the moist, sweet air.

Previously, I had only seen such a variety of species in encyclopedias, but even then I could confidently say that I would fall in love with the dense tropical forests at first sight. The kingdom of nature in its pristine beauty.

My gaze drifts from leaf to leaf, and I stumble, noticing a butterfly trapped in the mouth-like structure of an imperceptible flower. Still, even nature can be cruel; there's no getting around it. After all, humans have come to terms with the necessity of the Hunger Games for a reason.

I purse my lips as I continue my way along the quietly rustling gravel that was pleasantly kneading my feet. The garden ends at a fence that would prevent involuntary gaping visitors from falling from a height.

I put my cane aside to lean on the cool parapet with both hands. I lean forward a little more until my head starts to spin.

There are no heights like this in the 12 except in the mines. And even in a coal mine, you know that there are miles and miles of it down there, stretching far into the distance. You know, but you don't see it. So now the sight of a veritable abyss attracts my gaze, as if pulling me along.

I think it would be easier. To go like that. Simple and quick. A few seconds of flight and–

I jump back sharply, so that my knee shoots with a burning pain for a second. I hiss quietly and land near the large pots with crooked palms, where I had previously left the cane.

I'm concentrating on massaging my knee and rubbing my calf when I suddenly hear the rustling of gravel. Someone was confidently approaching. I don't know if it was forbidden to leave the room at night, or the apartment in general — the fact that the door to the balcony was open doesn't mean anything — so I freeze, hoping that the surrounding jungle will hide me from prying eyes.

But my eyes do not miss someone's restless feet. This man, like me, was barefoot, and was rushing back and forth in front of the fence like a wounded animal, but he made no other sounds.

Then he suddenly stops, frozen in one position for a couple of seconds. For some reason, it seemed to me that he, like me a couple of minutes ago, was leaning on the fence, looking fascinated at the distant city lights and thinking about something.

Just as I had time to smile at the thought that I might have found someone like me, a home-grown lover of staring into the void, hanging in the clouds of his own thoughts, suddenly one leg quickly disappears from view, and a stuffy panting sound is heard.

I lean forward, risking my exposure, and see a young man. About my age, wearing the same clothes they gave me, if a few sizes too big, sitting on the railing, leaning dangerously forward, keeping himself from falling with only his hands.

My heart sank. Our thoughts really did converge, but this guy is much more decisive than me. More decisive in making rash decisions, it seems.

I want to call out to him somehow, so as not to scare him away, but as soon as I open my mouth, my throat is rushing to remind me that I haven’t said a word since the Reaping, or, to be more precise, since yesterday early morning at the cemetery, when I said goodbye to Ma, which, in its own way, was a tradition in the 12 — to say goodbye to dear people before the inevitable death lottery.

The dry air scratches my throat — even though this outdoor greenhouse clearly has artificial humidifiers installed, years of living in a coal mining region, and a month of actively inhaling dust in the mine have done their job — and I start coughing inhumanly.

The guy immediately turns around with the look of a fawn caught in the middle of the road. But he doesn't loosen his grip on the railing. I clear my throat and raise my hand in apology.

“Sorry. Did I interrupt?”

He purses his lips and turns back to the city. An expression of pure disgust appears on his face — it is unclear whether it is towards this city, deaf to our suffering, or towards himself, for a moment of inner weakness. He is in no hurry to climb back, but he does not jump forward either, so I have a couple of extra seconds to catch my breath and look at him.

I know the guy. Not personally, but I understand that I've seen his face before, probably in that building where they doused us with water in a pathetic excuse for a shower.

“I thought about doing the same,” I don't understand why, but for some reason I want to talk him out of it.

It's illogical — he's my future opponent and the fewer people enter the arena, the greater — purely mathematically — my chances of survival.

“I thought it would be easier. Faster. But then I thought that I don't want to make the Capitol's job easier.”

“What?” my uninvited guest finally speaks up.

“I thought that if I killed myself, then, of course, in a way, I would refuse to participate in the Capitol Games, but,” it’s not true, at the moment I wasn’t thinking about anything like that, but now, as I peered into the impersonal lights of a city alien to me, the necessary words freely flee off my tongue. “I want my life to have meaning, you know? I’d like to leave something behind. Even if that something is a traumatic memory, haunting in the nightmares a dumbhead who was unlucky enough to catch the moment of my death for the rest of his sorry life, I don’t mind.”

I move my shoulders and look at my companion. He has changed his position and is now sitting with his legs on either side of the fence. Good, so he is no longer so sure. I need to continue speaking.

“And besides, statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place. And it is impossible to say with one hundred percent certainty that you will not be able to win these Games and go home to your family,” I look down and lick my dry lips. I hope that he has at least one living relative, otherwise it would be such a miss on my part. “You will not be able to win only if you refuse to fight now.”

The crunch of gravel from the side should have alerted me, but this guy, despite his impressive appearance, does not create a sense of threat — he sits hunched over and hugs his knees, as if trying to visually become smaller, which, frankly speaking, is too ambitious a task for such a big guy, apparently, he is from districts more or less close to the Capitol; even in some district Seven, you can’t build such muscles on your arms by cutting down trees every day, so I’m betting on the 1 or the 2.

“Fight... I don't think my mom would want me to become a murderer,” he mutters into his folded hands. “That's not how she raised me. And anyway, I don't think I'm generally capable of murder.”

My thoughts drift back to the 12. Children quickly shed any naivety about the way the world works when faced with the choice between falling asleep on an empty stomach or accepting a handout of chicken heads or offal from the butcher in exchange for helping out at the store. But it seemed somehow wrong to compare a faceless pig to an unfamiliar teenager from another district. Even if that district was in close relationships with the Capitol and not so poor as mine.

“You can still win without killing anyone.”

“Well, yeah, and then the chances of me getting killed will be almost one hundred percent.”

“But not one hundred percent. You can't be one hundred percent sure of anything. Even that the sun will rise above the horizon again tomorrow.”

“Didn't you listen to Snow's speech before the Quell was announced? He's one hundred percent sure that the Games will continue for centuries to come.”

“That's because your beloved President Snow is an impenetrable fool.”

“Hey, you can't say that!” although he whispers indignantly, pretending to look around, I hear notes of a smile in his voice.

“Why not? What will he do to me? Try to kill me by sending me straight to the slaughterhouse?” the absurd truth of my own words no longer hurts so much, and I allow myself to chuckle.

My stranger smiles too, only more openly, looking at me. Movement. He extends a wide palm.

“I'm Jayce, by the way.”

I hesitate.

“Jayce...?” I wait for him to continue. He's obviously from a rich district, there are no people without last names there.

“Just Jayce,” I see how he reaches out to me, but does not initiate contact. Finally, I raise my hand and squeeze his palm a little.

Warm.

He squeezes mine back.

“Aren't you from...” I try to decide which of the two options to suggest, but Just Jayce beats me to it.

“From the Two. And you're from the Twelve. On the train, they showed us footage of the Reapings in all the districts.”

I nod uncertainly. Even our trains were different — ours wasn't the epitome of poverty, but the TV was already something on a rich dialect.

In our district, the only people who had personal TVs were the mayor and the Peacekeepers at their base. And the Games footage were shown on screens in the main square, where people were herded.

“Then, if you saw the recording of my Reaping, then you probably already know my name,” it dawns on me a little belatedly.

“I'm waiting for you to introduce yourself and, thus, conditionally give me permission to address you by name. Without this, I cannot initiate communication by name — it would be terribly familiar and impolite,” he still hasn't let go of my hand.

“It's Viktor,” I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but I decide to maintain eye contact; it’s impolite not to look at the other party's eyes during a conversation, right?

His light brown eyes are focused on my face and it’s too much. Too much. I can’t hold his gaze any longer.

The bright lights of the city, occasionally interrupted by the kaleidoscopic explosions of a cluster of fireworks — the celebration is in full swing — stretch out as far as the eye can see, and they illuminate Jayce with a gentle touch; I notice a small scar on his right eyebrow, which might have made him look stern if his expression hadn't been so open.

It's hard to believe that in a few days, this boy might try to kill me. Or maybe not. He said he didn't think he was capable of murder. But wasn't he training to become a volunteer in the games, like all the tributes from the 2? Either his acting was too good, or my brain had begun to give way under the constant stress and was now refusing to work properly. But then again, why try to deceive me, to pretend to be harmless? I don't think the sight of a weak and lame guy from the 12 could have scared this big guy so much that he felt the urgent need to lower my guard.

As I ponder these thorny thoughts, a tense silence falls around us. I can hear — and feel — Jayce shifting around, as if he wants to ask something.

“Viktor, how are you here... I mean, why did they choose you?”

He must be talking about the Reaping. My eyebrows twitch slightly as I glance at the confused Jayce — he must have realized himself how pointless his question was — my cane is lying nearby, hard to miss.

“Well, I mean, did you do something to upset your folk, or did everyone in District Twelve just decide to send you to the Games for no reason?”

“Do you think people in my district are capable of sending their fellow neighbour to his death for no reason?”

Jayce was embarrassed, though I had no intention of putting him down.

“You said it yourself, it's not a fact that you won't win–”

“Let's face it, Jayce, as a necessary sacrifice to the Capitol, I'm the best option. Judge for yourself: I'm not much of a worker, I won't be of much use to the district. So, who do you think a common worker from the mines would vote for — the kid of his friend or the cripple who doesn't even have any relatives left to mourn him, if something happens?”

It comes out much more abruptly than I would like. Jayce doesn't look at me, but stubbornly examines the cane.

Not only my stomach, but also my leg starts to cramp from the internal tension. I squeeze my thigh, kneading the muscles overloaded during the day with my fingers. I feel how Jayce's gaze creeps over to me.

“It's still unfair. The fact that you... Your leg–” the poor guy clearly doesn't know which side to approach this theme. I almost feel sorry for him.

“It doesn't diminish the value of your life in any way,” coal found in a mine, what a news.

“Life isn't fair. And the townsfolk of the Twelve are of a different opinion, unfortunately,” I snort, shrugging my shoulders.

Silence envelops us again. Only now it rings with even more tense. I am biting my lip. Yeah. Jayce clearly tried, incomprehensible, however, why, to show friendliness, but I, as always, ruined everything.

I decide to try to continue the conversation as a normal person. What did Jayce ask about?

“Well, you were probably chosen as the most promising to win, right?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see that Jayce grins silently and runs his hand through the dark hair.

“I am ready to argue for anything that Marcella was chosen just like that,” I have no idea who it is, but it is logical to assume that she is the second tribute from the 2. “It turned out with me a little differently ... Let's just say, I managed to piss off all the board of directors of both the school and the Academy, and half of the district administration in a day.”

Wow. I hope my interest doesn't sound mocking, because I am genuinely interested, and I'm asking Jayce to explain further.

“Well, there was one guy, Chris — my classmate, now probably a former one, but that's not the point; anyway, at the end of spring we were handing in final projects, based on the results of which we could be enrolled in the Academy — I didn't want to spend my whole life in a factory, so I really put my soul into this research,” although Jayce's thoughts were constantly trying to run in different directions, I was able to catch the point — he was burning with this project; and I was always fascinated and attracted by an internal thirst for knowledge.

“And so on the day of the exam, we are called to defend our projects in alphabetical order, and I — Talis — am almost at the very end of the list; and so I sit and hear how this fu–”

Jayce stops short, glances at me, clears his throat and continues.

“In short, this git stands there and brazenly lies to the commission about my results, as if they were his! He even took the trouble to completely and entirely copy several blueprints!”

Jayce is practically huffing with anger. I am sincerely offended for him.

“Of course, I immediately flew over to prove to the commission that this was my research. And all the evidence was on my side, but I did not take into account one extremely significant detail,” Jayce looked at me with a wry smile, maintaining a theatrical pause. What a silly pup.

“That sneak’s father was on the committee, and besides, he was the mayor — his father, not that idiot — so everything I said was like spitting in the wind,” he shrugged his shoulders without enthusiasm, as if he was not talking about being not only robbed, but also practically sent to his death — apparently, Jayce was not one of those who were trained to be a Career — but about how he accidentally stepped in a puddle, like, yeah, it’s a shame, but it happens. “And that’s how, in the course of absolutely fair and democratic elections, I was elected as a representative of District Two.”

The words about unfairness stuck in my throat. I had just snapped at him for wasting his breath on it. I hoped the tactics I used with Miss Young would work here too.

Slowly — even though Jayce didn't give the impression of being the cocky big guys that the tributes from the first districts often were, it never hurt to be careful — I put my hand on his ridiculously wide shoulder — no, seriously, what do they feed them all in the 2? — and squeeze it lightly.

Jayce looks up at me, surprised, as if he didn't expect...that.

Didn't expect me to be able to show sympathy? Or to want to initiate physical contact? Why? We're both outsiders who our own townsfolk have decided to get rid of, so why wouldn't I show a little empathy?

There were many questions, but they all disappeared when Jayce smiled at me softly. I noticed that he had a small gap between his teeth, and his upper lip was slightly crooked, and his eyes, when the bright reflection of the moon peeking out from behind the clouds fell on them, flashed green every other time.

All these details make him more human. They add new colors to the already completed and established picture of my world, where all the tributes from the Careers districts were cold-blooded killers trained for victory. And to be honest, I like these new colors even more.

We continue to whisper under the shade of the plants, until we are caught off guard by the horizon, which suddenly begins to brighten.

I probably can’t say what exactly we talked about: for the first time since Ma’s death, I didn’t feel the desire to shut myself off from the world with silence, and the words themselves were found and woven into the intricate thread of the dialogue.

We only part ways at the end of the blue hour — the first rays of the sun are about to start flickering over the horizon. Jayce helps me up — he had the bravery to offer me a partnership, saying that it would be easier to stay together in the arena, so I take advantage of his offer and ask him to help me myself, after all, sudden movements after a long stay in one position do not help reduce pain, and “Partners should help each other, right, Jayce?” and we part near the fire escape to the roof: he goes down to his floor, and I slowly walk towards the glass horror, which could be seen as staircase only by grave mistake.

As I lie down in my long-cold bed, I feel no regret. But it hurts to think that I have finally found someone who is interesting to me, and most importantly, who is interested in me in return only now — when in three days I will be meeting the sunrise in the arena and it is not a fact that I will also be able to witness the sunset. And yet, I try to call Jayce a friend in my mind. A partner, as he himself suggested. Yes, I even like it better that way.

Partners.

Sleep comes easily and imperceptibly.

Chapter Text

A couple of hours pass before I am awakened by a persistent knock on the door — Woof barks a question if I am about to sleep through the breakfast. After that, we were supposed to be taken down to the lower level of the building, where a training room was set up.

Having changed into a new outfit, apparently a training one — simple black pants with a T-shirt, with the number twelve written in white on the front and sleeves, I go out into the hall. Woof asks a question that baffles me. Do I want to train separately or together with Miss Young?

I don't see her at the table, by the way — apparently, she ate a long time ago and went downstairs. And I, in general, don't want to train at all, to prepare mentally or physically for the upcoming Games; so, my brain, suffering from lack of sleep, does not produce anything sensible — I just don't know what to say, and therefore remain silent.

But this question made me remember our conversation with Jayce.

Sure, Jayce himself suggested partnership yesterday, but... Wouldn't his mentor be against such an alliance between the districts? Yes, for many years now, the Carrers from the 1, 2 and 4 have been uniting, but the 12 is nowhere near; so I'm not much of an ally material.

I ruin the rest of the morning for everyone — the prep team is here with us, minus the head stylist, Mr. Stift must be recovering from yesterday's drinking about in honor of the «successful» tribute parade — my sour expression didn't particularly set the cheerful mood. Woof apparently takes it personally and leaves me alone.

Having quickly stuffed myself with a portion of porridge, generously diluting with sugar, I go down to the ground floor. Before leaving, Woof said that it is not necessary to hang around the stations with a weapon all the time, I am not sure if he was trying to joke — what kind of fighter am I? — that simple survival skills will also come in handy: how to make a fire, how to find shelter for the night, and all that kind of stuff.

I'm apparently the last one to enter the training hall — only unfamiliar tributes catch my eye. While I'm looking for Miss Young, I bump into Jayce — he's standing at a distance with four tall tributes, apparently guys from the 1 and 4, and is actively arguing with them.

It's starting to occur to me that he, like me, was asked to prepare with his own this morning. In fact, it would be expected if he came up to me now, with a sad puppy face — because he would obviously be very ashamed to take back his words about partnership — and said: "Our mentors said that strong tributes should stick together, so, sorry, but you don't belong with us."

Expected, so not offensive. Almost.

But then Jayce turns, our eyes meet, he says goodbye to the tributes and heads my way with the world's stupidest smile on his face. He doesn't look like he's about to abandon me to my fate. I'm confused.

He practically skips up to me, says hello, asks how I slept, whether I got enough sleep after our night out — Jayce clearly wasn't taught to keep his voice within reasonable volume, because I see one of the instructors nearby frown at his words — and which station I'd like to start at.

"My mentor... he advised me to devote my time to something useful, like," I run my eyes around the room in a panic and, finding an island of artificial forest, nod in its direction, "this."

Jayce doesn't mind. So, he's kneeling in front of me, carefully trying to light the tinder with a stick — he seems to be succeeding, I think I see something like smoke — while I'm leaning against nearby trunk, wondering if I should voice my concerns. Jayce was quite open last night, not afraid to talk about the conflict that got him sent here in the first place. And yesterday he stood in front of me at one of his most vulnerable moments!

I try not to pay attention to how unpleasantly dry my lips are, and raise the topic that worries me:

“We, well, I mean, I was offered to train separately from everyone else today, but...” Jayce froze, hearing my voice, and stared at me with his gaze as intently as possible, and how am I supposed to continue speaking calmly? “They also offered to train only with my district."

“You don't want to be in alliance with me anymore?”

What? How did he catch that part specifically, I was leading to something completely different!

I shudder, looking away from his face, which at the moment was written pure bewilderment and unbearable sadness. And how could I even think that this guy was capable of carrying out a great cunning plan — everyone would be able to read his thoughts, long before Jayce himself had time to realize them.

“No! No, I, um- I mean, if you suddenly wanted to go back on what you said earlier,” I see him frown, “I won't object. I'm no ally, but a real burden.”

I look at the traitorous knee. It will be a miracle if I survive the first few hours in the arena, catching up with me is not exactly an impossible task. Jayce follows my gaze.

“I don't consider you a burden. And I don't plan to take back my words. If I said that we are partners, then that's what I think. Together — until the end,” and now he has a slightly strange expression on his face, I can't define it for myself, and saying such words to a person with whom you got to know normally a day — in fact, even less than a day! — ago is strange.

Jayce is a weird guy in general. So, when he reaches for my knee with his hands, I'm both surprised and not. But I still can't help but flinch back a little at the suddenness of the gesture.

“Sorry, I just...” he purses his lips and frowns, radiating concern. “Would you mind if I examine your leg? Or maybe you could tell me what's wrong with it? Like, was it an injury or not, is it just your knee or does your foot hurt too?”

“What is it to you?” I bare my teeth reflexively, although, logically, I understand him — we are allies, we need to know what to expect from each other in the arena. I want to immediately apologize for being rude, but Jayce himself interrupts me:

“I could help. You see, my father was a blacksmith and from childhood he dragged me to our metallurgical plant, and I myself often disappeared into the forge shop after school — this spring, by the way, the plant received a large order from the Capitol, so I am sure that some sword or hammer that will be in the arena was forged by my hand; all this is to the fact that I can construct something like a support to reduce the load on your joint.”

I freeze right there. He seems to be sincere and genuinely wants to help. Just like that. Out of pure good nature. Wow.

Of course, if this way I become more mobile in the arena, then that will be good for Jayce too, but, man... I really feel grateful.

"Don't you think the Gamemakers will think this construction will give me some kind of advantage and take it away before they let me out in the arena?" The scene in the common shower was still vivid in my mind. Oh, it must have been Jayce who tried to reason with — funny, as if any of them had even the rudiments of intelligence — that peacemaker. I didn't even remember. I should probably thank him, but how to change the subject?

“They'd rather take your cane away — they'd say you'd kill someone with that stick,” openly mocking the Gamemakers? Sold. Besides, I receive confirmation that it was definitely him back then.

We're sitting there giggling like complete idiots, I'm sure, but there's no desire to stop. Then Jayce looks past me.

“I’m sure I can convince them, if not to forge something myself, then at least to pass the blueprints on to local craftsmen, besides, I already have a couple of ideas,” I turn around and notice that almost under the very ceiling of the open space of the training center there are balconies filled with people. They look luxurious even by the standards of the Capitol. Future sponsors must be already looking at horses to bet on.

Jayce sits closer and nods his head towards an unusually beautiful woman in red — here and there, golden ribbons seem to flow across her dark skin, and she looks in our direction — most likely at Jayce, and actively talks with another lady, in a dark blue formal waistcoat.

“This is my stylist, Mel, and ever since I arrived here, she has been telling me that I have huge investment potential. I think she is actively selling our partnership right now,” I feel a lump in my throat when I hear these words. Exactly. Investments and sponsors are an integral part of the Games and their gifts are necessary, often determining factors for your survival in the arena.

“Aren't you afraid that our ‘partnership’ will scare away sponsors?” I ask quietly, while I myself, although I don't want to admit it, am still afraid that Jayce will leave me.

“Not at all. Moreover, Mel is responsible for my district and, in fact, she is forbidden to coax anyone in favor of the Two, but if she can sell — and I'm sure she has experience in such matters — our alliance, then, in fact, she will not be breaking the rules of the Games, because she will be knocking out sponsors for you.”

"How did you think it all through..." I try not to show how much his words upset me. I don't want to think about Jayce deciding to play the knight card, saving the unfortunate cripple, just to get more sponsors. It hurts.

“Nah, that’s her plan. She’s been sulking all morning, complaining about the loss of the image she’s already created for me, after I told our mentor and the prep team that I intend to train with my partner from the Twelve. Honestly, I think she’s still hoping I’ll change my mind. As if the handouts of strangers are more important to me than my own promises,” well, that’s encouraging. Yeah, it’s terribly selfish to be happy that Jayce is willing to trade his advantage in the arena to continue being my partner, but I can’t quite stifle that feeling.

“And are you planning?”

«Breaking a promise» still hangs tensely in the air. As it seems to me.

"If I hadn't insisted that the stolen research project was mine, I wouldn't have angered the mayor and wouldn't be here. I'm not used to going back on my word," Jayce sits even closer and lightly butts me with his shoulder.

"I'm sure you'll anger all the Careers," I can only snort at his spontaneity, trying to hide the fact that I really liked his words.

“I don't give a shit about them and their opinions, they are not my partners.”

“You like this word so much?”

“Which one?”

“Partners.”

“Very much.”

It turns out that his stupid smile is extremely contagious.

Jayce spent the rest of the time before lunch — there's no other word for it — pawing my poor leg. He bent it at the knee and hip joints, testing the depth of the angle that was painless for me, kneaded my ankle and foot until a stunning shiver ran down my back. He said he was making out the design of the brace in his head that way, but the whole thing felt like a clumsy, albeit massage. I was used to kneading my leg myself, but all that muscle mass, now hidden under the same simple black T-shirt, put to use, was nothing compared to my thin limbs.

I tried not to stare too hard, of course, but I did notice that as Jayce was moving my thigh into position, his palm was covering almost the entire diameter. The difference in size was frightening. Judging by my quickening heartbeat.

The tributes all ate lunch at two long tables with benches on either side. I'm not sure if it was my fault, or if Jayce's early morning bicker with the tributes from the 1 and 4 had been more serious than I thought, but we were obviously being avoided. He and I were among the first to land, but no one wanted to sit close to us. Even Miss Young passed us by, flashing with a group of girls from 5, 6, and 11 districts.

I swallow the lump in my throat. A premonition of something bad envelops me, and my appetite instantly disappears. Jayce, on the other hand, either could not or refused to read the room, and was now wolfing down the served stew, nibbling on the meat buns. But then he seemed to sense my gaze on him and, leaning closer, whispered conspiratorially:

"I know the situation is not conducive, but you should try to eat at least a little. You'll need your strength," I really did need my strength, as it was rapidly leaving me as I stared at the bread crumbs that had brazenly taken up place in the corners of his mouth.

Having stuffed down a few buns with difficulty — they reminded me of the buns that Ma sometimes baked — I mentally allow myself to indulge in memories and be sad about the past — a glass of cool milk would go very well with these buns, but we were only brought pitchers of water. Not that I am in the habit of complaining.

Right after lunch, Jayce starts pestering the uniformed woman who was in charge of discipline at the training center. While I stand awkwardly to the side, waiting for Jayce, I watch Miss Young from afar. She's still hanging around with that group of girls, now standing and taking turns practicing knife throwing. Well, that's a useful skill. Then she looks up and notices the surveillance, but says nothing, just quickly looks away. It looks like we'll really be training separately from now on.

Usually, tributes from the same district tried to stick together or, on the contrary, to be as far away from each other as possible in the arena — this way there was less chance of being left one to one in the end. Still, killing fellow tribute from your district was not exactly accepted. But even if I offered her cooperation, I would practically doom her to certain death. I'm a cripple, what kind of backup would I be?

My thoughts return to Jayce once again. On the one hand, yes, I'll be a huge burden on his shoulders, but on the other hand, he seems like the kind of person who could handle it. Even to myself, I sound disgusting and selfish. I try to calm my nerves by saying that Jayce was the one who initiated this. He had to assessed his capabilities adequately before proposing a partnership, right?

Sure, I could ask Jayce to add Miss Young to our little team. Jayce has been such a sweetheart this whole time, and there's no way he'd say no. Except... I don't want to ask him to do that. Not just because it'll add more hassle to his life. I just don't want to share.

I take a deep breath and realize that, yes, I want Jayce to pay attention to — to care about — me alone. To be mine alone. My partner.

It gives me a shudder when I realize this at random 2:15 p.m.

Where are these thoughts coming from? Desires? I don't think I have time to unpack all of that right now.

Jayce's hand falls on my shoulder, distracting me from my internal crisis. In his other hand he clutches a tape measure and a notepad and pencil.

I have no idea how he managed to get them, but we spend the next few hours carefully measuring and recording every inch of my limb. I'll be honest, it wasn't the most productive training day, but it was no less entertaining. By the end, I even manage to make out a sketch of the future brace on a separate page, and in the corner of it was — I'm not sure, I must have made a mistake, or perhaps I imagined it — a quick sketch of someone who looked suspiciously like me, if judging by the carefully outlined hair and the bright spots of moles.

My ears are still unpleasantly sting with red as we head off to our floors.

Dinner passes in tense silence. Miss Young continues to stubbornly avoid me. Maybe I offended her? But how? I mean, specifically. There are enough reasons: I didn’t offer to train together, zero attempts on my part to establish any kind of good relationship and total silence, and what’s the result — the next day I’m already cooing with famous Careers; okay, only with one, but still. While I’m thinking of a phrase to approach her with, she’s already finishing her portion and disappearing into her room. Woof, who has also been steadfastly silent all evening, and I are left alone.

"She seems upset. Miss Young. Is it because of me?" I ask cautiously.

Woof ponders his answer for a long time, rubbing his gray beard.

“Yes. And no,” great, no clarity, just as I asked. “The girl has probably come to terms with the situation as a whole and doesn't see any obvious need to fight for her own life. I think she's grieving: for herself, for the life that's no longer waiting for her.”

I would never have expected such an analysis of emotions into screws from the stern silent man, which our detached mentor initially seemed to be.

“Why do you think it's your fault?” His heavy gaze pierces right through, pressing me to the floor.

“There are reasons...” Woof just raises an eyebrow, as if to say: «Well? And in more detail?» I wet my dry throat with a couple of sips of water. “We are not preparing for the Games together. And I didn’t suggest stick together, which was kind of expected, since we’re from the same district. Instead, I made an alliance — well, it was rather offered to me, and I simply agreed — with a tribute from the 2...”

I don't know how he'll react. Will he praise me for such a passion for life that all means are good? Will he scold me for making such decisions without his knowledge? But instead of all this, Woof breaks into a fanged smile.

"So that's why Kurt's been walking around all morning looking gloomier than ever. One of his puppies has rebelled and is refusing to obey commands," I recall Jayce saying something about the morning commotion with his mentors and prep team while Woof continues to chuckle hoarsely, "I can tell you one thing: your trick with that guy really screwed up all the plans of the Careers. Keep up the good work — the public loves a rascals."

Rascals? What is he even talking about? I didn't actually do anything, it was Jayce — in his own words — who took a stand and refused to cooperate with the other tributes. And this decision will most likely backfire on him. Because seriously — who will be more useful in terms of mutual assistance and survival? Certainly not me. I have no useful skills — of course, I can build a wind-up children's toy from scrap materials in no time, but how can this help?

After that, Woof leaves me to seethe in a brew of questions alone.

Sleep came reluctantly, despite the obvious lack of it since last night. Surely, Jayce had fallen asleep long ago, and there was no point in waiting for him, but I still, with a persistence that came from nowhere, throw the blanket aside and rustle across the terry carpets towards the balcony.

The anticipation simmering in my chest crashes against the non-opening door handle. Locked? Was there even a lock here yesterday?? How could I not have noticed it?

All that was left for me was to press my feverishly hot — and when did the temperature rise? — forehead against the cool glass.

I try to catch my breath, looking at the faceless lights of the city; the barrier between us is so thin, seemingly illusory, but insurmountable — for me, for sure. I wince with a fit of self-pity. What is wrong with me? We will see each other tomorrow — in fact, I am almost certain that Jayce, seeing the elevator descend from the twelfth floor, will rush to lie in wait for me and immediately knock me down with his enormous beef. I just need to wait out the night. I know how to wait. I can do it.

Despite my own assurances that I am not worried or anxious at all, I toss and turn almost until the morning.

The second training day greeted me with bright rays of sunlight breaking through the stone high-rises of the Capitol — the building of the training center, although twelve floors high, which was already six times higher than the tallest building in the 12, but on the horizon, in uneven rows, concrete giants rose up, as if trying to reach the clouds with their clawed spires.

Breakfast is spent in a quiet rush — Woof never shows up, and I'm in a hurry to go down to the basement. I try to calm myself down mentally, but, anticipating the meeting, I still hurry, flying out of the elevator. But after feverishly examining the room, I don't see Jayce.

The only faces I see are the vaguely familiar Careers, who have spotted me and are staring at me like dogs at a piece of fresh meat. My hands itch — and sweat at the thought — to go and ask if Jayce got lost on the way down, but I decide it would be wiser to wait for him and finally get to studying something useful — we were both too busy yesterday developing the brace.

The methodical weaving of knots for snares, under the clear guidance of the instructor, is interrupted by the clatter of someone else's boots. The light of the lamps is blocked by a figure looming over me. I look up and stumble upon cold blue eyes. The number two on the chest. This must be that very Marcella.

“Where is Talis?”

What? I should be the one asking this question. I try to hide my surprise and silently continue to look at the face distorted with a frowning grimace.

“Yesterday he spent the whole evening buzzing in our ears about what a wonderful partner he got and that he no longer needed our company. And this morning the peacekeepers dragged him away,” in response to this information I can’t keep my mask on and my eyebrows rise traitorously. “Oh, so you don’t know? And I already thought that you were planning some kind of joint secret exercises. But apparently you were abandoned too.”

The haughty tone alone was already an argument for not listening to her. But the facts were there: Jayce had been taken away somewhere, by peacekeepers, and even Marcella, who shared his apartment, didn't know where.

I don't want to lose this little battle, but I still look away. I don't know what she wants to hear — what I can even answer. I throw the final loop and tighten the knot.

From above comes an irritated voice: "Are you mute or something?" I consider the task successfully completed when I hear a snort and the sound of retreating footsteps.

I raise a hand to smooth down my hair, which couldn’t have gotten any disheveled in all this time. I had to decide what to do. The second day of training was in full swing, and everyone who wanted to form alliances had already split into groups. And my mentor had approved, in a way, the alliance with Jayce. But was it still valid?

Nescience scratches my lungs unpleasantly. I try to breathe deeply and evenly, suppressing as much as possible the cough that breaks loose from its leash. To think that Jayce betrayed our agreement like this, broke the alliance, abandoned–

Me.

This is no time to be falling apart, but I can't help myself. I can literally feel my strength draining away with every ragged breath.

It's a shame, of course, but it's entirely logical. From the moment the rules of the Reaping were announced, I knew what was coming. And by the time my name was called out like a death sentence into the ringing silence on a square in the 12, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to die. I was practically ready for it. Expecting it!

But not now. In less than two days, in a few conversations, Jayce gave me... Hope? Stupid, because in the end there would still be one winner. And even if we were the last ones left in the arena, I would have given in to Jayce. Really, I would have. After all, he had a family waiting for him at home, he even had some plans for the future. Unlike me, he seemed like a nice guy, worthy of winning.

It's better if he survives than some trained dog who can do nothing but kill, from the 1 or 4.

I should have told Jayce all this. I should have told him during practice yesterday or not, even earlier, back on the roof, that I would gladly sacrifice myself so he could win. That would have given my life some real meaning.

I realize that I have been looking at one point for a long time now — the forgotten snare lies at my feet, and the instructor has gone to another tribute — and I press my knees to my chest. My hip is slightly aching, but I do not change my position — perhaps the physical pain will help dull the mental one.

I pull myself together only closer to lunch and sigh with relief when I realize that my eyes are still dry. This time, in addition to the nausea, there was an obsessive thought that there was no point in forcibly eating anymore. Why force myself to eat if no one needs me now and I’ll last a couple of hours at most in the arena? If not even a few minutes — there was an itching premonition under my skin that the cane would be taken away eventually.

I think about the pointlessness of my fluttering until the evening, keeping my hands busy with something useful: I learn to weave nets, ropes, even build something like a shelter from spruce branches scattered in the far corner of the hall, stylized as a forest. I still don't go near the stations with weapons.

At dinner, Woof is absent again, so I can calmly continue to sulk to myself. Earlier in the day, I thought that I had skipped all five stages straight to acceptance. After all, accepting a situation means, practically, letting it go. But as darkness fell, irritation grew in my chest.

What if it was all a game? A farce, pure and simple. Of course, how could it be otherwise? Why would a healthy, capable, and physically developed tribute give up an alliance with his own in order to hit on some sick guy from the outskirts?

I was angry. At Jayce, for daring to give me hope, only to take it away so abruptly and painfully. At myself, for believing so easily, for falling for the soft tone and warm smile like a child. At the Capitol as a whole, for somehow deciding that they could control our destinies, condemning us to death every year.

I should have been smarter. More careful. Sticking to my own — I've probably hurt Miss Young too much with my silence now for her to agree to form an alliance — and not grabbing the first hand that comes out with a death grip.

I don't even go near the door to the roof that night.

At breakfast, I finally run into Woof. He doesn't look so good — the dark circles under his eyes have become deeper, and the wrinkles are more pronounced. For the first time, I think about the fact that perhaps he is not only our mentor. Could it be that he was given several districts at once? He must have drawn the shortest straw. Then his behavior is quite understandable: a crumpled introduction, a short speech and clear instructions. I wouldn't bother too much for the sake of victory for tributes from not my own district either.

Woof reminds Miss Young and I to make the most of our practice time today and think about what we could present to the Gamemakers to impress them.

“I can try to run, they will definitely be impressed at how fast my face hits the floor,” I say for the first time at the table.

Everyone — and besides Miss Young and our mentor, the prep team is also here — although not in full force, since I do not see Mr. Stift — immediately becomes uncomfortable. It is clear that we have nothing to brag about — certainly not from the physical side — to these bloody Gamemakers. And solving trigonometric equations from the advanced program of old textbooks for speed — I found such only in the library in the most distant and dusty sections, now we were taught only the basics of mathematics; of course, why should future miners know about quantitative relations and spatial forms of the real world, it is enough to simply be able to add and subtract — even the need for knowledge of multiplication in recent years has been called into question — is unlikely to impress them.

I spend the entire time before and during lunch doing intense brainstorming. Of course, there was no point in trying — there was no point in dancing around like a dog for a bone when I wouldn't even live enough to receive it. But at least it took my mind off the depressing thoughts about Jayce.

Even when we're all herded into a large waiting room — they calling us on private training sessions starting from District One — I can't find him. Where did he even go?! He couldn't have escaped, could he? Or could he? Marcella said the Peacekeepers took him, but why? Tribute training was done by special instructors, not the military. Maybe Jayce did or said something wrong?

Thoughts buzzed feverishly in my head. Could our conversation on the roof have been overheard somehow? Probably, but then why had they taken only Jayce? Maybe they only had the audio recording, and were only able to identify him? Jayce had a loud voice, yes — he only lowered it once when...

When I insulted President Snow. Insult, of course, is a strong word, it was more like a harmless joke, but in the 12 the Peacekeepers have given public floggings for less. I should have kept my mouth shut. But then again, why did they come for Jayce? They simply couldn't fail to recognize my voice — my family's accent was the only one like that in the 12. Maybe they wanted to make sure? They didn't want to lose a valuable tribute and took him away for questioning so he could confirm that it was me on the roof that evening. That could very well be the case.

But why am I still walking around the training center relatively freely, preparing for the Games, why haven't I yet felt the weight and cold of the handcuffs on my wrists? Jayce didn't rat me out? He refused to talk and they — oh no, what if they still haven't let him go and are asking for my name?!

The pain from my bitten lip sobers me up, and I hear a sound from the speakers above the door — the boy from the 12 is being called. I look around and realize that I didn't notice how I was left alone in the room. I was too busy winding myself up.

The demonstration room looked almost exactly like our training room: various types of weapons were stacked on tables against the walls, on the other side were mannequins with targets painted in red on their chests and faces, and above, still separated only by glass, was a balcony filled with smartly dressed people.

I look closely and try to figure out which of them are the Gamemakers — they can't all be responsible for running the Games. I only recognize a large man in a jacket with blue, fish-like scales — maybe he is friends with Mr. Stift? — Pontus Siver, the Head Gamemaker of the Games for the last five years in person. The rest of the mummers remain a complete mystery to me; most of the crowd are probably sponsors. And now they are waiting to see what I can offer them.

Sponsors. Investors. Bettors. They clearly want risk-free investments. They only bet on those they are sure will win; few would want to invest money in a cripple with no chance of survival.

“Well? Are you going to show something or not? We, you know, would like to finish as soon as possible.”

I grit my teeth at the unexpected familiarity. The voice came from a dandy with slicked-back blond hair, as if smeared with at least a ton of oil. Oddly enough, I didn't feel any anger — this jerk only caused a sticky feeling of disgust, from which I wanted to wash off as quickly as possible.

“Do you want me to show you something? My deepest apologies, but all I can demonstrate is the complete lack of equality in your Games,” I raise my cane demonstratively. I want to howl and scream from the wave of reinforced concrete indifference that has washed over me, but I keep my voice steady. “What skills do I have to show to motivate you to spend money on this? No one in their right mind would bet on a cripple! All I can hope for is that the audience of this massacre of children that you call the Games will at least think for a second about the injustice that befalls each of the participants every fucking year!”

By the end of the tirade, my chest is shaking. I feel like another second and I'll double over in a fit of deafening coughing. But I hold on and don't take my eyes, full of contempt, off these people. Some look at me with surprise, some — like this slicked-down oaf — mirror disgust mixed with bewilderment. But there are also a few people whose gaze can hardly but still could be called intrigued.

A few seconds of silence pass. I decide that I can't make things any worse, and I bow deliberately slowly before turning around and limping toward the exit.

A hissing voice flies at me from behind: "You're right, it would be unfair to let you into the arena with such an advantage — you'll leave your stick in your room, understand?!"

I smile bitterly. Well, I can accept congratulations, I have retained my sense of self-worth, but at the cost of mobility and, most likely, I have lowered my chances of survival from a little over four percent to a final zero. Well done, what can I say.

I spend the next few hours before the interview in a daze. Our styling students are bustling around — Mr. Stift doesn't planning to show up it seems — trying to figure out how to present us on the evening show. I honestly don't give a shit anymore. The scores aren't announced until half an hour before the show, but I already know what number I'm going to see. Showing my teeth was a bad idea, though — now I'll be hobbling around on one leg for the rest of the evening. I just hope I don't get a cramp and collapse on the floor in front of the cameras.

As a result, the prep team decided to settle on a simple, business-like — as they called it — style: one of them brought a clearly worn, but fortunately not torn, classic school uniform, only in dark colors. The clothes from someone else's shoulder were a little big, and they had to pin them up with pins.

I'm flinching from another pinprick — what kind of unsolicited acupuncture session is this? — when a man in a blue jumpsuit walks out from the elevator and leaves a long box on the couch, announcing that it's for the young man from the 12. What is it?

I wave away the girl who was fitting me a shirt and approach the strange package. The box looks like it is a gift — even the ribbon is tied in a pretty knot. I carefully lift the lid and again lose the power of speech.

I'd completely forgotten about it. I was too busy beating myself up and wondering if Jayce was still being held in some dark Capitol cellars.

The entire length of the box is occupied by a structure of a pair of hinges and plates with metal inserts. I don’t see any note, but I don’t need it — I know this is Jayce’s work. I refuse the help offered by the messenger, and with almost no effort — in fact, the structure turns out to be much lighter than I initially thought — I get it out. The design of the brace is intuitive — I apply both hinges to the sides of the knee, making sure that the frame rods are in a symmetrical position, and alternately, until they stop, I tighten the red leather straps — soft linings and the presence of trousers soften the tension.

The brace fits like a glove. I don’t know how this could be achieved from cold and featureless metal, but I feel the warmth emanating from it — it seems to scream that it was made with special tenderness. I gently run my fingertips along the side rod and come across a scratch. Its imperfection stands out from the jewelry-like precision of the rest of the work. I look more closely and realize – this is not a scratch. At least, not an accidental one: a scratch cannot have clear lines that form the textured letters JT.

A wry smile was just begging to spread across my face; what a nonsense.

So Jayce was busy assembling and not abandoning me to my fate? Everything pointed to that.

Sure, the human thing to do would be to ask someone to tell me he'd be away for some time, but the rational part of my brain understands that the entire project was probably illegal from start to finish — building for another tribute a device that could potentially increase his chances of survival — he couldn't tell anyone about it. And maybe that's what it was, since even the Careers lost him.

All that's left is to figure out how not to screw up again, so that this too won't be taken away before we go to the Games.

There's a catastrophic lack of time — we're already being led out of the building in pairs to be taken to the studio. We don't have to shake around in the truck for long — it seemed that all the buildings somehow connected to the Games were specially located not far from the center of the Capitol.

We are unloaded just as the scores set by the Gamemakers begin to be announced from the screens that seemed to be hung on every available vertical surface. I focus on the scores being announced, but quickly lose all interest in them — District Two has already been announced, I missed Jayce’s scores.

I think about what Jayce might have shown off at the private training — when did he even do that — and finally, after what seems like an eternity, I see him.

His prep team clearly had a clear plan for their outfits. Both tributes were in white and red gold: Jayce's already broad shoulders were emphasized with heavy pauldrons, and his figure was shaped by a nearly fitted jacket with a three-dimensional letter T embroidered on the back, although, on the other hand, it could have been a hammer figure — after all, the 2 was the main supplier of subsurface rocks in Panem before the war, a center of metallurgy.

While I trying to figure out the designer's idea, Jayce catches my eye. The gloomy expression immediately disappears from his face, and as soon as he notices the brace — only now I realize that its color scheme does not match my black attire — he starts wagging his metaphorical tail: «You put it on! I was glad to help! How do you like it? Do you even like it? Does it pinch anywhere?»

It seemed like Jayce didn't even need to open his mouth for the people around to hear him.

I shrug, smiling slightly in response: «You shouldn't have, but yeah, it's fine. Thank you.»

I mouth the last words silently, and am convinced that some people can literally glow with happiness.

We are so engrossed in this silent conversation that we almost miss the announcement of my score; though, big deal, it wouldn't be a great loss, most likely it is a miserable one, if not ze-

Eight?

They gave me an eight? For what? What could they see in me that would merit such a number of points?

In disbelief, I fall out of reality for a good few seconds — Jayce tries to break away from the flock of the first districts and come to me, but they are already being driven backstage — Lucky Flickerman is already announcing the first tributes to the deafening screams of the live audience.

I should really be concentrating on interviews of the other tributes right now, maybe they'll tell something about their plans or tactics. But all the names and faces are passing by in a blur. I'm only half-listening to Jayce, overcome by a sudden wave of nausea — too much attention has always made me nervous. I only realize it's time to go when one of the stagehands scurrying backstage nudges me towards the stage. You won't catch your breath before death, but I try really hard and end up feeling a little dizzy from too much oxygen in my system.

To the sounds of loud applause and blaring fanfares that merge for me into a continuous white noise, I slowly walk into the blinding spotlight. On the stage are two plush chairs the color of dried grass, dotted with bright red cracks that seem to glow from within. Something like smoldering coals, and I sit down with caution — these people would be glad to make heated chairs and interview us literally on hot coals.

I'm too busy staring into the faceless darkness of the crowd, squinting against the bright lights, that the host's first question flies right past me. Perhaps to get my attention, he places his hand on my right knee. I flinch, more from surprise than pain.

"Wow, someone is sitting on pins and needles, aren't they?" Mr. Flickerman chuckles into the microphone, while pins do indeed prick my back whenever I relax my muscles for a second and hunch over a little.

"Introduce yourself, young man," He holds the microphone too close to my face.

“My name is Viktor.”

“Oh, your parents must've known something when they named you after Victoria — victory, right?” I don't have time to answer, as he enthusiastically waves his arms, the blue rhinestones on his sleeves only shining brighter in the spotlight, and addresses the audience. “Viktor the victor! I like the sound of it, and you?”

The crowd echoes him with a joyful roar.

“Tell me, my dear, we are all very interested here, how such a, um,” he squints, casting an appraising glance at me, lingers a little on the brace and is clearly embarrassed, “a special young man was able to impress the esteemed Gamemakers so much that he received a score that is standard for the first four districts?”

As unpleasant as it is to admit, he was a tolerable host. He threw the bait — provided a chance to interest future investors. I need to skillfully play the cards in my hand.

“Do you want me to give all my secrets right away, Mr. Flickerman?” I force out a semblance of a grin, but the audience seems to be satisfied with this, and a wave of laughter sweeps through the hall.

“Yes, yes, yes! We love secrets, we adore them! And yet, this year we have a few dark horses, but you are one of the most intriguing,” he leans closer, as if he wants to keep our conversation a secret — ha! “So why should we root for you exactly, hmm?”

“I understand, betting on a lame horse seems like shooting yourself in the foot,” the audience decides that this is probably a black joke, and muffled laughter rolls through it, “but, as you may have noticed, some one have already gone for broke.”

I draw attention to the brace with my hand. On me, dressed in a shirt with a simple vest, it looks foreign, too Capitol-like pretentious.

“Unfortunately, I can’t reveal my admirer — you understand, confidentiality and all that. I can only say that he is not the last person in the Capitol industry. You know, initially this structure was supposed to be entirely made of pure gold, but we came to the agreement that it would attract too many glances. And we would not like to steal the precious attention from the One.”

Even before going on stage, I managed to notice that the stylists of the first district, responsible for producing luxury goods for the Capitol — jewelry and ornaments, mainly — decided not to bother too much with costumes and simply dressed their charges in gold and diamonds. I thought that I could play it up with a pun, and the Capitolians, it seems, found my comment sarcastically funny.

With every passing second, I feel more and more disgusted with myself. Talking to this man, who sleeps peacefully every year after such interviews with children-suiciders, flirting with the public greedy for blood and carnage — I want to scrape this day off myself with an iron brush.

I try to push all unnecessary thoughts out of my head as I leave the stage and look for my escort — the prep team have already caught Miss Young and are beckoning me over with their hands. But before heading towards them, I glance at the bright crowd of tributes backstage and make eye contact with Jayce — he, too, must have been looking out for me.

He looks down at his wrist, points a finger at the place where a watch is usually worn, taps once, then again, with two fingers, and then raises his hand, pointing upward. Got it. I nod to him discreetly. I hope the lock is only on my door. Or that Jayce can handle the simple locking mechanism.

After a quick dinner, I wave off all offers to help take off the suit or brace and retreat to the room as quickly as possible. There, I take off the dark, faded uniform on my own, changing into the soft sweatpants and shirt that are already wrinkled from the previous nights — nothing new has been brought to replace the training kits — and tighten the brace on top. I don’t want to take unnecessary risks by leaving it unattended.

I spend the few hours before midnight fiddling with pins, bending the thin needles at the right angle. It brings back memories of the older boys showing me how to use lock picks after school — I hope the theory isn't too far from the practice.

As soon as the clock on the bedside table passes the half-past eleven mark, I grab my cane and an armful of pins and rush out of the room — I'm not too confident in my burglar skills, and I don't want to be late. And in fact, I'm right, because I spend a good twenty minutes under the lock on my knees — fortunately, the brace even in this position distributed the weight, and I didn't want to cry out every second — before it gives in.

I fly up the stairs at top speed, as if an invisible force were pulling me upward. Even if it were, I'm not going to resist it.

For the second time in my life, finding myself in this luxurious garden, it's not the plants and flowers that take my breath away. Jayce is already here, restlessly pacing the gravel. Did he really think I wouldn't come?

He hears my footsteps and freezes, looking at me. Just for a second. Because the next moment I am knocked down by a warm avalanche — I am encircled by his arms.

The sudden physical contact was... unexpected. But certainly not unpleasant. I close my eyes and bury my nose in the open curve of his neck. The perfume that the stylists clearly did not skimp on has not yet worn off. With each breath I feel how the tension that has been gradually constricting my insides for the past few days is finally receding.

I can hear, even feel, Jayce's labored breathing. It tickles my ear. I decide that since he doesn't seem to be letting go of me for a few minutes, I can safely let the cane fall and move my hands higher — Jayce flinches just a little when my palms land on his broad back.

I try to disassemble the internal whirlwind of emotions, and the first thing I pick out is the fear of loss. I almost lost Jayce. Or rather, I thought I didn't even find him in the first place — I thought this whole interaction was a game, just for fun or something else, even worse.

I sniffle my nose, which is starting to itch, against my will.

“I thought- I thought that...” I can’t decide which option would be less pathetic.

«I thought you abandoned me»? «I thought our partnership was a sham»? It’s a bright sign that I’ve become too attached; even if that’s true, I don’t want to seem like a whiner.

«I can't stand it if you leave–» Okay. Now that's dangerously close to truth and it's scratching the roof of my mouth, I should bite my tongue just in case.

Before I can commit the act of self-harm, Jayce, as if he heard my thoughts, presses closer and whispers:

“No. No, I wouldn't leave you. I promised,” indeed, he did so on that first night.

It turns out that if you press your hands harder against his broad back, they won't shake so much.

“I thought you were taken to some torture cellar. And they were trying to find out who it was with you, who was so impudent, insulting President Snow, practically in the very center of the city — on the roof of the tribute center,” I try to add more humor to my trembling voice. It seems to work, because Jayce chuckles in response.

“Sorry. I seem to have pestered Mel, and Kurt, and Bane so much with requests to let me talk to the local engineers and blacksmiths that they decided it would be easier to let me work on my own. They only took me to the forge under escort,” through the thin material of my shirt I feel the caresses of broad palms. “I had to somehow send you a message through them. I didn't think about it, sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Especially since your Marcella already delivered the message,” I mutter quietly into his shoulder.

Jayce makes a questioning sound.

“She asked if I knew where you were. And then she said herself that you were taken away by the peacekeepers.”

“So that's where all these crazy theories about torture cellars come from!”

It's easy to smile now. I even don't mind taking my face away to look at Jayce — I'm sure he has the same stupid expression. I move away a little. And sure enough, this dummy is flashing his fangs and squinting his soft eyes, examining me with a soul-stirring thoroughness. And then he looks down.

“Did I guess the size right, it doesn't pinch anywhere?”

“Who are you kidding, Jayce, we both know you weren't guessing,” too much time was wasted on carefully measuring my limb.

“Okay, yeah, you're right,” he snorts, shaking his head. “And still? How do you like it?”

I like it. Of course, I like it very much. I like that you even decided to do something for me personally. I like that you approached it with sentimental precision and painstaking care. I like that I can literally feel with my fingers every gram of care put into the metal.

“It’ll do,” I shrug. “Sorry I had to lie in the interview — I needed to evoke something other than pity from the public, so I thought why not intrigue them.”

“Don't apologize either — it's a gift. You are free to do and say whatever you want about it. I would have made something for the foot, too, but I wasn't allowed to stay in the forge today any longer,” Jayce says softly and with a hint of regret, but I don't listen to him and continue:

“And I am sorry, you missed all the training days because of me, and I didn't see you during the private training session...”

“Oh, forget it. It's practically impossible to master anything in these measly three days,” well, how can I say it, I learned to light a fire without matches quite well. It only took me about fifty tries or so. “And the mentors got me out of the demonstration before Gamemakers at Mel's suggestion, she suggested telling them that I was busy with an individual project and preparing for the Games alone.”

“And it worked?”

“As you can see. The score, of course, were the maximum average, but it seems that these rumors leaked into the sponsors' circle, so the bets on me are quite good now.”

“How good are your relations with your mentor, if they even tell you the exact figures of the bets?”

“Well, not that they tell me, I just heard it in passing,” he hesitates, he obviously was begging for information with the persistence of a ram.

“And what are the bets on me, by any chance, you haven't heard?” and now he's visually shrinking. Is everything really that bad for me? That's what I ask him.

“No, what are you saying. On you now... thirty-one to one,” okay, expecting a non-double-digit number would be the height of stupidity on my part, but everything is known in comparison, right?

“And you?”

Jayce is obviously deliberately delaying the answer, I have to butt him in the shoulder with my forehead.

“Come on, don't drag it out. I promise I won't be too envious.”

“Four to one.”

Wow. This is news. I don't know exactly who's responsible for making up the betting tables, but they clearly had to be in contact with the Gamemakers. And they should’ve watching the training. And these people only had to look at Jayce once or twice and hear his mentors tell them about his trainings, that they decided there was a twenty-five percent chance he would win.

I chuckle at the irony of Jayce's odds of winning and the Hunger Games' anniversary number are the same. It's not like Jayce pulled out a lucky ticket, given how his Reaping went, but he certainly came close.

Jayce interprets my silence in his own way, puts his hands on my shoulders and shakes me slightly, looking intently into my eyes.

“I don't care, do you hear me? I don't care who thinks what, I don't intend to abandon you in the arena. Viktor, I won't leave you.”

There can only be one winner.

We both understand this, and we both want the other to survive.

I'm sure Jayce has at least three responses for every argument I make. I belatedly nod. I don't think there's any point in pursuing this topic now. I don't want to have to fight on our last good night. I'm sure we won't even have to make that choice in the end, because — who are we kidding — I'll probably get killed in the first few minutes, and even if not, they'll hit me with something in a fight later. What I'm afraid of is that Jayce will throw himself under the knife to save me; if the other tributes can take him out, we'll both be doomed.

Jayce sees the worry on my face and pulls me close again. I hiss slightly from the pain that briefly shoots up my shin — I've been putting too much weight on my leg today, even with the support of the brace. Jayce hears and suggests moving a little closer to the ground. I don't object.

We settle in the same place as three days ago — opposite the parapet.

I want to talk to Jayce, but right now there is a frightening calm in my head. Like before a storm. I peer into the diffused light of the night lanterns. I want to calmly look at the constellations one last time, so much so that my teeth grind, but the light noise of the capital does not allow the stars to shine through.

I wonder what it would be like to live like this — not being able to look up and see a whole other world; to look, it would seem, into the past itself. It turns out that the Capitol is capable of depriving its own citizens of something too, in a sense.

I sigh heavily and rub my tired eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Jayce sat with his hands folded on his knees pulled to his chest. Why did he always try to at least visually take up less space?

“That it’s beautiful. I guess,” I nod slightly towards the glowing high-rises, the windows of which shimmered in bright snakes of various shades: from cold and pure white to warm yellow and pink with a cloying sweetness. The cool night wind tickles my bare neck and tousles my hair. I twitch slightly irritated and remove them from my eyes, tucking them behind my ear.

“Yeah. Beautiful,” I hear a whisper in response.

I’m not sure how long we spend like this; Jayce is as hot as a stove, and his shoulder has been pressed against mine for a long time now, so I don’t feel the chill of the approaching morning.

I only feel Jayce’s hand when he gently shakes my shoulder.

“You should get some sleep before tomorrow. And it would be better if it was on a real bed,” I don’t know what it is about these cold, not at all creaking, soulless and foreign giants that attracts him so much. I wouldn’t mind leaning against Jayce himself and dozing off right here, but unfortunately, I understand that this is impossible – after all, we both got here illegally. Speaking of illegal ways.

“How did you get in here? Were you able to pick the lock?” I don't want to sound too skeptical of Jayce, but he doesn't seem like the type to break into a place; much less use a lock pick.

“You could say that. The door hinges here was hanging on by a miracle — knocking them out was a piece of cake, I'm sure even you could have done it.”

“I doubt it,” I chuckle tiredly. Maybe it really is time to hit the sack. “And how come you didn't wake up half the building.”

Jayce shrugs weakly and looks at the brace.

“You should take it off, at least for the night. Otherwise, you'll completely cut off your blood flow.”

“Oh no, you tried so hard, how can I be so ungrateful — they'll only take it off my corpse,” judging by the instant clenched jaw, Jayce doesn't really like jokes about death. Especially my death. Noted.

“Okay, okay, you've convinced me. Blood flow, you say?” I smooth my disheveled hair to the back of my head. “Will it be okay if I just loosen the straps a little?”

“Unbuckle them completely.”

“Unbuckle them completely?”

“Yes, it will be okay.”

I nod. We both slowly rise from the ground. It's time to say goodbye, but we both hesitate. I can see that Jayce is actively developing some kind of plan, I think he wants to offer to walk me to my apartment, if not to my room itself. I interrupt him faster than he can open his mouth:

“Thank you.”

He seems a little confused by this.

“For what?”

I smile softly and initiate contact myself — Jayce is freaking tall, so I have to gather all my strength and rise up on my toes — I hug him. He hesitates only for a second before he starts choking me back with his bear hug.

A few more minutes pass like this.

Having finally separated and gone to different sides of the roof, we exchange glances.

“See you tomorrow,” Jayce shouts, not even trying to be discreet.

“See you,” I echo him.

Chapter Text

They wake us up before sunrise. Instead of breakfast, the dining room is set for what looks like the last supper — the table is piled high with food. Something tells me that after our departure, the leftovers will simply be thrown away. What a waste.

I try to cram as much as I can into myself, who knows, maybe fate will wag its tail — I'll survive the first day — but only to turn around and bite me in the ass with the lack of food supplies. Hunger is unpleasant: even on the worst days, it was easier to endure the howling pain in my leg than the hunger that twisted my insides, which I had to experience more often than I would have liked.

After that, we were directed to the exit. To my surprise, to the roof. But not to my place with Jayce — that was on the east side of the building, but to another superstructure that was not visible from the garden. There were two hovercrafts there, warming up their engines. They were loading them, apparently, from the first floor, because they shoved me and Miss Young into the second in the last available seats. The hovercraft takes off.

I clutch the seatbelt with my fingers as the airship begins to shake. This is how you live your whole life in a distant district and never know that you are afraid of flying. I clench my fists on my knees, the metal of the brace pleasantly cools my right palm — I left the cane in the room, as ordered by that incomprehensible jerk. It would be unwise to anger the Gamemakers once again.

Opposite me sit six from districts 7, 8, and 9. To my left, behind Miss Young, sit the tributes from the 10 and 11, respectively. A dozen suisiders all in a row. Plus or minus a discount on those measly four percent if by some miracle a future winner happens to be among us.

Among the tributes, a Peacekeeper walks with a device that looks like a gun and, as a result, does not inspire confidence, and applies it to the hands of the tributes. When he approaches me, I decide to speak up:

“What is this?”

It was naive, of course, to hope that they would answer me. I wince when, easily stopping my attempts to break free, the Peacekeeper grabs my hand and, judging by the sensations, injects something directly under the skin with this pistol. The injection site burns and itches, but only a small wound remains on the inside of my forearm.

Apparently, they are taking us somewhere far away, because it feels like at least two hours pass before the exit hatch is opened. We are inside a large hangar. Peacekeepers escort us one by one. I am the last to be dragged out, dragged along long, featureless white corridors and taken to a separate room. On the couch there is a set of fresh clothes. Nothing fancy: a black t-shirt with a white number 12, like the ones they gave us for training, except for the sleeves up to the elbows, the pants at first and second glance are no different from the ones I am wearing now, so I decide not to change them — who knows how much time they allocated for preparation, and removing the brace is a time-consuming task; good boots with a hard sole — I tighten the laces around my ankles, fixing them.

A hissing, grinding sound comes from a speaker in the wall.

“Att—tion Tri—b—tes! Ta—e ur —lace ‘n the pla—rm and do—t e—ve I—s bo—daries u—'il the ‘nd of the coun—own”

Either the person sitting at the microphone was being mercilessly electrocuted at the moment, or someone had screwed up the wiring.

But it's impossible not to understand why there's a round black platform in the middle of the room. I take the designated place, trying to breathe deeply — I feel my heartbeat quicken, which only makes me more anxious.

Just as I begin to involuntarily compare myself to obedient lambs going to slaughter, the platform starts moving and lifts me up through a compartment that has opened in the ceiling.

The first thing I do is squint from the blinding sunlight. The platform stops with a loud thud.

That's it. I'm in the arena.

All around was a straw-colored sea of ​​grass, like the one you see in spring when the snow has just melted. In the distance, about a mile in each direction, were small rocky hills that limited the view. If I hadn't known that such a place couldn't exist in nature, I'd have said that we were in the mouth of a volcano, which someone had thoughtfully planted with grass and then forgotten that it also needed to be watered.

I look around — to my right, on a similar platform, slightly elevated above the ground, stands Miss Young, slightly hunched over. She looks scared; how could she not be scared here. A little further behind her, I recognize the guy from the 11 — he flew with us in the hovercraft. So. If I understood correctly, then ... Yes, I am right — I turn to the left and see tributes from the 1, neither of them looking the friendliest. Right behind them should be the platforms of the 2, but they are located too far from me and, as if, along the radius of a circle, and the tributes are positioned in such a way that the girl goes first, and then the boy, so I am not able to see Jayce. I turn my gaze to the supposed center and notice a strange building.

As a child, before I was so burdened with the hardships of life, such as the obligation to participate in the Reaping or work in the mine, I often helped herd the cattle on the Meadow in the summer. At that time, our district could not yet be called destitute — yes, it was hard, but everyone seemed to cope a little. Mr. Thompson could even afford to keep not only goats, but also cows, and in general he was a pleasant and kind person, so he rarely refused when I asked to help him. The aching pain in my knee that followed days spent on my feet was worth the glass of fresh milk that I received in lieu of payment every evening.

So, the construction, about a hundred yards away, resembled an upside-down cow horn. Except that it glittered and sparkled like a polished coin, shimmering in the sun.

The speakers began to creak and hiss again. But this time, at least I could make out the words.

"Attention, tributes! In honor of the first Quarter Quell, a new rule has been established: each tribute may try their luck and try to get their hands on the valuable gifts located in the Cornucopia.

But don't forget that besides you, twenty-three other tributes will probably want to get their hands on them. Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

I strain my eyes and see what gifts were being discussed — here and there, at different distances from the Cornucopia, backpacks, bags and sacks with unknown contents are scattered, it would be logical to assume that the Gamemakers would not have left empty ones on purpose, but who knows, they make nightmares come true every year; closer to the depths of the Cornucopia itself, I see some containers, and around them weapons, the most varied: from spears and swords to a heavy blacksmith's hammer. Of course, the location of the Cornucopia definitely gave an advantage to those who were opposite its "mouth", while the tributes who were on the side of the "tail" might not even try to run around the giant to get something. So much for equal opportunities, blast them.

Belatedly, I realize that Jayce and I somehow missed the fact that we could—and should!—have discussed our tactics at the arena. But who knew that they would so openly pit us against each other at the very beginning, enticing us with gifts? I'm just calculating the likelihood that Jayce will join a fight when I hear the first blow from the speakers.

The organizers did not specify what exactly the start signal would sound like, but something told me that this sound was not the one — the public wants a show, excitement — it will probably be a kind of countdown so that everyone starts at the same time. Before I have time to put my weight on my heels, I am knocked off my feet by an explosion from the right.

A generous spray of earth, grass and dust covers me over my head, and I panic and clutch the edges of the platform with my hands so as not to accidentally fall. These bastards didn't even bother to repeat the ban on leaving the platform until the right signal! I don't want to open my eyes, I don't want to look to the right — I know who was there, I know who won't be there when I look up.

Through the nasty ringing in my ears, I hear a long, dull beep. Apparently, that very signal to start. I shake my head, trying to come to my senses. I need to get up as quickly as possible, I need to run as far away from here as possible, I need to–

I underestimate the degree of my dizziness and dive head first off the platform. The dry grass unpleasantly scratches my skin as I try to raise myself up on my hands.

Boots appear before my eyes, as if from nowhere. The unknown stands against the sun, and I can barely make out the white two on their chest.

A sigh of relief does not have time to leave the confines of my throat, as I realize that this figure, although impressive, is clearly too small for Jayce. My eyes immediately fly up to Marcella's face, distorted in an angry grimace.

I will not have time to get up. I will not have time to jump back, crawl away, lean to the side, nothing.

In my panicked horror, I only have time to realize that my last thought will probably be a banal "Well, that's it." But before I can even be upset about it, someone knocks my would-be killer aside. A moment — just one twitch of the eyelids — and I watch as Jayce with effort pulls the bloody spear out of Marcella's back.

There is no time to think about what happened, Jayce understands it too — he jerks me to my feet and, supporting me by the right side, helps me run to the edges of the grassy crater. The brace also makes the task much easier — with each step the pain does not shoot through the entire limb.

As we approached the edge, I was worried that perhaps there would be nothing beyond it — a cliff and that's it, the end of the arena. It would have been natural for the Gamemakers to force us to fight in such a limited area. But fortunately, they did not do so, and, having climbed the hill, I sighed with relief, observing in front of me a field stretching for about half a mile, smoothly turning into a copse in the distance.

Having made sure that there is no active pursuit behind us, we decide to move towards the trees. The slaughter, apparently, is over — cannon shots began to sound. I counted thirteen. Already more than half.

After a while, I begin to come to my senses and notice that Jayce, who is still trying to support my side, is limping on his left leg himself — his trouser leg is torn near the hip, and the fabric is soaked in blood. And he, in addition to the obviously heavy spear, is dragging a bag and a black backpack, which I had not noticed before.

I know it would be a mistake to stop now, but I continue to insist on it, and this oaf won't let me examine his leg — he says it's nothing, although I see how he stubbornly continues to clench his jaws with each step — or take at least a backpack. We agree that I take the spear from him, which I quickly wipe off the blood that is starting to cake, only to use it as a support, not Jayce.

Having reached the trees, I make Jayce take a break: we won’t be seen behind the wide trunks, and besides, I need to check what we’ll have to deal with – judging by the heavy sound with which Jayce lowers the load, the Gamemakers decided not to be modest. Inside the backpack I find a hunting knife, an empty flask, a piece of cloth that stretches like a tourniquet, a small jar of black pills, a package with several pieces of dried meat and a small head of cheese, a couple of large apples. And from the bag I pull out a rolled-up blanket, a second flask, already full, a box of matches and a small fishing net, which at first, I take for a tangled rope.

Well, we can work with that.

Jayce sits against a tree, trying not to disturb his leg, while I carefully examine the strange fabric — from a distance it could be mistaken for a bandage, but it was too strong, and, again, stretchy. But before I apply a pressure bandage, I need to clean the wound. I cut off a piece of the fabric with a knife and wet it with water from the flask.

“Wait, hold on,” I almost reach his wounded thigh with my hands, when Jayce takes the fabric right out of my hands. And applies it to my cheek.

“You’re covered in some kind of dust,” he smiles crookedly, wiping my stunned face. What a waste of time. I frown and irritably take the cloth back to properly wipe the blood off the wound. It looks better than I expected – the cut wasn’t too deep, and the smooth edges could close on their own. Having cleaned the wound, I wrap his thigh with several turns of the cloth-tourniquet. Jayce only winces slightly. But now we are definitely cut from the same cloth.

We catch our breath a little more and each of us takes a couple of sips from the flask — after such a run under the scorching sun, our throats were terribly dry.

The most logical thing at this point was to continue our way deeper into the forest and try to find a source of water.

He needed to get away from the Cornucopia, which had undoubtedly already been retaken and occupied by the tributes from the 1 and 4. I wondered if Jayce's mentors or sponsors knew that he had no intention of working with other Careers. How many betting positions had he lost because he saved me? Judging by his expression, he didn't care much right now — Jayce was twirling the hunting knife in his hands, carefully peering at his own reflection in the blade.

“Ha! I knew it!” he suddenly cries out, but then, coming to his senses, lowers his voice. “I told you that in the spring the plant was overwhelmed by the large number of orders, well, I was right — everything we forged then was for the Games. Look!”

He holds the knife out, handle first, and points his finger at the base of the blade. It turns out he wasn't looking at the reflection, but at a tiny, barely noticeable engraved mark that is probably his signature. It's JT again.

“Do you have a habit of leaving your signature on everything you touch?” I smile quietly.

“You know, considering the story of the project theft, the habit is quite justified,” he smiles in response.

And it's as if we're alone again in a rooftop garden at night, with no mortal danger hanging over our necks. The smile disappears from my face before it even has time to bloom. It's time to go.

We put all our belongings into a backpack, and weigh down the bag with stones and sprinkle it with leaves — we don’t want to leave bright signs for potential pursuers.

With his leg bandaged, Jayce moves much more briskly. Meanwhile, it becomes cooler, either because the forest is becoming denser, or because the sun is starting to set. Suddenly, Jayce stops and starts looking for something near the roots. When asked what is so interesting there, he shows the small white mushrooms he has collected in his palm with the most simple-minded look.

“What?” he was apparently puzzled by my expression. I'm not sure what emotion I should use right now.

“Are you absolutely sure they're edible?”

“What do you mean?” Jayce tilts his head questioningly. Definitely a puppy.

“What I mean — are you absolutely sure they're not poisonous?”

“Are there poisonous mushrooms?” and the puppy is clearly a newborn. What does his mean?! Don't they teach at least the basics of biology in their schools in the 2?

While I stand there in a stupor of mute shock, Jayce tries to explain:

“Well, it’s just that there aren’t that many forests in our district – there are only mountains all around, and I usually only see mushrooms at the market...” The question about the gaps in the school curriculum still remains open, but I decide to let it go.

“Throw them away, Jayce. We won't eat questionable mushrooms, and there's little use in them anyway — who among us would be full after a handful of them?”

Jayce gets upset, but obediently throws them out of his hands. And even has the audacity to start sulking. What a sweet summer child.

We walk for a few minutes in silence. I can't say it's uncomfortable, but there's something like it in the air. I should cheer him up a bit.

"If you want to look for food, it's better to look out for birds' nests," although, to tell the truth, neither of us are very good tree climbers right now. "It's better than relying on chance and getting poisoned by eating some strange mushrooms or berries."

“You know a lot about surviving in the wild, huh?” Success, Jayce is distracted and stops looking like a kicked puppy.

“Just the basics,” I shrug. “The Twelve is surrounded by forest, although we are forbidden to leave the district, in fact, few people follow this rule. I myself, of course, have never been there, but I have briefly spoken with people who collect all sorts of things out there and then sell them.”

“I've never been outside the Two either. Well, I was once, back in childhood, in the winter, when I decided to run away to the mountains and almost froze my hands, but luckily they found me quickly,” from his thoughtful look I understand that in his thoughts Jayce is already at home, in the 2.

“Why? Doesn't everyone in the Two live happily ever after, with such close ties to the Capitol?” Having spent my whole life in the 12, I can understand why one might want to escape. But judging by the reports the Capitol films every year before and after the Games, the 1, 2, and 4 aren't exactly starving. What could have happened that was so terrible?

“Well, yes, life was fine, probably. Not bad, that's for sure. It's just that that day at school they told us about the Games. No, I knew about them, of course — after all, they talk about them every year, one way or another — but here they decided to give a detailed lecture to a class of eight-year-olds, explaining how exactly we are to blame for what our ancestors did. I don't even know what upset me more back then — the injustice of the Games in general, or the fear that there will always be a chance that I'll get to these Games,” he smiles sadly. “I jinxed it, I guess.”

Last time I tried to cheer Jayce up, he didn't object to the uninvited touch. He even seemed happy about it. So I can assume that if I squeeze his hand in mine now, nothing bad will happen.

But something bad still happens. Jayce stares for a second, but the next he smiles softly and warmly, squeezing my hand back as my own heart decides to have another speed run for today.

The forest ends abruptly. As did the first day, though — the sky was rapidly darkening with each passing minute. Ahead were only untrustworthy rock cliffs and the water roaring below. Of course, we could try to go down, but now we only have one working pair of legs between the two of us. And taking risks now would be stupid. We choose a bushier area — while I try to create at least some semblance of shelter from the thicker branches, I send Jayce to collect something like a sleeping pallet from the leaves and such stuff. We lay a blanket folded in four on top of the collected leaves; there is very little space, but this way the heat will not go into the ground. Making a fire in an open area is suicide, but even now, being in the forest, it will be dangerous.

Jayce volunteers to take the first watch, and I don't even have the strength to argue — the anxiety that has been gripping me with an iron grip since this morning has only just begun to recede, and I'm exhausted. Before we go to bed, we each eat half a cheese and a piece of meat; it would be good to find something tomorrow, especially if Jayce really has ruined all his sponsors' plans and now they refuse to send him anything.

I fall asleep looking at his thoughtful profile: his split eyebrow, his tired eyes, his chapped lips; he was sitting leaning against a tree, very close to me. Just reach out your hand. But I think I've already exceeded my touch limit for today. He's unlikely to appreciate such intrusiveness on my part.

I wasn't woken up. I wake up myself. This is wrong. I even feel, like, rested. This is completely, totally wrong.

I'm about to run, but I slow down when I see that Jayce is in his place, only slightly rumpled from fatigue and disheveled by my abrupt awakening. The sky was brighter than I expected.

"What's wrong?" his voice is slightly hoarse.

“You didn't wake me up,” I simply state the fact, but my intonation betrays my indignation. I saw that he was also tired yesterday, perhaps even more than me.

"I thought you should get all the sleep while you can. And I'm not even tired." I didn't expect him to lie straight to my face, but Jayce can see that I don't believe him and tries to brush me off. "Okay, I'm tired, but I don't think I can fall asleep right now."

His feeble excuses are interrupted by a soft beeping sound from somewhere above. We both look up — a round container with a parachute attached has landed nearby — greetings from Jayce's sponsors. Inside is a round jar with white contents. It looks like thick sour cream, but it smells vaguely familiar. Sometimes it smelled like that in a drugstore, on those rare occasions when Ma and I could afford to buy something from there.

We exchange glances with Jayce. As if reading my thoughts, he nods in agreement and unbandages his leg. How much he trusts the Capitolians, if he is ready to unconditionally stuff his own wounds with an incomprehensible slop.

"It's cold," he hisses quietly, spreading the ointment over the entire surface of the cut. By me, if it doesn't burning or corroding his leg further, that's good already. I help him wrap the wound again.

While we gather our things and quickly destroy our semblance of shelter — we need to get rid of any visual evidence that we were here, and hide the empty container behind branches and leaves, just like the bag earlier, Jayce uses a knife to cut an apple for our breakfast in half. It is clear from his expression that he is still hungry, I try to casually say that he can finish the second one, but Jayce easily reads me, so I agree to share this one too. As we go, he tells us that as it got dark, images of tributes appeared in the sky, apparently already dead ones, as if they were somehow projected there.

“That left us, three Careers, both tributes from the Six and the Eight, the guy from the Nine, and the girl from the Eleven,” Jayce concludes, pursing his lips. “Your... that girl from the Twelve died, too. I’m sorry. Did you know her?”

I nod slowly, the conversation taking me back to those terrifying first seconds in the arena. I get goosebumps from the memories.

“Yes, we studied together,” not that we really knew each other, but the feeling of irreparable loss still squeezed my insides.

“You are also the only one left from the Two,” is it reasonable to compare these situations? I don't know, but just in case I’m saying:

“I’m sorry.”

It's a shame he had to commit murder. It's a shame it was because of me. It's a shame we ended up in this situation in the first place.

“Don’t be. The Two is quite large in population, we didn’t know each other personally — I only saw her for the first time on the Reaping,” Jayce falls silent for a few oppressive seconds. “She wanted to kill you, I saw it. I saw it and didn’t think, I just—”

He is interrupted by a cannon shot, and we both flinch. A second one sounds immediately after. Fifteen dead now. We have to go.

Having emerged from the forest, we stopped at the edge of the cliff — ahead, illuminated by the sun, a lake of unprecedented size swayed; no, not a lake — an ocean. The inability to leave the district only fueled my curiosity about what the world beyond its borders was like. Fortunately, the school library was not prohibited from being used outside of classes.

The water stretched to the horizon on all sides as far as the eye could see. Well, apparently the Gamemakers couldn't leave the arena territory unlimitedly huge.

Slowly making our way down the shaky boulders — new injuries to us are like a fifth leg for a dog – Jayce notices several small nests built right on the ground, in crevices between the rocks. We can only hear the birds themselves — they are small, almost invisible white dots, circling strangely above the surface of the water far from the shore.

The small dark grey eggs don't look very trustworthy, but we have no choice and eat a few of them raw. I handle the not-so-pleasant feeling of raw egg whites on my tongue, but Jayce grimaces. He notices me looking and gets embarrassed.

“It just has a strange aftertaste,” he swallows loudly; it’s clear from his voice that he didn't want to complain.

I agree with him and complain a little that the Gamemakers did not spare giving us whole two flasks, but they held back at least some container in which we could later boil these eggs. We empty a few more clutches — I try to dull the feeling of guilt before the adult birds who will later discover the ruined nests — and finish the flask almost to the end.

Once we've descended, we begin to move along the steep cliffs along the rocky shore that surrounds the island along the perimeter. Jayce stumbles three times — he's practically asleep by now — when from somewhere ahead, where the cliff drops off steeply, a hissing sound begins. Only when we get closer and turn the corner do we realize that the hissing was the sound of falling water — somewhere above, there must have been a spring that gave rise to a stream that was now rapidly falling down, creating a small pool that then flows out into the ocean.

I come closer and hold out my palm, free from the spear shaft — my hand is burned by the cold, but I am glad — it is most probably are good for drinking.

Jayce gets out the flasks and continues rummaging through our supplies while I collect water. Before I can take a sip, Jayce grabs my hand. He shakes a bottle of pills that we hadn't figured out the purpose of yesterday. Jayce motions for the flasks to be passed to him, then sits down, pours a handful of black pills into his palm, and drops one into each flask. He holds one flask to his ear and, apparently satisfied with the result, drops a second pill in. It dawns on me that the water might be contaminated. Yes, it looks crystal clear, but there could be tiny particles in it that the eye can't see.

I immediately remember the winters in the 12, when I had to collect freshly fallen snow and melt it on the stove, but such water was always gray, with black particles floating in it, like from coal. Ma always dripped a little iodine into such water, which she kept to treat wounds and draw a net on my bad knee — after that, the skin only itched, I never understood why it was necessary to do this at all. The water after iodine, of course, had a specific taste, but, it seemed, it was suitable for drinking.

“How did you figure out that they could disinfect water?”

“Yesterday I realized that they smell like iodine,” Jayce answers, shaking the flasks. Apparently, he didn't always have access to clean water at home either.

While we wait for the tablets to dissolve — Jayce opens the flask from time to time and listens to see if he can hear the hissing — I decide to walk a little further behind the waterfall, where the curve of the stone walls goes somewhere deep.

There was something there that wasn't really a cave, more of a deepening that wasn't visible due to the flow of water. It wasn't much room, but I think it would be enough for Jayce and I; there would even be a corner left to make a small fire that wouldn't be seen from outside.

I return to Jayce to tell him about the peculiar shelter, and he sits, hypnotizing the flask in his hands and actively nodding off.

"You should sleep," I attract his attention. I see how he wants to start refusing, but I'm already approaching to pull the blanket out of the backpack, and I nod my head in the direction of the shelter I found, as if to say, follow me.

The inner gloom will only make Jayce sleepier, I'm sure. I lay the folded blanket against the wall, it will be at least a little more comfortable and warmer than on the bare ground.

Jayce empties his backpack and places it under his head, and I sit closer to the entrance. I put my spear next to me. I doubt I'll be able to fight much with it, but if anything happens, I'll have time to wake Jayce. I turn around and see a terribly comical picture: the blanket on which I had settled down yesterday without any problems was monstrously small for Jayce — he was lying with his back to me and tried to bend this and that way to fit, but his ankles still scratched the pebbles.

After tossing and turning for another minute, he turns to me with a sigh and a complex expression on his face.

“Viktor, listen, um,” he raises himself up on his hands a little unsteadily. “Do you mind if I...?”

He nods somewhere in my direction.

“Of course,” I agree too quickly for someone who didn’t quite understand what he meant.

Jayce moves closer, and I freeze. Oh, that's it. Personally, I don't think my thigh would be much more comfortable than a backpack, but since Jayce asked for it himself.

I try to focus on the sounds outside, in case anyone starts approaching. The sound of the falling water made it a little difficult, of course, but over time it faded into the background, becoming white noise in the backyard. Every now and then I glance at Jayce, and his measured breathing somehow calms me down, too.

I notice that his hair is slightly disheveled — nothing surprising — and a lock of hair has fallen right onto his broad forehead. Not quite consciously, I raise my hand and carefully remove it with my fingers.

“How do they feel about singing in the Twelve?” I have a small heart attack. I thought he had fallen asleep. Slightly irritated — embarrassed — I snort and take my hand away.

“What do you mean?”

“My mom used to sing to me when I was a kid, and—"

“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?” I blurt out. And now Jayce is slow to respond. I mentally slap myself for my lack of restraint and bite my tongue.

“No,” Jayce finally breathes out quietly. “Of course not, it’s just... It suddenly occurred to me. I wasn’t very good at it myself, but I loved listening to her.”

Loved? Something happened? But before Jayce spoke about his mother in the present tense.

“About ten years ago, a new directive was announced throughout the Two — straight from the Capitol — that any musical imitation and, accordingly, singing was abolished. The only thing they didn’t touch was musical instruments: right, they had to play the Panem anthem on something in the mornings in schools. At first, the Peacekeepers could fine a thoughtful person who simply whistled a melody on the street. But then it got worse, people began to be arrested and locked up for several days. And everyone went crazy — I personally saw how kids at school reported on their classmates. Even some teachers did it. That’s when my mother stopped singing. She was even afraid to sing at home — what if the neighbors heard. And I thought, maybe everything is different in your district, and you know some songs. Because all I remember,” he frowns, straining his memory, “is that my mother loved to sing. But I don’t remember the songs themselves. Not the words, not even the tune.”

There was a distant sadness in his voice, a longing for the past. Things weren't so bad in the 12, of course; especially after Captain Bell arrived — he was appointed after the previous head of the Peacekeepers, who, by the way, wasn't particularly fond of songs, had either a heart attack or something, but Captain Bell himself liked to drink in the Hob with good music, and therefore looked through his fingers at everything that was happening there, but I can understand this feeling of nostalgia. Almost every weekend a local ensemble played in the Hob, and I liked to listen to them, climbing higher up in the old scaffolding to avoid the crush below.

I suddenly realize that I can't remember the last time I was at a gathering like this. The last month before the Reaping, I was so exhausted in the mine that by the end of the week all I wanted to do was lie flat out on my bed and never wake up again. And even before that, after Ma died, I didn't want to do anything: not leave the house, not talk to anyone.

I realize that I was too deep in thought and withdrawn into myself; so much so that I didn't notice how I started running my fingers through Jayce's hair. And he himself is no longer lying with his eyes closed, but is looking at me.

“Before,” I clear my throat slightly, shaking off the feeling of embarrassment that suddenly overwhelmed me, “I used to go to performances by our local musicians. Sometimes they just played instruments, but most of all I liked the evenings when they sang. They didn’t perform one song very often, but I always liked it. I mean I like it even now.”

I feel Jayce freeze, holding his breath, waiting for me to continue.

“I'll tell you right away — my lungs are terrible, and I had no voice at all, so don't expect anything grandiose,” I close my eyes from the heat rising to my cheeks. What a horror, and I haven't even started yet.

“Okay,” Jayce breathes out quietly, as if he’s afraid to ruin the magic of the moment with a loud sound.

I take a couple of breaths, trying to mentally reproduce the strumming of the strings. The way the soloist slowly, even a little sadly, drawls the opening lines. The way the clatter of the audience's boots sounds, quickly joining the melody that is gaining momentum, instantly becoming more cheerful.

I decide to start not from the very beginning, but from my favorite verse.

Can’t take my charm

Can’t take my humor

Can’t take my wealth

‘Cause it’s just a rumor

I don’t even try to sing; the most I’m willing to do is draw with whisper the final vowels, hoping that a coughing fit won't interrupt me.

Nothing you can take was ever worth keeping

No, nothing you can take was ever worth keeping

If Jayce is cringes, he does a masterful job of not showing it — he calmly continues to press on my thigh with his thick head, with his eyes closed.

Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt

Take it, ‘cause I’d give it free

It won’t hurt

Before, I didn't really think about what this song was about. And there was no reason, before I just caught the mood of the crowd and the liveliness of the melody — what else did a child need? But now.

If you think about it, my life really isn't worth much. Especially if you measure it by the benefit I could potentially bring to society. I remember toiling away in the mine: there wasn't a shift that I didn't start suffocating right during work. Yeah, that's not much.

If I were to measure it by the number of people who would miss me if I died, it would be zero. I stumble over that thought and look down at Jayce, who is sleeping peacefully by now.

It would be selfish to hope that after my death—and there was no doubt that it would catch me in the arena—Jayce will remember me, even occasionally. Horribly selfish, because most likely he would remember only the bad, because most likely I would die before his very own eyes. And yet, it was thrilling to think that even this episode of inept singing—just a moment—would live on in his memory.

I catch myself continuing to play with and ruffle his dark hair. And I smile while doing so.

If Jayce saw me now and knew what I was thinking, he would definitely think I was crazy. I chuckle to myself.

About twenty minutes later, my fingertips begin to tingle: apparently, Jayce, after all, has cut off the blood flow in my leg with his heavy forehead. I think enough time has passed for him to finally fall asleep, so I carefully crawl out from under him.

And enough time has passed for tablets to finally dissolve. The water has a slight iodine bitterness and it freezes your teeth, but you can live with that.

The day is in full swing — I need to do something. I was already thinking that making a fire in a cave would not be as reckless as in the open, but here's the problem — we have no fuel. I quietly rustle the straps, throwing the empty backpack on my back. I want to walk along the shore — maybe there will be sticks lying around thrown up by the waves.

I'm afraid to leave Jayce unattended, but I don't plan on going far, just enough to keep the waterfall in sight.

To get around the noisy stream of water, I have to wet my shoes a little in a backwater that leads into open water. Slowly stepping over the slippery stones, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye — a few small fish are darting about in the shallows.

I decide that fishing is a higher priority now — the sticks, after all, won't float away anywhere, and our food is already running out; I return to the cave to leave the backpack and grab the net, which was conveniently in the second bag Jayce got. I look at him — he is still sleeping peacefully, curled up in a ball from the chilly and humid air. Yes, by evening we will definitely need a fire.

I spent the next hour as uselessly as possible — the fish had swum out of the backwater, and now I was forced to chase them through the shallows of open water. It was not going well — the combat spear was too heavy a substitute for a cane, and the cold water that had long since flooded my boots unpleasantly bit my ankles, and it was inconvenient to use the net with just one hand. But I did not lose hope of catching at least something for dinner.

I stop for a second to catch my breath and hear the splash of water behind me.

"Jayce?" I turn around and freeze in my tracks.

Two tributes, both with prominent eights on their chests, slowly approach me. Their mood is clearly hostile — the young man holds some kind of shiv at the ready. Literally a couple of seconds of tense silence pass before he leans forward and lunges at me.

"Jayce!" A desperate cry accidentally escapes my throat as I take a careless step back in panic, slipping and falling into the water. All I see before I plunge into the cold ocean waters is the enraged face of the tribute from the 8 — I don't even know the name of my murderer.

The impact with the water knocks the air out of my lungs. The next jolt makes me open my eyes, which were closed in fear, and they are instantly burned by salt; my hands are still tightly gripping the shaft of the spear, the end of which I cannot see — it goes deep into the dark t-shirt of the tribute, who looks no less dumbfounded.

With hefty effort I push him aside and emerge to the surface — the wind bites my damp skin with cold, but I greedily inhale the clean air. Before I have time to come to my senses — and remember that there were two tributes — I am thrown back into the salt water. It hurts to open my eyes, and there is no point — I can clearly feel someone else's palms squeezing my throat burning with fire.

I try to unclasp her fingers with my hands, but either this girl is much stronger than me, or my muscles stop obeying from lack of oxygen. I desperately scratch her palms, forearms — I try to reach her face, anything. All around there is only water seething from our fluttering. I don’t want to die.

Despite all the bravado I put on for the people of the Capitol, for the Gamemakers, for the audience, I don't want to die. Despite all the rationalizations I've fed myself, it's unfair that I was reaped. It's unfair and hurtful. I want to live. But my strength is inexorably leaving me. Even the roar of my own blood in my ears is rapidly fading.

The pressure on my neck suddenly disappears. The next second I am jerked out of the water. The long-awaited air burns everything — my nose, throat, and lungs; I go into a fit of convulsive coughing.

The noise returns to my ears, so I have to blink desperately, rubbing my eyes with my fingers. The first thing I see is a body bobbing on the waves. A body with a dark, spreading red wound staining its long blond hair, and the number eight on its back. But how?

Before I can even lift my head, someone grabs my wet cheeks and lifts my head. The familiar hazel eyes are now full of fear. Jayce.

“...okay?! Viktor, tell me!” Jayce's worried cry breaks through the veil of ringing. How is he here...?

I seem to be asking this question out loud.

“I woke up, I thought you called me, and then almost immediately a cannon sounded. Oh, Viktor, I was so scared,” he desperately whispers the last words into my shoulder, hugging me tightly.

“You’ll get wet,” I try to collect myself, but my voice is trembles treacherously. Jayce quickly pulls away and glances at me.

"You must be cold. Can you walk?" Even if I didn't have to pull the spear out of someone else's body, I doubt I would have found enough strength to make it all the way to the cave on my own. It seemed like there wasn't a single part of my body that wasn't shaking at the moment.

I shake my head weakly, and Jayce just says a quick: "Hold on tight," and lifts me up. I feel like a sack of potatoes, but now that the cold water is no longer licking my heels and my damp cheek is on Jayce's warm shoulder, it doesn't matter.

Just before Jayce rounds the corner of the cliff, I look up at the gathering clouds on the horizon and notice a hovercraft flying up, its steel claw plucking dead—no, murdered—tributes from the water. In the silhouette of one of the bodies I can discern the spear we had forgotten. Shit.

Having dumped me on the floor, Jayce begins to unfasten the straps of the brace. Belatedly I think that I should have taken it off, at least just in case, so as not to get it wet — who knows how sea water will affect the mobility of the hinges. I try to help Jayce so as not to just sit there, but my fingers are barely obeying — they are still shaking a little.

“Don't worry, we'll warm you up quickly,” he carefully but insistently pushes my palms away. Having unbridled my leg, he pulls off the plaintively creaking brace and starts on my pants. Right. I need to take off all the wet clothes. I make no more useless attempts to help and in a couple of minutes I find myself in a slightly prickly cocoon of a blanket. Jayce, having thrown off his wet boots — he hesitates on his own pants, wet only to the knees, and decides to leave them on — he concentrates on rubbing my shoulders, while I think about what happened.

I need to piece together the facts to reconstruct the chain of events. I was attacked by two people. So. The guy jumped on me and I— and he—

I feel like my brain is getting less and less oxygen with each breath, but I can't stop the ragged sighs. My head is starting to spin.

I killed a man.

Yes, not on purpose. Yes, he tried to kill me. Yes, in fact, it was self-defense. But still. I took someone else's life. What right did I have?

Jayce sees my panic and tries to calm me down, to talk to me. But all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and my heart pounding against my ribs. Everything around me is too unbearable. I close my eyes. All that connects me to reality is Jayce's broad palms on my shoulders. But then, they disappear too.

And in an instant, they return to surround my wet cheeks with warmth. I didn't even notice how I started crying. He shakes me a little, and I open my eyes. Jayce is unimaginably close. I still can't hear, but I can read from the movement of his lips: "After me." With exaggerated movements he takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales slowly through his mouth.

It’s unimaginably hard to mimic his movements, but I try, through sheer force, to keep going, clutching Jayce’s wrists for some kind of grounding. Eventually the world begins to take shape again—beyond Jayce’s figure—colors and sounds. Sensations return. I feel Jayce’s thumbs tracing the lines of my cheekbones. I hear him whisper that I did well, that I am strong—as if I wasn’t the one who just caused the scene. As if I wasn’t the reason he had to kill again.

All I can see Marcella's haughty face before me. But in Jayce's eyes I read only tenderness. What?

“How,” I wheeze worse than ever and cough with difficulty back into my usual timbre. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” He tilts his head, continuing to stroke my cheeks. I can't find the strength to push his hands away.

“How do you live with it. You killed a human being. Two, even. How can you continue to calmly be near me, talk to me, when it was because of me that you had to... And if I weren't here, you would... I'm not worth—” the voice trembles treacherously and breaks, and how inappropriately our first conversation on the roof comes to mind.

Jayce pulls me into his bear hug again.

"Don't you dare say that," his breath tickles my ears. "Don't think like that or say it. I don't regret what I did, not one bit. And if I had to do it again — if you were in danger again, I would do it exactly the same way.”

I don't understand where all this comes from: these words, this warmth, these... feelings. The heart begins to beat dangerously fast again.

"You're worth the world, Viktor," Jayce pulls back a little and puts his hand on my cheek again. Is there honey or something in there that he can't take his hand away? I frown a little and look at him in confusion. But his gaze is lowered just below my eyes. I feel his finger tracing the mole. The one above my lip.

His face is close. Closer than it should be. But he seems to be leaning even closer.

“The spear!” I blurt out in slight panic.

Jayce freezes and makes a questioning sound, finally looking up.

"I forgot about the spear, it... That tribute from the Eight, he was taken along with the spear," I try to explain to Jayce that we've lost our weapon. And, again, it's my fault.

And again I think about the fact that I don't even know the names of those guys from the 8. I wonder if Woof gave them the same instructions? I wonder if he'll hate me now for killing one of his wards.

"It's okay, we still have the knife. We'll manage," Jayce decides to continue rubbing my tense shoulders and back.

After a couple of seconds of silence, he adds.

"Three."

"What?"

"On the first day, there was a guy from the Four, he tried to take the backpack," licks his already chapped lips. "So, not two. Three."

Oh.

A shadow rushes past the water. I freeze, almost unconsciously grabbing Jayce's hand again, but he manages to jump up with the aforementioned knife at the ready.

Silence. No extraneous sounds, except for the seething of the falling water.

Jayce takes a few steps towards the exit, I bite my tongue so as not to blurt out anything unnecessary. Then Jayce's posture changes — the tension falls from his shoulders, and he breathes in relief, confidently walking out and leaving me in an uncomfortable uncertainty.

He returns, to my relief, quickly, holding the familiar round container in his hands. He sits down next to me, smiling cheerfully like a young boy.

“I think this one is for you.”

The casual "I doubt it" never leaves my lips, because Jayce is already unscrewing the lid and we are doused with an exciting cloud of steam. The air is immediately filled with the aroma of spices and the long-forgotten atmosphere of home.

There were no spoons in the set, so Jayce carefully hands me the warm hemisphere of the container, which has become a kind of plate. I want to take a sip quickly, but I take my time and blow on the very edge.

With the first sip, I feel the warmth spreading through my body along with the broth. In fact, the soup is quite ordinary — a standard stew on a piece of bone and vegetables, from those that were lying around in the kitchen. Even a little oversalted. But in the totality of circumstances, now it is like a gift from fate. Or rather, from investors, and Jayce's; but this does not prevent me from closing my eyes and making something vaguely resembling a whine, enjoying the food.

I hear a loud inhale and remember that I am not, in fact, tête-à-tête with the soup. It's Jayce's turn.

He tries to suggest that I eat as much as I want first, and then he'll finish what's left; we've been in this conversation before, I know him. So, under my stern gaze, he humbly accepts our semblance of a plate and takes a few sips of the broth. Even despite all his attempts, he can't hide how hungry he was and how much he liked this soup.

This is how we finish the entire portion — alternately giving it to each other, taking turns fishing out pieces of meat or vegetables with our tongues, and sometimes with our hands.

Along with satiety comes drowsiness, increasing the fatigue accumulated during the day from the stress experienced a hundredfold. The sun was gradually approaching the horizon, taking away the last hints of lightness from the cave.

Jayce wrung out my clothes well and laid them out on the rocks to dry, it was still unknown how long they would take to dry — once again I found a reason to grumble at myself, because a fire would be very useful now — so using the blanket I was still wrapped in as a sleeping mat was not an option.

“We can warm ourselves against each other,” Jayce interrupts the prolonged silence.

What?

I repeat the question, but out loud.

"Well, to lie down next to each other so as not to lose heat. We had a cat wander into the plant that fall, and then she had kittens, and the kittens always tried, you know, to curl up into one big ball," Jayce continues uncertainly, shrugging his shoulder.

And he's right, basically. It was the most reasonable option available, after all. I agree—Jayce is suspiciously quick to get excited—and we lie down with our heads on the backpack, facing the entrance. Jayce wraps me in the blanket tighter and covers me with his arms, like a second layer of blankets. It really is warmer that way. Maybe Jayce himself has become warm like a stove after all the time spent in the forge.

Speaking of forges.

What Jayce had tried to do earlier. The way he had looked. He didn't try...He couldn't want to...? Or could he?

My thoughts throw me back to District Twelve. The district itself is small — everyone knows everything about everyone, but they don't always talk about it. Just as everyone in the district knew much more about our blacksmith — Mr. Amber, than the rules of decency would imply. A couple of times, sitting late at musical evenings at the Hob, I involuntarily became a witness to strange conversations. About how young Miss Doe should not even try to make eyes at our blacksmith — he is already taken, although not married. No, sometimes I heard how Mr. Amber himself told his friends in the ensemble — he sometimes accompanied them on the mandolin — about his partner. Which was strange, because everyone knew that Mr. Amber worked alone in the forge. Although, on several occasions, on days when I stayed late in the school library, I saw Mr. Thompson come in late at night, probably to get some new goat bells.

Maybe this behavior is normal for... blacksmiths? I don't know what kind of habits or customs they have there.

I shift a little, but Jayce just pulls me closer to him. I wouldn't say it's unpleasant, just. Unusual. Strange. Exciting.

"Can't sleep?" Jayce's breath is hot on my neck. We were all shaved clean before the parade, but that was almost a week ago, and now Jayce's stubble scratches me a little when he tries to bury his nose in the hair on the back of my head. But I don't even want to move away.

I mumble negatively in response. Only the second day in the arena is coming to an end, and there are already — how many of us left? I mentally make a few calculations. We could go out and wait for dusk — to see whose portraits will be added to the list of the dead, but I don't want to leave the comfort of Jayce's arms.

Total. Thirteen on the first day. Two more the next morning. And two more from the 8. Seventeen in total.

As if in mockery, another shot rang out in the distance just now. Eighteen. Four, besides us. It was a miracle I'd lived to see this moment, if you think about it.

"We need to end this."

Jayce makes a puzzled sound, and I explain.

"Hide and seek, being in the arena, the Games — it's time to end. The food is running out, and the Careers, if they managed to maintain some semblance of an alliance, are just going around finishing off the rest. And by and large, it's just us left."

It's impossible to say for sure, but if we assume that none of the Careers have died since the massacre at the Cornucopia, then there are only three left — both from the 1 and the girl from the 4. And between the active hunt for us and these embittered hounds, there is only one unfortunate tribute.

"If we assume that they gather at night at the Cornucopia, and this would be logical — there are supplies and weapons there, then we could wi—" it is scary to talk about victory — the last thing I want to do right now is jinx it "We could catch them in a trap. You remember that the platforms on which we were lifted were surrounded by mines?"

Jayce makes an affirmative sound.

"Now, I think, they will not detonate on movement, but the explosives planted inside is we heats it — definitely. The Cornucopia is in the center of the mouth of this grass volcano, and the grass was almost dry even then, and there was no rain for these two days."

It's time to find a use for those matches.

Jayce and I are discussing a few more things — how we can split up when we reach the hilly edges of the crater and start setting the grass on fire on both sides; that way the fire will quickly encircle anyone unfortunate enough to be near the Cornucopia. I just hope the explosion would be powerful enough to prevent us from having to kill anyone manually anymore.

That's what we decide to do.

Jayce volunteers to stand guard first again, and I make him almost swear to wake me up in a few hours so that he can get some sleep too — the road back to the Cornucopia will take half a day at best.

It feels like a couple of hours at most before I flinch at the sound of a cannon shot muffled by the water. There are five of us left.

I realize that the white noise of the waterfall has changed somehow. As if the flow of falling water has increased. Jayce senses me stirring in the darkness and with a single word pronounces our verdict.

“It's raining.”

It rained cats and dogs all night long.

As soon as it became a little lighter, I began to toss and turn, trying to get out of Jayce's clutches, and he let go almost immediately, blinking sleepily. It was hard to put on damp clothes, but there was no other choice. The heavy fabric was unpleasantly cold against my skin, but Jayce pulled the blanket back over me like a cape while I tightened the straps of the brace; we were lucky — if the salt water had damaged it, it hadn't been too bad, and it almost don't creaked when I moved.

We are actively getting ready to quickly finish what little food is left from the first day and set off. The arson plan is useless now, but staying here is not an option either. And it is unlikely that the Careers will expect a direct confrontation — we can take advantage of this and try to attack in the middle of the night. It's a pity that the only weapon left is the knife that Jayce persistently shoved into my hands. It's a pity that the only weapon left is the knife that Jayce persistently shoved into my hands.

I've never believed in fate, but I can't shake the feeling that someone doesn't want our plan to come to life. It's time to remember my own suspicions about the overhearing on the roof of the training center. If we assume that before the tributes were released onto this island, it was stuffed with bugs or cameras... Could the Gamemakers have heard our whispers in the dark? Even if so, apparently someone among them, clearly someone important, does not want us to spark this flame.

We finish the rest of the cheese and dried meat in tense silence, pondering our thoughts. Even the small pieces scrape my sore throat unpleasantly. I run my fingertips over the now purple marks. It must be a terrible sight. And Jayce looks at me with a beaten up look.

I wave it off, saying that everything is fine, and change the subject to his wound — he looks surprised, as if he himself had forgotten about it. Under the bandage there is only new skin, not even a thin scar in sight. It is hard not to envy the Capitolians when they have access to such high-level medicine. But I force myself to swallow my indignation — it will not do any good now.

As we exit the cave, we are met by a long metal box with parachutes pinned to the ground by the rain. They must have sent it at night, since we didn't hear it. I just snort at how much the sponsors or the Gamemakers — whoever was responsible for the delivery of the gifts to the tributes — didn't care at all about our attempts to remain hidden.

Jayce lifts the lid and I see what is perhaps the most beautiful piece of blacksmithing I have ever seen, if you don't count Jayce’s — my — brace, of course.

In a hollow in the velvet cloth lies a long sword, polished so thoroughly that it reflects the grey sky like a mirror. The straight guard is painted red at the edges. I think I know whose initials I will find if I examine the base of the blade carefully.

Although, Jayce grimaces as he takes hold of the handle. How picky we are, after all, our chances of survival have increased a hundredfold. He seems to sense my slight discontent with his back and turns around.

“What? I wish they'd chipped in and sent me the hammer I spent three weeks making instead of... this,” he twirls the blade around, catching it in his other hand; it must have been pretty heavy. “Not my best work, and at least I know how to handle a hammer, and this is like a long knife to me.”

Jayce casts another frowning glance at the empty box.

“They didn't even bother to put the scabbard in, look at that!” he runs his hand over his face and head, ruffling his hair, which had become so dirty in three days that it now stood up like dark needles. “Or it would have been better if they had returned the spear so that you could lean on it.”

It's true that it's harder to move without support, and I'll be slowing Jayce down. But that's clearly not why he's snorting in indignation.

Eventually, we head back along the shore. Jayce carries the sword, holding it flat on his shoulder, having wrapped the blade in a piece of cloth, and offers me his hand for support — I almost fly off nose-first twice on the wet stones from the rain. The sun never appeared from behind the clouds.

If earlier the feeling of the approaching end hung over our souls only as a phantom omen, then by evening, when it began to rain again, and our puffing, concentrated on the way up the hill, was interrupted by the booming shot of a cannon, it finally became established.

Four.

Only two tributes separate Jayce from victory. I don't count myself.

The rain was getting heavier. It was getting dark.

As I climb over the edge of the crater, I lose my balance and almost slide down into the wet grass, but I grab onto Jayce's soaked back. The ground squelches unpleasantly under my feet, but at least the rain will muffle our steps.

There was darkness all around, only a small flame of a fire flickered ahead, which had apparently been lit under the roof of the Cornucopia. But no shadows or silhouettes were visible. It was dangerous to move without knowing the enemy's location, but we could only hope that the remaining tributes would not risk leaving such a comfortable and fire-warmed shelter.

With each step we take closer to the Horn of Plenty, our hearts beat faster. Jayce, slightly hunched, walks a little ahead, his broad back almost blocking my view. I tighten my grip on his arm.

What are the odds that Jayce will survive? What if he can't handle the other two? What if he does? He won't let me di— lose. What do we do? I don't think the Gamemakers will be happy with the lack of a final showdown between the last two survivors.

The firelight was less than twenty yards away, but there was no one in sight. No, it couldn't be. I let go of Jayce and took a few wobbly steps closer to the Horn's depths. Empty. But where were the remaining tributes?

It all happens terrifyingly fast. Before I can call out to Jayce, the unostentatious rustle of rain is interrupted by a dull blow from behind and a splash that follows. I turn around sharply and freeze — standing over Jayce, lying in the resulting swamp, is the tribute, bent under the weight of the taken sword.

In a panic, I grab the knife from my bosom — I don't know what to do, I don't know if I can fight him, I don't know where to aim, but I have to try to save Jayce — he's still alive, I can see that he's trying to get up, and the cannon didn't sound. Or was it just drowned out, as luck would have it, by the intensifying rain?

The flow of thoughts is interrupted by a sudden painful cry.

My cry.

My whole body is shot with pain — my right side seems to go numb for a moment, and I involuntarily unclench my trembling fingers.

No! I can't leave Jayce!

With my freed hand I blindly reach back and grab my attacker by the hair, while with my left I try to find the source of the burning sensation and feel the handle stuck into the side right under the guard.

There is no time for doubt. With one movement I pull out the knife — and the pain, which seemed unbearable, increases a thousandfold — and, turning around, I drive the knife into the stranger's throat without delay.

As if in mockery, right at this moment the clouds decide to part, so that in the unnaturally bright light of the moon I can clearly see the face of the girl whose life I just ended.

The cannon shots. Jayce!

The worries about what I've done immediately leave me when I see him pinned to the ground by the guy from the 1 — in the moonlight I see that the blade of the sword, which in the morning seemed like the best gift from the sponsors, is inches from Jayce's neck, the only obstacle to which are his own blood-stained palms.

Another tribute puts all his weight on the hilt as I try to shake off the numbness. Reflexively, I tighten my grip on the bloody knife that threatens to slip from my hand.

I don't know how I don't fall over along the way — I don't even feel pain in my leg, I don't feel anything except an all-consuming desire to push him away, to remove him — to kill — it doesn't matter, the main thing is do something so Jayce is no longer in danger.

For the first time, I see with my own eyes how easily a blade can pierce a body. Again, and again, and again. With each blow, it becomes more and more difficult to make the next swing. In a moment, he is pulled to the side, and I am pulled after him — so tightly did I grab the number one standing out on the dark fabric. And besides, I have no strength left to maintain an upright position.

My left side is pressed down by another body. But the pressure quickly disappears and Jayce's worried face appears before my eyes. The blow to the head must have been hard — the right side is covered in blood, which the rain is in no hurry to wash away.

I can see he's panicking. Why? It's all good now — there is no one left to attack us — I'm pretty sure the guy from the 1 won't be able to get up. But Jayce's eyes are full of despair, and his bloody lips are still moving. Please, louder, I can't hear you. I want to hear you so much.

Fatigue spreads through my body, and with it comes pain. And I have only just tasted life without pain. I can't help but chuckle, which makes my insides protest even louder, and a painful groan escapes from me. I can hear it.

“Hush, easy, Viktor, don't move,” I haven't gone deaf, what luck. But Jayce isn't looking at me, or rather, at me, but somewhere lower and quickly turns pale. I shudder again from the pain — I lower my gaze and see his wounded palms desperately pressing into my right side. Right. I was stabbed.

The realization comes at the same speed as I lose blood — incredibly fast.

Jayce keeps looking at the wound, as if his pained, desperate staring will make the tissues heal. I gather the strength to breathe his name — I need him to look at me, please, aren’t dying wishes supposed to be fulfilled? — but Jayce turns even further away. It seems like sheer stubbornness is what helps me turn to follow his sight.

The knife.

I must have let go of it when I fell. But why is Jayce wasting time on some stupid knife and not—

No. Of course, he could, but he’s not that desperate.

But Jayce is just that desperate, because I can see his hand reaching for the knife — I have no doubt that in his dumb, big, stupidly beautiful head there was a plan to get the Gamemakers to come here as fast as possible and save me. And that plan absolutely included bloody self-sacrifice.

“Jayce!” My fingers don’t obey when I try to grab his hand, but he reads the movement and squeezes my palm in his own. The skin is unpleasantly sticky with blood, I don’t even know whose exactly.

“Stay with me,” I breathe. I know, I know it’s a dirty move, and Jayce knows it too — he closes his eyes but doesn’t let go of my hand. But I don’t care about the fairness of this game right now. I’m not ready to sacrifice Jayce for myself. Not now, not ever. A man who has given so much warmth to another, so freely and unselfishly, deserves to live on.

Jayce finally opens his eyes and changes their course at me. Even half-bloodshot and brimming with tears, they are so beautiful. I want to tell him that. I want to be back in that rooftop garden. How everything was simpler and more complicated at the same time back then.

“Always. Of course, I won’t— I won’t leave you, Vik,” he doesn’t even try to hide his sobs, and there’s no need to.

I feel my fingertips start to twitch unpleasantly with numbness and try to squeeze his fingers harder. Jayce continues to whisper something convulsively. I see, but do not hear. In the movement of his lips I catch my name a couple more times.

The pain begins to subside little by little.

In my entire short life, I have become so accustomed to it, to this slightly annoying pressure somewhere on the periphery. In the heat of a fight, it was insignificant, unnoticeable, but now it is somehow even unusual and wrong. It is scary not to feel pain. Not to feel anything at all.

The fear must be reflected in my eyes, which is odd, because I seem to have closed them, and even something as simple as lifting my eyelids seems impossible now; Jayce cups my face in his warm hands. I remember they are warm. They should be warm. I don’t feel any warm.

All I can feel is a metallic taste on my lips.

Chapter Text

All I hear is the clatter of heavy wheels as the train rushes towards the district 12.

My head hurts a little from all the information that fell on me, I am still trying to comprehend what happened. My throat is sore.

The wheels hit a particularly unfortunate joint in the rails — the carriage veers sharply to the side, and I hit my knee on the wall. I hiss from the dull pain that will not subside until the arrival, which, by the way, is a little less than an hour away, judging by the staff who have started to scurry around.

I clear my throat, slightly loosening my tie — August had only just begun, but it already promised endless weeks of stuffiness. In front of me on the table, swaying slightly, lay a folder with reports on the incident, which I had seemingly studied inside and out over the past 24 hours. But I still decide to run through written once more, in order to reconstruct the sequence of events that led to my official assignment — ​​and unofficial exile — to the most remote district of the country.

It all started with a phone call in the middle of the night. While woken Antonius was crying, I had to listen to Gall, the night shift worker at the station, he was trying to explain in a hurry that I urgently needed to come and, preferably, pick up a few more guys along the way. He didn’t give me any useful explanations, so I had no choice but to apologize to Marcia again – it hadn’t been a couple of days since our last argument about my constant overtime – and go get ready.

The official car, recently issued due of my promotion, started only on the third try. It seemed that the night could not get any worse, but fate — damn it — only laughed in my face. Because of the Games, and especially because these Games were the first anniversary ones, the Gamemakers were given carte blanche to come up with all sorts of ideas, one of which was the special use of military aircraft to disperse the clouds just in time for the parade of tributes, so that there would be no problem in putting on an unforgettable fireworks show. They dispersed the clouds on time, yeah, but here's the problem — the clouds returned and stayed until the end of July, and the whole month it was pouring down like a bucket.

As a result, I — and three other junior officers who were unlucky enough to live nearby me — arrived at the station only at four in the morning. A procession of several tinted trucks and one white — hospital? — van with bars was already waiting for us.

Kastus Henstrom, a Capitol police captain familiar to every Peacekeeper, was waiting under the canopy of the main entrance, leisurely smoking a cigarette. I quickly saluted and listened to the order: prepare twelve trains for dispatch to the districts, unload the trucks in accordance with the numbering of the boxes, and organize the departure of the winner and other cargo to their destinations.

To tell the truth, there was no talk of transporting the winner — and, apparently, the bodies of the losers — for the next two weeks: usually, the winner is dragged around to social events and galas after the Games. Although I heard that this year this will definitely not happen, they say, the guy has gone crazy. Either he was hit hard on the head, or something else — they said that he was tranquilized right there in the arena so that he would not harm himself or the workers, and taken away for treatment to a closed institution at the Presidential Residence.

The whole thing was a bit murky, but I wasn't going to challenge my superiors' orders.

And the nice police officers weren't going to help us, they just deigned to open the trucks' bodies, where the numbered boxes lay in neat rows.

They had numbered them very carelessly — painted numbers with simple paint, which immediately blurred into white stripes, torn off by heavy drops of rain.

Stepping into the carriage after Butz, I lowered the box with relief — before my eyes were the remains of a floating number, which could have been either a one or a two — it slammed loudly onto the floor.

I took off my work cap to wipe the moisture from my face. Raising my head again, I noticed a hunched figure in the corner of the carriage. The police must have escorted the guy themselves — and for the best, after all, you can expect anything from a mentally damaged person. Although, I even felt sorry for him: after all, he, albeit indirectly, helped me earn a good sum in less than a week. Before these Games, none of my bets had won.

At first glance, he was an ordinary boy, maybe a little underfed, maybe a few years older than Felix. But if my nephew lived in the district, he would have participated in the Reaping next year already. Then I just sighed heavily, rubbing the back of my head. Well, what can you do: some people are just lucky to born in the Capitol, while others...

Something about the hunched, silent figure in the corner stirred something fatherly in me. Maybe I had softened up with the birth of Antonius. I sent Butz off for a smoke brake while I jogged to the main station building. I found a few pieces of bread in the staff room and an open jar of peanut butter on the shelves of the refrigerator. Luckily, Gall, a thirty-year-old bonehead, still had the eating habits of a five-year-old.

I made two sandwiches, fortunately there were plenty of clean plates with the emblem of the Panem Railroad Authority. The golden eagle was looking at me disapprovingly while I placed the simple snack on it and filled a glass with water from the tap.

The rain showed no sign of stopping, so the sandwiches reached the carriage slightly soaked. And the winner — what was his name? James? — sat in the same pose.

“Hey, kid,” I took a step closer and noticed that his hands were cuffed — what a wild thing to do; although, on the other hand, the police wouldn't have cuffed him without a reason. “Don't worry, we'll load the last couple of boxes now, and you'll be on your way home in peace. Sounds good, huh, buddy?”

He hadn't moved anyway, and now he seemed to have stopped breathing altogether. I swallowed nervously.

“Well, that's it,” I don't even know why I tried to cheer him up at all. But this silence in response began to really irritate me.

The porcelain plate hit the floor with a loud thud. I left a glass next to it. But he didn't move any closer, so I decided that if he wanted to, he could reach it himself.

But the boy continued to stare at his own arms, bandaged to the elbows. What a rude fellow, he won't even say thank you, no? And we are here trying to treat them like human beings, huh.

I snorted, but left the boy alone and left the carriage. The remaining boxes wouldn't make it to the right trains on their own.

I gave the signal to leave only with the first rays of the rising sun breaking through the rain clouds.

The next two days passed in the usual way. But on the third night I was again abruptly awakened — this time by an insistent knock on the door.

I spent the rest of the night in the interrogation room. They accused me of some terrible things, Captain Henstrom even reminded me of the oaths of loyalty to Panem and the Capitol I had given when I joined the service, asked strange questions — why would I want to betray my homeland? — and threatened an internal investigation that would undoubtedly reflect — and not in the best way — the future of my entire family. I was lost and confused. I had no idea what the senior officer was talking about, and that's what I told him.

It's hard to tell from the predatory squint of Henstrom's eyes whether he'll believe me then or not.

After an unimaginable number of tense hours, the captain sighed heavily and lit a cigarette.

“Anyway, it doesn't really matter whether it was done intentionally or not,” he loudly slammed the folder with my personal file. “The fact remains — the guy was lost. And there still isn't an adequate answer from the Two. Someone must be held responsible for this.”

The only thing left unsaid is how many years I will have to bear it.

I am not allowed to call or write to my family, they escort me right to the door of the carriage — the train with the tesserae is my ride for today. All my luggage is a hastily put on, wrinkled and unwashed uniform, and a folder thrust into my hands with my own documents and a report from the 12, which has long since become a pain in the ass.

The train begins to slow. I fold the letter I started for Marcia—I'll have to figure out how to get it to the Capitol as quickly as possible. She must have lost me by now.

There is no one to meet me at the station; I see only idle privates who reluctantly begin to walk toward the freight cars. I ask them where I can find the duty officer, they wave me off — what impudence! — and send me somewhere inside a scary building that has clearly never even heard the word "renovation". And this is the main station? Is there one here at all?

Inside, sprawled on a wooden bench, I find a sleepy sergeant who is apparently amused by my disheveled appearance.

“Blimey! Here comes our new inspector, straight from the center, eh?” He doesn't even bother to stand up and salute.

What kind of savages serve in the districts?! Is this how you address a senior offi— Oh, yes, right upon arriving at police headquarters, the first thing Captain Henstrom did was tear off my shoulder straps. It'll be hard to get used to the lack of weight on my shoulders.

Instead, I introduce myself formally and ask to be escorted to the scene of the incident — it would be better to see everything with my own eyes.

Sergeant Vogel — that's how he introduces himself — slowly escorts me to the uncoupled and abandoned carriage at the very end of the depot.

"As soon as we realized that this case was starting to stink a well, we dropped everything. Well, I mean, we had to take out the other box, but we left the first one in place. So as not to, so to speak, spoil the evidence and stuff. Cap Bell ordered us to wait for a geezer from the Capitol itself to arrive and solve this out." He has a strange accent to begin with, and he even mangles his words towards the end, as if he was barely holding back from spitting not just at my feet, but right in my face.

You know, I'm not thrilled to be here either.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you at that,” he jingles the key, opening the carriage door, and turns towards the station. “Make yourself at home, little birdie.”

The contrast between the dry stuffiness and the freezing dampness inside the carriage makes me get goosebumps.

Inside, an open box lies alone. The lid with a dried, crooked and beaten by the rain number 12 is thrown aside. At first glance, it seems empty, but I step closer: inside I find a roll of bloody bandages and a puddle of dried blood, in which two crumpled capsules have frozen quietly, the indicator on which steadily glows red, indicating their own malfunction.

In addition, in the far corner of the box I notice a familiar symbol.

A golden eagle of Panem looks at me with disapproval from a plate broken into three pieces bloodstained at the edges.