Archive of Our Own

A week before the Reaping of the 49th Hunger Games, Jordan found himself unable to face his parents. The constant pressure to be a Career, the insistence that he volunteer and win the Games, the tight little frown they gave him whenever any of those things were brought up that insinuated that they were prepared to watch him fail… it all weighed on his shoulders, dark and heavy, cloaked with the knowledge that District 1 would never fully support him in the Games. So instead, Jordan turned one street too early, sprinted across the road, and knocked on a familiar door. It was unsettlingly clean, perfectly-crafted, and shouted the family’s money for all to see. And yet it was Jordan’s second home.

“Jordan?” questioned the boy - just fourteen, a year older than Jordan - standing in the doorway. Tucker Boner, a Career Tribute and the pride of District 1, looked him up and down, taking in his slightly roughed appearance, glancing into his pained brown eyes, and stepped aside. “Come in.” They were unlikely friends. They’d met because they were both Careers and hated each other from the first moment they breathed air in the same room as the other. Everybody knew that Jordan hadn’t been born in District 1. It made him an easy target. Bruises Tucker had given him in the first month had since faded, but Jordan remembered where they had all been. It was only after Jordan fought back and won that they grew into a less hateful relationship, though their real friendship only blossomed after The Thing That Never Happened.

They both knew it happened, of course. Nobody else did. Nobody else really cared. All they knew was that from that day on, Jordan and Tucker were begrudging friends. And then friends. And then best friends. And that little Jordan Maron, the Career in Tucker’s shadow, spent more time in Tucker’s house than his own.

A shoulder to cry on, a mouth spilling truth about the reality of home. A sharp inhale, murmured apologies and comforts, a tight hug. A promise to never speak about it again. Two boys, bound by rebellious thoughts and treasonous plans never to be acted on. A fluke, that was all it had been. Where would Jordan be now if Tucker hadn’t broken down and confided in him, that grey Tuesday afternoon? Would he still be a Career if he hadn’t had Tucker to help him?

“I’m sorry,” Jordan muttered, letting Tucker close the door behind him. “Can I stay here tonight?” He could hear someone working in the kitchen but knew that Tucker’s parents wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t the first time.

Tucker gave him a quick nod. “‘Course,” he answered. Eyes behind glasses glanced over Jordan again, this time with an uneasy expression. For a moment Jordan was unsettled - he knew that feeling, the expression of masked mourning and attitude of wanting to keep distant, the idea that Jordan was a dead man walking, the opinion that he was living on borrowed time - because he hadn’t received that look from Tucker in years. But he supposed it was only natural, seeing as it was the week of the Reapings. Tucker might have been his friend… but he knew as well as Jordan did that if Jordan went into the arena, he (probably) wouldn’t come out.

They climbed the stairs silently and turned into Tucker’s room. “Is it the Games?” Tucker asked softly. What a stupid question. Of course, it was the Games. But Jordan dignified the question with an affirmative nod anyway. “Are you going to do something stupid, Maron?”

The question hung in the air for a few moments before Jordan replied, “What counts as something stupid?”

“Volunteering,” Tucker said simply. “If my name gets drawn, I don’t want you stealing my thunder.” It was spoken with a smile and a teasing lilt, both of them aware of just how thin the ice was for Careers, knowing that Tucker’s parents could be listening. But Jordan could hear the hidden meaning. Tucker wanted to save him from the Games.

Jordan swallowed. “I won’t volunteer,” he promised. “You can count on me to watch the Games on Twitch every single day. I’ll be cheering you on from home, Tucker.”

Tucker flashed him a sad smile. “I’ll win for both of us,” he claimed, but there was an odd sort of twinge in his voice. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “I expect you to help me get sponsors.”

“Of course.” There was a dark spot in Jordan’s mind that knew that this was all fantasy, that there were so many things that could go wrong. But it was nice to act as if Tucker being Reaped and winning was a given. Jordan pitched his voice higher and drawled out in the annoying Capitol accent, “May the odds be ever in your favour, Tucker Boner.”

Tucker laughed. “God, I can’t wait until I get to pick an arena name. Goodbye, ‘Boner’, hello Jericho!” Tucker grinned. “Do you like it?”

“It’s snappy,” Jordan commented. “Functional, unique… yeah, I’d watch someone named Jericho.” He leaned back against Tucker’s pillows. “How long have you been thinking about it?”

“Few years, but I didn’t want it to get stolen, you know,” Tucker pointed out. “You’re lucky I’m telling you it now.”

“I can keep a secret,” Jordan replied, and he knew the pause that followed was because both of them were remembering their old plans for revolution. “My lips are sealed,” he put his tight, fake smile back on, “Jericho.”

Tucker hit him playfully. “Stop that!” He laughed. There was a long pause before Tucker said, “You can sleep in your usual room. Karl is over at Mianite’s place, as always.” Karl was Tucker’s elder brother, now too old for the Reapings. Jordan didn’t see much of him.

“Alright,” Jordan replied. He hesitated. “If my name gets drawn…”

Without missing a beat, Tucker finished, “I’ll volunteer.”

Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. “Just wanted to- y’know. Nerves, and all that.” His hands were still quivering, but he was reassured by Tucker’s vehemence.

“Get some rest, Maron,” Tucker told him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. The Reapings are supposed to be exciting. At least pretend to be happy for me, eh?” A mask. That was what Tucker was wearing. Always a mask. They both knew that the Hunger Games were a hideous, tortured facsimile of a reality show. But especially in District 1, to say so was death. Even in good company.

“I can do that,” Jordan assured him. “Yeah. It’ll be fine. Thanks, Tucker.” Then he smiled, a hint of real contentment in the twist of his lips.

The day before the Reaping, Jordan stayed out late, with special permission from the man who ran the gym he trained at. The last few people cleared out and he gazed around at the equipment - the weapons, the punching bags, the targets, the treadmills - and instantly his eyes landed on it. His weapon. The one he never handled in front of anybody else, the one that nobody else in the district ever touched except to clean it.

Jordan’s hand closed around the trident and he weighed it in his hands, feeling the smooth metal and rough grip, the three prongs that sharpened into deadly points. The Careers were supposed to train with every sort of weapon, but this one was always abandoned and ignored. This was an icon of District 4. No self-respecting District 1 citizen would ever fight with another district’s symbol.

But then again, Jordan had never been a proper District 1 citizen, nor would he ever be. The saltwater of District 4 flowed too freely in his veins for that. He hadn’t seen the ocean in years, but the memories flooded back whenever he bid them, and sometimes when he didn’t. It was for that reason that most District 1 citizens avoided him like the plague. No matter what he did, he would always be District 4 masquerading as District 1 to them.

Jordan shifted his grip on the trident and turned around, fixing his gaze on one of the sandbags hanging from the ceiling. He hoisted the trident over his shoulder, balancing it perfectly in his grip, and threw it seamlessly at the bag. It made a satisfying sound as it rushed through the air and connected with the rope holding the sandbag, cleanly severing it and landing a few feet away on the ground. The bag hit the ground with a dull thump.

He went to retrieve the trident, hating how fantastic he was with it. If he ever went to the Capitol and fought in the Games, he could easily slay something ( someone ) with it. Maybe even win. But District 1 would hate him properly, then. A District 1 Victor with a trident in his hands and the face of a District 4 tribute. Not exactly the most prized Victor District 1 would ever have.

Jordan moved onto other weapons, retrying them all, and the only ones that even came close to equalling the trident were the spear and bow. The spear was less so, it didn’t fly the same way and was more awkward due to it being longer. The bow fitted nicely into his hand and every single shot was a bullseye. The bow was the weapon he used in front of others, and he excelled with it… but compared to the trident, it just wasn’t right.

Jordan sighed. He’d stayed at the gym in the hopes of relaxing himself. Instead, he’d just made himself more anxious with thoughts of District 4. If he’d never left District 4, things would have been easier. He would have still been a Career, he would never have been picked on, he would be the pride of his district… he would be Tucker.

He wanted to scream. Playing in the Hunger Games wasn’t right, by any means, but it was the only thing that mattered in Panem. Winning the Hunger Games was the only way for a district citizen to be seen. He wanted to be seen, he wanted to matter… Jordan didn’t want to just be a photo in a couple of yearbooks forced into a soul-draining job. He didn’t want to be a stroked-through name on a piece of paper, a whisper and a ghost. And the only way to rise above those things… was to win the Hunger Games.

But am I willing to kill for this?

Jordan stood with the other thirteen-year-olds, stifling a yawn with his sleeve. He caught Tucker’s eye, trying to hide his shaking hands and panicked gaze, and mouthed ‘Jericho’.

Tucker noticed and grinned. Jordan suspected that he was going to attempt to say something back, but the presenter of the Reaping was already reaching into the huge glass bowl of names and his attention was torn away by the speaker’s voice.

“Let’s see who it is, shall we?”

Sweat trickled down Jordan’s brow. Saltwater. The trident, Tucker’s hatred… how many secrets did Jordan have to keep?

“...Jordan Maron!”

Jordan couldn’t breathe. It had always been a possibility, one he’d thought about before, many times, but to hear his name in that distorted Capitol accent, read out over a loudspeaker...

Jordan tried to swallow the lump in his throat and forced himself to move. All he had to do was make it to the stage, then Tucker would volunteer and everything would fix itself. Somebody shoved him from behind and asked him if he’d forgotten his land legs at home. He stumbled forward and shuffled through the crowd, trying not to look at anybody. He dreamed of grandeur but hated every second that the district’s attention was on him.

“Now,” the presenter started, and Jordan knew this was it, “would anybody like to volunteer to take Jordan’s place?”

Jordan found Tucker again, watching him like a hawk. Tucker stepped forward, opened his mouth, and started to raise his hand. It was four words - all he had to say was four words, and then District 1’s pride and joy would be on his way to victory and Jordan could rest another year.

And then Tony Modestep, another fourteen-year-old who resented Tucker and detested Jordan, moved over and viciously elbowed Tucker in the stomach, knocking the air out of Tucker’s lungs and shattering everything Tucker and Jordan had planned for into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

This time, it was Jordan that was crying. Saltwater again, pouring down his face like waterfalls. He couldn’t escape it. District 4, the Games… he couldn’t escape. He reached up in a futile attempt to stem the flow, using his sleeve to dab at his tears, intent on somehow getting his emotions back under control before visitors arrived.

“Jordan?”

He looked up when he heard his name, seeing Tucker standing at the door, flanked by Peacekeepers. Jordan opened his mouth to speak but didn’t have time to say anything before Tucker crossed the room and slapped him in the face.

“Pull yourself together, Maron!” Tucker snapped. “You’re representing District 1. You’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime here. You are a capable, strong tribute and I genuinely think you can win.” Tucker grabbed Jordan’s hands in his and squeezed them. “Chin up, bro. You’ll do fantastic. Half of the Games is playing the cameras, and I know you’ll be great at that. You’re a Career with a sob story you can make dramatic for the audience… who cares if District 1 won’t support you? The Capitol will.”

“I… you think so?” Jordan stammered, stunned. Tucker had never expressed such faith in him before. It had always been a bit of a competition between them, with Tucker always turning out on top.

“I know so,” Tucker answered. He hesitated and pulled back. “Jordan… you do know that if you had been born in District 1, you would be the top Career, right?”

“I’d be- what?” Jordan blinked slowly.

Tucker snorted. “Are you kidding me? I hated you when we met because I was jealous, Maron. Can you imagine how the other Careers and I felt when you showed up? Some kid out of 4 coming in and making us all feel like we were completely incapable. The only reason you’re not acknowledged as such is because nobody wants somebody that resembles District 4 in every way to represent District 1!” he exclaimed, with a glance over his shoulder at the Peacekeepers. “This is your chance, man. Make District 1 proud. Prove yourself.”

“In a fight to the death? Against other children?” Jordan questioned, his voice a harsh whisper. “Tucker… I can’t- I know it’s what I’m supposed to do, but…”

Tucker sighed. “I know, I know. But what other option is there? You’re being shipped out to the Capitol today. Either you win… or I never see you again. You know what I want, don’t you?” Before Jordan could reply, Tucker started to sift around in his pockets. “I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you for your birthday, but… no sense waiting, I guess.” He fished a small round object out of his jacket and held it out. “It’s a pearl, ordered specially from District 4, but… Sonja painted it for you.”

Sonja. Their mutual friend, a young girl that they attended school with. She wasn’t a Career, just a fellow student that they happened to connect with. Jordan hadn’t seen her since catching a brief flash of red hair in the crowd at the Reaping earlier that day.

It felt like years ago.

Jordan took the pearl, studying the swirls of blue and green and purple on its surface. “It’s gorgeous,” he breathed. He felt like he was holding a galaxy in the palm of his hand. “You want me to take this… as my token? It’s a little too… I mean, with what you just said about District 1 and everything, don’t you think it’s a bit…”

Tucker placed his hand on Jordan’s and forced him to close his fingers into a fist around the pearl. “They don’t have to know that it’s a pearl,” Tucker said with a grin. “That’s why it’s perfect. A reminder of me and Sonja, your friends and supporters back in District 1, and your… your home.”

“Thank you,” Jordan murmured. “I… I still need an arena name, and I’ll have to do-”

“You have an arena name,” Tucker scoffed. “Remember what the guys always call you?”

“Captain… Sparklez? The nickname that I hate because everyone uses it to make fun of me?” Jordan questioned, cocking an eyebrow. “Why would I make that my arena name?”

Tucker shrugged. “Revenge?” he suggested. “Claiming it as your arena name and then winning with it is a pretty big middle finger to everybody that teased you.”

Jordan hummed. “I guess.” Jordan paused. “Are my parents…”

“I’m sorry.” Tucker shook his head. “I don’t think they’re coming.”

“Okay,” Jordan said, trying to mask his hurt. “Give… give Sonja my best.”

Tucker nodded. “Good luck, Jordan.” After a moment’s hesitance, he added, “Try not to die, okay? That would… really suck.” Understanding passed between them. They knew more about the delicacies of the Games than any other tributes because they were from District 1. Grin and bear it, and pretend that the world wasn’t cruel and cold.

Despite himself, Jordan snorted a small laugh. “Descriptive as always.”

“Shut up, Jordan Moron.”

Jordan met his mentor on the train. Adam Dahlberg, known to most as SkyDoesEverything. They mostly just ate and talked, not yet venturing onto the topic of the Games. Adam didn’t seem mean, or fiery, or any of the things that Jordan had worried he might be. He just seemed… tired.

“Arena name ideas?” Adam asked, stabbing a few breakfast sausages with his fork. “Got anything? Doesn’t have to be good.”

Jordan looked down at his plate, pretending to be occupied with his rice. “CaptainSparklez,” he muttered under his breath, slightly embarrassed that he was even considering it.

“What was that?” Adam inquired, moving onto a soup. Jordan had no idea how he could eat so much. All the Capitol food seemed so rich and filling to him compared to what they got in the districts. He’d thought that District 1 food was good, but this… this, Jordan could get used to. If it didn’t make him sick first.

“CaptainSparklez,” Jordan repeated, more confidently. “It was my nickname in District 1. The kids used it to make fun of me.” He trusted Adam, at least somewhat more than the other adults he knew.

“So you want to throw it back in their faces? That’s valid,” Adam commented. “It’s a bit silly, but unique and memorable. We can work with it if you want to.”

Jordan dug into another piece of bread, filling his mouth so that he had an excuse not to reply right away. Did he want to be known as something so… well, silly, as Adam had put it? He could back out, suggest something else. Jordan hummed and swallowed. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Wonderful.” Adam pushed his chair back, looking down at his cleared plate. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

The food suddenly threatened to make a reappearance. “No, please,” Jordan pleaded, “not yet. Not here. Just… just call me Jordan.” CaptainSparklez was for the Games. CaptainSparklez was for the camera. He couldn’t stand hearing it used by his mentor, a man he was trusting with his life, in private.

Adam regarded him with pity and a flash of incredible empathy shot through Adam’s gaze. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I should have- I didn’t like my mentor calling me Sky either. Sorry, Jordan.” Adam paused. “You’ll meet your stylist and prep team when we get to the Capitol. They’ll prepare you for the parade. Your stylist is a newbie, first year being a stylist and not a prep guy, so go easy on him, I guess. I’ve seen him around, he might’ve been on my prep team at one point. Don’t remember.” Jordan could hear the lie as clear as day. Adam remembered - of course he did. How could everything about the Games not be burned into his memory?

“Okay,” Jordan muttered. “Thanks, Adam.”

“Y’know what? First rule of being my tribute. Don’t thank me for anything. I’m just doing my job - I’ll thank you if you win, kid, for making my years of mentoring worth it,” Adam ordered, gesturing at Jordan with his fork.

Jordan didn’t know what to say.

The first thing Jordan thought when he met his stylist was do you care? He looked to be just a few years older than Jordan, his skin an unnatural green and his eyes darkened by contacts. Do you care about the children you dress up to die? Jordan stared at him, not quite a glare but not an unbarbed look, either. Is it just a game to you? Or do you understand but have to pretend, like me?

“Hi,” his stylist started, grinning and fiddling with his suit. “I’m Tom.” He gestured to the plush couch that they were standing in front of. “Please, please, take a seat. Jordan, right?” Tom sat down and regarded him curiously.

Jordan considered standing out of spite, but he was too tired to go through with it. “CaptainSparklez,” he corrected. Capitol citizens didn’t get to use his name. It sounded too wrong. Maybe if Tom earned his trust… but not yet.

“Well then, Sparklez,” Tom said, smiling again. Jordan wanted to smack the grin off of his face and scream. “What do you say we get to know each other?”

Jordan recoiled. “What?” he asked.

“I can’t give you a brand until I know who you are,” Tom explained. “It’s just us. Nobody is spying on us, I promise.”

Jordan looked around anyway. It was a habit from District 1 - always making sure that there was nobody to hear you say the wrong things. “There could be cameras. Why should I trust you?” Jordan tried to spit, but it came out as more… resigned. He really was tired. Had the Reapings only been that morning?

“Because if you win, I get a better job?” Tom offered, a hint of humour in his tone.

“What could be better than the Hunger Games, for you?” Jordan shot back. “What could be greater than the biggest event of the year, where you cheer and bid and watch while we die?” He clenched his hands into fists.

Tom’s smile faltered. “That’s… that’s exactly why I want out,” he murmured. “I’m too young for this. It should be an honour, being assigned to the Hunger Games and District 1, no less, right out of the gate… but you could have been my classmate.”

They sat in silence for a few long, tense moments. Jordan folded his arms over his chest.

“Anyway, your outfit for the parade.” Tom clapped his hands together, cheerful demeanour returning. “We want it to fit your arena name, but we can’t go too heavy on the captain aesthetic or we run the risk of making you look like District 4,” Jordan winced, “so I’m thinking just essence of the ‘Captain’ and more of an emphasis on the ‘Sparklez’.”

“Can you just put me in something simple?” Jordan pleaded, though he knew it was futile. He’d never seen an outfit that could be classified as ‘ordinary’ in the parade.

Tom tapped his chin with a finger. “Yeah… no, sorry, Sparkly,” he said. “I had some concepts kicking around before you arrived - sketches that I made while watching the Reapings, stuff I made before, y’know - that we might be able to work with.” Tom smirked. “Tell me… how do you feel about red and gold?”

Ten minutes later, Jordan was trying to squeeze into a pair of annoying black pants that had seams in all the wrong places that Tom had thrown at him while Tom retrieved ‘the perfect thing’ from a room down the hall. Jordan was dreading seeing what a man who voluntarily dyed his skin green thought was fashionable. Along with the pants, Tom had tossed over a loose white shirt, which was so comfortable that it just made Jordan more anxious.

“Close your eyes, Sparklez!” Tom screeched from outside the door, making Jordan almost jump out of his skin and stumble to cover his face with his hands. “Trust me, you’re going to look great, just let me do the work.” Jordan heard the sound of the door opening and Tom shuffling inside.

“I don’t like people touching me,” Jordan grumbled as Tom tried to tug his hands away from his face. Jordan kept his eyes closed.

“The less you fight, the less I’ll have to touch you, ‘kay?” Tom said apologetically. “Arms out!” If his stylist had been any older, any less willing to share hints of his true feelings against the Games, then Jordan would have been determined to struggle against him as much as he could. But Tom wasn’t, so Jordan just sighed and extended his arms to the sides.

Tom slipped both of his arms into something baggier than Jordan had been expecting, then jabbed Jordan in the face with something sharp and squeaked, “Sorry!” A few moments later, Tom stepped back. “There. You can look now.”

Jordan opened his eyes and found himself staring into a mirror. He shifted, watching waves of red fabric cascade over his sides and form a gorgeous crimson coat laced with gold. Resting atop his nose was a pair of red-framed sunglasses. Considering Jordan’s request for ‘simple’, this was the closest he thought he’d ever seen to ‘simple’ on a tribute.

“Your prep team still has to do your makeup and everything, of course, but what do you think?” Tom inquired, slinging one arm around Jordan’s shoulders and beaming proudly.

“I had my doubts about trusting my appearance to a man with green skin,” Jordan said, “but you’ve done a better job on me than you did on yourself.”

Tom threw his head back and let out the most genuine laugh Jordan had ever heard from someone in his entire life.

“Is this a bad time to say that I hate makeup?” Jordan grumbled as Tom continued to poke his face with some sort of brush-pen-stick-thing. The rest of his prep team was hovering by, but Tom seemed to sense that Jordan was a little more comfortable with Tom than the rest of them. Jordan hadn’t even bothered to learn their names.

“Yes,” Tom replied tersely, biting his lip in concentration. “I’m going to do your eyes now, so you’d better not move or else I’ll have an excuse to poke you in the eye.”

“Are all Capitol kids this demanding?” Jordan jibed, trying to sound lighthearted as Tom stepped away to retrieve another set of things.

“I’m demanding because I don’t want you to die,” Tom muttered. Jordan glanced around nervously, but apparently, that was an okay thing to say, because nobody reacted. “The most attractive tributes get the most sponsors. The tributes with the most sponsors have better odds. You get me, Sparklez?”

Tom had a point, but… “I still want to have some control over what you’re doing to my face,” Jordan said, reaching out to grab the little hand mirror sitting nearby.

Tom slapped his hand. “No! Not yet! Didn’t your mentor teach you anything? Don’t fight with the stylist! If I say it’s a secret, it’s a secret.” Tom frowned. “You’ll ruin the feng shui,” he whined.

Jordan surprised himself by giggling. “The what?” he stammered. “Somebody get me another stylist because this one’s crazy-”

“Shut up!” Tom hissed, but he was grinning. “It’s just- it’s a thing, alright, explaining it to you will ruin the…”

“...feng shui?” Jordan finished, cocking an eyebrow and smirking teasingly.

“Yes!” Tom exclaimed. “Now I’m really going to poke you in the eye if you don’t shut up, Sparklyboy, and if we’re late to the parade it’s going to be entirely your fault.”

“Fine, fine, alright, do your thing,” Jordan sighed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Tom leaned over him again, almost sitting in Jordan’s lap at that point, and Jordan realized that he didn’t mind. He’d never really liked people being near him unless they were particularly close and he’d told Tom as such when they’d met, but after just a few hours, this quirky Capitol boy had earned himself a place in Jordan’s personal space. Somewhere during the makeover process, Jordan had stopped fighting Tom’s natural touchiness and even started to… not dislike it. Even if Tom was a Capitol kid, even if he was dressing Jordan up for the arena… Tom was on his side. And this was Tom’s first year as a stylist, wasn’t it? Perhaps they were more alike than Jordan was giving Tom credit for.

“Done!” Tom declared, tapping Jordan’s wrists as an extra stimulant. “Is it illegal to say that if I saw you looking like this in public, I would immediately want to ask you out?” Tom beamed at him, and Jordan cracked a small smile back. His energy was contagious and Jordan had no idea how he had so much of it.

Jordan didn’t have a response, too preoccupied with trying to figure out whether the feeling of having his face caked in makeup was something he didn’t mind or something he detested. He reached up to touch it and Tom whacked his hand away.

“Don’t touch. You can touch the rest of your outfit, even your hair, but I don’t want this makeup getting messed up. I put a lot of work into it, Sparklez,” Tom told him.

Jordan coughed. “Jordan,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Tom’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“You can call me Jordan.” He glared around at the rest of the prep team. “They can’t, but you can.” Jordan’s gaze flickered back to Tom.

“Right.” Tom looked as if he wasn’t sure how to react to that. “Would you like to see, Jordan?” He paused. “What you look like, I mean.” Before Jordan could reply, Tom wheeled over the full-body mirror and offered him a hand to help him stand up.

“Don’t you think it’s a little… much?” Jordan questioned, resisting the urge to poke the glittery, golden makeup.

“Gotta overdo it so that the cameras pick it up,” Tom explained. “It’s the first rule of styling - do a little bit more than necessary.” Tom patted him on the shoulder. “You’re comfortable?”

“I’m going to look like a disco ball for weeks,” Jordan complained, but there was a note of humour in his voice.

“That’s the idea, Jordan! Make sure that you’re recognizable in the arena, of course,” Tom said.

“The other tributes will see me from miles away,” Jordan grumbled.

Tom smirked. “Then you’ll just have to show them how good you are, won’t you?” Tom slung his arm around Jordan’s neck. “You’ve got this. You’re handsome, strong, funny…”

“Funny?” Jordan repeated, quizzical. Nobody had ever called him funny before.

“Almost as funny as me.” Tom retrieved Jordan’s sunglasses from a side table and handed them to him. “Here’s your glasses, Cap. Now, you go to that parade and show everyone just what they’re up against this year. The other tributes will be quaking in their boots when they see CaptainSparklez!”

“Is that a good thing?” Jordan asked.

“Look, Jordan, if there’s any advice I can give you on the Games from my perspective, it’s that the more attention the cameras give you, the more favoured you are to win. Sure, at its base level the Games are about fighting the other tributes, but between traps and sponsors and arena layout… the more pressure you can put on the Gamemakers to keep the target off your back, the better shot you have,” Tom said quickly. “There are always the years that don’t confine to that, of course, but most of the time the pre-Games is just as important as the Games themselves. You get me, right?”

Jordan nodded. “Attract the cameras, attract the audience, and the Gamemakers won’t deliberately try to eliminate me?” he prompted.

“Who knows, they might even favour you. Give you a few advantages in the terrain, just sneakily enough that nobody can accuse them of favouritism. I know it might seem unlawful,” Tom pulled on a tight smile, “but considering what the Games are, I don’t think this is the time to debate morality.”

Jordan sighed. He hadn’t stopped being tense since his name was drawn at the Reaping. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I can do this.”

“That’s the spirit, Jordan!” Tom stepped away and regarded him with confidence. “Take it one step at a time. The parade, then you can rest. Don’t think about the Games, nor tomorrow. Just focus on the parade.”

“Thanks.” Jordan didn’t know what it said about him when he considered the fact that he liked his stylist more than his mentor. Adam was… odd. Just odd. Tom was odd but in a more spunky way. If they had lived in District 1 together, perhaps they would have been friends.

Adam stopped Jordan after breakfast, just before training. “Learn something new,” Adam advised, “and don’t touch tridents or bows, alright? Don’t want to reveal your tricks to the other tributes.” Jordan had spilt everything to Adam on the train and after the parade, including his birthplace. Adam needed that information to help Jordan survive, though Jordan didn’t like it. Jordan’s fingers closed around the pearl in his pocket.

Jordan nodded. “Should I get to know the other tributes? Try to make allies?” he questioned.

“If you happen to end up at the same stations as the other Careers, yes. Don’t interact with them if you can help it, though. We don’t want you to make enemies until the actual Games.” Adam paused. “Not that I don’t trust you to not make enemies, but…”

“I get it,” Jordan told him. “I’ll stay away from other tributes if I can.”

Adam clapped him on the shoulder. “Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Everybody’s watching,” he said confidently. Jordan opened his mouth to question Adam more, but Adam had already pushed him towards the elevator. “Go!”

Less than five minutes later, Jordan stepped into the Training Center. He rolled his shoulders back, trying to appear confident. Jordan made sure to stay out of the way of the other tributes as each of the stations was explained to them, though a young girl caught his eye as he was studying his competition (or allies, they could always be allies). She seemed to catch him looking and winked at him, startling him as he realized that her eyes were two strikingly different colours.

Trying to put the girl out of his mind, Jordan watched the other tributes disperse, and most of the Careers made their way over to the station with the most dangerous swords, though he hung back. Too many people. Instead, Jordan turned his gaze to the station focused on fire-starting. There didn’t seem to be anybody else interested in going there, so he set his jaw and made his way over. Jordan had started fires before but wasn’t particularly good at it.

Too late, Jordan heard the patter of footsteps behind him and realized that the girl he had noticed was following him. Alarm shot down his spine and he froze momentarily, before trying to act normal and continue paying attention to what the trainer had started telling him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the girl called, tossing her long hair over her shoulder and smiling, “but I’d like to train here as well.” Now that she was closer, Jordan could get a better look at her and attempt to figure out what district she was from. Her skin was tanned, indicating a district with outdoor work. She looked strong, adding onto the first point. She was confident, which meant she was probably from a richer district…

“And what’s your name, stranger?” the girl asked, yanking Jordan out of his thoughts and back into reality. The trainer must have finished with his explanation because he had turned away. “I’m Lady Ianite, from District 4.”

District 4. Jordan was so momentarily stunned that he forgot how to speak. “Er… CaptainSparklez, District 1.” He looked down at the flint and steel in front of him and picked them up, trying not to give anything important away. “How are you liking the Capitol?”

“Well, it’s very different, isn’t it?” Ianite said. “My stylist is nice, I suppose. His name is Spark. Very serious, though. I keep trying to make him laugh, but no luck.” She smiled. “You look strong, Captain. Ever thrown a trident?”

Jordan put the flint and steel down, trying to hide his shaking hands. “No,” he lied through gritted teeth. Don’t make enemies. Adam’s words flooded back to him. Jordan took a deep breath. “No, I haven’t.”

“You should try it sometime,” Ianite commented, striking the flint and setting the kindling in front of her aflame. “Might be- oh, look at that, it worked!”

“Mhm. Thanks for the advice. Ever almost starved to death in the middle of the wealthiest district in Panem?” Jordan shot back sourly, dropping the flint and steel again. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pretend that everything was fine.

“Um, no?” Ianite replied, sounding confused.

“You should try it sometime,” Jordan drawled. “Maybe then you’ll understand that this isn’t the time nor place for laughter.” He didn’t know why he was furious. All he knew was that as he stormed away towards the knot-tying station, the look Ianite sent after him made his heart ache.

Jordan looked up from where he was lying face-down on his too-comfortable, too-clean bed as he heard a succession of quick knocks on his door. Reluctant to escape his melancholy, but at least curious enough to see who was at his door before he turned them away, Jordan clambered off the bed and made his way to the door, not even bothering to fix his hair.

“Woah,” Tom said when he opened the door. “You look like shit.” Dark eyes flicked across Jordan’s face, then down to his torso and back up.

“Thanks,” Jordan replied dryly. “You’re still green.” With a yawn, Jordan slumped over to lean against the doorframe.

“Unfortunately,” Tom shot back. Then he frowned. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Jordan retorted, but he was tired and had no reason to be angry with Tom. That didn’t stop me from snapping at Ianite. Before Tom could continue the banter, Jordan retracted his statement with, “Yeah, fine. Make yourself at home. It’s too…” Clean. Empty. Lonely. Suffocating. Many words fit the bill, so Jordan simply avoided finishing the sentence.

In absence of words, Tom pushed past Jordan into the room. “Nice place you’ve got here. Love the feng shui.” He winked at Jordan and Jordan let out a loud groan.

“Are you supposed to be here?” Jordan asked pointedly, narrowing his blue eyes at Tom and sitting down on the edge of his bed.

Tom pulled a tight frown. “Er… nobody told me that I couldn’t be here,” he answered evenly. Tom joined him, sitting down heavily on the bed and making the mattress bounce. “How did training go?”

Jordan folded his arms over his chest. “I… well, not good,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. He sighed. “You don’t want to hear about it.”

“I do.” Tom looked at him thoughtfully. “Can I braid your hair while you tell me about it?” Tom placed a hand on his shoulder, reassuring and coaxing.

“It’s not long enough for that,” Jordan replied tentatively.

Tom lifted an eyebrow. “You underestimate my power, Sparklypants,” he teased. “Come on, it’ll help you relax. You trust me, right?”

Instead of answering, Jordan shifted so that Tom could reach the back of his head. “Don’t you need a brush or something?” He didn’t know much about braids, so he wasn’t sure, but he knew enough to make a guess.

“Be quiet and tell me about training,” Tom ordered. It took all of Jordan’s willpower not to flinch away when he felt the first tug at his hair. “You met up with your mentor before training, right? Anything useful?”

“Um…” Jordan was finding it hard to concentrate. He was in the Capitol, being prepared like a pig for slaughter, and he’d somehow made a friend. And said friend wanted to listen to him about menial things like the fact that he snapped at a tribute during training, and even wanted to braid his hair to try to help him feel better. Jordan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. “Yes. Yes, he, uh, told me not to make any enemies and that sort of thing,” Jordan said quickly. “And then I snapped at a tribute during training because I thought she was too happy. Or something.”

Tom hummed. “Were you jealous? Or just angry that she could be happy while training for the Hunger Games?” he asked.

“I think… the latter?” Jordan sighed. “I don’t know. I just- I just needed someone to be angry at, I guess. It didn’t make me feel better.” He cursed under his breath. “There’s also the fact that she’s from District 4…”

Tom’s hands momentarily stilled, then started working on Jordan’s hair again. “Why is that a factor?” Tom prompted.

“I’m from District 4. I moved to District 1 when I was young,” Jordan admitted quietly.

Tom inhaled sharply. “Ah.” He paused. “You should apologize to her. Your mentor is right, you shouldn’t make enemies before the Games start, especially as a Career.” Tom drew back quickly. “I should go. It’s late.”

“I… okay? Is it something I-” Jordan started before Tom cut him off.

“No.” Tom shook his head. “I just had an idea and need to execute it.” Tom hopped off the bed and quickly made his way towards the door. “Sorry, Jordan. If you need somebody to be angry at in the future, I’d let you yell at me.”

“I don’t want to yell at you,” Jordan grumbled.

“Then that’s your problem!” Tom called back, and in a flash, he was gone.

Jordan was quiet through breakfast, noting Tom’s unusual absence, and refused to tell Adam about what had happened with Ianite. He could fix it. She wasn’t the Capitol. She wasn’t the one who had drawn his name at the Reaping, nor the one who had stopped Tucker from volunteering to take his place. She was just another tribute, another child forced into this terrible game. She didn’t deserve to have his anger thrown at her. There was no need for Adam to scold him about something he intended to repair.

He found her at the knives station, brown hair tucked into a ponytail, throwing knives at a target with her lip caught between her teeth. Ianite did not look at him as he approached, even when he waved away a trainer that offered to help him.

“M’lady,” Jordan greeted, remembering her arena name and deciding to play off of it. She had called him Captain, after all.

“Captain,” Ianite replied evenly. Her expression was tight and serious. “Have something to say, or just here to throw knives?”

“I want to apologize,” Jordan said quickly before nerves could get the better of him. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you - you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath.

Ianite glared at him for a moment, before her expression softened. “Apology accepted,” she responded. “I know this must be hard for… everybody. Have you spoken to any of the other tributes yet?”

Jordan shook his head. “Have you?” he asked.

“Yeah. The District 2 boy is very charismatic - he’ll definitely get some sponsors. I like him well enough, but he seems to be one of those classic Careers that is numb to the Hunger Games.” Ianite glanced around as if she were paranoid about someone overhearing. “The District 3 tribute is named Gaines. He’s kind of quiet and I haven’t seen him without the District 6 tribute this entire time. I spoke to them both yesterday. They’re… well, a bit boring. That’s everybody I’ve spoken to.”

Jordan hummed and picked up a knife. “Thanks- thanks for telling me,” he murmured. “Have you made any allies?”

“Is that an offer, Captain?” Ianite replied with a small smile.

Jordan paused. “It could be,” he said.

“If it is, consider it accepted. I’m glad there’s somebody else here that is full of rage about the Games.” Ianite threw the knife in her hand and it wedged itself directly in the middle of the target.

“I’m not full of rage about the Games,” Jordan protested weakly.

“Yes, you are,” Ianite shot back. “You were angry with me because you didn’t think I was taking it seriously enough. You don’t want to be here, but because you have to be here, you intend to treat it as what it actually is, not as some sort of sporting event. Accurate or inaccurate?”

Stunned by her observations, Jordan stammered, “Accurate.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t seem like you’re full of rage.”

Ianite laughed. “That’s my strategy, Captain.” She winked. “Don’t tell a soul.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I-if you want to know, my friend was supposed to volunteer for me if my name got drawn.” Jordan’s voice was quiet, the thwacks of knives against the board drowning it out from anybody that could have been trying to listen in.

“And they didn’t? Oh, that’s upsetting-” Ianite started.

“No, somebody else hit him and he couldn’t volunteer in time.” Jordan’s grip around the knife in his hand tightened until his knuckles were white. “I’m full of rage at him, mostly.”

“Pretend the target is his face.” Ianite shrugged and threw another knife. “It helps.”

“Does it?” Jordan questioned offhandedly.

“You need to get used to throwing knives at people,” Ianite commented instead of answering, her expression stony.

Jordan suddenly felt sick. “I think I’m going to go somewhere else,” he murmured, glancing around at the other stations. Shelter-making sounded good. Shelter-making didn’t involve killing people.

Ianite shot him a sympathetic look. “Sorry,” she apologized. “Sometimes I don’t think before I say things.”

“I suppose we have that in common,” Jordan replied, taking a step back from the knife station. “I’ll- I’ll talk to you later, m’lady.”

Ianite gave him a small wave as he backed away, then turned towards the shelter-making station and darted towards it. Breathing catching in his throat, he welcomed the distraction of a trainer walking over to speak with him, but he couldn’t shake the image that Ianite’s words had prompted. When he was forced to choose between killing and being killed, would it be that easy? Just as easy as heaving a trident into a sandbag or firing an arrow at a target?

With startling certainty, Jordan knew that it would be that easy. And it scared him.

Being from District 1, Jordan’s private session with the Gamemakers was the first. His hands were shaking and advice from Adam only made them shake more, after which he resorted to plunging his hands into his pockets and trying to appear as small as possible. However, just before he could reach out and step into the room with the Gamemakers, Tom bowled into his side and scooped him up into a large hug, murmuring words of encouragement, which brought a small, genuine smile to Jordan’s face. Feeling reassured, Jordan let Tom shove him through the doors and turned to face the Gamemakers.

Jordan’s mood dropped at once. They were all staring at him expectantly, and the weight of being a Career from District 1 came crashing down on Jordan’s shoulders. Jordan stiffly crossed to the rack of weapons and selected a sturdy-looking trident, taking it down and weighing it in his hands. Overly conscious of the Gamemakers’ eyes on him, Jordan attempted to quickly get used to the new balance of the trident and set his gaze on a propped-up dummy near the centre of the room. Fluidly, in a well-known motion, Jordan drew his arm back and hurtled the trident at the dummy, spearing it directly through the heart.

Feeling more confident, Jordan next grabbed a bow and a sheath of arrows which he slung over his back, and sprinted by the archery targets towards the dummy, landing three bullseyes as he went. Jordan intended to simply discard the bow wherever it landed, but when he tossed it, it happened to land neatly on one of the bars suspended from the ceiling, making him seem much better than he was. Jordan heaved the trident out of the dummy’s chest, his heart racing, and instantly spun around to send it flying directly into a sandbag hanging by a thin rope, the force of his throw snapping the rope as well and causing the sandbag and trident to crash into the opposite wall.

Chest heaving, Jordan turned back to look at the Gamemakers. Jordan and the people who would soon attempt to orchestrate his death stared at each other for a few long moments, before one of the Gamemakers said, “You’re dismissed.”

With a curt nod, Jordan replied, “Thank you,” and then left the room.

Outside, as soon as Jordan crossed the threshold back into the rest of the building, Tom slung his arm though Jordan’s and dragged him away into a side corridor that Jordan had never been in before.

“How’d it go?” Tom demanded, blinking dark eyes at Jordan. “Did you astound the Gamemakers as much as I was sure you would?”

“Uh- maybe? I just threw around a trident and shot some arrows, I couldn’t really tell what they thought,” Jordan admitted. “Where are we going?” he asked, noticing that Tom was still pulling him along with no intention of stopping.

“It’s a surprise! The surprise I mentioned when I had to run off that one time!” Tom exclaimed, grinning. “Just trust me, Jordy!”

“You’re always running off,” Jordan replied dryly, “and don’t call me Jordy.” He was almost surprised at Tom’s ability to pull him around, even though Jordan wasn’t fighting him.

“Alright, Sparklypants!” Tom chirped, dragging Jordan towards an elevator. “Close your eyes!” When Jordan didn’t close his eyes right away, Tom used his free hand to smack the side of Jordan’s head. “It’s a surprise, close your eyes, Jordan.”

“Fine, fine,” Jordan sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. “This surprise had better be good, Zombie Boy.”

“Zombie Boy? I look nothing like a zombie! Shut up!” Tom objected, but Jordan could hear him starting to laugh. “What kind of zombies are green? Minecraft ones, maybe?”

Jordan’s brow furrowed. “What’s a Minecraft?” he asked, and Tom instantly fell silent.

“You’ve never played Minecraft?” Tom said. “God damn. After you win this thing, we’re definitely playing Minecraft together. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“Is it a video game?” Jordan questioned. “We don’t have video games in 1.”

“Really?” Tom paused. “Huh, I knew 8 didn’t have video games, but I thought-” Tom cut himself off. “Nevermind. I’ll teach you how to play. It’s pretty easy.”

“District 8?” Jordan repeated, confused.

“I didn’t say District 8. Ignore that. It doesn’t matter.” Jordan heard a quiet ding. “We’re here!” Tom declared, and yanked Jordan forward again. Jordan stumbled, almost falling, but Tom’s grip on his arm kept him upright. “Open your eyes, Jordan!”

Jordan blinked a few times, trying to take in the bright lights, blue sky, and rapid wind rushing around him. “This is… the roof,” Jordan identified, glancing around at planters that dotted the edge. “Am I allowed to be up here?”

“Yep!” Tom affirmed. “There’s a forcefield around the edge so you can’t jump off or anything. Nobody really knows it exists, though, except for the Capitol citizens.” Tom grinned. “Like me.” He paused, releasing Jordan’s arm and sifting through the bag slung over his shoulder. “Now, this bit is slightly against the rules, so just keep quiet about it, alright?” And from the bag, Tom drew out two clear-wrapped sandwiches. “I hope you like cheese and ham.”

Jordan stared down at the sandwich Tom was offering him. Tom was breaking the rules, just so that they could eat lunch together on the roof. He took it, slightly dumbfounded. “Can we sit on the edge?” he asked. “I’ve never seen the Capitol from this high up before.”

Tom smiled at him and caught Jordan’s wrist between his fingers to tug him towards the edge. “Of course! Anything for you, Jordan. You’ve only got a few days until the Games, after all. When you get back is when I’ll start to torture you.”

Jordan groaned. “Don’t remind me,” he muttered, letting Tom sit down first. Even with a forcefield, it took Jordan a few moments to work up the courage to swing his legs over the edge. “It’s…” He sighed, letting the wind fill the silence. “I don’t want to go, Tom.”

Tom unwrapped his sandwich and looked over at Jordan. “There’s nothing we can do about that,” he said sadly. “All you can do is win.”

They ate in silence for a few long moments, looking out over the city. Interview night was in a couple of days, and then… the Hunger Games, looming like a hungry shadow over him. Kill or be killed. Fight or die. Jordan wanted to weep, to beg some higher power to rescue him from this fate. But instead, he just stared, stone-faced, at the Capitol citizens milling around like ants on the streets below, hoping that his mask wouldn’t shatter before it was time.

Then, as if he could sense Jordan’s emotions, Tom scooched closer and put his arm around Jordan, coaxing Jordan’s head onto his shoulder, and Jordan broke. Saltwater burned behind his eyes and then trickled down his cheeks in a river of desperation and hopelessness. Tom didn’t say a word and neither did Jordan, but they didn’t have to - understanding and comfort passed between them, and Jordan was suddenly, viciously, sent back to an earlier time, with a different friend, different tears and a different mask… and then it was gone, and Jordan curled closer to Tom’s chest and hugged him tightly, his breath shaky and his heartbeat wild. Had they only known each other for a week, maybe less? It felt like an eternity.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tom asked quietly, squeezing Jordan’s shoulder.

“No,” Jordan muttered, burying his face in Tom’s jacket.

“Okay,” Tom replied, falling silent and letting the wind replace their conversation.

Jordan clutched Tom like a lifeline and let the tears continue to flow.

Interview night came and went faster than Jordan had expected, speeding by in a flurry of advice and costumes and lessons and Tom’s terrible jokes. Smile, look at the camera, say a rehearsed line with as much sincerity as he could muster, smile, hold his head up, pretend that the audience isn’t excited to watch the slaughter of children. Easy- no, not easy. It sounded easy. In practice, it was exhausting.

And then, far before Jordan was ready for it, the Hunger Games arrived.

Tom’s hands were shaking as he ran a comb through Jordan’s hair. Jordan squeezed his eyes shut, hearing the hitches in Tom’s voice that indicated he was holding back tears. His fingers closed around the pearl tucked into his pocket, a reminder of what he was supposed to be fighting for. And then in the other pocket, a pin passed onto him by Adam. Jordan was dressed in a black shirt with long sleeves and pants with far more pockets than Jordan thought were allowed, but since the Peacekeepers at the door weren’t objecting, he figured that it was alright.

“Here,” Jordan blurted when Tom was finished, drawing the pearl out of his pocket. “I want you to take this.”

“Your token?” Tom pushed Jordan’s hand back and shook his head. “I can’t. You have to bring it into the arena, Jordan-”

“I have… something else,” Jordan replied vaguely, shoving the pearl into the centre of Tom’s chest. “I want you to take it and keep it safe during the Games. Just because I can’t have two tokens.” And because if I die, I want you to have something proper to remember me by. “Give it back to me afterwards, alright? And it better not be damaged.” Jordan forced a smile onto his face.

Tom met Jordan’s eyes and took the pearl. “You’ll have it for the recap after the Games,” Tom promised. It was so easy to just pretend that Jordan’s victory was assured. They both knew very well that this could be the last time they saw each other.

Jordan and Tom were accompanied by Adam at lunch, trading small comments and last-minute pieces of advice. The rest of Jordan’s prep team was also there, but he couldn’t remember any of their names, and they didn’t seem eager to participate in the conversation.

Someone told Tom that he could go elsewhere to watch the opening of the Games, but he loudly turned them down, declaring that he would rather be with Jordan. Jordan cracked a little smile at that, though it was quickly stifled as he wondered if it would be his last. Adam watched them both with a hint of disapproval, but Jordan was glad that he didn’t object to Tom being present. He needed a friend there. Adam had been a good mentor… but Tom was Tom.

Jordan inhaled sharply as the tracker was pressed into his skin with a needle, and Tom quickly placed a hand on his shoulder. A countdown flashed on the screen, occupying most of Jordan’s attention and causing his heartbeat to speed up as the red numbers slowly ticked down. He felt like his breathing was stuck in his chest.

He wished the seconds would take longer. He didn’t want to go.

“And this is the part of the story where the hero would get a kiss from his lover,” Tom said suddenly, smirking as he looked over at Jordan. “You know, it’s supposed to be good luck-”

“No,” Jordan interjected firmly. “Absolutely not.” Jordan glared at him. “First, you’re not my lover, you’re my friend. Second, I don’t want your mouth anywhere near my face. Third, that’s a dumb superstition and I will not be coerced into kissing you just because I might die. You can have a hug instead.”

Tom pouted dramatically but threw his arms around Jordan’s neck anyway. Jordan staggered backwards slightly before regaining his balance. “You’d better not die,” Tom whispered fiercely in Jordan’s ear, “or else I’ll kill you, ‘kay?”

Before Jordan could reply, Adam cleared his throat loudly. “Boys, it’s almost time. Say goodbye, Tom.”

“Bye, Jordan,” Tom murmured sadly as the hug was broken. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Good luck, Jordan,” Adam put in with a nod. “Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Millions are watching.”

Jordan stepped back onto the platform, sure that he should say something memorable and confident, but he could only manage a deep breath.

And then the clock hit zero.

“Congratulations, CaptainSparklez, winner of the 49th Hunger Games!” the loudspeaker boomed, and Jordan just felt hollow. A hovercraft boomed overhead and Jordan dropped the bow in his hand. He was glad for the electric current freezing him to the ladder once it dropped because there was no way he could hold on. Everything was balanced on the edge of a knife as people buzzed around him, and Jordan knew it would tip as soon as he was released. Anger and detestation welled up in his chest and he grimaced as a needle was poked into his skin. He hated the Capitol for this. He hated the Capitol for everything. He would see his home once more, and then he’d be trapped in a terrible reality for the rest of his life - would it be better to live or die, I don’t know anymore - and there was nothing anybody could do about it...

Jordan barely noticed when he was forced into unconsciousness.

He woke up in a bed, a cacophony of noises crashing down upon his ears and he winced, each new beep sending a spike of discomfort through him. Jordan tried to move but found himself restrained, which just made him more determined to escape. The room was stark white and pristine but his eyes wouldn’t focus. The swish of a door opening split through the other sounds and Jordan grimaced. Conversations flickered through his ears but he couldn’t make sense of them. Fighting the doctors was probably a bad idea, but Jordan had stopped caring hours earlier. Was this the first time he’d woken up, or the second?

Awake. Awake. Awake, but confused. It repeated, over and over, until the last time, when Jordan could finally see clearly, and the restraints were gone, along with all the wires and noises and needles. Slowly, unsurely, Jordan climbed out of bed and got to his feet, making his way over to the wall to steady himself. His throat felt dry and he was a bit dizzy, but other than that, every effect of the arena on him had been wiped clean. The physical effects, that was. Jordan knew he would never properly recover from it as long as he lived.

When the door opened, panic shot down Jordan’s spine. They were coming to get him ready for the interview, which then led into the Victory Tour, which then led into everything else. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t face it. Could he delay it if he fought the doctors again? Would they put it off as trauma and he could get off scot-free for a day or two? Maybe even a week if he pushed it? Jordan spun on his heel, almost knocking himself over, and opened his mouth (to do what? Scream? Shout? He wasn’t sure) before stuttering at the sight of the boy at the door.

“Hey, Jordan,” said Tom, lips quirked into a small smile. “You did it.”