Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And shattered halos fall

Across the street of solid gold

I know you longed for a

place to call your own

I forget the way I cried

When I heard it call your name

- Shattered Halos by Nathan Wagner -

~

Muffled footsteps echo softly through the polished, white marble hallway, its extravagance unmarred by a speck of dust or dirt as weak morning light streams in through grand leaded windows. A dark-haired woman dressed in silks billowing behind her as if fire follows her every step confidently strides towards a set of imposing gold-coated doors that bar the entrance to her destination: the throne room of her family and rulers of Olympia. 

The doors swing open easily under the two guards' experienced hands without so much as a squeak, doing little to announce the amber-eyed woman’s presence to the other assembled individuals lounging on their finely crafted thrones and, predictably, filling the spacious room with their arguments and raucous shouting. 

A quiet sigh escapes her at the sight. No matter how many years pass, and no matter the date, she always arrives to barely controlled mayhem in the form of her siblings and various nieces and nephews fighting vigorously with one another. 

“-unacceptable! District 12 has been falling behind in their taxes and in their quota for the past year, and if we don’t do something about it soon-” Athena, for the bronze owl-engraved headpiece nestled in her extravagantly styled brown hair could belong to no one else, shouts emphatically to her conversation partner, another stern-looking woman dressed in layered green satin and glittering gold pins shaped like stalks of grain decorating her braided blonde hair. Demeter, no doubt. 

“-games coming up! Oh, I can’t wait, especially if they’re as good as last year’s! Do you remember-” Another snippet of conversation finds its way to the newest attendee’s ears, this time from a brown-haired man in an outfit so glittery it almost hurts to look at when the strengthening sunlight bounces off each individual sequin. The ridiculous wings on his shoes reveal him to be Hermes, though how he is bouncing around his seat as if it would hurt him to sit still for even a second is a dead giveaway as well. Dionysis, dressed in an old-fashioned white and purple toga embroidered with gold thread, sits in perfect contrast to his enthusiastic brother: perfectly still and, for lack of a better word, brooding while he sips what could be assumed to be wine despite being obviously underage.

Other conversations play out around the circular space, echoing around the decorative statues and pillars as the woman crosses the wide expanse to the glowing embers piled neatly in the center of it all. Even with all the fighting, Hestia, for the woman now tending to the fire is she, could feel a difference in the atmosphere of the room. Something lighter, happier Something leftover from the celebrations that took place all last week and ended last night. 

That difference can be seen as well, in the form of one of the Olympian Council's newest members, Artemis. The ceremony last night made her and her brother’s ascension to Godhood official when their thrones were presented to them and their new duties laid out before them, the Capitol, and the 12 Districts of Olympia. A new era, the people said. A fresh start for Olympia, they cheered. But no one could predict just how true either of those ideas would become.

“Where is Apollo? He is late.” Zeus’s voice, tinged with displeasure and annoyance, rings out and cuts off all other conversation as only the king of the Gods ever could. The others shift anxiously in their seats even though they know his ire is pointed at them, and none of them are willing to admit they don’t know. Artemis sighs harshly through her nose, cutting through the sudden silence and effectively drawing all attention towards her.

“He probably got distracted again.” She sighs once more as she rises from her seat and bows her head respectively towards her king and father. “I’ll drag him here by his earbuds if I have to. They’ve probably permanently attached to his ears at this point anyway.” She rises with an eye roll, Hermes and Dionysus desperately trying to muffle their snickering. 

Zeus, visibly displeased with lightning dancing in his piercing blue eyes, agrees with a harsh nod and a short dismissal of “yes, please do”. 

The auburn-haired girl, only 14 years of age, bows once more before marching out the double doors and down twisting corridors, all of which are made of gleaming white marble and inlaid with tastefully placed golden detailing that glitters in the now fully-risen sun. Despite how identical each hallway is, the silver-clad goddess navigates them with ease. This is, after all, her home. 

Her silver eyes dance with barely restrained fury towards her twin, for how could he be so foolish as to be late to their first meeting as fully-fledged Olympians?! His ability to be as obnoxious and incessantly frustrating as possible truly knows no bounds. 

Other things along those lines are muttered by the irate girl, silver light flashing between her fingers when she finally reaches her brother’s door. She pays no mind to the peacekeepers guarding his room and proceeds to bang on the gold plated wood hard enough to dent the metal covering it, her shouts cutting through the otherwise silent corridor. 

“Get your lazy ass up, ‘Pol, or I swear I will drag you out myself with my hunting knife in your gut!” No answer. She wasn’t truly expecting one, but it further infuriates her all the same.

“I know you’re up, dumbass! And you and I both know that you can hear me just fine through the noise dampeners!” Apollo, unfortunately, had become quite obsessed with musical instruments at a young age resulting in the necessity of noise dampeners just so that the other occupants of this hallway and the ones surrounding it could get some rest when he decided it would be a great idea to play at three in the morning. Regardless, she knows from past experience that he should be able to hear her, and even though he’s insufferable and loves to annoy her, he has never actually ignored her like this before

A small inkling of doubt curls in the back of Artemis’s mind. She shakes it off though, and proceeds to ask the guards to “unlock my stupid brother’s door”. They comply, and she harshly slams the doors inward with a yell.

“What are you-?!” Her words cut off with a strangled gasp as she finally sees the inside of her absent brother’s room. Now, her brother can be quite messy. In fact, Apollo’s room could often be likened to a pigsty before the Avexes get to it. But this? This isn’t messy. His room is practically destroyed . Glass from shattered vases and windows cover the floor in a fine layer, while various pieces of furniture lay in half-recognizable splinters, including his ornate, four-poster bed. The most concerning thing, though, is the blood coating the white bedsheets and splattered against the leftmost wall. 

Artemis stands there stunned for a moment, her brain refusing to compute the horrifying scene before her. The shouts of the peacekeepers behind her finally jolt her into action, the young goddess sprinting into the room and searching desperately for her brother, praying to any real God that may still exist that he’s alive. 

“Apollo?! Apollo!” She calls his name over and over as she looks in every nook and cranny that he could possibly be in, resolutely ignoring the possibility that he isn’t there at all. Desperately hoping for his to come crawling out of the bathroom, or from under the bed, or… anywhere! She would even listen to one of his damned haikus without hitting him if he would just… be here. But he’s not. After every possible place is searched, and the glaring evidence of the shattered windows cannot be ignored any longer, that is when she finally accepts that he’s gone . Just… gone.

She doesn’t even notice when her knees hit the ground, or when the rest of her family comes running into the room, all of them alerted by peacekeepers and the shrill alarm used for emergencies. Sound seems to disappear. The sun hides behind clouds that weren’t there before. Everything seems to disappear for Artemis except for one thought:

Where is Apollo?

Chapter Text

So don't pull the rug from underneath us

We're in trouble, but we got the love

Don't pull the rug from underneath us

Crashing down fast, as fragile as glass.

- Apollo by Timebelle -

~

I take a second in between swings to wipe some of the dust from out of my eyes, though my even dirtier glove doesn’t really help much, and breathe a controlled sigh. No need to kick up any more dust than my crew and I already have with our mining by being an idiot and exhaling too harshly. I did that once, and boy did I regret that real quick. 

Shaking out my sore arms, I go straight back to work picking at the solid rock walls for any bit of coal I can find. The sounds of nineteen picks and nineteen sources of labored breathing are the only things filling the otherwise suffocating silence. 

Literally suffocating, too. If we aren't careful, or if we’re unlucky enough, even our canary wouldn’t be able to give us enough warning and we would die either via suffocation or cave-in. I’m not sure which one’s worse, though everyone here is definitely familiar with the ever looming threat of both possibilities.

“Pack up, folks. Boss called; shift’s over.” The sudden voice startles me out of my thoughts so badly that I almost drop my pick in surprise; the whisper, coming from our shift leader, might as well have been a gunshot after what was eight hours of wordless, endless labor. For the first time in a while, I’m glad it’s so dark down here. No one can see the raging blush that is most definitely covering my face because of my near slip-up. Which is saying something since I rather like light, especially sunlight; it’s reassuring, comforting in a way, and with it you can actually see. Not like we get much of it on the surface, though anyway… 

All of us start methodically pushing our last respective loads of coal toward the lift. Before shifts, sometimes I’ll catch snippets of conversation (not eavesdropping, it’s not my fault people talk so loud!) between veteran workers. I vaguely remember one of them moaning about how they used to pull six, maybe even seven, full carts each. It’s hard to believe there’s ever been that much coal down in these tunnels, especially on days like today. I don’t know how the others did, but I do know that I could barely fill three.

The coal deposits in District Twelve have slowly been depleted, forcing us to go deeper and deeper to find new sources in a desperate hope that we can start meeting the quota for the first time in years. The bad part about that is that the deeper you go, the less air there is and the more unstable the caves get. Already the fatality rate for us has risen so high that I don’t even want to think about it.

 The coal is running out and the Capitol is getting impatient, a bad combination for District Twelve's future. 

After what feels like hours of walking through the pitch black, narrow tunnels, we finally reach the upper tunnels with a collective sigh of relief. The lift, while not much better and no more safe than walking through narrow tunnels only lit by our dim helmet lights, is much better on our backs since we don’t have to bend over. It also gives us a much needed moment to rest before walking home. Unfortunately, the lift doesn’t reach the newer, deeper tunnels since, again, they are too unstable and no one wants to do all that work just for everything to get buried.

We hand off our load to the runners up there and trudge our way through the slightly less dark tunnel to the rusty metal cage waiting for us at the end. We all climb on and pray that it doesn’t collapse under a rock slide, or that the cable doesn’t snap, or-

I shake my head slightly and squeeze my eyes shut against the hundred awful what-ifs. There’s no point in thinking about it; what happens happens. Still, I don’t take my helmet off like some of the other more veteran miners do. I never do.

The ride is shaky and slow all the way up, making its way inch by inch until the greyish light of dusk bursts through the grated roof. Even just that little bit of light is blinding; I rush to cover my eyes with my now ungloved hand before finally walking off the death trap of a contraption and onto solid ground that doesn’t sway with every micromovement. All of us take a moment to breathe in the fresh(er) air and just bask in the knowledge that we survived another day. 

Pounds of outdated and dirty equipment get tossed towards the bins placed by the entrance to the cave, most of us too tired to talk or even say goodbye, not that any of us would want to anyway. 

“Hey blue-eyes. How many carts did you get?” 

I stop short at the new voice and roll my eyes to the sky. Based on the snooty accent, it’s most definitely a peacekeeper, and a new one at that; I don’t recognize their voice, and after all the times I’ve gotten beat up by the stationed ‘keepers I’ve learned to identify them with or without their masks. 

The crowd shuffles away from me, knowing without a doubt that I’m the one the soldier was addressing. How, you ask? Well, it has to do with the simple fact that I am one of the only people in District 12 who has blue eyes. 

It’s weird, I know, but I’ve long accepted that I’m not exactly what one would consider normal. Besides, I know that it's not my eyes alone that throw people off about me; most people here don’t really care all that much about appearances or superstition, but the fact that I came here two years ago broken and bloodied and without a single memory of what everyone just kinda assumed were the first twelve years of my life and I mean I don’t even remember my own name or if I had any family I mean how screwed up is that -

Sorry, uh, where was I? Oh, yeah, I was about to get beat up.

I only turn my head to the side to answer the man behind me, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing my famously out of place eyes.

“The name’s Lester, actually. And I dunno. I wasn’t keepin’ count.'' Everyone here who works down there knows that’s a lie, but no one calls me out on it. “How many puppies ‘ave ya kicked today?”

 I couldn’t help but let out a snarky response; I’ve been dealing with stuff like this for over two years now and I’m too tired of it to really care. Oh, and too tired in general from working almost everyday in the deep dark depths of the mines for hours on end. That too. 

The guy obviously doesn’t like my witty remark ‘cause he lowers his hand to his baton and snarls at me. Yikes. Also, that took a lot less provocation than usual. In my lengthy experience, it usually takes an average of 40 to 89 seconds to get that strong of a reaction. With this guy, it only took roughly 26. And yes, I’m counting. It’s for science… or something. I don’t know, let’s just accept the fact that I’m weird and move on, shall we? 

Actually, now that I think about it, his buddies probably told him about me. Hm, figures.

“You impertinent little freak !” 

I’m on the ground before I have a chance to react, the burly man towering over my smaller form. Y’know, that’s just rude. I don’t think that 5’5” is considered ‘little’ by most people considering my age (14 years… probably), but I have the feeling that this peacekeeper is not the sharpest tool in the shed anyway. I’m probably focusing on the wrong thing, though. 

“Maybe I should teach you some manners, huh?” I try to push myself up with my forearms but ‘dumb dude’, as he’s now dubbed in my head, just slams his fist into my face. My head snaps backwards into the dirt but I refuse to let out a sound. Past experience with both violent peacekeepers and the occasional paranoid citizen taught me early on that giving them the slightest bit of satisfaction just makes their bullying worse.

I roll onto my side and clutch my definitely broken nose (ugh, not again. That had just healed from last time!) while the guy laughs behind me. I don’t bother paying attention to anyone else around me, none of them are stupid enough to risk turning the lone peacekeeper’s rage on them and potentially risk their family getting hurt. I just have to suck it up and take it.

“Aw, is the little freak in pain?” 

A kick this time hits my stomach, effectively sending me back onto my, well, back. This time I can’t stop a small groan after I stop gasping desperately to get back the air that was knocked out of my lungs. 

“There you go! I was beginning to think that you were mute!” 

I literally talked to him not just five minutes ago. Does he have short term memory loss, or is he just that stupid? I’m going with the second one so I can justify the burning hatred I can feel growing more and more with each kick and punch he rains down on me. It’s more brutal than normal, and I have a feeling I know the reason why (other than, y’know, what I’ve told you).

“I hope you get reaped next week, nebulo.” And there it is: the reason. I only faintly hear his last remark through the ringing in my ears, but it still manages to send a jolt of fear down my spine. 

The reaping. 

The dreaded event that comes every year for all the districts of Olympia and involves the selecting of two kids from each district to compete against each other in a horrible bloodbath of a game called the Hunger Games. Seventy-two years ago, a civil war broke out between the districts and the Capital, District 13 leading the effort to rebel against the government after decades of suffering under the Capital’s thumb. The Rebellion failed, and to dissuade anyone from trying again, the King at the time, Kronos, created the Hunger Games and destroyed the 13th district. Obviously, it’s not a fan favorite, especially for the lower districts who already lose enough people to hunger and disease, and in Twelve’s case, the mines.

And now it’s one week from today. Yay. (Ignore how I say that as if I hadn’t been stressing nonstop about it for the past month.)

I lay in the dirt for a few extra seconds after the beating stopped and after the man retreated back to whatever putrid hole he crawled out of, just focusing on getting my breathing under control before I dare to even move. 

“Hey, Les’. You don’t wanna be layin’ there all day, do ya?” 

A familiar voice drags my focus back to reality. Blinking my eyes open (when did I close them?), I squint up at an equally familiar face. Deep brown, almost black eyes blink back at me before a set of muscular, dark arms circle around my torso and start to pull me up to my feet. 

“Oh. Hey, Tessa.” 

I’d recognize my best friend anywhere, and I thank every deity out there that they insist on being here when I get out of work to drag my sorry ass home. 

 Their dad, Terry Blake, was the one who found me half dead at District Twelve’s border. He, Tess, and her younger brother Miles all helped me get better in the first couple weeks after my unusual arrival, back when they weren’t sure I’d actually survive. 

After that though, Terry knew they couldn’t support another kid. His wife had died some years before in the mines and he’d been struggling to keep his family from starvation with just his income, and that’s not even taking into account the cost of Miles’ medical appointments for muscular dystrophy (they’re expensive as all hell, even though they barely did anything; medical care is crap here in Twelve, though I think that’s a given). That’s where their neighbors, now my adoptive parents, Jo and Emmie Papadopolous came in. They had already adopted Georgie but offered to take me in anyway with open arms and hearts, allowing me to be part of their amazing family and still stay close to the Blakes. It was a win-win, really.

When Tessa finally manages to lift me to my feet (with some attempted and not entirely successful help on my part) it’s hard to tell whether it’s me or the world that’s swaying (I think it’s safe to assume it’s me, ‘cause the other option would be pretty weird); they huff and drape my arm over her shoulder. They’re way taller than me (a whopping 6’2”), making this position slightly uncomfortable, but we make do like every other time something like this happens. 

“Don’ ‘hey, Tessa’ me, ya dingus. Also, again, Lester? I swear ya’re like, allergic ta shutting up o’ somethin’.” 

Their heavy accent curls with amusement and a hint of tired resignation, like my inability to not be sassy to every person I meet is a personal offence to her. I huff out a laugh, immediately regretting it after my ribs protest violently (they might be broken, shit). 

This is a recurring argument of ours, and somewhat of an inside joke. ‘Oh there goes Lester. He’s getting beaten up again because he looks different and he can’t keep his mouth shut? Typical’. 

“Maybe I am, tha’ would explain a lot. Sorry ya have ta drag me home again, though.”

They roll their eyes and lightly smack my shoulder in response. The rest of the trip home is spent in silence, though the way she tightens her grip around my waist and the way her lips are thinned into a concerned line tell me: ‘apology accepted, now stop being an idiot’. I hope my small smile and the way I leaned into them tell Tess: ‘thanks, and never’. 

“Lesy!”

I got so caught up in trying to keep myself from passing out that I didn't notice we’re home until Georgie’s voice echoed from where she was apparently waiting on our small, rotted out porch. Her small form comes charging towards us, her short dirty-blonde hair bouncing with every stride, and she moves in to presumably get her long-expected evening hug.

“Hey, careful ‘ina. Les’ is hurt pretty bad. Can you go get your moms?” Georgie pales and skids to a stop once she gets close enough to see the state I’m in, and I wince at her reaction. I have no doubts in my mind that I look positively awful, and I hate that my little sister has to see this.

 It’s a testament to how strong she is, though, when she just nods and runs back into the house. She knows that Tess can get me inside by herself, and she knows from past times I’ve come home with more bruises than I left home with that it’s better to hold off the questions until after I’ve been treated. I sigh lightly, mindful of whatever is going on with my chest right now, as Tess helps me hobble forward. 

The stairs are an absolute torture to climb, especially since we have to skip the middle one in order to avoid the partially disintegrated wood. I’m left gasping for air and leaning heavily against Tess as we cross into the threshold of my humble abode, emphasis on humble. It has one floor and only two official rooms: the kitchen/living room/bathroom and the singular bedroom. The bathroom is only separated by a tattered tarp that has definitely seen better days, and the grey wallpaper is either completely gone from some walls or in the process of shedding onto the uneven floorboards. Said floor is a pain to navigate on a good day; when I’m injured and probably concussed? Well, let’s just say that I would’ve fallen on my face a lot more than usual if Tess wasn’t there to hold me up. 

“Oh, darling! What happened?!” Emmie Papadoplous, my mom and likely one of the most wonderful yet most stubborn people on the planet, comes running in just as Tess is helping me sit down on the least wobbly stool we own, her long grey braid flying out behind her. She sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of her nose in a deeply familiar gesture. 

“Never mind, don’t answer that. Yet.” She kneels down next to me, sending a stern glare to punctuate her words, and starts to run her hands over my face, neck, arms in a gentle and routine search for fresh injuries while she tuts in sympathy at every one she finds. 

“Take your shirt off. I want to make sure you didn’t break anything too important, other than your poor abused nose.” I do as she says the best I can, but believe it or not it’s kinda hard to take ones shirt off when even the slightest of movements makes their ribs scream bloody murder at the poor abused nerves. 

“Georgie, could you go get the bandages from the closet? And pour some water into a bowl, too. I know we just got a fresh carton not too long ago.” My little sister runs out with a determined salute before we finally manage to wrangle my shirt off without damaging it (or me, which would arguably be worse). I refuse to look down at my chest; I know that it looks about as horrible as it feels, and Emmie’s shark intake only helps to confirm that.

“Oh, baby…” My shoulders hunch up at mom’s crestfallen tone and… oh, now I feel bad. They shouldn’t have to do this every time I get into trouble, which if you haven’t guessed is a lot. They’re always cleaning up my messes and me when I can’t get out of them unscathed. I want to apologize so bad, but I know that if I do Tess’ll punch me; I’ve already gotten punched enough for one day, and against popular belief I do actually have a slight sense of self-preservation. 

“Ya can ‘old my hand if ya want ta while Em pokes ‘n prods ya” Tess tries to go for a teasing tone, which I'm grateful for. I peer up at her through my overgrown curls and send her a small grin that matches theirs.

“I thin’ I’m good.” They shrug and grip my hand anyway, because when does she ever listen to me? Never, that’s when. I huff and pout, but grip her hand back anyway cause I’m a good friend like that. 

Throughout our whole exchange, mom is hovering her hands along my exposed chest with an intense look reserved for occasions like this one. The elder woman glances apologetically at me in warning before she starts, as Tess so eloquently said, “poking and prodding” my chest to search for anything broken, my breath hitching at every sore spot she finds. It’s my luck that a few seconds in, she does indeed find something broken. How I didn’t feel it before is beyond me, though I have a feeling it has something to do with the adrenaline and with the regrettable amount of practice in dealing with this sort of thing.

“Ah-!” I hunch over on reflex, the burning pain turning my chest into a supernova. I dimly register two sets of hands (one holding my body up after I apparently pitched sideways, the other carding through my tangled hair (hmm that’s nice) and rubbing comforting circles onto my back) after my brain starts to reboot, the whole ordeal probably only taking a mere few seconds before everything fades back into focus. 

After another moment,  the pain withers from “I’m probably dying right now” to “I feel slightly less like death warmed over”. That’s a decent amount of improvement in my books, but judging from the two ladies' faces staring worriedly back at me I can tell that it most definitely is not one in theirs. 

“I’m so sorry, Les’. I didn’t mean to press that hard. Talk to me, kiddo, please-”

I blink the remaining stars from my eyes and tune into my mom’s voice like one of those antique radios: slowly and with a lot of muddled static. 

I start to tell them that I’m fine, (because I am - this is nothing compared to when I first arrived, though there’s not much that can compare to that) when Tess full on punches my least damaged arm.

 “Ow! Wha- Tess!” My words come out more slurred than I would’ve liked as I peer up at my best friend, my second half, my sister from another mother with complete and utter betrayal while I weakly lift my hand to rub the spot she smacked. Why does she have to always hit so hard?!

“If ya say tha’ ya’re ‘kay ima hit ya harder next time.” I wince and look away, mumbling out a sorry before Georgie comes running in with the multicolored and slightly questionable bandages, as well as a small bowl of what I assume (read: hope) is water. We move on, though I remain leaning against Tess while my mom’s cold hands gingerly wash the blood off my face, head, and torso. 

I close my eyes with a sigh; I just want this day to be over with. I’m so sick of working in the suffocating mines for hours on end only to get beat up the minute I get out. I’m sure everyone else is sick of it too; I’m just a burden, another mouth to feed and another body to fix up. I have no doubts in my mind that my family loves me, but sometimes I can’t help but feel like the meagre amount of money I bring in through work is the only worth I have. 

I peel my eyes open when mom starts wrapping the bandages around me, which stings a bit with the added pressure; I’m used to it, though, and I know she is trying to be as gentle as possible. 

I force myself out of my increasingly darker thoughts to focus on Georgina’s chipper voice as she explains her day with grand hand gestures and a bright smile, to focus on Tess’s playful interjections, and on mom’s steady touch. It’s grounding, and it’s not long before the remaining pain secedes enough for me to really take in my surroundings, or more specifically who’s missing from said surroundings. 

I frown with narrowed eyes at the glaring absence of my máma, Jo, meanwhile mentally beating myself up for not noticing sooner. The taller woman is like clockwork, and is almost always home by now.

I swear that mom is a mind reader, cause halfway through wrapping my ribs (and during a lull in Georgie’s tale; you do not interrupt my little sister, like, ever) she declares to the room, “Jo got stuck at work. She’ll be home soon, and when she does she’s not going to be happy that you got your ass handed to you again. What even happened this time?” I look down guiltily at my mom’s stern yet gentle words.

“I’m sorry, mom. I was just…” I glare at the floor beneath my feet, studying the rotten wood to avoid looking anyone in the eye. “I just started ta walk home when a peacekeeper started ta taunt me and… y’know how my filter turns off when I’m tired.” A quiet sigh escapes her mouth, and Georgie takes a break from handing mom the bandages to look at me excitedly.

“Ooo! What did you say?! Was it good?” I smile a bit at the practically vibrating girl.

“Georgie, don’ encourage ‘im. Gods know he already gets into ‘nough trouble as it is.” 

I pout up at Tessa as they smirk down at me from where she’s wrapping my head (another mild concussion to add to the steadily growing count; I’m officially at four now) and in her natural state as the Bane Of My Existence. 

“It’s no’ my fault I have so many great comebacks! It’s jus’ a waste o’ talent if I don’ use them every once in a while!” 

Mom and Tess roll their eyes at me in tandem (which, rude) and Georgie giggles from her place on the floor. My heart warms a bit at the sound, the excitable seven year old’s unshakable happiness infectious. I wink at her to make her laugh more, knowing she needs all the laughter she can get. We all do, honestly.

“Well, it definitely could’ve been worse. You just give your head and ribs time to heal, so no strenuous activities for as long as humanly possible. Maybe you could put in some vacation days at work…?” 

I shake my head slowly, hesitant to wipe the hopeful look on Emmie’s face.

“I can’t, mom. Ya know that they’re already short-staffed; they wouldn’t care if I was dyin’, much less that I ‘ave some minor wounds. I’ll be fine, promise.” 

Guilt rears its ugly head at mom’s reluctant, pained expression. She knows I’m right, though, and I know that she hates that. I also know that she’s beyond worried for me right now, not only because of the injuries and work, but also because of the reaping. 

As an unspoken rule, we don’t talk about the Hunger Games or the stupid reaping, not casually at least. I’ve lost count of how many times I had cried into my mom and máma’s arms before the event last year because I was scared to death that I would be picked. You see, usually everyone in every district is entered once when they turn twelve, twice when they are thirteen, and so on until they turn eighteen and their names are put in seven times. 

But there’s a catch. If you’re poor and starving, like most of the lower districts typically are, you are given the option to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. A tessera is worth a meager portion of food that’s just enough for one person for a year, and you can apply for as many tesserae as there are members in your family. It sounds like a scam, and it is, but it’s also worth it; a tessera can be the difference between life and death for your family. 

I knew this when I entered my name last year (I couldn’t enter my first year due to my injuries and the fact that I was not in the system) and I entered my name an additional four times: one for me, two for my moms, and one for Georgie (I would’ve gladly done three more for Tess, her dad, and her brother but since they are not technically family, I wasn’t allowed). I had my name in the lottery of death five times my first year, and this year I have it in that cursed fishbowl ten times, much to my parents' chagrin. 

I don’t regret it though, not when it’s just another way I can help my family and repay them for all the times they’ve helped me, for the many times they saved my life. Even though the Games scare me half to death, I would gladly participate if it saved my family from starvation. 

“We have to set your nose.” Mom’s sudden declaration startled me out of my thoughts.

“Huh?” I say intelligently. I honestly forgot about my nose, though once it got pointed out I finally noticed how swollen and achy it is Ugh. 

Broken noses are the worst, too; you can’t just snap them back in place like a dislocated shoulder, or cast them like any other broken bone. The best Tessa and my mom can do at the moment is prod the bones carefully back into place and secure the offending appendage with medical tape and a small square of thin metal (that we keep on hand for occasions just like this) as best they can. 

Tess rolls her eyes again and swiftly pulls her long braids into a loose ponytail after she smoothly switches places with my mom. Because of course she’s the one doing it, the sadist.

“Deep breath, Les’. Ya know the drill.” I nod slightly and squeeze my eyes tightly, taking a deep breath before Tess starts the arduous task of “setting” my nose. To my credit, I only cried a little bit during the process, which I personally think is impressive.

“Here, Lesy!” I look up just in time to see the wet cloth flying towards my face from Georgina’s general direction. Only my extensive experience with the little nuisance and her penchant for throwing stuff at me with no warning keeps me from getting a wad of soaked fabric slammed into my face.

“Oi, careful there, pipsqueak! He’s a delicate flower!” It’s my turn to roll my eyes at Tess, throwing in an over dramatic gasp, hand to my chest and all, for good measure.

“Excuse you, I’ll have ya know that I’m a man of pure muscle n’ grit!” 

Even my mom, who has just been staring at me with that sad look in her eyes that I absolutely despise, cracks a small smile at Tess and I as we banter back and forth (Lester Papadopolous, if you don’t put that cloth on your nose right this instant- -oh are ya my mom now, too? Two’s ‘nough, thanks (no offence mom I love you)- -Mama's boy- -bully- - idiot- -imbecile- - That’s literally the same thin’- - doesn’t make it any less true-). Georgie, of course, is just giggling away, the previously tense atmosphere dissipating for the moment in favor of good ol’ suppression.

This scene is the one Jo walks in on a few minutes later: me sitting in the chair shirtless, swamped in multicolored bandages, and holding a dripping cloth to my face while everyone else around me is either giggling madly or slowly but steadily ripping apart any shred of dignity I may have left in my meagre reserves. 

“Again, baby? Y’know, some people would consider this whole “gettin’ hurt” thin’ you got goin’ on a nasty habit.” All of us cheer at my other mom’s arrival, though my face reddens and twists into as large of a pout that my busted nose will allow at my máma’s dry-as-the-desert remark. 

“Aw, Jo, y’know he can’t help ‘imself. ‘Sides, studies show tha’ tha’ type o’ behavior is typically passed down from the parents…”. Máma sets her bag full of scrap metal and tools on the table with a huff. This ends up being a good call, as it is every day, when Georgie full-bodily slams into her leg in lieu of a welcome home hug. The tall woman doesn’t even flinch; she’s too strong and far too used to the little gremlin’s idea of a hug to be even remotely fazed. Instead she just ruffle’s Georgie’s dirty hair as the girl clings to her leg. The darker toned woman turns her amused eyes towards Tess and their previous statement. 

“I dunno what yer talkin’ about, Tessy.” Jo purposely strengthens her accent and crosses her extremely buff and scarred arms, showing with her body language and tone of her voice that she damn well knows what my friend is talking about. The sixty nine year old woman has quite the reputation, what with the countless tussles and the occasional thievery she’d done way back when. And the fact that she works in the forge also helps her reputation (or doesn’t help depending on how you look at it). Don’t let that track record fool you though; my máma is the sweetest, most compassionate person you will ever meet, right up there with mom. She just happens to have a bit of a wild side.

“Uh huh. Well, I’m going to leave you four troublemakers-” Emmie sends a playful glare towards us while Tess sends a mocking glare at mom in fake offence while I stick my tongue out. Jo just looks amused. “-and make dinner. How does bread and beans sound?” I quickly stomp down a grimace; we have that pretty much every night, but it would be sucky of me to complain. We don’t have much else to eat, and I’m thankful to even have what we have.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. Miles needs me tonight. He’s pretty stressed righ’ ‘bout now...” Tess glances at me apologetically, but I silently tell them that I understand. This is her brother’s first year that his name’s been entered for the reaping and he’s been a nervous wreck for months now. I know that he needs his big sis more than I do at the moment, though that doesn’t stop the nauseating pulse of anxiety from gnawing at my gut almost as intensely as the pain did earlier.

Emmie’s face softens and her eyes regain that far away look, her concern clear as day towards the neighbors all of us consider to be family. “Oh, darling, thank you for helping, and tell your brother that we’re here for him if he needs anything from us.” 

Tess leaves the way we came in after a quick hug from Jo, Emmie, and Georgie and an awkward one from me since, as I think I’ve mentioned before, I can’t raise my arms without my ribs screaming at me in violent protest. Ugh, the mines are going to be utter hell tomorrow with all these injuries. 

Everything is a bit of a blur after that. Dinner is short tonight, all of us desperately trying to come up with something to talk about that wasn’t next week, and failing. Miserably. To be honest? I’m terrified. I’ve been trying to put on a brave face for my family, for Tess, even for myself, but I know that they can see right through me; I’ve always been a horrible liar. I'm scared I’ll get picked, or that Tess will. Or, even worse, Miles will. The kid can’t walk two steps without his crutches, how the hell would he ever be able to compete in a “game” as brutal as the Hunger Games? Tess’s dad tried to get the poor kid exempt from the reaping and the games ever since Miles’ legs first started failing, but to no avail. The entire neighborhood got pissed in response to the Capital’s resounding “no”, but there was nothing they could do. 

With that lovely thought, all of us head to bed even though it’s a bit earlier than usual. I don’t bother changing my pants and just crawl, very carefully due to my injuries, into the singular mattress we own, taking my usual spot in the middle-right. After the usual struggle with Georgie (if less rough than usual, she may be enthusiastic about many things but Georgie isn’t stupid), the three ladies of the house join me: Jo next to me on the right edge of the bed, Georgie curled around me like the barnacle I firmly believe she secretly is, and Emmie filling up the empty space next to the little gremlin. 

“Goodnight, darlings, I love you.” 

A chorus of “love yous” and “goodnights” bounce around the small, bare room before Emmie snuffs out the oil lamp and plunges us into a welcomed darkness.

Chapter Text

Oh, honey, I know you so well

I know you never ask for help

Even when you're bleeding;

When I know you need it

Don't have to keep it to yourself

'Cause I remember how it felt.

- Haven by William Black -

~

A hallway, so white it's almost blinding, stretches out endlessly in front of a boy with flowing blonde hair dressed in a fabric that shifts and shimmers like a river of pure gold. The tunic flies out behind the boy as he runs down the vacant corridor, his laugh echoing off of ornate marble pillars and filtered through the light shining in through large, leaded windows. He runs for minutes, hours, days, the corridor only getting brighter the further he goes. Even when it’s blinding the boy pushes onward with the same joyful laugh, unperturbed by anything in his path until the corridor abruptly ends. 

Golden doors carved with breathtaking detail stand in the way of the boy. He stops abruptly and his laugh turns hollow and strangled, the joy wrangled from his heart like water from a cloth. 

“COME IN, LITTLE SUN.” A booming voice pierces through the laughter, the once joyful sound cutting off completely and the boy collapses to his knees at the pure force of the words coming from behind that door. He tries to speak but no words leave his suddenly heavy tongue and he can do nothing but shake on the floor as thick red blood starts to flow down the polished surface of the double doors. 

“GET UP, INSOLENT CHILD” The voice only gets louder, more angry and the walls start to shake and break apart. Electricity crackles through the air and lances through the river of blood that has risen to the boy’s thighs, his voice that had transitioned from a laugh to silence has now turned into a painful scream as the electricity advances towards his red stained form. 

“GET UP, APOL- ”

~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~

Y’know, nightmare-induced unbridled fear and lingering traces of phantom electricity lighting up each and every one of my nociceptors is not exactly my ideal way of waking up, but does anyone care? No. No they obviously don’t, because that is my reality for this fine morning.

I push the heels of my palms against my eyes, gasping for breath against my strangled sobs. It feels like there’s rope tied tawny around my neck and I can’t breathe-

In and out; Breathe with me, ὦ χρύσιο. In and out. In and out. 

Mom’s voice echoes faintly in my head, guiding me through our routine even while she continues to snore soundly nearby.

That’s it, darlin’. Remember our little trick? What’re five things ya can’ see.

I latch onto the memory of my máma’s directions with a quiet, desperate gasp, my shaking hands slowly falling away from my eyes as I do my best to peer through my blurry eyes.

Okay. Okay, so I ca-can see, uh, my hands. Uh, my blanket? Yeah, yeah my blanket and, um, my Máma. Yeah, she’s right there, along with Georgie and Mom they’re all safe they’re fine you’re fine -

Focus, Lester. Focus; freaking out would definitely be counterproductive right now. Okay, so, what was next?

Good job, baby, you’re doing great. Now what are four things you can feel?

Oh. Right. Um, I can feel… the blanket, uh, again. It’s thin and kinda scratchy, but familiar. My hair too, it feels slick with sweat and grime against my forehead. Does the breeze count? I’m not gonna overthink it and just go with yes. That’s three, uh… dammit, my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton- oh, that works I guess. I feel “cotton” in my brain. Wow, that sounds weird even in my head.

I manage to take in a full gulp of air and my hands are shaking less by the time I get through all five steps of Máma and Mom’s trick for surviving my panic attacks. I’m also feeling rather accomplished by the end too since I managed to avoid waking up my family in the process. Thank the gods that whenever I get nightmares I just stiffen up and stop moving instead of thrashing around like I know other people do. Georgie says it’s freaky and I can’t say I disagree with her on that, but that doesn't mean it doesn’t come in handy sometimes.

This particular dream felt so much more real than usual. I can still feel the pain, the electricity spiking through my body, the blood… the harder I think about the nightmare, the fuzzier the details get. I remember someone speaking, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they said. 

If that ain’t  the story of my life, I don't know what is.

I try to go back to sleep for a couple of minutes, but then my still healing nose starts itching in its makeshift cast, and then my stomach rumbled, and-

In the end, I just end up stuffing my face into my pillow with a groan, finally admitting defeat; I’m not going back to sleep anytime soon, but not just because of the nightmare or my body’s various failings.

The reaping is happening later today, and needless to say, I am not prepared for this.

I rub at my temples as I climb out of bed, carefully crawling over my máma’s legs before padding silently over to the kitchen to search for breakfast. After grabbing some bread and a glass of water, I sit at the table and mindlessly nibble at my starchy meal, my thoughts far away from here. More specifically, they’re at the town square aka where the reaping takes place . 

This time feels almost as surreal as the last, but this time… this time I can feel the difference in my bones. It’s Miles' first year and even with most of my life completely missing from my memories I know for a fact that this is the most frightened I’ve ever been, especially for someone else.

 Maybe that was who the nightmare was about? That would make sense, but… no, it felt almost like a memory, and I’m pretty sure the boy in my dream looked absolutely nothing like my surrogate little brother.

Confusion and remnants of fear cloud my mind: my hands are shaking and my leg bounces with anxiety and restlessness. I need to get out, go for a walk or something; I’ll just drive myself insane thinking about… everything that’s going on. Yeah, a walk sounds good, and If I’m back before my moms and Georgie wake up I won’t worry them with my issues. I do that enough as it is.

Mind made up, I shuffle quietly to the door where my boots lay haphazardly where I tossed them the other night. I lace them up, shove my arms into my worn jacket, and carefully make my way down the rotting stairs. I stop for a moment when my feet finally touch dirt and take a deep breath of dusty air. I tilt my head upwards, noting the still darkened sky before I set off in a random direction. I don’t even realize that the direction I picked took me past Tess’s house until a small form hurdles off of their porch and practically slams into me.

“Hey-!” I am barely able to keep myself from falling to the ground at the sudden weight on my side. What the fu- oh. I twist around and get a glimpse of the person who decided to pull a Georgie and body-slam me. Miles’ innocent brown eyes stare up at me, wide as saucers.

“Lesy! I’m sorry I didn’t mean ta scare you! I saw you and wanted to say hi, or… something…” 

The words come out erratically, his voice tapering off with a nervous edge. I sigh softly, wrapping my arm around his slight body with a small, exasperated smile.

“Miles, it’s okay, I’m not mad. Jus’ maybe give me a little bit of warning next time?” He smiles shyly at me and nods mutley, clinging to my arm tightly. I frown, concerned, when I realize that he doesn’t have his crutches on him.

“Hey, kiddo? Where are your crutches? Please don’t tell me you ran down those steps and to me without them.” 

He looks down guiltily and murmurs something that sounds like a sorry. “Miles, you know that’s bad for your legs, and- oh, c’mere kiddo.” 

His sniffles quietly, and I crouch down to face the kid, maneuvering in a way that lets Miles hold onto me the entire time. I love him like the brother I (probably) never had and the last thing I want to do is let him fall.

“Buddy, It’s okay; you’re okay. I’m not mad, I promise”. 

Fat tears roll down his face, and his head tilts downward in an attempt to hide them from me. My heart breaks just a little bit more for the young boy in front of me (I may only be two years older, but two years can mean a lot when you’re a kid. That, and I’ve always felt older. I chalk that up to trauma). I sigh again, and pull Miles in for a hug, not bothering to ask why he’s currently crying buckets into my shirt. I don’t need to, I already know. The boy in my arms has been stressed about the upcoming reaping for so long now, and with the event so close… 

“You're going to be fine, μικρός αδερφός; you only have your name in there once. I promise, they aren’t going to pick you.” 

He shakily nods his head, his entire body shuddering with silent sobs. “I-I had a-a dream. It-I was picked. I was in the arena, and it-it… there was so much blood -” 

I hate it when I’m right sometimes.

“It was just a dream, Mi’. Just a dream.” 

We rock side to side in silence until Miles calms down enough to pull his blotchy, tear stained face from my shirt. He wipes at his eyes with one hand and uses the other to grip onto my shoulder. 

“Hey.” I speak gently, coaxing the smaller boy to look at me. When he finally meets my eyes I smile softly and squeeze his free hand lightly. “Want to come with me on my walk?” 

I know that that was the right thing to say when his entire face lights up.

“Yeah! I- oh, I can’t.” I tilt my head in confusion as Miles shuts down suddenly, all previous excitement gone in a blink of an eye.

“Why not? If you snuck out, I’m sure I can get you home before your papa or sister finds out.” I wink and a small smile twitches on his chapped lips before twisting into a sullen frown.

“I can’t go ‘cause I forgot my crutches inside.” His words get quieter as he goes on, as if he’s worried someone else will overhear. I frown thoughtfully. Maybe I could fetch his crutches real fast while Miles waits on the porch? No, that might wake up Tess and Terry. Uh… oh! I know!

“What if I carried you?” I almost feel like I should be offended by the disbelieving look the kid gives me, but I honestly can’t really blame him. One of the other kids' favorite insults for me is beanpole for a reason. 

“Oh, c’mon! You know I’m stronger than I look; I would think that my little brother would have more faith in me than that!” I lay the hand that isn’t supporting Miles over my heart and swoon dramatically. He tries to stifle his giggles with his hand at my dramatics to no avail. 

“Sorry, Lesy. I didn’t mean it like that. Can I sit on your shoulders?” I laugh and nod my consent, his face lighting up with only his red-rimmed eyes to show that not even a minute ago he was in hysterics. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

I crouch down further and help the kid position his legs properly, apologizing every time I see him wince when his legs get jostled too much. Eventually, we manage to shift Miles into position and I stand up to my full height. Miles giggles again and I smile up at him.

“Ready?” 

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Giddy-up, horsey!” 

I huff in mock offence, smacking Miles’ arm lightly and causing him to burst out in a peel of bright laughter. 

As we travel through the dirt streets and off-shooting paths, I almost let myself believe my words, that everything will be fine and that no one I care for will get picked. Almost.

“Lester, where are your dress shoes?!” I’m just tucking in my shirt, a nice white button down, into my grey khakis when my máma’s gruff voice startles me to attention.

“I, uh, I thought they were in the closet!” I sit down on the bed to pull my socks on before heading into the other room, combing hair as I go in a feeble attempt to tame my overgrown curls (I definitely need a haircut, but we haven’t really had the time lately with…everything).

“I don’t see ‘em-oh nevermind, here they are!” Máma, who had been kneeling on the floor while digging through the mess that is our one and only closet, whooping in triumph as she raises two dusty shoes above her head. She gets up creakily and dusts herself off before clambering towards me with the pair in one hand. “I thought I would never find these suckers, I- oh Les’! Ya look lovely!” I huff good naturedly and let Jo fuss over me with little more than an exasperated look. 

“Oh don’t give me tha’ look! I’m your mom, I’m allowed to be embarrassing. In fact, I was under the impression tha’ that was one o’ the job requirements.” Leave it up to my máma to make me laugh even with the reaping hanging over my neck like the world's worst guillotine. 

“I know, máma, I know. I just think that if I couldn’t make my hair look good, I don’ think anybody could”. She tsks disapprovingly as she runs the comb through my hair, attempting to do the impossible.

“Never underestimate a mother’s abilities, love.” 

I relent and stand there patiently, even after máma finally gives up with the comb and starts using her large, calloused hands. “And… there! Handsome, as ever, I’d say!” She guides me to the mirror, and… I don’t really see a difference, but Jo seems happy with it. I smile at her through the mirror and lift my hand to squeeze the one máma has on my shoulder.

“Thanks, máma, it looks great”. She rolls her eyes even as she smiles softly.

“Oh, please, I know that look. You’re just being nice”. I chuckle and close my eyes before I lean into her solid weight.

“Ya caught me. Thanks for the effort though”. Her strong arms wrap around me firmly, but gently as if I was glass that would shatter at any moment. I melt into her embrace and think that maybe she’s not far off.

“Oh, baby.” Her soft voice makes me want to cry again; the next breath I take is shuddery and máma just holds me tighter. “You’re so strong. I’m so proud of you darliin’, I hope you know that.” 

I can only nod, a tear falling down my face as I focus all my attention on the wonderful woman behind me, silently thanking her and trying not to think about how there’s a small chance that this’ll be the last real hug I’ll ever get from her. 

“We’re home! Is Lester ready?”

 Mom’s voice and Georgie’s chatter break through the silence, and I quickly wipe all evidence that I was crying from my face. Máma reluctantly lets go of me and we share one last loaded look before turning to the other health of our little makeshift family.

“Oh, sweety, you look wonderful.” I send a small smile to Emmie before forcing it to widen for Georgie.

“Hey little G, how was the market?” 

That’s all she needs to start enthusiastically telling me about her day, with flailing hand gestures and everything. 

My smile comes easier to me as I listen to how her and mom got the groceries; apparently, they even managed to get a little meat for dinner tonight, presumably in the hope that Tess, Miles, and I will be able to come home tonight. It takes a herculean effort for my smile not to falter at that, but I manage for Georgie.

The automated bell that signals the start of the reaping cuts my little sister off mid sentence. Usually, Georgie gets frustrated when she’s interrupted, even throwing small fits if she’s in a bad enough mood; she’s got into a lot of fights over that at school. 

Now, however, she just clams up, her enthusiasm rushing out of her in one fell swoop. Our mom’s stiffen, their eyes tight with stress, fear, and grim resignation. Whatever cheer we managed to scrounge up is gone now, thoroughly squashed by the dreaded death toll. 

Mom’s the first to move in the empty, crushing silence; within a few short strides, she’s hugging me tight to her chest, murmuring nonsense assurances as I bury my face into her shoulder. Georgie and máma join soon after, my sister nestled in Jo’s arms so she can reach me better. I want to hold on tighter and never let go; I don’t want to leave the house or go to this stupid ceremony. I don’t want to potentially die. 

I let go anyway, going through the rest of the motions in a haze. I pull on the dress shoes and glance around the house. I don’t know why, but I have a gnawing feeling in my gut  that I’m never going to see it again.

Jo and Emmie walk on either side of me while Georgie rides on máma’s shoulders, not unlike how Miles had sat on mine just this morning. I stare at the ground as we walk, only looking up after we stop in front of Tess’s house. Our two families always go together; we’re the odd families out, the weird ones, the rejects in a society of rejects. Sometimes I wonder what the capital would think of us. Most times I don’t care.

“Ah, Mrs. and Mrs. Papadopoulos, looking as beautiful as ever. You as well, Georgie, Lester.” 

Terry comes treading down the stairs alongside Tess and Miles, who has his crutches this time. We don’t say anything past Terry’s strained greeting; this isn’t a time for socializing, especially when we only have twenty minutes to get to the town square.

All seven of us walk in silence, Tess shoulder-checking me gently in lieu of a greeting. I smile nervously at her and place a hand on Miles’ back when he moves in between the two of us; Tess does the same on Miles’ other side while the three adults flock around us, as if to somehow protect us. Gathering any scraps of courage I have left, I march forward with my head held high; we all walk towards certain doom in the only way we can: together.

When we get to the town square, at least half the town is already there. The entire plaza is filled to the brim with people in bland clothing and peacekeepers with batons strapped to their legs. The wide, ugly cement platform that sits in front of the mayor’s building for this exact purpose holds several important people sitting in chairs and several large screens showing up-close shots of the kids lining up for the slaughter. 

Miles panics when he realizes that our parents can’t come with, but one of his dad’s bear hugs calms him down enough that he lets Tess and I guide him towards the lines of kids waiting to get their finger pricked. Apparently, no one told him about that part, either. 

“Wait, what-you didn’t-” the sea of kids are forced to curve around us after Miles stops dead in his tracks, his eyes shining with fear.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. They’re just gonna take a little bit of your blood-” 

“You didn’t tell me about that!” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but I promise that it doesn’t hurt much, just a prick”.

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“...Okay”.

I stand there kind of awkwardly, keeping watch to make sure no one interrupts Miles and Tess. After a second, we start moving again, staying together as long as possible before we have to separate into our respective sections. Miles almost panics again, but I feel proud, when he just takes a deep breath and pushes on instead. Sad, because no kid should have to go through this, but proud. He’s sure doing better than I did my first time.

I try to keep track of both of them, but soon enough they’re lost to the crowd. Still, I keep searching, not even looking when an obviously bored woman pricks and scans my blood, barely paying attention to where I’m going as I’m corralled into the right place. 

I’m still looking when our Mayor, who will forever remain nameless to me, steps in front of the mic, and I breathe a small sigh of relief when I finally lock eyes with Tess on the opposite side of the stone clearing. We share a weighted look; I try to go for a small smile but I think it turned into more of a grimace. Still, Tessa did their best to copy me before we both turned our attention to the stage. 

The portly, dreary-looking man taps the mic twice and begins the same speech he makes every year about Olympia and its founding. How it was created from the ashes of what once was called North America, and how the new country became a beacon of hope under the rule of the Titans. But, he says, the Titans were cruel beings and created the Fallen District to create weapons that they terrorized other countries, and even their own people, with. Many citizens tried to rebel against the tyrants, resulting in a vicious and bloody war, but the Titans, especially their leader Kronos, were too powerful. It all seemed hopeless… until the Gods, a new generation of superpowered beings rose up and defeated the Titans, ending the First Great War.

He doesn’t even get to the more relevant war, the one in which all the districts rebelled  and the Capitol created the Hunger Games yadda yadda, until almost half an hour later. They’re definitely laying it on thick this year, which is to be expected. Ever since the disappearance of one of the current Gods, the entire Capitol has been on edge, especially since rumour has it that rebels still remaining from the Second Great War were responsible for the disappearance. 

To be honest? Who cares about some aloof, stuck-up god when the Capitol is taking two dozen children every year and placing them in a deathtrap? Who cares when the Capitol is using a “game” to keep each district in their places, to keep them down like an obedient dog? Because that’s all games are: a ploy to remind us that we are totally at the Capitol’s mercy, and we can’t do a thing about it, even as our children, friends, the people we care about are dying at the hands of our would-be-saviors. I’m sick of it, so are thousands upon thousands of others, but we can’t do a thing because the Capitol has the gods and demigods, the peacekeepers, the resources, and a million of other things that they purposely keep from the districts. 

I must’ve spaced out, because next thing I know, the mayor is stepping away from the podium to let Melpomene, District Twelve’s representative from the Capitol, speak and begin the actual ceremony.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” 

Happy, huh. I wonder what alternate universe she’s been living in. Probably one where dressing up like a walking tragedy is considered fashionable. Or, y’know, the Capitol.

“Now! The moment you have all been waiting for!” 

I hold my breath as the eternally bubbly woman says her signature “Ladies first!” line before reaching into the dreaded fish bowl filled to the brim with thousands of slips of paper with hundreds of names and please don’t pick Tess please… 

It’s not Tess, thank whatever actual deities exist, and one knot of tension loosens. An older, brown-haired girl walks to stage as if in a trance, her face as pale as her bleached dress. I don’t pay attention to her name; the only thing I have to worry about now is the boy tribute. The girl is on stage and Melpomene’s voice sounds so much further away than before when she announces she’s about to pick which boy is going to most likely die. It’s selfish, but I can’t help but wish that it’s not me, that it’s not me, please… 

Melpomene crosses over from the boy’s fish bowl to the microphone, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice.

And it’s not me.

Chapter Text

And when he saw her raised for the slaughter

Abraham's daughter raised her bow

How darest you child defy your father

You better let young Isaac go

- Abraham’s Daughter by Arcade Fire -

~

Melpomene crosses over from the boy’s fish bowl to the microphone, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me.

In hindsight, it might as well have been.

“Miles Blake!” 

Murmurs and scoffs echo across the plaza, but I barely hear them through the ringing in my ears.  No. No, this shouldn’t be happening, he only had his name in once! He should be safe!

“Well, come up, dear!” I feel frozen, my blood turned to solid ice and I swear my heart stopped beating as soon as I heard his name called. 

“Don’t be shy!” 

I can feel the kids shifting behind me, but it’s not until I hear the familiar thump thump of Miles’s crutches that I manage to knock the frigid feeling from my bones.

I spin around, almost fast enough to give me whiplash, and I see him, his face ashen as he struggles to walk up to the stage. 

If he goes on that stage, if he fights in that-in that game, he’ll die. Miles is going to die, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Not nothing , something whispers in the back of my mind. Something else inside me snaps.

I’m running towards the boy who’s my little brother in every way that counts before I even register what I’m doing, shoving people aside until I’m in the empty space kept open for tributes to march down. As soon as Miles is in my sights, I run. Peacekeepers meet me halfway, three of them barricading my way to my baby brother.

“No! Miles! Wait, I-” He turns, his eyes wide and glazed with fear as we meet each other’s eyes. That’s all I need to affirm that what I’m about to do is the right choice. 

“I vol-!” the men attempting to hold me back freeze when they realize what I’m about to say, “I volunteer!” 

Any and all noise cuts out completely at my declaration, the peacekeepers finally letting go of me and staring in shock through their glass face shields. 

I take a deep breath and shout one more time, “I volunteer as tribute” in a firmer voice. I’m amazed that it doesn't shake. Small mercies, I guess. 

“Oh! Well this is a very interesting turn of events!” Melpomene’s shrill voice blares through the dead silence, “We have District Twelve’s very first volunteer!”

“No!” Miles’ shout follows closely behind the colorful woman’s cheerful announcement, the kid abandoning his crutches to rush towards me. I run the rest of the way and just barely catch him before he collapses. “No, Lesy, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t -!” I embrace him tightly and gently try to soothe him as he cries into my chest, not unlike how we did just this morning. 

“I’m sorry, I have to go, I have to- I’m sorry.” The peacekeepers start to drag me back again, but this time towards the stage. 

“No! No !” Miles refuses to let go, his small hands holding onto my shirt in a death grip.

“Ya ‘ave ta let go, Miles, please.” Tess appears in front of me suddenly, her face pale and a few tears streaming down her face. She does what she does best and immediately takes stock of the situation, prying off our little brother gently and with hushed words of encouragement. 

I can barely think through the raw mess of emotions jumbling up inside me, threatening to choke me out as I watch Tess carry a hysteric Miles away. She sent one last panicked look my way before disappearing into the crowd.

I feel numb as I’m guided to the stage by the men who had only a few seconds ago tried to keep me from it. 

Everything feels so fuzzy, so distorted. The next thing I know I’m standing next to Melpomene - I can’t even remember climbing the stairs.

“Ah, well, that took longer than usual! What an exciting day for this District!” 

Silence and the faint sound of crying is all she gets in response. After an awkward pause, she clears her throat and tries to move on like nothing happened.

“What’s your name, dear?” 

My eyes dart to the mic she had moved to point towards me. My throat tightens and I can barely get out my name in a horse whisper.

“Lester. Papadopoulos.” 

I see her cringe before she’s able to hide it behind an obviously fake smile. After a while, people’s reactions to my name stopped stinging as much. I mean, yeah, It’s kind of a mouthful, and maybe it’s not the prettiest name in the world, but Georgie was the one who came up with it. She wanted me to have the same name as a character in a book she was reading. How could I refuse her?

But this time… I can’t help but feel a bit vindicated. How dare someone who dresses like a strobe light on drugs judge me for… anything really. I hold onto that feeling tightly, grateful for a little bit of release from that horrible numbness.

“Oh, well, here you are everyone! District Twelve’s tributes for the 74th annual Hunger Games! C’mon you two; Shake hands!” 

Melpomene backs up, and I’m confused for a split second before remembering oh yeah, there’s a second tribute . 

I turn towards her hesitantly; I have to look up to meet her dull grey eyes (she’s quite a bit taller than me; most people are, though) and for a split second her stormy gaze connects with my own bright blues. That’s when it strikes me: I know this girl, if vaugly. She’s one of the richer kids, one of the one who don’t have to take tesserae, and also one of the ones that… uh, let’s just say that she’s not very fond of me. 

I’m brought back to the moment when her clammy hand grabs at mine. We clasp our hands together, but camaraderie is the last thing I feel.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Her parting words echo like a broken record in my mind as the other tribute and I are led through the rusted doors of the Justice Building.

At least the room they stuff me into has a window, I think, trying to stay positive. 

It’s not working very well.

I’m locked in one of the fanciest-looking rooms I’ve ever seen, with polished wood molding and maroon velvet curtains framing the singular, carefully cleaned window that looks out at the lovely view of a cement wall. That’s where the niceness ends, though; the room’s small, and barely furnished. Only a stiff, worn armchair breaks up the space, though it’s so rickety-looking I’m afraid to sit in it. 

I’m stuck in there alone for maybe fifteen minutes before I hear distorted noises outside the thick wooden door, the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer and closer. I stand and spin around from my seat underneath the window just as the door opens.

“You have three minutes”. That’s all the warning I have before Georgie comes running in at full speed, and I barely manage to brace myself before she crashes into me. We still end up falling to the ground; I lean against the window ledge that I was just sitting on moments before and try to forget everything that’s going on as I hold my little sister.

“Lesy!” She’s crying, sobbing into my shirt as she clings tightly to me, and it's almost like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. I’m afraid of that, too, if I’m being honest.

“Oh, Lester…” Two more bodies envelop us, and try as I might I can’t stop the tear that rolls down my face. 

“Mom… máma… I’m sorry”. Both older women shush me softly and resume holding me and Georgie in one big, desperate hug for a little while longer before Emmie pulls away and cradles my face in her pale hands, 

“Don’t be sorry, baby. Just try… try to come back to us, okay?” I nod shakily and close my eyes, pressing my forehead to hers.

“We love you, baby, never forget tha-”.

“Times up.”  My eyes snap open and I yelp when my family is suddenly torn away from me.

“No, wait!” Within seconds, all three of them are gone. Georgie’s shrieks of protest are cut off when the door snaps shut, and I’m left alone again. I feel like curling up into a ball on the floor, but I settle for hiding my face in my hands as I let out what would be an embarrassing keen if anyone was here to hear it. 

No. No, I'm not going to break down. Not here, and definitely not in the arena. I have to try to win this thing, even if the mere thought of the games makes me want to throw up. I chose this, I say to myself as I furiously wipe away my tears, I am doing this for Miles, for Tess and their father. I owe it to my moms and sister to come back to them alive.

A click brings me back to reality; the door is being opened again.

“Lester Papadopoulos, wha’ in the ever-loving fuck were you thinkin’?!” Tess storms up to me with all the righteous fury of, well, a storm. For a second I’m afraid they’re going to hit me, maybe punch me in the face, but as soon as they’re within arms length they just pull me in for a crushing hug.

“You're an idiot”. 

I chuckle weakly before tucking my face into the crook of her neck.

“I know”. 

We both pull away after a second; they don’t give us much time, and I still have to say goodbye to the last two members of my family. They don't fully let go; she keeps a hand on my back and the other on my shoulder, which I’m grateful for. 

“Hey.” 

Terry and Miles hadn't moved from their spot near the door yet, but as soon as I turned towards them, they took it as their cue to squish me into yet another group hug. I’m not complaining, though. As far as sendoffs to my inevitable death go, this one isn’t bad, even if I can almost feel my heart ripping into tiny, jagged pieces.

“Why?” I kiss the top of Miles’ head and respond to his whispered question in an equally soft voice.

“You’re my baby brother, it’s my job to protect you.” 

He suddenly jerks away angrily, glaring at me while his hands remain locked onto my now wrinkled shirt and tears stream down his cheeks.

“No! Ya aren’t supposed to be going, ya can’t-” he deflates, his anger disappearing just as quickly as it came. “-ya can’t leave. Ya can’t die…”. I reel him back in, and just take a second to collect myself. Tess is at my back, Miles at my front, and their dad encircling us fully with his broad arms, and I take this one last moment to feel safe.

“I’m sorry for leavin’. I’m sorry wh- if I die. But I will do my best ta come back.” 

He sniffles, while Tess and their dad’s arms tighten further.

“Promise?” I look down at Miles’ innocent face.

“Promise.”

“Times up. This is the last group.” 

And just like before, the last bit of my family is gone, though not before Terry squeezes my shoulder and meets my eyes in a mute good luck .

I know I’ll need it.

The other tribute (I should probably learn her name now that we’re on the same metaphorical boat) and I get the “privilege” of being paraded through the streets in a sleek, black car. The two of us are sitting on either side of Melpomene, the small woman’s perfume making my nose itch and eyes water as she rambles on about one thing or another without a care in the world. 

(And when I call her small, I mean small . I didn’t really pay much attention to her before, but now that I’m right next to her I notice that, somehow, she’s shorter than my 5’5”. I also notice the tension lining her face and body language; obviously she’s about as happy to be here than I am.)

Resolved to ignore the other two passengers, I sit stiffly and refuse to look at them. Only problem with that plan is that the other place to look besides my own beat up hands is out the car window and out into the sea of screaming people. The fact that I can’t tell if they’re celebrating or angry just serves to put me further on edge than before. I didn’t think that was possible, and yet here we are.

It takes an agonizingly awkward twenty minutes to get to the train. It’s a state of the art model according to Melpomene; with its shiny chrome plating and sleek design, I can’t help but stare a bit in awe.

We’re riding in that?

“Well, in you go! Can’t keep the Capitol waiting! We are, after all, on a schedule.” I flinch when a tall section of the train suddenly slides upward, revealing what I assume to be the entrance. Huh. That was actually pretty cool.

I’d like to say that I was a gentleman and that I let the other tribute go first, but in truth the taller girl just breezed past me without even a glance, purposely knocking my shoulder harshly as she went.

Well, that hurt. And it’ll definitely leave a bruise.

Instead of feeling angry, I just feel the numbness starting to creep back in. I welcome it; it’s better than crippling fear or trepidation any day of the week.

The door closes behind me after I finally manage to climb over the threshold, and my chest restricts painfully at the reminder that I am completely and utterly trapped. There’s no going back. Literally.

When I finally scrounge up enough courage to turn away from the now invisible door, I have to fight to keep my jaw from comically dropping. 

The hallway appears to be made of solid steel and glass, several doors and different identical hallways leading to what I presume are different rooms. It’s not until we’re led into one of those rooms, though, that I’m completely and utterly floored. 

The walls are an extravagant shade of deep blue, only broken up by several gold-lined windows and the shimmering wood molding crowning the edges of the huge space. Equally blue cushioned chairs are tastefully placed all throughout the room, and several tables piled high with colorful treats and beverages are scattered around, most within reaching distance of the previously mentioned chairs while others are pushed against the sides. 

The only thing I can think as I gawk unabashedly at every little thing is if the capitol is so rich, why are most of the districts so poor?

“Sit, sit! Everything here is available to you, and it is only a taste of what you’ll have for your stay in the Capitol! As honored guests of the Council of Olympia, you will have only the finest of what we have to offer!” Melpomene guides us to two seats near one of the many small windows lining the walls, and it startles me when I realize that we’ve already started moving.

“So… where’s our mentor?” The girl speaks up from her seat beside me, startling me from my thoughts. “I thought that they were supposed to be at the reaping.” 

Somehow, Melpomene perks up even further, her already broad smile widening to an uncomfortable degree.

“Oh! I almost forgot about the surprise!” 

She claps her hands excitedly and jumps from her seat with something bordering on genuine joy. I have to admit, it makes me curious. 

Usually, each district’s tributes get their own “mentor”, aka someone who had won a previous Game and can relay life saving advice and information to their newest pupils. As you can probably guess, those mentors have to be from the same district as the new tributes. The only problem with that is that for District 12, we have only ever had two winners and the last one just died three months ago. I wouldn’t put it past the Capitol to just… not give us one, but if Melpomene’s reaction has anything to go by, I might be surprised.

“I will go fetch him; I’ll be right back, but for now enjoy the provided amenities! The strawberry cakes are my personal favorite!” 

My mind spins with theories of who this mysterious mentor could be, and I try to catch the girl’s eyes (I really should learn her name). Maybe she knows something I don’t? But no, as soon as Melpomene is out of the room, she stands and walks over to a table piled high with what I’m guessing are mini cakes. Figures.

I stay seated, fiddling with the bottom of my shirt while I catalogue every inch of the room to occupy myself. Every moment spent in silence is agonizing, and I almost sigh in relief when I finally hear footsteps from behind the door. 

I had just started to get up before the door slid open, and two figures stepped into the room. Melpomene enters first, chatting expressly at a tall, dark-haired man and… my breath hitches and I freeze . When I look at him, a startling sense of familiarity hits me like the train we’re riding on. It almost feels like… like I should know him. Like I should know that messy black hair, those shifting green eyes and that golden tan skin…

The man raises his eyes from Melpomene and meets mine; that electric sense of familiarity grows tenfold, especially once he smiles.

“Hi, It’s nice to meet you! My name is Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, and I’m your mentor. Let’s start figuring out how you’re gonna survive, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Now you can never hurt me

That's all I've ever known

I tell myself I'll be okay

If I can just survive today

But this pain inside my chest won't go away

- Lonely (Laai) -

~

“Why?” My mouth moves before my brain can catch up, and suddenly I have three sets of eyes staring at me. Oops. 

I cringe internally, but I hold my gaze steady against Percy Jackson’s calm one. I expect anger, or perhaps disgust, from the taller man, but I’m surprised when the only visible response from him is an interesting mix of understanding and curiosity. 

“Lester, that was incredibly rude! Apologize this insti-”

“No, no it's fine.” 

Percy cuts Melpomene off mid-sentence, not breaking eye contact with me. His eyes send shivers down my spine; they’re a beautiful shade of green, dazzling like the ocean and highlighted by what looks like simple black eyeliner. However, what really strikes me is the nauseating sense of deja vu that seems to come from that broken, blank piece of me that I haven’t even felt a flicker from in the past two years. I feel like I know those eyes, but at the same time… I have a feeling I have never met this person before in my life. It’s confusing, and more than a little disorienting.

“I’m guessing that you mean ‘why is a demigod from another district mentoring you’?” His voice snaps me out of my musings and I duck my head to hide my heated face. Gods, I probably look like an idiot. 

“Uh…yeah. Sorry.” He chuckles warmly, a sound that shocks me out of my self-deprecation spiral. 

“It’s no problem. You’re right to be confused. Come on, sit.” He gestures to our former seats and continues, “You, too, Emma; it’s kind of a long story.” The girl, Emma I now know, walks over quickly, sitting down in the chair next to mine just as Percy and Melpomene take their own seats across from us. I slowly sit back down, looking away from Percy for the first time since he arrived to make sure I don’t accidentally miss the chair entirely. That is the last thing I need right now.

“Okay, so… I assume that I don’t have to explain my whole life story.” 

I almost snorted at that. Who doesn’t know about Perseus Jackson?

As the Demigod son of the great God Poseidon, he was supposed to be taken to the Capitol like all other Demigods, but due to the… secretive nature of the God’s relationship with Percy’s mother, he was instead raised in the back alleys of District 4.

That is, until he was twelve and unlucky enough to be his district’s tribute for the 64th Hunger Games. It wasn’t even until he accidentally caused a tsunami in the arena that anyone besides his parents knew of his heritage. Obviously, it was a huge deal, and it didn’t blow over for years, even after he was finally moved to the Capitol.

So, needless to say, the man sitting across from me is pretty infamous.

Percy clears his throat, bringing me back to the present before he begins.

“I’m going to be honest with you: my reasons weren’t entirely altruistic.” He shifts in his seat. “I do feel bad about your situation, which is why I volunteered to mentor your District specifically, but the reason I wanted to be a mentor in general is because, well, a bit more complicated.” 

Ah. So pity mixed with, let me guess, family drama? Everyone in the Capitol is predictable like that, they live for entertaining drama. I should’ve figured that even the great Perseus would not be immune to that.

“About two years ago, an Olympian disappeared, as I’m sure you also know.” I see Emma frowning in my peripheral vision, and I internally cringe when she speaks over Percy.

“Okay…? What does that have to do with anything?” Percy sends a dry look her way. Unlike with me earlier, Melpomene doesn’t even react other than a slight frown at Emma’s infraction; of course she doesn’t, she probably had already decided that Emma is her favorite and that I was devil’s spawn. I’ve noticed that as a recurring theme in my life.

“Okay, first nugget of advice from yours truly: patience is key. You won't figure out anything if you don’t let the person speak.” Emma huffs and looks away, and Percy takes that as his cue to continue. 

“The remaining Olympians, especially those with children, have become extremely protective of said children.” Percy huffs and leans back, adopting an annoyed expression. “My dad was hesitant to even let me out of his sight for the first couple months, which let me tell you, was very awkward and unpleasant for all involved.” He snorts and starts tapping his fingers against his arm.

“Naturally, I got fed up with that pretty quickly, but I couldn’t do anything about it… until this year’s Hunger Games. In short, I saw it as an opportunity to get away from my dad and his guards, so I took it and ran.” He shifts forwards again till he’s perched at the edge of his seat.

“So… any questions?”

 There is one, but it’s probably stupid and incredibly childish. Still, I can’t help but be curious, and if there’s one thing you should know about me is that I’m willing to risk embarrassment to get my answers. I hesitantly raise my hand like how I’ve seen school children do through the dirty windows of a classroom, aka the closest I’ve ever gotten to going to an actual school.

Percy’s eyes light up a bit in amusement before schooling his features into an over-exaggerated and obviously fake scowl before pointing at me dramatically. “Yes, young pupil? Ask thy question, and I shall answer!” 

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing and before I lose my nerve, I blurt out, “Ya can, uh, control water righ’?” 

He blinks rapidly, startled; he obviously had not expected that. For a second all I can think is an endless stream of shit shit shit I screwed up shit-

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, I can.” It’s my turn to blink in surprise when a mischievous grin stretches across his face, his eyes twinkling. “Do you wanna s-?” 

“No!”

 I flinch back at Melpomene’s sharp retort, glancing over at the woman in surprise. She’s glaring at Percy now, her back ramrod straight and a frown maring her abnormally pale face.

“Every individual Demigod is strictly forbidden from the use of any and all special abilities, accepting Capitol given command or express permission. You know this, Mr. Jackson.” 

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Percy heavily side eyes the squat women glaring up at him from her position at the edge of the seat. 

“Yeah, I do know.” That mischievous twinkle flares back life in his eyes. “But I also know that the Gods aren’t here right now. Besides, it’ll only be a small demonstration, nothing major… please?” 

His face he pulls reminds me of a baby seal, and I have to keep myself from laughing when I realize that he’s honest-to-god pouting .

Melpomene, on the other hand, looks like someone handed her a moldy sandwich after promising her caviar, or, I don’t know, some other rich person food. 

“I will not assist in breaking the law, even for someone of your standing. Which speaking of, you should be taking more seriously; your father would be very disappointed in you!” 

She sticks her nose into the air like she smelled something nasty, her features curled in disdain. Percy’s eye twitches, and when he speaks, his voice reminds me of those awful icy winters in Twelve: cold, unyielding, and ready to strike at any moment.

“I think you’ll find that I don’t care all that much about what my father thinks of me, Melpomene. I’m not going to do anything dangerous, if that’s what you’re actually worried about, but if you’re really that scared you can leave the room.”

He turns away from her dismissively, ignoring her indignant spluttering, and I internally cheer for the Demigod’s victory. I’m beginning to think Twelve’s mentor this year isn’t all that bad.

“Now, let’s see…” 

He rubs his hands together before stretching his left towards one of the glass bottles sitting innocently on the table. I stare on in amazement when the liquid inside moves, pushing up and out of its container and flowing through the air to and around Percy’s hand, forming a ball in his hand. Even Emma, who had been brooding silently after Percy admonished her, gasped in amazement and is currently staring at the supernatural sight in awe. 

“Pretty cool, right?” 

I nod silently, keeping my eyes on the crystalline water (well, I assume it’s water. Could he control other liquids? That would be incredible!) as it spins.

“Well, as wonderful of a demonstration that was, it is getting late and we’ll need all the rest we can get before we get to the Capitol!” 

Melpomene breaks through the moment with all the grace of a drunk elephant (which, now that I think about it, is she actually drunk? That would explain why she’s so cheerful at the damn time) and Percy startles, accidentally losing control over the water and sending it splashing all over his very expensive-looking clothes. 

“Oh my! I’m terribly sorry!” 

Melpomene’s voice drips with fake sympathy, the woman not moving a muscle to help the mess she made. I seeth internally; It’s only been, what, an hour? Two? And I already want to strangle this bedazzled flamingo of a woman with my bare hands. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but still. If everyone in the Capitol is like her, I’ll gladly step into the Games’ arena to get away from the sheer obnoxiousness of it all. 

“It’s fine.” 

His voice is strained, and his thoughts are obviously on a similar track to mine. Y’know, barring the “I’ll gladly die to get out of the Capitol” bit. I watch as he takes a deep breath, and plasters on another smile, though this one looks a bit more forced.

“Here, watch this.”

He waves his hand over his wet clothes, the water evaporating into the air and leaving the clothes looking no worse for wear. 

Huh. Cool. 

“Now!” 

The other man claps his hands loudly to punctuate his exclamation and stands up. “Melpomene was right about needing all the rest you can get; I’ll show you to your rooms.” 

Next thing I know, I’m being led through a hallway to a nondescript door while Emma is led to the one across the narrow passage.

“Goodnight kiddos; we’ll talk shop in the morning. We’re gonna arrive by noon tomorrow, so no sleeping in, okay?” 

Right, tomorrow. When we start preparing for our deaths. Yay.

“Yeah… see ya tomorrow.” 

I wave awkwardly and, after one last sympathetic smile thrown our way, Percy’s gone and Emma and I are alone. I shuffle nervously, uncertain if she would even appreciate me telling her goodnight. 

“Um… goodnight?” All I get is a sneer and a door slammed in my face. 

Okay then. 

I can’t say I didn’t expect that, considering that she’s never been friendly to me during the handful of times we’ve ever seen each other. Besides, it’s probably for the best that we don’t get friendly with each other for… obvious reasons. Our near-inevitable deaths, being one very, very large one.

With that last wonderful thought, I walk into my temporary room. It’s the same steel grey as the hallway and overall very boring. A bed and a bedside table are the only pieces of furniture, both of which are the same shade of grey. Even the blankets are a desolate shade of grey! Honestly, with all the effort they put into the other room, they couldn’t have put a little more into this one? 

I flop backwards onto the bead with a heavy sigh. Now it’s just me… alone… with my thoughts… that’s never a good combination. 

I sit up and scan the room, searching for something, anything, to distract me before I start crying. I finally notice what looks like a set of doors, though to be fair they’re kinda hard to see; they blend in near-seamlessly with the surrounding wall. I decide to check that out later, when I actually feel like getting off the bed. 

When my eyes land on a thin, rectangular strip of metal separate from everything else I internally cheer and scramble over the (admittedly soft) sheets to snatch up the strange object. It’s cool in my hands, and I notice that the front is a reflective black. 

A remote . 

The word comes easy to me and the object feels a bit less foreign even though I still have no idea what it does. Hesitantly, I touch the black surface… and then almost throw the remote across the room when it suddenly lights up with bright colors.

“What the…” After getting over my small heart attack, I stare at the device, becoming more and more curious over what it does. It went dark again, so I tap it one more time; this time when it lights up I only stare on in wonder. The screen shows a pattern of small boxes placed around a large circle sitting innocently in the center, all of them (all of the buttons ) featuring symbols in the shapes of arrows except for the circle which is labeled with a simple “on”. I tap the circle and yet again I’m startled when a small rectangle lights up on the wall across from the bed and next to the entrance.

“-was truly phenomenal; I still to this day remember that moment, that moment when a tribute became a victor.” I flinch back when I realize that the rectangle is actually a TV. Now, I’m no stranger to TVs; they’re everywhere, even in lowly District Twelve. I just didn’t recognize this one because, well, the TVs I know are usually boxy or made with projectors, not inside the wall . 

I guess it doesn’t matter what it looks like though; all of them play the same channels, and this time of year every single one of those channels are dedicated to the upcoming Hunger Games. Y’know, the last thing I want to think about.

Still, I watch for a few more seconds in morbid fascination, catching a glimpse of one of the past tributes beating a guy in the head with a rock before I click the off button. I feel out of breath, like I just ran a marathon. I feel like crying again, too, but no tears come. 

Gods, there’s no way I’m going to survive this, is there?

I don’t know how long I lay in the bed, staring blankly at the wall, but before I know it I hear a knock at the door and a cheerful declaration that breakfast is ready. I sit up carefully, taking in a deep breath before standing up. I still sort of feel like crying, but at least what little rest I did get helped a bit. 

It’s only when I stretch that I remember that I’m in the same clothes as I had been yesterday. Usually, that’s not really a big deal, but when I sniff at them I realize that they kind of reek. Again, not usually a problem, but usually I’m working in the mines or at home. No one in either place really minds that sort of thing. 

But now? I’m in a Capitol issued train heading for said Capitol; it’s probably best if I can find a change of clothes to respect their delicate sensibilities and preserve at least some of my dignity.

I determine that this is the perfect time to explore the two odd doors I had noticed last night, hoping that one of them is a closet and that whoever set up the train had the forethought to put a change in clothes inside. Luck is on my side for once when I find two fabric-laden hangers hung behind the first door. The first hanger has a silky set of what I think are supposed to be pajamas and what I was probably supposed to wear last night. Oops. 

I grab the other hanger and lay it on the bed, staring at the outfit in slight horror. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s nothing compared to Melpomene’s neon get-up, but that doesn’t change the fact that apparently, someone out there thought that blood red and gold was a perfect color combination for a simple button down and slacks.

Yikes.

Still, it’s the only option I have, so I suck it up and quickly change. I look down at myself when I’m done and I swear every single cell in my body cringes. These are so not my colors.

I sigh and run my fingers through my horribly messy, but thankfully still relatively clean, hair. That’s one step done, now time for part two: braving breakfast and getting some potentially life-saving advice. Totally easy, I got this.

When I finally made it to the room we were in the other day, everyone else was already there. Melpomene, of course, is wearing a violently neon-purple dress suit with a matching hat, while Emma is wearing a dress colored a garish shade of yellow. Percy, on the other hand, is wearing a simple navy blue T-shirt and white pants, the image of a sea-foam green trident stitched on the shirt’s pocket.

All of them are seated at a large, wooden table covered in plates of all shapes and sizes carrying various types of steaming food. My stomach growls hollowly.

Shut up stomach , I say internally.

No. Eat food , it says back.

Whatever , I reply before walking up to the table.

“Ah, Lester! You’re finally here, I see!” The passive agressive and abnoxiously cheerful remark from Melpomene puts me on edge, but I brush it off in favor of focusing on the food. Percy sends me a quick smile in greeting before turning back to his food.

I hesitantly start eating, making sure to be quiet as the other three occupants of the table continue their conversation around me.

“So, as I was saying, you want to find the high ground. No matter the situation or what type of environment they put you into, being in a position where you can see more around you and make it harder for people to sneak up on you is always a good thing.” 

Emma is intently staring at Percy, nodding seriously along with his words so much she kinda looks like a bobble head. I just eat my pancakes while I listen because, as nice as Percy is to look at, that is really creepy.

“High ground, right. And what about, like, fire an’ stuff?” 

Has she not watched any of the previous games? I’ve only seen two, and even I know that starting a fire is stupid. Percy, predictibly, shakes his head firmly, taking a sip of his drink before responding.

“No, no fires, especially at night. The light and smoke would just be beacons to the other tributes; they’re basically the equivalent of shouting “Here I am! Please kill me!” at the top of your lungs.” The man shoves a biscuit in his mouth and continues with his mouth full. “If you do need to start a fire, you-” 

Melpomene smacks his arm.

“Chew before you talk! That is very unbecoming of you!” Percy rolls his eyes but complies, chewing and swallowing so quickly I’m impressed he didn’t choke. 

“Anyways, where was I…? Oh yeah, fires. You might need one if you, say, catch something to eat. If you do, you obviously don’t want to eat it raw, so you would make a small fire out of the driest wood you can find and, as soon as you're done cooking your prey, stomp it out. Again, only do this during the day, or even the smallest of fires can get you killed.”

I suppose that makes sense to me, on some level. Emma, on the other hand, looked a little sick at the idea of eating a critter. If I didn’t already know that she was from a richer family, that would’ve been a giant red flag; I and most other people I know have eaten mice and the occasional squirrel before, so it doesn’t really bother us. Anymore, at least. I used to be grossed out, but I learned quickly that to be a picky eater in the slums of Twelve is to be dead.

“I remember in, uh, previous games that sometimes tributes would get sponsors. How, um, would we do that? Get sponsors, I mean.” 

Percy raises an eyebrow at me and at first I’m afraid that I somehow said something wrong. That worry quickly dissipates though when the man only smiles and points his fork at me.

“That. Is a great question. The answer? Get people to like you.” 

Oh. Well that’s not what I expected, I think with dread settling into my stomach. Between getting beat up regularly and the majority of the District shunning me constantly, I don’t really have the best track record with the whole “people liking me thing”.  

“They tell you that the games are to ensure that another war doesn’t happen, that it is punishment for the Districts for their rebellion, and while that used to be true, the reason lost a lot of its merit after all these years. Most, if not all, people involved with the war are dead. They’re just punishing people who never did anything, and they know that. This event has become nothing but entertainment to the elites, and the whole ‘sponsor” thing is proof of that.”

“Sponsors were not a thing until the 31st Hunger Games when the Game Master noticed that people were losing interest. So, he created a new level to the Game: if people like a tribute, they can send them gifts, like fresh water, or medicine, or whatever else they need to get the upper hand and win. It’s like betting in a lottery for them: they decide who they think has the best chance of winning, place their bets in the form of favors, and then wait and see if the gamble was worth it.”

“So yes, the best thing you can do is get people to like you, because if they do, they will be more willing to bet on you. They’ll be more willing to play their side of the Game.”

Melpomene began looking more and more uncomfortable as Percy went on with his mini-rant, especially as the tanned man started stabbing at his sausage with his fork. She looked like she wanted to interrupt but she didn’t, surprisingly enough. That didn’t stop her from looking constipated though. Emma, too, looked a bit uncertain, afraid even.

For me, though? It’s reassuring that I’m not the only one who thinks this way, and a bit surprising that someone who has lived in the Capitol for years is the one to reassure me.

“Any more questions? We should be there soon, but I think we have a bit more time…”

“Oh! We’re here!”

“...Or maybe not. We’ll have more time later anyways.” 

Emma had jumped towards the window after she had noticed our dreaded destination out of it. I only get a glimpse of tall, white towers from my seat before we’re in a tunnel. 

“Oh, I’m sure this is so exciting for you!” 

Yeah. Excited is one word for it, I think but don’t say as I give Melpomene a subtle sideways glance. It must not have been as subtle as I wanted it to be because Percy catches my eye and winks at me again. My face warms at being caught.

Light suddenly bursts through the room again, signaling the end to the dark tunnel, and I finally see the outside of the Capitol in full and… wow. 

Buildings of all shapes and heights scratch the sky, the white metal gleaming against the harsh sun and reflecting onto the surface of the crystal clear lake surrounding the enormous city. I became so enraptured by the sight that I didn’t even realize that I had moved to stand by the window until the view changed to one of hundreds of colorful, screaming people waiting for us at the train station. I jerk back, suddenly nauseous when I realize that they’re screaming for us. For Emma… and for me.

I back up from the window, an overwhelming surge of panic and anxiety flooding my brain with thoughts that basically boil down to “fuck”. 

Emma, on the other hand, just smiles in wonder and waves at the crowd. 

They scream louder, and I almost want to cover my ears.

 I jump when a hand lands on my shoulder, my head snapping up as the panic increases tenfold. No nono, don’t touch me I’m sorry -

I deflate a bit when I see it’s just Percy, his smile sympathetic and way too knowing for my comfort. He removes his hand, though, which I’m both thankful for and perplexingly disappointed in.

“You okay?” 

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, not with the hundreds (no, thousands ) of people out there just waiting to get a glimpse of their annual entertainment. He nods back, and pushes me gently towards the door. 

Oh. We must be getting close to our stop. 

Taking in a deep breath, I walk forwards as confidently as I can manage. My hands still shake, though, later on when the four of us disembark from the train and officially enter the Capitol.

Chapter Text

I'm in the eye of the storm

And I've never been here before

All of my thoughts screaming loud

Saying that I'll never make it out

- Eye of The Storm (Caleb hearn) - 

~

To my immense relief, the train doesn’t stop in front of the crowd. Our real destination is a stout, circular building made of gleaming white marble, the train cutting through a golden arch before entering yet another tunnel. I hold my breath, the electric lights lining the walls outside casting an eerie light on the interior of the train. 

When we finally slow to a stop, I have to consciously hold myself back from gaping like a goldfish. We’ve entered a massive platform, the gleaming white walls decorated with purple and gold banners as looming columns arch up to support the domed ceiling. As we disembark the train, I can’t stop myself from trying to catalogue every little detail, from the intricately carved golden doors ahead to the elegant symbols etched on each of the banners. 

Even as I take it all in, that nauseating sense of deja vu is back and I’m desperately trying to figure out why in the Gods’ names all of this feels so fricken familiar yet so utterly foriegn at the same time. 

It’s a very disorienting feeling, but I suppose that anything is better than those crowds. At least, with Percy still at my side, it’s easier to resist the temptation to run. I’ve barely known the Demigod for a day, but I just feel like he’s someone I can trust. That’s probably stupid, and might get me killed, but honestly? I’m gonna die anyway; I might as well make friends while I’m at it.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the great hero of Olympia! You really got yourself into trouble this time, you know that?” 

A woman’s voice cuts through the air like a lightning bolt, her tone cutting and sarcasm dripping from every syllable. I look up from where I was determinedly staring holes into my scuffed-up shoes, blinking in shock when I see a blue-eyed woman with blue-streaked, black hair flanked by a handful of peacekeepers marching towards us, her hands collapsed behind her back and chin held high. 

I- wait, she has blue eyes! Like mine! I’ve only ever seen one other person with that specific color, and they had died of old age just months after I arrived in District 12. I mean, it’s not like your eye color defines someone or anything, it’s just- kinda nice? It’s almost validating to know that there are other people out there with eyes like mine.

“Does that really surprise you? Oh, and nice to see you, too, pinecone face.” The two glare at each other, and for a second I’m afraid that I’m going to witness more grusome murder than what was already on my schedule. Thankfully, instead of killing each other, they just break out into wide grins and embrace heartily.

“It’s nice to see you, too, seaweed brain.” After a second, Percy pulls away and clears his throat.

“Thalia, meet District 12’s newest tributes, Emma and Lester. Emma and Lester, meet Thalia, the Demigod daughter of Zeus and Co-Commander of the 12th Legion Fulminata, imperial army of Olympia.” 

I stiffen while Emma gasps softly. This woman, Thalia Grace, is one of the most important figures in our country, ranked only below the Council of The Gods and Head Commander Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano. Long story short: I’m in the presence of two of the most powerful and famous Demigods in Olympian history (one of whom has freaking blue eyes , though I may be obsessing over that a bit too much), and it’s finally dawning on me that I might be meeting more in the near future. 

I don’t know how I feel about that.

“Hmph. I see how it is, Jackson. Fine, but we’re talking later. If Grover doesn’t yell enough at you when you see him, anyways.” 

Percy pales a bit and glares at the shorter woman, but she just ignores him and turns her attention to Emma and I with a devilish smirk. 

“Hello, and welcome to the Capitol. I was assigned by daddy dearest to guide you to the Remake Center, so if you would just follow me…” 

Melpomene makes a noise that reminds me of a dying pig,, her face turning an unflattering shade of red that against all logic shows up from underneath her caked-on makeup.

“I know the way there! It is my job as their representative to-” 

Thalia raises a single brow, her face as deadpan as her voice when the electric-eyed woman cuts the petulant grape off (What? She looks like a neon grape! It’s not my fault she has no fashion sense… or that I’m still a bit hungry, but we’re ignoring that).

“I’m aware, miss. But you don’t want to go against orders from the High God himself, do you?” Melpomene shrinks back with a muttered ‘no’, and Thalia smirks slightly in victory.  spinning around on her heel. “Well, c’mon then; we’re wasting daylight!”

Before I know it, the Commander is leading us through the golden doors and out into a spotless white hallway, every inch of its wide expanse gleaming under extravagant crystal chandeliers. I’ve only been here ten minutes and I’ve already seen more incessant opulence than I’ve ever had in my life! Georgie would’ve loved it.

Everything past that is a bit of a blur, the identical hallways blending together as Thalia and Percy somehow lead the way through countless twists and turns as they talk with each other in hushed whispers. The guards that Thalia came with stayed, all five of them circled around us like some sort of human barricade, a shield that only closes tighter and tighter in around us as the hallways become more crowded. Percy’s tense, and obviously doesn’t like the guards being there if his annoyed glances tell me anything. I ponder on why as we keep walking. 

(I’m definitely not forcefully making myself think of something else just to avoid everything else. Nope. Not at all.)

Before I know it, we’ve reached what I assume is our destination: a set of white doors that would’ve blended in with the walls if not for the gold inlay and intricate carving of an eagle surrounded by laurel leaves, the Capitol’s symbol. 

I saw the doors coming from a mile away (figuratively at least; the hallways are long, but not that long… I think), but Emma had been deep in thought, not paying attention to her surroundings, and ended up stumbling when our odd group came to a sudden halt. The taller girl blushes and rights herself before the Commander and Percy turn around, sending a glare my way as if daring me to laugh. I don’t, but it’s a near thing.

“This is where I leave you; good luck tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favor.” With one last smirk and a wink, she’s gone, along with two of the guards. Percy huffs and rolls his eyes, muttering to himself heatedly before plastering a strained smile on his face. 

“Okay… so, this is the Remake Center, and they’re gonna separate you and place you with teams who will clean you up a bit to make you more… er, presentable for the interviews and Game. Your personal stylist will see you after to get you fitted for the opening ceremonies.” Any levity, or at the very least numbness, that I was able to scrounge up before immediately sours. 

Of course. The scroungy rats from the lower Districts need to look good enough for the Capitol’s standards, because Gods forbid that even a hair is out of place while we get stabbed to death. Or strangled. Or bludgeoned, Or the million and one other ways I could die within the next week or two. 

My displeasure must show on my face, because Percy’s eyes crinkle apologetically when he glances at me. 

“We’re short on time, so you better head in. And good luck; the beauticians can be pretty thorough.”

And without further ado, an excited-looking Emma and I walk through over the golden threshold and into the care of whatever torture the beauticians see fit.

Everything aches.

I don’t think my beauticians left a single inch of my body untouched by their needles, or their brushes, or their wax. My skin tingles unpleasantly from when they tore out every bit of body hair I had, and from when they scrubbed down my body with a gritty foam that I swear took off at least three layers of skin along with the dirt, and from when they literally plucked my eyebrows. My eyebrows! If that isn’t the perfect representation of how ridiculous these people are, I don’t know what is.

“And… we’re done!” 

I’m currently standing in front of my prep team, stark naked, as they pluck any remaining hair from my body that they may have missed before. Usually I’d be embarrassed by now, but between Juniper’s green-dyed skin and Lacy’s pink hair, It feels more like there are tropical birds darting around me than real people.

The two women step back to admire their work. “Excellent! You almost look like a human being now that we got rid of all that grime!” says Lacy, and they both laugh. I plaster a smile on my face, remembering Percy’s advice. Get people to like you . 

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “We don't really have any opportunity to look as nice as you do.”  

Juniper coos in sickly sweet sympathy. “Oh, you poor darling!” 

The kicker is that they look genuinely distressed for me, especially Lacy. Although, considering she’s the niece of Aphrodite, a Goddess with power over love and beauty and member of the ruling Council, that’s not really surprising. 

Lucy nods solemnly, “That’s horrible! Though since we’ve gotten rid of the hair and filth, I dare say you have the beginnings of a very handsome visage!” 

I have to bite back a smile at how ridiculous they’re acting. It’s hard to actually hate them though; unlike with Melpomene, who’s just straight up mean, they’re only shallow and a bit crazy, but otherwise genuinely kind. I know that they’re trying to help me, just… in their own, unique  way.

“And once Rachel gets her hands on you, you’re going to be absolutely stunning! Oh! We should call her!” 

And with that, they dart out of the room, leaving me with the cold white walls and the metal table I’ve had to lie on for the past couple of hours. I resist the urge to grab the thin robe my beautifiers let me wear while they plucked and poked at my face; my stylist, Rachel, would probably just tell me to take it off again. 

Instead, I sit on the table and run my fingers through my tangled hair, the same hair my moms loved to mess with, and that Georgie loved to tug on. An overwhelming sense of sadness washes over me, almost bringing tears to my eyes. It’s finally sinking in that I’m likely never to see them again. I told them I’d try to win, to get back to them, and I will. I’m gonna try my hardest.

I just don’t think my hardest is going to be enough.

The door opens and someone who I’m guessing to be Rachel enters. At first glance, she looks the same as everyone else in this place, all bright colors and unnatural features. Then I look closer and am shocked when I realize that she actually looks… normal.

 Most of the stylists that are interviewed like for their appearance to reflect their work, and tend to be so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered that they’re downright grotesque. Rachel’s hair, while impossibly voluminous and the brightest orange I’ve ever seen, actually looks real. She wears a simple combination of a green t-shirt and ripped up jeans that are splattered with paint of every color. There’s not a single speck of visible makeup or trace of surgery on the visible parts of her body, the taller woman’s vivid green eyes not needing any makeup to pop and shine like polished emeralds. 

“Hi, Lester! I’m Rachel Elizabeth Dare, and I’m your stylist,” she says energetically, her voice echoing perfectly throughout the room as she grins broadly and sticks out her hand as a greeting.

“Uh, hello.” I take it cautiously, thrown off guard by this bubbly, natural looking person in front of me.

“Just give me a moment, and we’ll talk, okay?” she asks, then immediately sets to walking around my body, not touching but examining every inch of it with her eyes. I stand stock still and resist the urge to fidget.

“I’ve never seen you before; are you new?” The question slips out without my permission, but I don’t flinch back this time. I’m too curious about her and why she isn’t like the other stylists I’ve seen.

“Oh, yeah! This is my first year!” Ah.

“So they lumped you with District Twelve.” It’s not a question. New stylists are always given the lower districts; no experienced, high-end stylist would want to bother with us.

“Actually,  I asked for District Twelve.” She doesn’t expand on that, and I don’t push, though my mind is already spinning with all the possible reasons she could have for actually choosing my district. It doesn’t make any sense!

“Okay, awesome, thank you! You can put your robe on, and please follow me.” 

She leads me through a door and into a sitting room that has two purple couches facing off over a low table. Three of the walls are a blank white, the fourth entirely made of glass, allowing me an admittedly fantastic view of the city and the now overcast sky. 

“C’mon, sit! Let’s get down to business.” She guides me to one of the couches and then sits on the one across from me, pressing a button on the side of the table. I was expecting a lot of things, but for two steaming plates of food to come up from where part of the table’s surface split apart was definitely not one of them.

Chicken and orange slices slathered in a creamy sauce lay on pearly white bread, green peas and onions decorating the plate along with flower shaped rolls. To complete the ensemble, two small bowls of chocolate pudding rest innocently next to each plate and tall glasses of what I assume to be water. 

I gaze at the food in awe, trying to imagine how I would’ve made this meal back home. Chicken is way too expensive, but maybe mom could go hunting like she used to do when she was younger and get wild turkey as a substitute. Actually, she would probably need to shoot two or three in order to trade one for an orange. Miles and Tess have an old goat we could get milk from to substitute for the cream. We could grow peas and if I work a few extra shifts in the mines and save every last penny, I could probably get the rolls. 

But everything else seems completely unattainable. Days of illegal hunting and gathering, days of bargaining and working tirelessly, all for one meal and even then it would be a poor substitute for the Capitol’s version. How do they live like this, where everything they have is so automatic and reachable that they could just press a button and get anything they want? What do they do all day if they don’t have to work themselves to the bone and then further just to get enough food to survive? 

What do they do, other than sit around warping their bodies and waiting around for their annual shipment of tributes to roll in and die for the sake of their entertainment?

I look up and see Rachel’s striking eyes trained on my face. She looks away quickly, but not before I catch a glimpse of what almost looked like guilt in her freckled face. 

She clears her throat. “So, Lester, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Mitchel, is the stylist for your District’s other tribute, Emma. We both thought that it would be a great idea to change it up a bit with your costumes this year.” The glimmer in her eyes returns. “As I’m sure you know, it’s traditional for each District’s tributes to reflect the essence of their homes.”

For this particular ceremony, each set of tributes are supposed to wear a costume that represents their District’s primary industry. For example, District Eleven often get dressed as farmers because their main purpose is agriculture, or District Four who one memorable time got dressed up as fish because their main industry is, well, fishing. For Emma and I, that means we’ll probably end up in some kind of skimpy miner get-up, or maybe even naked and covered in black dust like that one year. Both of which are far from ideal considering that I’ve been wearing the real thing for the past year and a half, both the miner outfit and the dust.

In short, it’s always dreadful and wins our District no favors with the crowd. I brace myself for the worst, mentally preparing myself for some more good-ol’ humiliation.

“So… I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping that at least it won’t be indecent.

“Not exactly.” An almost manicle gleam enters her eyes, making me even more nervous for my dignity. “Mitchel and I think that the whole “coal-miner” thing is way too overdone. I know we could do so much better to get your audience’s attention than doing something that’s already been don’t a million times before.”

Aaand, I’m gonna be naked, aren’t I?

“So we thought that we would focus more on the coal aspect instead.” 

Yup. Definitely naked.

“And what do we do with coal? We burn it.” She shifts forward and adopts a grin that matches the barely restrained emotion in her eyes. “Tell me, Lester, are you afraid of fire?”

A few hours later, I’m covered head to toe in a solid black unitard and shiny black boots that lace up to my thighs. It’s the heavy cape and ornate headpiece that define the costume, though, and what will make it either incredibly sensational or deadly. Why are they deadly, you ask? Well, that’s because Rachel plans to set both on fire just before our chariot rolls out to join the parade.

“Don’t worry, it’s only a little synthetic fire. It couldn’t hurt you even if you wanted it to!”

Surprisingly enough, that does nothing to reassure me that I won’t be barbeque by the time we reach the city’s center. 

They barely put any makeup on me, just a bit of highlighting here and there and some eyeliner. My hair has been brushed out and trimmed, but overall still the same curly mess. Although, I’m pretty sure this is still the neatest it’s ever been in my entire life. Well, the life I can remember, anyways. 

(Ugh, I do not want to think about that issue right now. I have bigger things to deal with than my stupid memory problems.)

“I want people to be able to recognize you when you’re in the arena.” Rachel sighs dreamily. “Lester, the boy who was on fire.” 

That doesn’t sound as good as I think she thinks it is. It also doesn’t sound very sane, but who am I to judge?

When Emma shows up, she’s dressed in an identical costume to mine. She ignores me like usual, and I decide to return the favor. No point in being nice to someone who might end up killing you, anyways. At the very least, she’ll undoubtedly try to kill me.

Emma’s stylist, Mitchel, and his team accompany her in and everyone is absolutely giddy over what a splash we’ll make, especially Rachel. She’s literally bouncing with barely restrained excitement, though she does seem a bit nervous. That doesn’t help my own nerves at all.

We’re whisked down to the lowest level of the Remake Center, which is essentially just a giant stable. Other sets of tributes are already there, getting into their respective chariots and going through last minute costume alterations and checks. No one wants anything to fall apart halfway through, that would be a disaster.

Emma and I are guided to the back where our golden chariot and four coal black horses are waiting for us; Rachel and Mitchel direct us into the chariot and arrange us and our capes carefully before moving off to consult with each other.

Both of us stand awkwardly there for a few seconds before I give in to my instinct to fill in the incessant silence. 

“So, uh, what do you think?” I whisper cautiously. “About the fire, I mean.” I wince when she sends me a sharp glare, though I do count it as a small victory when she actually speaks to me.

“Stop talking like that.” I frown in confusion.

“Like what?” She just glares harder before responding in a tone so acidic it could curdle milk.

“Like that . You sound like one of them . Why are you even mimicking them anyways? It’s not funny and it won’t win you any points, if that’s what you’re thinking.” My confusion only grows stronger with every word she says. I glare back, meeting her icy grey eyes head on.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She just scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“You’re talking like the Capitol people, with their accent. I knew you were stupid, but this takes it to another level.”

I flinch back at that. Am I…? I go over everything I’ve said ever since this whole mess started, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about.. 

“I don’t-” My brain skids to a stop. Holy shit, I am talking like that! I didn’t even realize that I was mimicking them! Was I doing that the whole time? How could I have not noticed something like that?! And why didn’t anyone tell me before now?!

“Oh.” 

She scoffs again and turns away from me fully, checking her perfectly shaped nails. 

“You’re so incompetant, Papadopolous. I can’t wait to beat you up again. And hey,” Her lips pull into a vicious smile, crooked teeth bared threateningly. “Maybe this time I’ll actually get to kill you.”

I flinch back at the reminder, and at the confirmation that I was right, that she was there when, well, when I got myself roughed up for the first time. 

I had been in Twelve for seven months already, and I was mostly healed from my various injuries, so mom and máma didn’t see any problem with me joining Tessa in the market. What none of us realized is that word of me and my mysterious appearance had made it to the other kids, and that they were itching to haze the “new kid”. It was just my luck that three boys and two girls (one of whom had brown hair and grey eyes…) were at the right place, right time to catch Tess and I alone.

I think you can guess what happened next.

I went home that day with two black eyes, my second concussion, bruised ribs, and a broken arm. Tess was better off, but only ‘cause she could at least put up a fight. 

So yeah, that day sucked, and it just figures that one of the reasons it did is the same girl I’m stuck in this violent shit-show with. Fantastic.

A flash of white-hot anger roars through me at the unfairness of it all. I just want to be with my family; I don’t want untold riches and glory, I don’t want death, I don’t want to be here at all! Especially not with a homicidal psychopathic girl who’ll stab me in the back as soon as the dagger is placed in her hand. 

I’m so sick of being belittled and walked all over like a damned door mat. Maybe that’s why I do what I do next.

Straightening my posture and lifting my head high, I stare into her hollow eyes and smile.

“Not if I don’t kill you first.”

Her eyes widen just a fraction, she pales just a shade underneath her makeup. She scoffs again, though it sounds a bit thin to my ears, and turns away without another word. I shuffle away from her as much as I can; a small part of me feels a sick sort of satisfaction in this. I quickly stamp that part back down into the deep, dark hole it spawned from.

It just occurred to me as the opening music begins that this was the first time I’ve ever actually talked to her. I shove that deep down, too, along with everything else; we have a show to put on, and the Capitol doesn’t want to see our emotions. Not yet, anyway.

The massive doors on the other side of the stable open, revealing the crowded streets packed to the brim with an endless sea of colorful people. The ride’ll last about twenty minutes and ends at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us to the Training Center, which will be our prison home until the Games begin.

The tributes from District One ride out first, their chariot pulled by snow-white horses and their metallic tunics glittering with countless jewels and their skin spray painted silver. Kind of tacky, if you ask me (which no one here would, like, ever), but they’ll still be the favorites, if only because their District supplies the Capitol with their precious luxury items. 

District Two moves in behind them, and soon enough we’re approaching the door. The tributes from District Eleven are just about to roll out when Rachel finally appears with a lighted torch.

“And… bombs away!” 

Before we can react, she lights our capes on fire. I gasp waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Rachel then climbs up on the chariot and lights up our headdresses, too. She sighs in relief.

“It works!” She yells, and Mitchel responds behind us with an elated whooping sound. The red-headed woman turns her broad grin to us. “Remember, keep your heads up and your smiles on. They’re going to love you!”

Rachel jumps off the chariot, and only a few seconds later, we’re out the door and into the dazzling lights of the city. 

The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance rapidly transitions into cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us and at first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces and we seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. 

I remember what Rachel said, to keep my head high and to smile, that they’re going to love us. I also remember what Percy said, about how the best way to survive is for people to like me. So, I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave my hand at the roaring crowd.

The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, and shouting our names - our first names. They apparently deemed us worthy enough of taking the time to find us on the program. 

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement. All of this makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I do actually stand a chance at surviving. At winning. If they like me here, then maybe I really do have a chance at getting a sponsor willing to take me on. Willing to bet on me, the boy on fire.

It’s a good feeling, and it gets me through the parade, though the bright lights and head-splitting music. Before I know it, we’re entering the City Circle, a giant plaza surrounded by buildings whose windows are occupied by the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. 

All twelve chariots form a semicircle in front of the building that is commonly referred to as Mount Olympus, the mansion and home of the Council of Gods, aka our country’s twelve rulers. The Head God, a large, stern-looking man with striking black hair, stands as the music ends with a flourish.

“Welcome, tributes, to the 64th annual Hunger Games!”

Chapter Text

As we walk in a straight line

Down in the dirt with a landslide approaching

But nothing could ever stop us

From stealing our own place in the sun

We will face the odds against us

And run into the fear we run from

- It Has Begun by Starset -

The entrance to the Training Center slams behind us as soon as the last chariot rolls in, our prep teams flocking around each chariot almost immediately after with cheerful praise and mindless babble. 

I try to ignore them without being rude, though I do take the chance to observe where we ended up. Chiseled columns ring the circular room, supporting the elaborately painted ceiling that’s easily tall enough to fit my house stacked three times over and still have some room left over. I’m once again grudgingly left in awe of the Capitol's architects, and I’m left wondering how in the world they managed to paint a ceiling that tall.

“That was brilliant! You both did wonderfully!” 

Rachel and Mitchell help us down from the chariot, their respective teams carefully disassembling the costumes they worked so painstakingly on as they sing our praises. Mitchell puts out the flames with some sort of spray, the blazing fire quickly dissipating and leaving the black fabric to appear as if it were dull despite its shiny texture.

“Mitchell’s right: you did an amazing job, both of you.” 

WIth all the people around me, I can only turn my head to see Percy and Melpomene approaching us, the tall man’s eyes shining in what suspiciously looks like pride. 

“Great job to you, too, Rach’ and Mitch’. I knew you would do something amazing, but I have to admit I was a bit surprised when they came out on fire.” Percy raises his eyebrow at the pair of stylists.

Rachel grins, dimples appearing on her freckles cheeks. “Well someone around here has to keep you on your toes, hero.” She punches him on the arm and laughs when Percy clutches it and collapses to his knees.

“Oh, I’ve been hit! Oh, the horror! How shall I go on?” Rachel and Percy both erupt into fits of giggles while Mitchell and Melpomene watch on with exasperation and distinct annoyance respectively. Emma, who had predictably moved as far from me as possible the moment we stepped out of the chariot (not that I’m complaining), is tapping her foot rapidly against the marble tile.

“It’s late, and the other tributes are already leaving. We should probably go, too.” Emma’s voice is snippy and ice-cold, a complete contrast with the flames she had proudly wielded just moments before.

Rachel and Percy share one last imperceptible look before the Demigod gets back up. He’s about to speak when Melpomene claps her hands together. The sound echoes, drawing stares from the remaining tributes, their teams, and the patiently guarding peacekeepers. I shrink back into myself at the attention and do my best to ignore it.

“Emma’s right! It truly is late, and you must be so tired after that marvelous show you put on! Oh, and what a show that was! So many people liked you, I’m sure you’ll have no problems getting sponsors!” 

Melpomene, who is now wearing a hideous blue dress that is so tight I’m surprised she can walk, quickly shuffles behind Emma as she speaks and gestures impatiently to me to walk with them to the elevator. I go hesitantly, though I wait for Percy to catch up after he hugs Rachel and Mitchell goodbye. His lips are pursed and his eyes dark, though he tries for a smile when he finally jogs to my side.

“How are you holding up, kiddo?” I blink rapidly at the unexpected question, my brain slow to process that, yes, this man who I just met not even two days earlier genuinely asked me if I’m okay without a hint of sarcasm or reproach. The only people who had ever done that before were the ones I left behind in District Twelve.

A tidal wave of emotion, of grief and anxiety, threatens to crash over me at the reminder of them, but I push it back with equal ferocity. This is very much the wrong place and wrong time for anything like that; too many people watching, most of them waiting for even a shred of weakness to exploit.

I can’t afford to be weak, not now. 

Realizing that I’ve taken too long to answer,  I scramble for something to say.

“Uh… I’m fine, really; I’m just, uh, glad that Rachel didn’t force me into a miner costume, or that weird “naked and covered in dust” thing they did once. I’ve had enough of both to last me a lifetime. Um, the outfit and coal dust thing, not the naked part. That would be weird, but… yeah…” 

I look away as my shoulders hunch up and my ears burn. I wait for laughter, or a scoff, or a remark like “oh, Lester, you’re so stupid!”, but I’m surprised yet again when all Percy does is make a sort of distressed sound in the back of his throat and stop just as we get to the elevator. He turns fully towards me and lays his hands on my shoulders, which isn’t that hard for him considering he’s, like, five inches taller than me.

“Lester, answer me honestly. What do you mean, you’ve had enough of miner outfits and coal dust?” 

Huh? Why is he--oh. Oh! Wait, shit. I forgot that I’m technically supposed to be working in the mines since I’m only fourteen. Officially, the youngest you can be is eighteen. Unofficially? I’ve known kids as young as five who’ve helped mine, run the coal, and operate the shaft. When you live in the lower districts, and especially when you live in the slums of those districts, age is just a number. A lesser one, at that, compared to the quota we’re required to meet.

“Oh, it’s nothin’, I just… uh… I worked in the mines back home, so…” I shuffle my feet and duck my head, shame burning my face and surely coloring it a brilliant scarlet.

Percy’s eyebrows furrow. ‘That’s… why? What about school?” 

I shrug, my metaphorical hackles rising. “My family needed the money, and my district needed the help. I never went to school.” 

I pretend to yawn and dislodge Percy’s hands. “Well, I’m beat! We should probably get into that elevator before Melpomene and Emma skin us alive for taking too long.” I send a smile the Demigod’s way, but even I know it’s weak. 

I’m relieved when, after a second of searching my face with a pinched expression, he just sighs and waves towards the elevator. “After you, kid.” 

The moment we’re both on, Melpomene pushes the button for the twelfth floor and the crystal elevator rises higher and higher. The lift in the mines is nothing like this one; where the shaft is made of a rusty metal and creaks eerily every couple of seconds, this one is made of a see-through crystal and glides upwards so perfectly that I wouldn’t even know it was moving if not for the see-through walls. Still, despite their differences, this elevator reminds me too much of the other one for me to like it much. In fact, the sooner I get off this thing, the better,

A few mildly painful seconds later, we finally come to a stop at the floor designated to our district, and personally I find the adjective ‘impressive’ inadequate to describe the decadent style of the suite the tributes from District Twelve get every year. 

Between the three chandeliers that are easily twice my size, the mosaic tiles decorating the floor with images of purple flowers and swirling white winds, and the floor-to-ceiling windows giving us a view even grander than the one I saw from the Remake Center, well… I admit to feeling a bit intimidated. 

Maybe that was the point, to make the suite’s temporary residents intimidated by the sheer wealth that they never had and give them a taste of everything that they had been actively denied to them until the very end.

“--and over here is where we will eat together every morning and night!” Melpomene is giving us the grand tour, but Emma’s the only one actually listening; I personally could care less where everything is, and Percy is fiddling with a thin, flat piece of metal, not unlike the remote in the train. Only, there is no TV nearby for him to be controlling and the screen is much more colorful than the plain black buttons of the remote. 

Phone. The word comes to me easily, just like ‘remote’ and ‘TV’ had, and it just makes me more curious than before. I’ve definitely heard of phones before, I don’t actually live under a rock. It's just that they’re so expensive that only the mayor of my district has one, and that one is strictly for staying in touch with the Capitol. Otherwise? I’ve only seen pictures in magazine clippings and book pages that survived the Great Wars, and those phones look absolutely nothing like the one Percy is tapping away on.

We’re just moving on to what looks like some sort of living room when the elevator dings and it’s metal doors swish open to reveal a broad, dark haired man dressed in the most obnoxiously patterned shirt I’ve ever seen in my life, a small squad of peacekeepers standing behind him.

“Dad, what are you doing here?!” Percy steps forward, his eyes wide with panic and indignation coloring his voice. Wait, if this is Percy’s dad, then…

“Lord Posiedon! What a pleasure to have you here!” Melpomene’s already shrill voice climbs three octaves as she hastily bows and I think oh .

I shrink back at the realization that this man in front of me is actually Lord Posiedon, a God with power over the oceans and a member of the Ruling Council of Olympia. I can definitely see the resemblance, I think faintly; Percy and his father look nearly identical, though Percy’s features are softer. Posiedon, in contrast, looks like he was cut from marble. 

I snap my gaze down and away from the God, the floor suddenly seeming a lot more interesting. My mind feels like it’s stuck in a loop, just repeatedly screaming incomprehensibly at me that that he’s familiar and I should know this man, but I brush it off; my stupid brain is just recognizing Posiedon because of Percy, that’s all. That’s all .

“Hello, my son. I wished to talk to you, but you weren’t answering your phone.” 

He says, stepping fully into the apartment with the air of someone who owns the place. I guess, considering he’s a God and all, that he actually does, technically, own the entire building. I shuffle backwards nervously and watch from behind Percy as the unexpected argument begins to pick up steam.

“You shouldn’t be here. Leave, please; I’ll see you later tonight, if you want.” 

Silence reigns over the room for a few short seconds, and I can almost feel the God’s skepticism rolling off of him in waves.

“I wish to talk to you now, if you aren’t busy, Perseus; we have much to discuss.” 

Percy’s hands clench into fists at his sides, and while I can’t see his face from where I’m standing, I have no doubt that he’s absolutely livid.

“I am busy, actually. Or have you forgotten that I have a job to do, father?” 

“Ah, yes, your…job. As a mentor to District Twelve.”

Disapproval and disbelief ring clear in Posiedon’s  smooth voice, and I can’t lie and say that that doesn’t sting a little.

“Yes. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be getting back to that, please and thank you.” 

The Demigod’s response is clipped and acidic; I brave a glance up, wincing at Posiedon’s expression. If he was marble before, now he’s granite now. His eyes are like miniature storms and are narrowed impatiently at his son.

“No.” 

I can practically feel the storm brewing between the two, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I remember, back on the train, when Percy told us why he became a mentor, to get away from his dad. 

I do not see this ending well.

“No?” Percy seethes. “You may be a God, and you may be my father, but that doesn’t mean you get to control everything I do. I made this decision, and I don’t regret it.”

“You will. When the tributes you care about are dead, you will.” 

Ouch, harsh. And seriously, we’re right here! Couldn’t he go be a fatalistic asshole somewhere else?

“Father…” Percy snarls.

“Son. Come with me now, the woman can deal with the children tonight.” 

His tone leaves no room for further argument. After another tense bout of silence, Percy physically deflates.

“Fine.” He turns to Melpomene with an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll see all of you tomorrow.” 

He says that last bit staring his father in the eye, daring him to object. Lord Posiedon only signs an unreadable expression on his face, before he turns back to the elevator and the waiting guards. With one last silent apology sent our way, he follows the God, quickly disappearing from sight.

It’s silent for all of five seconds before Melpomene clears her throat loudly and continues her tour, the woman cheerfully ignoring what just happened. I try to put it out of my mind, too, but it’s difficult.

It’s none of my business, I berate myself. Percy can handle himself, no need to get so worried. No one else is, obviously; Melpomene is talking a mile a minute while Emma hangs off her every word (or at least pretending she is. I can see it in the shift of her eyes, the tightness around her too-wide smile; she’s just playing for the crowd. Or Melpomene in this case). 

Shaking my head in a fruitless attempt to clear my head, I try to think about other things, like the parade. Which reminds me…

That whole thing before the parade… with the accent. I still don’t know why that happened, and I can’t pinpoint when it even started. It’s like… it just came naturally to me, which makes no sense whatsoever. The only people who even have that sort of accent…live…in the Capitol… did I…?

A mind-splitting headache erupts out of nowhere, crashing my train of thought and leaving me blinking black spots out of my eyes. What was I…? 

“Lester, please do keep up! Time is ticking!” Melpomene’s shrill voice pulls me out of the painful daze. I look up from where I had, at some point, braced myself against a chair. 

“Uh…” I blink the last of the spots away. “Um, sorry. Continue please.” I slump in relief when the flamboyant woman just spins on her heel and continues like nothing ever happened. She’s good at that, I’ve noticed. 

Percy does not come back that night. The same worry from before only grows the longer he’s gone, though I do my best to squash it down so I can actually focus. Still, I find myself glancing at the elevator every now and then as we finish the tour and then later when we eat dinner. 

In between worrying sessions, I try to think back in desperate attempts to remember just what gave me such a nasty headache. I could’ve sworn that I was onto something, something that could help me fix this obnoxious amnesia, that could explain why everything here is so alien yet so… familiar. I hate it, I hate this. And I hate that I’m not even going to get more time to figure everything out.

I really don’t know how this could get any worse.

I jinxed it, didn’t I? I really have to stop doing this to myself; it’s very detrimental to my overall health and well-being. 

If you haven’t guessed: yes, it did, indeed, get worse. Who knew that meeting new people your age isn’t actually very nice when you are all set up to kill each other in a few short days? At the very least, the pain that came from socially interacting with people brought back my sarcasm… or maybe that’s just me finally getting the hang of repressing my emotions again. It’s a toss up, really, or perhaps a little bit of both.

Regardless, it’s safe to say that I’m Not Enjoying Myself. But maybe I should backtrack a bit…

That night was much like the many ones before it, filled with tossing and turning and relentless nightmares that quickly slipped out of my grasp as soon as I woke up. The only thing that sticks in my mind, like most other times, is the distant tingling of electricity across my skin. 

As annoying as these types of nights are, I have much bigger things to worry about right now, things like taking a much needed shower and dealing with my first day of training with the other Tributes. 

I struggle with the control panel for the shower, and after a few minutes of slamming down on random buttons, I finally manage to actually take my shower. Granted, it wasn’t a very nice shower seeing as the only temperatures I could make it was either ice-cold or boiling and the dispensers shot this weird green goo at me that was a pain to wash off, but it was a shower. That’s good enough in my books.

Afterwards, I find a new stack of clothes on the bed, and I try not to be disturbed by the blatant lack of privacy that I have. At least these are ten times better than what I was given on the train (ugh, I get a headache just thinking about them). Instead, I’m left an azure tunic with tight, black pants and leather shoes. The whole ensemble is still lined with gold, though this time it’s a lot more tasteful. I thank Rachel in my head, for this is definitely her doing, as I pull the stretchy fabric over my head.

Melpomene had never told us when we were supposed to meet for breakfast, but I figure now is as good a time as any so I head out into the dining room, the early morning sun peeking in through the windows and shading the corridor with light golds and ash-gray shadows. When I reach the room, there is no food on the table we had eaten at the night before. Instead, several plates are placed on a buffet table of sorts, each one laden with delicious-looking food. 

There are also several Avoxes standing around the commodious penthouse, all of them resembling painted statues as they stare impassively into space. They were there last night, but I was too nervous to pay them much attention past acknowledging their existence. Honestly, they both creep me out and make my heart ache in sympathy that I can never actually show. Stupid Capitol social costoms and horrible punishments for people that more than likely never deserved them. I mean, they cut out their tongues! And probably countless other forms of torturing methods that broke them so completely that they can do nothing but stare into space and follow orders from their abusers.

It puts my problems into perspective; even if I’m at the Capitol's mercy and am going to die for their sick version of entertainment, I’m at least able to keep my identity and my voice.

I clear my throat and turn to address the Avox closest to the buffet table, a woman with bright ginger hair and a collar sitting around her white-painted neck. “Um, can I eat?” I gesture weakly to the food and almost sigh in relief when the petite woman nods her consent. I pile on all the food that will fit on the plate before taking it to the grand table to gorge myself.

As I eat, my mind wanders to my family, to Mom and Máma and Georgie and the Blakes. They must be up. Well, most of them, anyways; Tess would sleep in past noon if given half the chance. I think of them, of Mom getting ready for her job in the market, Máma helping her before she heads to the forge. Of Georgie and Miles eating breakfast and preparing for school. Of Tess, who’s probably beyond stressed right now. They all must be; they’ve always told me that I am a very stressful being.

 “Good morning, Lester. I hope you slept well?” I swallow back a yelp when Percy suddenly appears from out of nowhere.

“Oh! Uh, hey Per- Mr. Jackson sir I was jus’-” He laughs, the sound echoing lightly. My ears burn, though his laugh isn’t mean or sound condescending.

“Please, don’t call me “Mr.” or “sir”; just Percy’s fine.” 

“Okay si- er, Percy.” 

He gives me a teasing, knowing look and I lower my eyes to my food, continuing to eat as Percy walks over to the table and gathers his own plate of breakfast, though I find myself glancing at the Demigod curiously every now and then. When did he get back? He looks so tired, I think, with his slumped shoulders and pronounced eye bags. I wonder what his dad had to say to him?

I almost ask when Emma and Melpomene enter, both getting their own food after a few curt “hellos” and “good mornings”. I notice that, even though we had the same costume for the parade last night, our uniforms today are completely different; Emma has a deep burgundy tunic paired with gray leggings and gray lining. The only similarity is our black leather shoes.

As I eat, I think about what today has in store for me, and, needless to say, my prospects are not looking good. The idea of facing the other tributes, face-to-face… it makes me feel nauseous. I don’t know how I’ll be able to train with them for three whole days when we all know that we’re just gonna end up killing each other anyways. 

Percy pushes his now empty plate away and clasps his hands, leaning his elbows casually on the table as he speaks. “So, training. First, you have to decide whether or not you want me to coach you separately. I’m good with either, it’s up to you to decide which is best for both of you.” 

Why would he coach us separately? I go to ask, but Emma talks before I get the chance.

“Separately, please.” She smiles tightly and stares resolutely at Percy, obviously doing her best to ignore me. 

Percy raises an eyebrow and looks towards me. “Okay; what do you think Lester? Your opinion counts, too.” I blink stupidly at that and rush to answer him.

“Oh, um… tha’s fine, separately’s, uh, perfect.” Whatever that means, anyways. I’ll probably find out later.

“Okay, that’s settled then. We’ll go over your specific skills and stuff when we meet up later.” Percy claps his hands together (he really has a habit of doing that, doesn’t he?) “For now, I’ll leave the two of you to prepare for your training; it starts at ten, so be at the elevator by 9:45 to meet up with Melpomene, please.” 

We both nod, and get up. I almost take my dish to go clean it before an Avox takes it from my hands and walks off. I mentally shrug, and leave the rest of my plates on the table.

“Ah yes! You don’t want to be late to your first day of training! Oh, it’s so exciting, I just know that both of you will love it!” 

Would it be improper to punch my district’s representative in the face? ‘Cause if she keeps this up, I may be left with no choice in order to save the last bit of my sanity.

I trudge back to my room, worst-case scenarios playing on repeat in my mind as I brush my teeth and hair. Ugh, I really need a haircut, I think, as I pull my brown curls into a low ponytail. Sighing to myself, I check the clock, realizing that it’s nearly time to meet up with the others. With another, deeper sigh, I stride as confidently as I can manage to where Emma and Melpomene are waiting.

Soon enough, we’re back in the elevator and heading down to below ground level, a trip that only takes about a minute despite having to go down from the very top of the tower. The elevator dings and automatically opens its doors when we reach the Training Room, and the first thing I notice is the circle of tributes in the center, all with their district number pinned to their shirts. We’re the last ones here, despite how it’s not even ten yet.

While two Avoxes quickly pin our own numbers on our chests, I study the other twenty-two tributes. Almost every single pair is dressed differently from each other except for the tributes from District Seven; both of them are dressed in solid black and are obviously siblings, if their shared hazel eyes and blonde hair have anything to go on. Yikes. This stupid game is bad enough already; I couldn’t imagine going up against Tess or, gods forbid, Georgie. Just the thought of that makes me want to hurl.

We join the circle, and for a split second I catch the eye of one of the younger tributes, a short, black haired girl with rhinestone glasses and a cold, calculating stare that could rival Emma’s. I look away quickly, but not before I see that she’s from District Eleven.

A woman wearing a navy purple bodysuit with gold lining walks into the center of our circle. “Welcome, tributes, to your first day of training! My name is Marilyn, and I will be your lead instructor for the next three days. Before we get started, there are a few rules that you must follow at all times while you are within this room. Rule one: No engaging each other in combative exercise. If you want to train with a partner, there are assistants on hand for that exact purpose.” 

That earns her some scoffs, but she powers on without acknowledging them past a stern glare.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that in the arena. Rule two: you cannot leave this room until it’s time to go back to your floor. You may take breaks for water and rest within this room, but any attempts to leave will result in punishment. Rule three: treat the equipment with respect and do your best not to cause any damage to anything in here. Lastly, do not try to take anything out. We will know if that happens, no matter how sneaky you think you are. Am I clear?”

All of us nod, some more hesitantly than others. I make a mental note to stay away from the hesitant ones as much as possible. 

Marilyn claps her hands. “Okay, then. There are several stations to choose from depending on your skill set. Over here we have-” When she begins to read down the list of skill stations, my eyes can’t help flitting around to the other tributes. My heart sinks when I notice that almost every single one of them is bigger than me, even if most of them have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, that unmistakable hollow look in their eyes that’s reflected in mine. I suppose I already stood no chance at winning, but seeing who I’m up against properly for the first time really drives that home. 

I especially stand no chance against the Careers, the kids from the wealthier districts that get fed and elite training from when they were just in diapers for this moment. They’re easy to pick out, even if they didn’t have their numbers out on display. They all have a certain look to them, all pompous and malicious. Only this time, there’s an exception. 

The male tribute from District One, while still strong and well-fed, has so many scars that it would be impossible to count them all. They’re on his exposed arms, neck, even his face. He looks like he’s never smiled once in his entire life. 

All of this is making me glad that I’m a fast runner.

When Marilyn releases us, I hesitate, unsure of exactly where to go first. I know to avoid certain places, the ones that the stronger tributes flocked to like bees to deadly honey. I end up settling for tying knots, and I cross to the empty station where the trainer seems pleased to have a student. I focus on snares and traps, and I learn a simple yet effective one that would leave a competitor dangling from a tree. I stay there for about forty minutes until I’ve mastered the trick and move on to the next station. 

The next three days are spent quietly transitioning from station to station and doing my best to keep away from everyone else. Despite my efforts, I still manage to learn a few names and engage in a few extremely awkward conversations. The first was the male tribute from Seven, who I learned was named Lee Fletcher and his fellow tribute, Victoria Fletcher, is indeed his younger sister, though they didn’t like to talk about that much. They’re both nice enough, but we gave up talking pretty quickly and resorted to just helping each other with our knife throwing.

Maybe it’s not the best idea to go around helping other tributes, but at this point I have nothing left to lose.

The Gamemakers showed up early on the first day. The twenty or so men and women dressed in heavy purple robes sit on elevated platforms that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering around to watch us and jot down notes, other times eating from a banquet that never gets empty and ignoring us.

What confuses me is how even when the Gamemakers aren’t watching me, I feel like someone is trying to burn holes into me with their eyes. I almost think that it’s one of the other tributes, which would not be good, but every time I glance around the room, no one jumps out at me as suspicious. Still, I keep my guard up.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice. Most of the other tributes, including me, sit alone, like lost sheep. 

I noticed that, by the time lunch rolled around on day one, Emma had started to hang out with the girls from Districts Three and Eight. Good for her, I guess, though I’m not sure if that’ll make it easier or harder for her. With my luck, it’ll be the former.

It’s also not until the second day that something goes wrong, though with my track record I’d say that pretty impressive. So… remember when I said that it got worse, and that interacting with kids who are planning to murder you the second they’re not only allowed but expected to is a horrible expirience? Yeah… 

I had just come from rope climbing, and one second I’m massaging my sore hands and the next I’m crashing into what feels like a stone wall and falling to the ground. Oh gods, please don’t tell me I walked into one of the support pillars. That would be so embarrassing; I’d probably just die on the spot!

However, once I look up, my blood turns to ice and I suddenly wish that I had run into a pillar. I had just crashed into another tribute, and not just any tribute: Scarface, as I’ve dubbed him. 

Fuck, I’m so dead.

The man, who now that I’m sprawled out on the floor in front of him, is gigantic. He’s probably one of the tallest people I’ve ever met, and I’m pretty sure his muscles have muscles. Oh, and he’s literally growling at me, his disfigured face twisted gruesomely in a snarl.

“You little piece of shit!” 

He grabs my shirt and lifts me up with ease, bringing my face level with his. I dangle at least a foot off the ground, and wow. What exactly do they feed their kids in District One?! 

“Wanna say you’re sorry, or do I have to beat it out of you?” 

Despite feeling like I’m about to piss myself at any second, I muster up a glare.

“I’m just sorry I have ta look at your ugly mug up close.” 

If Tess was here, she’d call me an idiot and smack me for mouthing off to my newest torturer. Again. She’s not here, though, so I can do what I want. She really is most of my impulse control, isn’t she?

Predictably, my comment only serves to infuriate Scarface further. “Fine, I was hoping I’d get to beat you up anyways.” 

He raises his fist and I brace for impact, but luckily it never comes. Several peacekeepers stationed around the room rush forward to pull me away from the taller tribute. Surprisingly, he goes without too much fuss, though he keeps a steady glare on me after I fall back onto the ground.

He shakes off the peacekeepers and turns to leave, though not before throwing one last remark back at me. “I’ll enjoy killing you, Twelve.” 

Great, I have a mortal enemy now. Just what I needed.

 I sigh and sit up straight, rubbing my temples. At least I didn’t get hurt this time, that’d suck. 

“You need help up?”

I startle at the sudden voice, and I blink in surprise when a pale hand appears. I look up, following the arm to it’s owner: the male tribute from Five, a kid with light-blonde hair and shockingly blue eyes. They remind me of Thalia’s, I think distantly.

I stare at the outstretched hand for a second before accepting it, letting the taller boy pull me up (I should probably save time and stop describing people as “taller”. Most people are taller than me, so it’s kinda pointless).

“Er, thank ya.” I’m taken aback when the guy smiles, his eyes warm and not at all judging, even of the accent I’ve been focusing on keeping at all times.

“No problem…?” 

“Oh, uh, Lester. Papadopoulos.” I hear a few snickers from nearby eavesdroppers, but I ignore those with the ease that only comes from years of practice.

The blonde stranger surprises me again when he doesn’t react to my, admittedly odd, name. Instead he just puts his hand back out.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jason Wolf.” I shake his hand, before snatching my hand back after a second. He doesn’t comment, thankfully. “That was pretty brave of you, standing up to a Butcher like that.” 

I blink blankly at Jason.

“A Butcher? Don’t ya mean a Career?” He raises an eyebrow at me quizzically, appearing just as confused as I am before his expression clears and realization shines in his eyes.

“Oh, I think they’re just different names for the same thing. My district calls the upper district volunteers Butchers.” 

“Oh. Yeah, we call ‘em Careers, though I think I like yours better.” 

He laughs at that. It’s just a chuckle, but it’s genuine and it’s gratifying to know that I was the cause. 

“Seriously, though. As brave as that was, it probably wasn’t the best idea to make an enemy out of Lityerses, out of all people.”

“Lityerses? That’s his name?” It’s Jason’s turn to blink blankly at me.

“You mean… you’ve never heard of him?” I frown at that and shrug.

“Should I? District Twelve doesn’t really get that much outside news, especially not from other districts.” 

Jason’s face twists in thought before he looks around the gymnasium. 

“I can tell you, but we should probably move somewhere else.” 

I look around us, too, and silently agree with the other boy. Everyone seems like they’re not paying us any attention, but considering that we’re standing in the middle of the room, I don’t want to take any chances.

“Okay. We could go to the camouflage station?” 

He nods and leads the way there. Soon enough, we’re sitting facing each other, half halfheartedly experimenting with the supplies given to us. 

“So, how do I start?” Jason rubs some mud between his fingers absentmindedly. “Okay, so, Lityerses. He’s a legend, not only in District One, but pretty much everywhere. His dad, Midas, is the wealthiest manufacturer of gold items. And by gold stuff, I mean, only gold stuff. I know, pretty weird. But anyways, several years ago, when Lityerses was only, like, ten or something, his dad began training him. Not for the Games, though. He was trained to guard Midas’ largest factory.” 

Okay, that doesn’t sound that bad. 

“He’s known for attacking anyone who tries to get in and doesn’t have authorization. Most of the time, he’ll go as far as to chop off one of their legs, or arms, or both of their legs or arms. There’s even a rumor that, once, he chopped someone’s head off.” 

Nevermind. I stare at Jason with wide eyes, reassesing all my life choices.

“Oh.” I blink. Reboot my brain. “Fuck.” Jason snorts.

“Yeah, you really got yourself in a pickle. I’m sure you’ll be fine though; most of that is just rumor.” I swallow and take a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for tellin’ me.” He smiles again, though this time it’s more pitying.

“No problem. Good luck, kid, you’ll need it.” I frown again, though this time petulantly.

“Hey, who are ya callin’ kid?” The blonde chuckles and his lips twitch in the beginnings of a teasing grin. 

“Well, how old are you?”

“Fourteen.” His teasing grin widens.

“I’m sixteen. So, since you're younger, that makes you a kid.” I puff out my cheeks and cross my arms in indignation.

“That is not how that works! And you’re only two years older than me! That barely counts.” He laughs. The audacity.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say… kid.” I swipe at him, but he twists out of the way, still laughing.

“You-” The bell signaling the end of today’s training blares over the speakers. We both look up and Jason sighs.

“I’ll see you later, yeah? Thanks for the laugh, I really needed it.” He smiles, and this time I smile back.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow. I, uh, needed it, too. So, thanks.” 

With one last wave, the kind boy is gone and I’m being shepherded back up to my floor, an impossible smile still on my face.

Chapter Text

 It was a wicked and wild wind

Blew down the doors to let me in

Shattered windows and the sound of drums

People couldn't believe what I'd become

- Viva La Vida by Coldplay) -

~

It’s the third and final day of training when the Gamemasters come back, this time for our Evaluation. After lunch, the twenty-four of us are sent into a side room to wait for our turn to be watched and judged like bugs under a microscope and, naturally, I’m dead last, In the hour and a half that it takes for them to get to me, I focus of the advice Percy and Melpomene have been grilling into me and Emma every day when we come back to our floor.

Don’t reveal any of your skills during the training sessions with the other tributes; appear mediocre until you get to the Evaluation. Then, and only then, do you show what you can really do.

I have part one of that advice down. I think I appeared sufficiently pathetic during training, especially with that stunt with *shudder* Lityerses (I’ve been trying to forget about that unsavory encounter, but the large guy’s threatening glares and overall overbearing presence make that frustratingly hard). Then again, appearing pathetic has never been an issue for me. It just comes naturally. 

Part two though… the problem is that I don’t really excel in anything, not even coal mining and that was my literal job! When I said I was pathetic, I wasn't exaggerating. I mean, look at any point in my short, miserable life, like when that peacekeeper beat me up the week before the Reaping (what did I call him again? Asshole? Tighty-whity? Dumbass? No, those were the names I gave to other peacekeepers. Eh, I’ll remember later). 

Regardless, my chances of getting a high score are about as high as I am tall. Which means my chances are more or less nil. I mean, Percy has helped me a bit with figuring out what to do; we decided that I would throw the spears since I found that I’m not half bad with them. Still, despite having a relatively solid plan, that uneasy feeling is stubbornly staying to the point where I almost feel like I’m suffocating by the time my name is called. I take a deep breath, stand up, and walk into the gymnasium on shaking legs. It’s now or never.

The gym doesn’t look any different from when I was in it this morning, just a few things are a bit more skewed or in the wrong place. Still, stepping into the gigantic room feels so much different this time, like spring finally transferred into summer. And it only gets hotter when I realize that even though I’m now in the center of the room, not a single person on the platform is looking my way. 

“Ahem.” I clear my throat loudly, but only a handful of the robed men and women even glance my way. I go to clear my throat again, maybe say something, just in case they just didn’t hear me, but sudden cheering from my supposed audience cuts me off. To my right, a giant, shiny pig with a bright red apple in its mouth is pushed into the room the Gamemasters are lounging on, the source of their sudden cheer.

Something inside me finally snaps.

How dare they ignore me?! They’re the ones who are going to design my death, who design the Game that my parents, my sisters, my brother-my family - are forced to watch just so they can see me die some horrible, gruesome death. And for a stupid pig, too! A pig that would’ve cost me a literal arm and leg to get back home. I’m being ignored for that.

All thoughts of spears disappear, my body moving on instinct. I don’t even register that I’ve picked up a bow and quiver until I’ve aimed an arrow at the pig’s apple. I don’t think, I just shoot, and my aim is proven true when the silver arrow cuts into my target and pins it to the wall behind it. The people above shriek and scramble away from the pig in alarm, finally turning their eyes towards me. One woman, in particular, is staring at me like the others are, but instead of shock or wariness, her striking gray eyes pierce mine with a calculating gleam. 

The room is utterly silent as I bow mockingly. “Thank you for your consideration.” And then I promptly spin on my heel and march towards the waiting elevator, not waiting for their dismissal. I rush past the two gaping Avoxes stationed by the exit, throwing my bow to one side and the matching quiver to the other before boarding the translucent lift. I don’t start crying until halfway through the ride, silent tears streaming down my face. I feel numb, the world feels fuzzy and distant. I really messed up, didn’t I?

The ride ends too soon, the doors opening with a too-cheerful ding that grates my ears. As soon as the path is clear, I sprint to my room and jump onto my bed, ignoring the calls for me to come back, asking me what’s wrong. It would be pointless to tell them anyway; they’re going to find out soon enough.

Oh gods, what’s gonna happen to me? I just shot at the Gamemasters, at several of the most important people in the entire country, bar the Gods themselves. Actually, wasn’t one of the Gods in charge of the Games this year? Of fucking course they are, this is my luck we’re talking about. I could be charged with treason, or for trying to kill not only Gamemasters but a fucking God. They could arrest me, torture me until my mind and body are mush, or they could cut out my tongue and turn me into an Avox. They could do anything to me because I was stupid and let my anger control me. That never ends well for anybody; I should know better, and yet, here we fucking are.

There’s banging on my door, Percy’s saying something but I can’t hear through the static in my ears. I scream at him to go away until, eventually, he does, leaving me in silence once again. I don’t know whether to be grateful for that or not. 

I trace the soft sheets, the purple thread shimmering in the weakening sunlight pouring in from the windows. My mind slows down and I start to calm down. They’re not gonna torture me, or turn me into an Avox--they still need two victims tributes for District Twelve, after all. They’ll probably just throw everything they got at me in the arena, like a pack of hungry dogs or fire rain or something equally as deadly and ridiculous. It’s happened before, where the Gamemasters were the ones to purposely murder a tribute or two just to up the ratings… or maybe get revenge, in my case.

I’m pulled out of my morbid musings when someone knocks on my door again. I’m about to tell them to shove what they want somewhere unsavory but I’m beat to the punch. Again. I’m really sick of people talking over me.

“Lester, they’re announcing the scores now. You should probably be out here for this.” I groan, not wanting to get out of bed in the slightest just to face the product of my foolishness. Still, I drag myself out of the warm inviting bed and open the door to find Percy waiting for me, his green eyes genuinely gentle and unbelievably understanding. I almost start crying again.

“There you are. C’mon, kiddo, I’m sure you did just fine.” I grimace at that but don’t comment, knowing my score will speak for itself.

When we enter the living room, Melpomene, Emma, Rachel, and Mitchell are all already there and lounging on the various couches and armchairs. Emma and Melpomene are deep in a discussion, not acknowledging Percy or me. Rachel and Mitchell, on the other hand, enthusiastically greet us, the brunet man waving while the ever-energetic redhead pulls the two of us into a hug.

“There you are! Come, sit, sit! It’s starting soon!” I get shoved into a gray couch piled so high with pillows and blankets that I sink into it. Percy and Rachel sit on either side of me, and for a second the warmth from all the fabric surrounding me and the two people at my sides makes me forget all my previous anxiety. That doesn’t last long, though.

“Welcome, folks! If you didn’t know, though I’m not sure how you couldn’t-” The blue and purple-haired man winks playfully at the screen. Was that supposed to be a joke? Melpomene laughed so I guess so. “I am Hermes, your host for the 74th annual Hunger Games! And tonight, we will be releasing the Tribute Scoring! So exciting, isn’t it, Thalia?” At first, I’m confused; why would Thalia Grace be anchoring for the Hunger Games? And that woman, with her dark skin and shockingly white hair, looks absolutely nothing like the fearsome commander I had met just days before.

As if reading my thoughts, Percy leans over to whisper in my ear. “This Thalia is a completely different person; they just have the same name. I know, it gets confusing for everyone.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” Percy smiles at me, then turns his attention back to the screen. I do so, too, just as names start being called. Most of the names and numbers blur together, but some stick out. Lityerses, unsurprisingly, got a score of ten out of twelve. I was glad to see that Jason got an eight. Lee and Victoria got a seven and nine respectively. That young girl, the one with the glasses, got a nine as well. My breath hitches when they finally get to my district.

“And for District Twelve, Emma Sullivan has scored… a seven!” Melpomene brightens at that.

“We can work with that!” Emma doesn’t look reassured, though. More miffed than anything.

“And finally, our last tribute for the 74th Hunger Games: Lester Papadopoulos. He received a score of…” My chest feels like an elephant had sat on it and decided to take a nap there. Everything slows down and I think, this is it. This is where the rest of the world gives up on me, too.

“Twelve!” I choke on my own spit. What? I blink, thinking that I'm still in my bed and that I fell asleep or something. But when I open my eyes again, the same scene is still there: the TV anchors with their terrible acting, the pillows, and blankets smothering me, everyone else in the room staring at me in shock. It’s all still there and very, unbelievably real. I shot at them! And they… liked that? What ?!

“A twelve !? That’s-that’s incredible!I don’t think anyone has ever been able to get a perfect score, like, ever! What did you even do?!” Rachel is the first person to snap out of their shock, and at first I’m too busy gaping like a fish and scrambling to wrap my brain around the fact that, yes, I’m not imagining things. I had gotten a score of freaking twelve .

“I…I don’t know? I-” I wave my arms around, maybe hoping that the movement will help explain what the hell is going on, because I definitely don’t. “-I just… I meant to use the spears but…they weren’t paying any attention, and I just got so mad!” Everyone’s looking at me, staring at me in varying degrees of shock and, in Emma’s case, poorly concealed jealousy.

“What, exactly did you do?” Percy speaks softly like I’m a cornered animal. He’s not that far off--I definitely would’ve bolted by now if not for the sea of cushions that I’d have to practically swim out of.

“Uh, I may or may not have… shotanarrowthroughtheapple?” I get blank stares all around. I wince, quickly backtracking. “The Gamemasters didn’t even look my way when I came out, and the pig that they got didn’t help. It had an apple in its mouth, so I shot it with an arrow. The apple, I mean.” I brace for shouts of protest, or for them to affirm the fact that this shouldn’t be possible and berate me for my foolishness. I wouldn’t blame them. I mean, how could a nobody named Lester from District Twelve be the first person to score so high since… I don’t even know how long! It just doesn’t compute.

“Holy shit!” I yelp when I’m suddenly pulled into another hug, Rachel’s surprisingly strong arms wrapping around my shoulders as she grins at me. “That. Was brilliant! Oh, I would’ve paid to see their faces!” Percy laughs, a booming sound that’s a sharp contrast to his previous polite chuckles.

“Oh-oh, my gods! That’s better than anything I could come up with! Good job, kid-”

“Good job?!” Melpomene’s shrill voice, which is now at least two octaves higher, cuts through the moment in a way only she can. “You shot at the Gamemakers! There could’ve been horrible repercussions on not only you but the whole team! Especially with Athena there…!” Percy’s face spasms, annoyance flashing in his eyes before he settles back into the carefree, proud smile he had before.

“Hey, there’s no point in focusing on the what-ifs. This here-” He catches me in a headlock, ruffling my hair. I try to protest, but he’s way stronger than I’ll ever hope to be. “-is the highest scoring Tribute to play in the Games in over a decade! No doubt you’ve caught the eyes of everyone in the Capitol; you’re gonna get sponsors in no time!” A giggle escapes me when Percy punctuates his point with one last hair ruffle, finally letting me go only for me to find myself at the mercy of Rachel. I give up with a sigh, letting the red-head hug me like I’m her favorite stuffed animal.

“I’ve got to go.” I blink at Emma’s retreating form, the girl having had left the couch and then the room with a huff. I grimace at her reaction. It reminds me that, as wonderful as having a high score is, it just makes me a target for the other tributes. It just makes me a threat. And when you're in the Hunger Games? When people see you as a threat, they’ll just kill you faster.

Mount Olympus, as the home of the ruling council of Olympia is affectionately called, is constantly busy. The bustling of Avoxes, of lesser nobles, of peacekeepers, and Demigods all ensure that the resplendent tower is never fully quiet and that alone time is minimal. There are only a few places at certain times that are empty enough to ensure privacy and quiet: if you have your own personal room, the Council Chamber, or the more secretive parts of the enormous rooftop garden, the largest one in the palace and the only one open to the sky.

Personally, I usually prefer my room. As Athena, the Goddess of battle strategy and wisdom, I feel the most comfortable in an enclosed space in which I can pour over texts and battle plans without fearing interruption or someone seeing what I’m doing. Not that I do anything wrong, in fact I just do my job, but… well, I like my privacy. 

However, as of late I’ve been feeling a bit… claustrophobic. Like I’m trapped in a cage that’s been shrinking rapidly ever since my youngest brother disappeared without a trace. It’s been two years. Two years since the boy I’d always seen as an annoying, conceited brat left my family scrambling to fill in the gap Apollo left behind. At first, I hated him for that. For being the cause of the widened tear in our family that we had just began to stitch up. 

Then, as days turned to weeks, and weeks to over two years, the hatred faded into something more akin to grief. Grief for the brother I, admittedly, never truly treated kindly. Who’s last memory of me would be when I yelled at him for playing his Lyre while I was trying to read. 

I never thought that I would regret choosing my studies over Apollo, of all people. Time and loss really do strange things to one’s perspective.

I sigh, brushing my hand over a perfectly shaped red rose, its soft petals soothing against my skin as I try to sift through my uncharacteristically muddled thoughts. I am currently in one of those aforementioned secret spots in the rooftop garden; I’ve been gravitating to this particular bench more and more as time goes on, the quiet, open space a soothing balm to my mind. Today, my thoughts feel even more insuperable than usual even though there is really only one thing on my mind: Lester Papadopoulos. 

If you told me just a week ago that a lowly fourteen-year-old volunteer from District Twelve would weigh on my mind so heavily that I would have trouble focusing on anything else, I would’ve thought you were trying to prank me like my godly brothers have attempted to do many, many times before. Alas, It’s true. And I can’t pinpoint why .

~The pig that another of the Gamemasters, a man named Cornelius, had ordered arrived just as the last Evaluation was to begin. I frown at the cheering crowd; they only think with their stomachs, and while I understand their distaste of having to watch yet another child fumble around with a weapon they barely understand, I do not appreciate their attempt to shirk their duties. 

A minute later, they still aren’t settling down, and I’m extremely close to snapping at the damnable people I have to work with (ugh) when an arrow suddenly fixes itself into the far wall, taking the apple that was resting in the pig’s mouth with it. I follow it’s trajectory down to where the male tribute for District Twelve is standing, a golden bow in his grip. My breath hitches when, for just a second, I see something familiar in those sky-blue eyes, in that practiced stance and confident lift of the boy’s chin. 

For a second I could've sworn that I saw Apollo, before he started wearing those gaudy gold eye-contacts and straightened his dyed-blonde hair. The second’s gone soon enough, leaving a freckled, pale boy who doesn’t look like he’s seen much sun in years. Then the boy speaks- “Thank you for your consideration.”- and all I can hear is Apollo’s voice. 

As he talks off, I try to convince myself that I was just imagining things, that I was seeing what I wanted to after all these years of (reluctantly) missing my little brother.~

It’s been several hours since then, and I’ve parsed through every moment of that interaction looking for… I don’t even know. Validation? Proof that I’m not going insane? I don’t even know anymore. If Lester truly is my brother, then how could he put up with such an aberrant pseudonym or unpleasant place as District Twelve? And why would he volunteer for some random peasant? Perhaps he saw the Games as a way to get back to his home, but he could’ve much more easily and quickly done so by telling the district’s mayor who he was. He could’ve come home sooner. Did he not want to come home?

I shake my head against my quickly spiraling thoughts. This is not helping me today; I could be getting so much done, like preparing for the Games and checking up on the state of the district I reside over, District 8. Wallowing in my misery and confusion is not going to help me. Besides, regardless of whether or not that boy truly is Apollo (though as the memories of the Evaluation grow more distant I grow more and more hesitant to say that he is), I had given him a fighting chance with his score. Perhaps that’s a bit biased on me, but in my defense, the other Gamemasters agreed. Also, his shot really was commendable, as was his spirit.

I get up to leave, thinking of all the papers waiting for me in my room when I think of something I hadn’t before. There… could be one way to verify whether or not my half-baked and incredibly improbable theory. After a second of hesitation, I square my shoulders and set off to Hestia’s room.

Chapter Text

Everybody else is smiling

And their smiles don't fade

And you don't even wonder

Why you just don't think that way.

- Mockingbird by Rob Thomas -

~

When I reach the ivory door to Hestia’s room, I hesitate, my hand hovering mere millimeters from the polished metal. The older woman usually has peacekeepers outside her door that would knock for me, but I got lucky this time. The guards are in between rotations, leaving the other Goddess and I to complete privacy for a short time. 

I’ve been wary of eavesdroppers ever since that horrible time eleven years ago, when a third war almost broke out. I was only eight at the time, and all I remember is the sound of lightning crashing against swelling waves, but the idea that spies were able to infiltrate Olympia so easily… well, it definitely makes me wary of anyone I don’t explicitly trust. 

Still, even with the assurance that we will not have an audience for what I’m about to ask of the Goddess does not prevent me from being incredibly anxious. I have no idea how she’ll react, and I hate when I don’t know things. I’m the Goddess of wisdom! My power is literally to know everything! And yet… Aren’t I here because of something I don’t know? 

Arg, I hate this. I should just turn back now and save Hestia the trouble. Perhaps I’ll go to bed earlier tonight, get more rest and hopefully find in the morning that the source of my confusion was just a lack of proper sleep. I have been stressed lately… 

But I know myself better than that, and I know that I’ll never be able to rest until I affirm that the boy playing in the Hunger Games is not the same as my missing little brother.

I take in a fortifying breath, draw my hand back, and knock before I can lose my nerve. I wait with bated breath.

“Coming!”

 I resist the urge to bite my nails like I used to. Instead, I tap them against my leg in a sporadic rhythm. There’s muffled noise behind the heavy doors, light footsteps steadily growing in volume as they walk to the door.

The door opens wide, revealing a very surprised Hestia. The 46-year-old woman’s long hair is wrapped in a towel and her tanned skin is covered with a beige bathrobe. Despite her age, she still looks nearly identical to her visage in the old photos, the ones taken back when she was a bright-eyed Hopeful, or a God who aspired to take a spot in the Council, like I am now. 

Gods age much slower than the average human or Demigod, and even then we stop physically aging at different points in our lifetime, depending on the person. Hestia, for example, stopped when she was physically twenty three years old, and while I am physically around sixteen, my actual age is nineteen. We are, however, not immortal. We can die from sickness and fall to weapons, but it would take hundreds of years for age to be a leading factor in our death. 

“Erm, hello, Hestia. I-” I take in a deep breath, gathering all my courage. “May I come in? I… need a favor, if you don’t mind.” 

Her puzzled expression only deepens, which is understandable. In most situations, I find that other’s idea of “helping” is rarely all that helpful, especially when it’s so much more efficient to get things done myself; at least then I know that it’s done right. Unfortunately, this is not most situations. 

“Of course, darling. Come in and make yourself at home.” 

I nod my thanks as I step forward into the rather simple space. Like all rooms, especially each God’s personal chambers, her’s is large and tastefully decorated. Unlike the other rooms, it’s rather modest and warm, reflecting both its occupant’s personality and powers. 

Two brown couches face each other on a slightly raised platform in the center, mosaics placed on the floor to resemble a sprawling fire and black ash. The ash spreads outwards, staining the entire floor a glossy black and reflecting the inky, domed ceiling. Her bedroom is undoubtedly behind one of the rich wooden doors, her bathroom behind the other while an onyx fireplace flickers gently between them.

I haven’t been here in several years, but it still feels just as homey and comforting as when I was young.

“Sit, my dear. I will join you after I change into something more suitable.” 

She smiles warmly and I nod again, feeling like a broken record. This should not be making me so nervous, and yet here I am, with weak legs and shaking hands. I huff, sitting down and clasping my hands tight enough that they turn white.

Hestia finally comes back, dressed in a simple black dress that reaches the floor and covers her arms in flowing silk, as well as her gold-embroidered shayla. She does not always wear the headcovering, only when in public and wherever she feels particularly homesick or nostalgic for her family before the Council. Most of us had family other than the one we managed to craft up in our gilded tower, but none of us like talking about that.

“Thank you for waiting, Athena. Now, you said you wanted to ask something of me?” 

Her face is open and nonjudgmental, her amber gaze anticipatory and clearly communicating her willingness to give me anything I ask. Guilt stirs inside my gut, but I push on. I need to know.

“I-” I break eye contact with her for a moment, straighten my back with resolve, and meet her eyes once more, bracing for whatever reaction I receive. “Can I see a picture of Apollo, back when he was younger?” 

Her eyes go wide and I wince at my own bluntness. I shouldn’t have done this, but the questions out--there’s no going back.

She stares at me in silence for a moment, her eyes burning with unidentifiable emotion. Suddenly, she stands up. She’s going to leave, I think with a sinking heart, she’s going to tell me to go back to my room and stop being so foolish. 

Instead, she just looks back at me from over her shoulder and smiles a soft yet strained smile. “Well, aren’t you coming? I keep all my photos in my bedroom.” 

I blink at her, her words not registering for a second. As soon as they do, I leap up from the couch and walk briskly to the shorter woman’s side. She leads the way through the door and into her bedroom, which is decorated similarly to the main chamber. Hestia crouches in front of a large wooden chest that is tucked into an inconspicuous corner, pulls a silver key from a hidden pocket in her dress, and unlocks the padlock keeping the box’s contents away from prying eyes.

This extra security on a seemingly normal chest piques my interest. Why would she store photos in such a place? Then I look in, after an encouraging nod from Hestia, and gasp. Photos aren’t the only things in it, but also a pile of familiar-looking clothing, several books and journals, and a perfectly polished lyre. 

These are Apollo’s things. 

Hestia saved them all this time, keeping them safe from father who had ordered all of my brother’s possessions to be destroyed soon after he was officially declared dead. He claimed that seeing constant reminders of his son was too much for his old heart. I was never too sure about that.

I look at the older woman with wide eyes, though hers remain locked on the chest, a deep sadness lurking in her usually bright features and aging her tremendously. 

“Two years ago, I begged for your father to not destroy his things, to save them so as to preserve his memory.” 

A lone tear rolls down her cheek, and I look back at the chest, not entirely sure that what I’m seeing is real. 

No one goes against my father and gets away with it, no one.

 “He refused to listen to reason, and ordered everything to be burned, melted, and crushed anyways. So I took it upon myself to do what he was too much of a coward to do himself: I saved what pieces of Apollo I could safely get away with smuggling out, marking them down as destroyed so that Zeus wouldn’t get suspicious. He never found out. But I am curious about how you did?’ 

For the first time in my entire life, I’m rendered speechless. I gape at Hestia, unsure how to answer her thinly veiled accusation. Well, accusation is putting it a bit strongly. She doesn’t seem angry or worried, only curious.

“I… didn’t, actually. Artemis had accidentally let slip some months ago that you had some photos, but I didn’t know you had this much.” 

The older woman’s expression clears, her smile turning soft with melancholy once more.

“Ah, yes. I did tell Artemis about my little stash. It would’ve been wrong of me to keep what’s left of her twin from her.” 

I nod distractedly, my mind elsewhere as I stare at the familiar items that have been locked away all this time.

“Can I… look at the photos, please?” 

“Ah, yes, one moment…” She rummages through carefully, lifting the small lyre out to make sure it doesn’t get damaged. As the other Goddess searches, I glide my hands over the well-loved instrument. I remember him playing this all of the time. Hermes had given it to him on his seventh birthday, sparking his passion for all things musical. There were many days when I'd curse out the two of them for that, especially when my rambunctious younger brothers would purposely annoy me with their musical antics. I pluck at a string and smile, my eyes watering a bit. 

Oh, how I wished I could go back to those days. They were simpler, easy, predictable even. Or as predictable as they could get when one lives with six siblings and several strange adults, all of whom have wildly different powers and personalities that can be difficult to deal with. 

“Ah ha! Found it!” I’m pulled from my musings when Hestia pulls out a dusty book from the chest, it’s velvet cover faded with time. “I knew I had it! Here, this will have what you need.” 

I gingerly take the large book from her outstretched hands and glance once more at the older woman before opening it.

Inside are pages upon pages of photographs, all of them featuring me, my siblings, and the rest of our dysfunctional family, all back when we were slightly less so. Every single one hits me like a punch to my gut. I remember all of this, like this one when Apollo, Dionysus, Hermes, and Hepheastus teamed up to prank Ares and Aphrodite. Or this one, when Hera caught Apollo and Artemis trying to steal food from the kitchens. That was before the food delivering tables were invented, though even if they did, I have a feeling they would have tried to do that anyways.

It’s not until I reach the last page that I find what I’m looking for. It was taken when Apollo was only nine years old, his arms around his old friend, Hyacinthus. This photo was taken just before he started to dye his hair blonde and his skin with a “natural” tan. Before he started wearing gold eye contacts to cover up his blue eyes and makeup to cover his freckles. I feel all my blood drain from my face. There’s no disputing this, or denying the facts any longer. 

Lester Papadopoulos is my little brother. The small, malnourished boy who looked me in the eye with not a hint of recognition is Apollo. I feel like throwing up. I feel like laughing and crying and all of these things that a Goddess of war shouldn’t feel like doing. How could this happen? He… he was dead .

“-ear? Athena! Are you okay?” Hestia’s concerned voice snaps me back to reality. I stare blankly at her concerned face before I scramble for my phone. All the tributes’ photos are on the website for the Hunger Games; maybe they just look alike, even if I know that it’s pointless. I’m just in denial, but I still have to make sure. Just in case. 

I pull up the photo I’m looking for and that fleeting hope flees my soul completely, especially when I put the photograph of Apollo and Hyacinthus and the photo of Lester side by side. He has a few more scars, his cheeks are gaunt, his eyes hollow, but it’s undeniably him. Hestia gasps beside me, but everything feels distant. Static blurs my mind, making it hard to think past the fact that not only is my brother alive, but that he’s also here and I’m likely to be responsible for his death. 

I am the Gamemaster, after all. And Apollo is playing the Game.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m not looking forward to the interviews. 

They’re scheduled on the evening of the day after the scores are announced, leaving the morning open for each tribute to train individually with their mentors and open for me to worry about how I’m going on live television to talk about my least favorite topics: me and the Games.

My day leading up to the dreaded event is filled with drills, running laps, and honing my archery skills, with Percy switching between Emma and I at regular intervals since we elected to train separately. 

Thankfully, the stunt I pulled in my Evaluation wasn’t just beginner's luck, though it still took a couple tries before I could actually hit the bullseye. Even that little confidence booster isn’t enough to ease my mind, and by the time training’s over I feel as taut as the bow I’ve been working with for the past three hours.

I sigh, wiping my hand across my brow. What will the interviewer even ask? He’s not allowed to ask why I got my score, but that doesn’t mean he won’t bring it up. And he’ll probably ask me why I volunteered, or about the fire I wore during the parade. I try to prepare myself for anything, but that’s hard to do when every time I think about even stepping on that stage in front of thousands of people almost makes me want to risk running away.

A hand squeezes my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts. I look up and see Percy smiling down at me, his hair still impossibly immaculate even after working out almost as much as I did. I know I look like a sweaty, tired mess in comparison.

“Here.” 

He hands me my bottle of water. I’m tempted to chug it, but I know that’ll just make me nauseous, so I take small sips as Percy tells me what I did well and what I need to work on. When he’s done, he clasps me on my shoulder again and smiles warmly, his bright eyes crinkling. 

“Good job, Les’, I’m proud of you. Go freshen up, and go to the dining room when you’re done. We’re going to have lunch before Rachel suits you up for your interview.” 

“Um, thanks, Percy. I’ll see ya in a bit?” 

He smiles and nods before we part ways, the Demigod going back into Emma’s gym to tell the same thing. Ever since last night, the girl has been acting weirder than usual, more quiet. The glares that had just begun to calm down a bit have come back in full force, but otherwise she refuses to acknowledge that I exist. 

She probably thought I wouldn't be a threat, especially after my encounter with Lityerses. She probably assumed that he would kill me before I could possibly become one.

It’s for the best, anyway. We’re not friends or allies, and we never were; we’re just two kids who have to kill each other. That is, unless someone else gets us first.

Lunch goes by quickly, with Percy handing out more advice in between bites of his blue omelet while Melpomene interjects every time he pauses. Why it was blue, I have no idea. I don’t know why he was eating an omelet, either. Isn’t that a breakfast food? To each their own, I guess.

It’s nearing two in the afternoon when I’m finally shoved into a room with Rachel so that she can alter the suit she made for me weeks earlier so that it actually fits. While most designers will just wait until they have the needed measurements to make the Interview outfits, Rachel has her own way of doing things. And I have to admit, the extra time she was able to put into the suit did make it look spectacular. 

The coat and pants are a deep, silky black, with golden embroidery along the hems and neckline that create the illusion of fire when it reflects in the light. The shirt underneath is a dusty gray, complimenting the white and gold tie that is tied snugly around my neck. 

Rachel steps back once she finishes the last stitch, her emerald eyes burning holes into the fabric to find any flaws or anything she missed that needs fixing. My arms are starting to burn from holding them up and out for the past hour, but I’m too afraid of the spirited girl to put them down before she tells me to. 

After a second she snaps her fingers, her face brightening before she dives towards a box underneath a glass table. I raise my eyebrow and tilt my head, trying to get a better look at what she’s rummaging through. She curses under her breath and blows stray strands of hair that escaped her bun away from her face, but eventually stands up with a triumphant yell.

“There it is! I knew I still had it!” 

She scrambles back over to me, almost typing over her abandoned measuring tape in her excitement. When she finally reaches me, she shows me exactly what she was looking for.

It’s a small, golden arrow cutting through a circular band of woven vines, and there’s an inscription etched into the shaft. It’s so small, though, that it’s impossible to make out what it says. 

“It says ‘verum volare’. That means-”

“Fly true.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

“...Yeah, it does. I didn’t know that you spoke Latin.” She speaks slowly, mild confusion swirling in her eyes. I frown at the delicate symbol.

“I don’t. It just… came ta me. Uh, what is it?” 

I try to change the subject quickly, and I thank any existing deities that Rachel goes along with it, though not before giving me one more analytical look.

“It’s a pin. Here, let me put it on you.” 

She places the arrow on the folded part of the jacket, right over my heart. When she’s done, the freckled woman backs up once more, though this time with a dimpled smile. “Looking sharp, Papadopoulos! Though maybe we should do something about your hair…” 

My hand goes to my head on reflex. My hair isn’t that bad… 

Something about my expression must be funny because Rachel bursts out in giggles. “Oh, no, it doesn’t look horrible, I promise! It could just use a little trimming, especially since you’re going on live television and don’t have flames to hide behind.” I guess she has a point. The whole purpose of this is to make a good impression, and I doubt keeping my hair as the untamable mess it is now wouldn’t help me out with that. Then again… 

Mom would always drag me over to the scissors every time she felt my hair was getting too long, cutting it way too short knowing full well that I wasn’t going to get it cut again for another couple months. It was an inside joke of sorts between the two of us, and something only she did. Having someone else cut my hair would feel wrong.

I think for a second, weighing the pros and cons, before deciding that as much as I love my mom and I’s tradition, I have to focus on survival before anything else. Besides, I doubt they’ll have extra hair ties in the Cornucopia.

“Okay, ya can, uh, cut it. I think it’s past due, anyways.” 

She stares at first, too surprised to react. Then she breaks out into the brightest smile I’ve seen on her face yet.

“Yes, sir! I’ll go get the proper equipment while you sit down over there!”

 She points to an armchair in the corner, salutes, then runs out of the room briefly. I sit down as I was told to and wait, though I don’t have to wait long. The redheaded woman jogs back into the room with her arms full of spray bottles, clips, a comb, and a small pair of scissors and quickly gets to work.

Fast forward thirty minutes, and I’m standing in front of a full-body mirror admiring my reflection. Rachel gave me a slight undercut and trimmed the top of my hair so that it no longer flops into my eyes. I’m not really one for fancy haircuts, obviously, but I have to admit I don’t look half-bad.

“So, what do you think?” 

I run my hand through my hair, marveling at the lack of tangles. I smile at Rachel, the woman bouncing on her heels behind me.

“I like it.” She squeals and pumps her fist into the air.

“Yes! You look amazing, Lester! You’re gonna kill it out there! Oh, wait, wrong choice of words. Sorry!” 

I rub my neck sheepishly at the compliment, turning around to face my apologetic-looking stylist.

“It’s fine, and it's only thanks to your efforts that I look good. I’ve been told that I kinda suck at the whole “fancy” thing.” 

We both chuckle, though she also rolls her eyes and slaps me on the arm.

“Hey, I can only do so much. You look good because you look good , not because of any fancy clothes or hairstyle. Those things are used just to pronounce what’s already there. Don’t forget that, Papadopoulos, okay?” 

I avert my eyes to the floor at that, nodding silently while I shuffle my feet. I hear her sigh, and suddenly I’m pulled into another one of her hugs.

“You’re going to be fine, kiddo. Just smile, and if the crowds get too much, focus on Hermes. He’s used to talking to nervous Tributes and will totally understand if you just stare at his tie the entire time.”

 I laugh, the sound choked and weak even to my own ears, and duck my head into the crook of her neck as I hug back.

“Thanks, Rachel, for everything.” 

“Anytime, Lester, Anytime.”

We have to take a car to the building our interviews are in. It’s black, rediculously shiny, and unbelievably long. A limo . Another word that I shouldn’t know, but do. I’m kinda getting tired of that.

It only takes us a few minutes to get to our destination, and the whole way there is spent trying not to hyperventilate. Oh, and trying to ignore Emma, which is made infinitely harder because of our close proximity. Percy and Melpomene try to help by sitting us on opposite ends of the limo with Melpomene beside Emma and Percy next to me. It does help a little bit, but every once in a while I’ll catch the girl trying to burn holes into my skull.

Needless to say, I never want to do that again.

It feels like hours before we arrive at the garage inside the squat tower, though thankfully we aren’t the last ones here. Seven other identical limos are parked neatly in their assigned spots, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief when I notice that District One, and therefore Lityerses, is not one of those that are here. That doesn’t last long, though, because of freaking course.

District One, Two, and Four come in at the same time, as if it was choreographed. Maybe it was--I wouldn’t put it past the Butchers to already have a solid alliance settled between them. 

“C’mon, out you go! We need to be backstage asap!” I scramble out of the car, smoothing out any wrinkles when I’m finally able to stand up straight. Percy places his hand on my back before we start walking, shielding me from the other Tributes’ line of sight with his body. I had told him about the incident during training, and I’ve never been more glad that he knows than now. It was definitely worth the uncomfortable concern.

When we enter the building, I realize that we’re not in a news station, or…anything else that I’ve pictured in my head this whole time. I’ve never actually watched the interviewing process of the Games, I always thought it was boring and I was usually too tired from working to care, so the fact that it’s in a full blown theater takes me off guard. 

It’s a beautiful theater, too, of what I can see from backstage. It’s decorated in the Capitol’s signature white, purple, and gold color scheme, though it’s a lot less sterile and more… energetic. This is the first place that I’ve been to in this awful, beautiful place that feels alive, where the people running around don’t look like machines, where there are no Avoxes, and where peacekeepers blend into the shadows rather than stand out starkly. The soft yet glaring lights feel almost… comforting. Like they’re welcoming me ho-

Another headache spikes, and I quickly derail my train of thought to prevent it. It would not be very smart of me to collapse just minutes before I have to talk in front of a crowd and answer potentially difficult questions.

I look around the hallway we’re walking down again, but the comforting glow and energy have disappeared. All I can see are endless hallways and stressed workers. All I can hear is the distant, raucous roaring of the crowd.

The room we ultimately stop in is boring in comparison to the extravagance of the rest of the building, just plain white walls and a row of twenty-four cushioned chairs that curve against the rectangular room’s walls. Orange lights illuminate the small-ish space, leaving everyone looking like baked sweet potatoes. Unfortunately for my stress levels, Melpomene and, more importantly, Percy aren’t allowed to come in with us. The Demigod places his hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear just before he leaves.

“You’ll be okay, just trust yourself. If you start to feel overwhelmed, remember that Rachel and I are in the audience and that, even if you can’t see us, we’re rooting for you.” 

I manage a shaky smile at the older man. “Thanks, Percy. I’ll remember.” 

He gives me one last smile, then he’s gone. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then walk over to my assigned seat. It’s the very last one, and uncomfortably close to Emma, making me relieved when the show starts.

District One goes first, naturally. Then Two, the Three, and so on until it’s Emma’s turn. I don’t really pay attention to any of the interviews, too busy going over what questions could be asked and my possible responses to really care. Even when in the thick of it all, I still find the interviews tedious and unnecessary. I mean, wasn’t the parade and the scores supposed to give people a general idea of us? The interviews are barely long enough to ask a few shallow questions, and are often so choreographed that most times the audience isn’t even seeing the real people behind the fancy clothes and makeup.

I guess they just don’t care whether or not they’re meeting real people. They just want a show.

Emma walks back in, her pastel yellow dress glittering with the many, many sequins that Mitchel decided were a good idea to put on. I’m all for sequins, don’t get me wrong, it just… do there have to be that many? 

I’m walking past her, desperately trying to get my hands to stop shaking, when she suddenly grabs my arm. My eyes snap to her, and I flinch back at the cruel smirk pulling at her painted lips.

“Careful out there, Lester .” She leans in closer and I lean back, trying to wrestle my arm out of her iron grip. “We don’t want you to mess up, show them how much of a freak you really are.” She sneers one last time before finally letting me go.

My legs don’t stop shaking, even once I’ve sat down on the brightly lit stage.

“Lester Papadopoulos, everyone!” The lights blind me enough that I can’t see the audience, but oh boy can I hear them. Their shouts and whistles pierce the muggy air. It’s too hot, but I paste a smile on my face anyways. 

“Now, Lester, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

 Hermes’ smile is too wide, his hair too blue, and everything about him is so sparkly I don’t think that Rachel’s advice of just looking at him is even possible. 

I push through my unease and force myself to stay in the moment. I am not dissociating here of all places, not when my family is probably watching. I have to be strong for them, show them I’m okay.

“-for the Hunger Games?” Hermes’ voice fades back in, but too late to catch most of his question. Welp, one second in and I’ve already made a fool of myself. That sounds about right.

“Huh?” The crowd laughs, Hermes laughs, and my ears burn in embarrassment.

“A little star-stuck, are we?” I latch onto the lifeline the man gave me.

“Heh, yeah; I’ve never been on a stage before, much less one this big!” I pull out my goofiest, shyest grin as I rub the back of my neck, still marveling that I can do that now without touching my hair.

“Really? Oh, well then this must be very overwhelming for you.” His voice drips with pity. He’s such a good actor, I can’t even tell if it’s real or not.

“Oh, definitely. This whole situation has been overwhelming, to be honest.” Coos echo from the audience, and Hermes places his hand over his heart.

“Oh, I’m sure. To go from District Twelve to this can be quite jarring, which leads me back to the question I asked before: I’m sure we’re all curious on why, exactly, you volunteered for the Games? You are the very first Volunteer from District Twelve, the first for many things actually, but we’ll get to that later.” 

He winks at the audience and they cheer. I have to restrain myself from biting my lip as I quickly try to figure out how to answer the question. Thankfully, it was one of the ones I predicted would pop up.

“I… Miles Blake, the boy I volunteered for, he’s my brother in every way that counts.”The audience goes quiet, or as quiet as an audience of thousands can get. “We… we grew up together. He and his family have always been close to mine since we’re neighbors and… well, I just… he has trouble with his legs. He’s crafty and one of the smartest kids I know, but I knew that my chances of getting out alive were a bit higher, so I volunteered.” 

Hermes’ face is filled with empty empathy, but for a second I felt like I almost saw something real in his teal eyes. A deeper sadness, complete understanding.

I don’t know what to make of that.

“So you were protecting a brother? That’s very noble of you.” I shrug.

“That’s what family’s supposed to do.” The blue-haired man nods solemnly before pasting on a broad smile. I notice that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Quite true you are! Now, I promised earlier that I would get to other landmarks you have made. Like in the parade! Was that real fire?” I force myself to chuckle.

“Yeah, it was, actually. Trust me, I was as surprised as you were when my stylist put me on fire!” That sends the audience into uproarious laughter. It sounds fake.

“Ha! I’m sure! You made quite the entrance, and you continue to be quite the show stopper. For example: will someone remind me of the last time a tribute got a perfect score?” Hermes holds his mic uselessly to the audience, and they obligingly scream out intelligible answers.

“That’s right! Eleven years ago, Percy Jackson, your mentor, was the second Tribute to get a perfect score. And now, we have a third, from District Twelve nonetheless! I can’t ask you how you achieved this, but I congratulate you on your brilliant performance!” I’m shocked into silence, and I barely am able to get out a thank you.

Percy was the last person to get a twelve? That’s… ironic actually. I, Lester Papadoplous, a boy from the poorest District in Olympia, got the same score as the most famous tribute and Demigod to exist in…ever, really. What are the odds?

“Well, folks, that concludes this last interview! Give one last round of applause to Lester, the boy on fire!”

Chapter Text

We were like a glass house, so breakable

Stuck inside a madhouse, trapped in the walls

And all of the voices inside of my mind

Will never be silenced until I can find

A way to let go of what we left behind

- Ruins by Ryder -

~

The waiting room is blessedly cool compared to the stage. It had felt like my suit was deep frying me, and I sigh with relief when I manage to tug the stupidly tight tie off from around my neck. For a blissful second, time freezes and I find that I’m alone in a place that isn’t my bedroom for the first time since coming to the Capitol; I just stand there with my eyes shut tight against the dim light, soaking up the silence. 

Time unfreezes too soon, the door opens, and I’m thrust right back into reality.

“You did amazing out there!” Percy is smiling, though the barest traces of tension are visible between the cracks. “Definitely a better job than I did, that’s for sure.” He stops walking just a few feet away from me, sheepishly rubing his neck.

“I didn’t know that you had a twelve, too.” My mouth moves without my permission yet again (this is becoming an unfortunate trend, I’ve noticed). It’s almost imperceptible, but I could’ve sworn that Percy flinched at that. Feeling guilty, I bite my lip and consider just changing the subject and forgetting I ever said anything despite my piqued curiosity. Before I can do that, however, the Demigod cuts through the awkward silence, speaking carefully.

“That’s… a long story.” He huffs, his shoulders slumping and he tilts his head down to stare at the ground. “Actually, under the Council’s decree, I’m not allowed to tell you or anyone anything about that…specific era in my life.” 

Disappointment squeezes the last of my energy from me. I’m not mad at Percy for not telling me before, I was just… really, really curious. That itch to know more claws at my brain, but I ignore it the best I can; you can’t go against a direct decree from the Council, no matter who you are, unless you want to face horrible consequences.

“Oh. That’s okay, it’s just cool, especially since you were only twelve at the time.” 

His lips lug into a lopsided smile, the mischief sparking in his eyes a sharp contrast to the apologetic, pensive look he had before.

“And you’re only fourteen. That’s just as impressive, you know.” Something flashes across his face too fast to interpret. “I may not be able to tell you about my Game, but I know a couple other stories that might help you and Emma. We can all talk over dinner, if you want?” 

I may be reading way too into it, and maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see, but the way he keeps emphasizing the words ‘you’ and ‘we’ gets my mind spinning. That and the way his eyes keep shifting to the right…

I subtly shift my own eyes to follow Percy’s, and I have to consciously stop them from widening when I see a miniscule, blinking red dot in a corner of the room. 

A camera.

I stare imploringly at the Demigod, and he responds with the slightest of nods that I would have missed If I wasn’t paying such close attention to the man. I nod back, and then we’re pulling our masks back on. 

“Now!” He crosses the gap between us and swings his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get back home, shall we? With the Games tomorrow, we’re going to bed a bit earlier than usual. Don’t want you to be exhausted on your first day!.” The Demigod then leans in slightly, whispering in my ear. “They’re always watching and listening, but they don’t care about you when you’re in your room. I’ll meet you there after dinner and the replay.”

A discombobulating combination of icy fear and red-hot curiosity mixes in the pit of my stomach the whole ride back to the penthouse. I’ve always liked stories; my moms would often tell some of their grander ones to Georgie before bed when they weren’t too tired, and I loved listening in, maybe telling one of my own made-up ones if I’m not too tired, either. But this time feels different. It feels like whatever happened to Percy, I’m not going to like it. 

(Notice I’m completely ignoring the Games? Don’t judge me--this is my end-life crisis and I get to choose my coping methods (I feel like I stole that from somewhere, but like most things, I’ve forgotten from where, so I ignore that feeling, too.))

Dinner is painful to sit through. Emma’s back to ignoring me (thank goodness) and Melpomene is uncharacteristically quiet for whatever reason. The only person who makes an effort to fill in the silence is Percy, who makes good on his promise from before to tell some stories about past Tributes. I know it’s just a ruse, though; now that I’m looking for them, I realize that he’s just playing for the cameras that have suddenly become startlingly obvious to me. They’ve been watching this entire time? I knew that Capitol people were creepy, but this is a whole nother level.

Before we all head off to bed, we watch the replay of the interviews. I hadn’t paid attention to the screens back in the waiting room, but now I watch my competition with trepidation settling heavily in my mind. Everyone seems to be playing some sort of angle, and almost all of them feel extraordinarily, predictably fake. 

The girl from District One comes out in a sheer blush-pink gown, and you can tell her mentor didn’t have any trouble coming up with an angle with her. She’s absolutely gorgeous with her silky brown hair, large crystal-blue eyes, and a curvy figure. I learn that her name’s Selina. She’s the exact opposite of Lityerses who plays up the “ruthless killing machine” vibe he has going on. Not that he really needs to play that up--his reputation does that well enough already. District Two’s tributes are unimpressive, the boy especially. While the girl seems strong, and I know she can throw a mean spear, all the boy has going for him is that he’s the oldest tribute of us all and has a tongue of silver. Otherwise? He’s just a really pale, gangly blonde guy whose blue eyes almost seem to bulge out of his head thanks to all the makeup.

I try not to think about how I’ve been seeing more people with blue eyes than I ever had back home. I try not to think about what that could mean for me. 

Jason is as kind on the stage as he was with me, and he’s the only one up there that actually feels like a real person, even if he’s as covered in makeup as the rest of us. Lee and Victoria are both grieving siblings who are determined to protect the other. Eight, nine, and ten pass in a blur. I discover that the girl from Eleven who had caught my eye in training is named Meg, and despite her small stature and young age, you can tell she is not to be messed with. I bet my bottom dollar that she would stab me in a heartbeat with no remorse. Not that I have any money to bet with, but you get the idea.

When we finally get to me, I cringe. Emma did pretty well. She was calm and polite the whole time, giving off the air of someone who has done this a million times and is confident in their abilities. Me, on the other hand? Everything about me screamed nervous and uncertain, although Percy assured me that I was charming. I’m not too sure about that; There I was, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Rachel’s hands, desirable by circumstance and a ridiculous store of luck. I don’t really feel all that beautiful. 

When the anthem signals the end of the program a hush settles over the room. I said that I would ignore the Games earlier, but in the empty silence of the living room, just hours before the event, it’s hard to think about anything else. I know I’m supposed to hate all those kids up on that stage, that I’m supposed to kill them, but they’re just that--kids. Not much older than me, some even younger, and I’m still going to have to face them in the arena and try to kill them. 

Not for the first time, I sit there seriously considering running away. It wouldn’t work, though, so I stay put until I’m sent off to bed. It’s only there when I remember Percy’s offer, and for a second longer, I let myself forget the Games exist in the face of whatever Percy will tell me. 

I’m just finishing up brushing my teeth in my bathroom when I hear a knock at the door. I quickly spit out the paste and run to open the locked door. You can never be too careful, and with how prickly my fellow tribute from twelve is, I can never be too sure on whether or not she’ll just one day say ‘fuck it’ and kill me in my sleep, damn the consequences.  

As I predicted, Percy is standing at the other side of the door. Not as I predicted, he’s decked out in his pajamas that are composed of a blue shirt, matching pants, and slippers that look like little sharks.

“Uhh…nice clothes?” The man rushes past me and slams the button that controls the door, closing and locking it.

“Sorry, we just have to be careful. I had looped the cameras in the hallway--well actually a friend did, but whatever--but it only lasted a few seconds, so…”.

I raise my eyebrow at Percy, a bit incredulous. “Okay…I get it that you don’t want the Council Gods to know that you’re telling me anything, but this seems a bit, uh, overboard.” 

Percy’s sheepish grin fades, his eyes boring into mine with the intensity of an oncoming storm. “Trust me when I say that this isn’t your average gossip. This…you know about Apollo’s disappearance, right?” 

I frown. I guess we’re getting right into it, though I have no clue what some missing God has to do with something that happened over a decade ago. “Yeah, who hasn’t? Didn’t he get, like, murdered, or something?” Percy sighs, running a hand through his messy hair as he takes a seat on my bed. I follow suit, sitting with my legs crossed.

“Or something,” he echos. “We… don’t actually know what happened to him.” One minute into our conversation and I’m already floored.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I thought he was declared dead?” Percy nods solemnly, his lips thinning.

“Yeah, he was, but only because, after months or searching, we couldn’t find a trace of him. No witnesses, no clues, no signs that he was taken at all except for his trashed bedroom. It’s like he just…disappeared. But that’s not the point.” He takes a deep breath before continuing on carefully. “It’s who we think was the culprits that matters, because, well, we think that it was the same people who tried to start another war eleven years ago.”

I gape at the Demigod in shock. “Another war?! Who…?” Percy grimaces.

“We think it was District thirteen.” What. What . I’m sure my eyes are wider than dinner plates by now.

“But--but District Thirteen was destroyed 74 years ago! How would they…?!” Percy shakes his head.

“That’s what the first post-war council told everyone all those years ago, and I have no doubts that they believed it themselves. No one knows if there were some survivors, or if people from other districts took up their banner and cause, or if there’s some other explanation entirely, but whatever the reason, the District still exists. We discovered that the hard way when, as I said before, they tried to start another war.” 

I don’t dare to break the silence when Percy pauses to collect his thoughts. No wonder he’s being so cautious. This? This is huge .

“Back then, District Four wasn’t like it is now. It was poor, constantly smelled like rotting fish, and was definitely not in the Capitol’s favor. It was a lot like Twelve, actually.” 

He tries for a smile, but it’s strained. 

“When I was named a tribute, no one volunteered for me. My mom and younger brother, Tyson, were devastated, though mom was also panicking for more reasons than was obvious. She knew that my dad was Poseidon, and she knew that my presence in the Games was not going to end well. And what do ya know? She was right.” 

He sighs and flops down backwards, staring at the ceiling with a distant gaze. 

“What she didn’t know, though, is that one of the other Gods and a former member of the Council was plotting against his fellow leaders, and had been working with District Thirteen rebels, playing spy. He grew paranoid when I, the first child of Poseidon to be born in nearly nine years, came into the limelight. He became afraid that he was going to be discovered, and decided that it was the perfect time to get the ball rolling.”

“The God framed me for stealing Zeus’ symbol of power, his staff, just weeks after the Games ended, forcing me to go on the run after Zeus took the bait a little too well. My dad was furious, and tried to help me in any way he could, but that just incriminated him as well. I’m sure you can tell where this is going?” 

I nod mechanically, too absorbed in the story to do anything else. Hearing all of this… how did they manage to cover it all up so well? …And why is Percy telling me, of all people?

“Eventually, I managed to clear my name and revealed the true criminal. Well, criminals, plural. The God wasn’t the only spy; a Demigod named Luke-” 

Percy spits out the name venomously. 

“-was the one who actually did the stealing. Unfortunately, both got away, disappearing into the night without a trace. Both of their rooms were searched, and while nothing obviously incriminating was found in Luke’s room, the God had a stack of letters hidden behind a panel in his closet, each with District Thirteen’s symbol printed on them. It wasn’t hard to piece two-and-two together.” He breathes harshly through his nose and sits up, facing me with a hardened expression on his face.

“War had almost broken out between my father and Zeus because of District Thirteen, and now, eleven years later, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re giving it another go. I’m telling you this because I don’t believe in the God’s policy of laying low until something happens. Because I know something is going to happen, whether we like it or not. So just…be careful out there. Don’t trust anyone, because… because I once trusted Luke. And you see where that got me.” 

I gulp and bite my lip, nearly drawing blood. “I-I won’t, I promise. Thank you for telling me this.” He smiles, a small, sad thing that speaks more volumes than words ever could.

“You don’t need to thank me. It was something you needed to know.” 

“What about Emma?” I ask, thoroughly confused. “Why do I need to know and she doesn’t?” Percy breaks eye contact, staring at his hands as they fiddle with the silky sheets.

“…I don’t know, actually. Just a hunch. You-” His intense eyes are suddenly on me again, unblinking as he studies my face. “You feel familiar, as if I should know you, but don’t. It’s weird, but…my gut says you have to know these things, and after all these years, I’ve learned to always follow that feeling.” 

I blink stupidly at the unexpected answer. I’m… familiar? I--didn’t I think that before, on the train? That I should know Percy, that I should know his eyes, his hair, his voice? That I should remember hi-

A headache erupts from nowhere, splitting pain radiating all the way down to my toes. All sound turns to fuzzy static, my eyesight tunnels until everything looks gray and everything hurts make it stop, make it stop, make it stop -

“Shh, you’re okay, it’s okay. Shhh.” Everything is black. Did someone turn the lights off?

No, my eyes are just closed. When did I close them?

They hurt, but I try to open them. The light that pierces through my cracked eyelids only makes the headache worse, though, so I slam them back shut with a groan.

“There you are, Les’. Can you hear me?” 

It feels like I’m underwater--sound is distorted and echoey, bouncing aimlessly in my mind. I want to answer, but my jaw is as hard to move as my eyelids. I can’t move anything, actually-- everything feels numb. 

I end up settling for another groan.

“Good, breathe with me. Here-” My hand is lifted and placed flat against something soft, something moving. I belatedly realize that Percy’s actually holding me, and had put my hand on his chest. “Focus on my breathing, okay? Try to match yours with mine.” 

Feeling starts to return to my limbs, my fingers twitching at the uncomfortable tingly feeling. It feels like there’s a million tiny people electrocuting me with tiny tasers all over my body. 

Eventually, the dreadful headache and the weird tingling feeling fade into something more manageable. I brave opening my eyes, and this time I can actually keep them open without them screaming bloody murderer at me. 

“Hey?” I blink my eyes open wider, staring up into Percy’s concerned ones. 

“Uh...hi.” I frown at the way my voice slurs, or try to at least. My face still feels pretty numb. Still, Percy seems happy to get a reply at all, his lips curving up into a small smile.

“You had me worried for a second there. Are you okay?” 

That… is a good question, actually. My brain still feels like it’s trying to burst out of my skull, but that’s a step up from when I’m sure it was combusting. The rest of my body just aches dully in tandem with my heartbeat, a common enough occurrence that I can mostly ignore it. So basically it could be worse, which is good enough for me.

“I…I’m fine, this happens sometimes, I’ll be okay.”

 I try to push away from the hydrokinetic Demigod, feeling better enough to brave sitting up on my own, but I find out that his muscles aren’t just for show. He just holds me tighter against my squirming and gives me the most unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh. This has happened before?” I huff, rolling my eyes as I give up and slump bonelessly into the man’s warmth. 

“Not very often, and never this bad.” He hums neutrally, though I can still feel the concern practically wafting off of him. 

“Still… that looked painful. Are you… sure you’re okay? And it would be nice to know what caused it, so you can avoid triggers in the arena…” He trails off and I panic. I didn’t even think of that! 

When I first arrived in District Twelve, these types of headaches were so common and would last so long that they could completely cripple me for days at a time. They ebbed off over time till they barely happened anymore, and eventually they became almost completely forgotten in the face of other injuries and coal poisoning. But if I’m relapsing or something… well, this is the worst possible timing for that. If I die in that stupid arena just because I got a headache, I-I don’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. 

I think Percy has sensed my internal panicking because, suddenly, he pulls me in closer, resting his chin on my head as he rocks side to side. “Hey, you’ll be fine, just-” We both know that he’s lying, but he forges on anyway. “Remember my advice, the lessons, all the training and you’ll be--you’ll be fine, okay? If you get your hands on a bow, cut everyone down from a tree or something, like a sniper. That would be super cool.” 

I laugh at that, though it’s more of a wheeze.

“Yeah…yeah that’d be cool. I don’t think it’d work though.” Percy scoffs and rubs his fist into my hair. I squawk shrilly, and Percy snorts, an undignified sound for the son of a Ruling God. 

“You could do it, I know you could. You shot at Athena, for goodness sakes. If you could do that, I think you can do anything.” 

I bite my lip, intent on continuing to argue with my mentor when he covers my mouth with his hand. I narrow my eyes at the cheeky man and internally debate whether or not my pride is worth licking his hand. I decide that: yes, yes it is.

“Ah ah, no arguing with me on this, You- hey!” It does the trick, surprisingly enough, and he lets go to wipe his hand on my sheets which-- rude . I sleep with those! “That was dirty, Lester Papadopoulos. Just plain dirty.” I giggle and take the opportunity to wiggle out of Percy’s iron hug. I stand up at the foot of the bed, grinning, when I realize too late that it’s probably not the best idea to stand up so quickly after I experienced… whatever the heck just happened.

I get dizzy again, and I sway dangerously before a solid hand on my shoulder steadies me. I blink the dots out of my eyes and refocus them onto Percy who looks very alarmed. 

“That. Was a very bad idea,” he says in bemusement and I nod in agreement, grimacing.

“Yep. a very, very bad idea. I will not be doin’ that again.” The Demigod sighs heavily and shakes his head in exasperation. 

“You are quite the handful, Lester, has anyone told you that?” I give him my most winning smile. The man’s sea green eyes widen and surprise flashes through them, but the expression is gone and the fond exasperation back in place so fast I’m almost convinced I imagined it.

“Nope, never!” He chuckles and ruffles my hair roughly. I squawk in protest and try to push him away, to no avail. No surprise there. 

“C’mon, you have to get to bed. Y-you have a big day tomorrow.” I don’t mention his stutter, and in return he doesn’t point out how badly my legs shake as I climb into my bed for the last time . 

“Goodnight, Lester. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.” Percy’s form is silhouetted in the doorway, the light in the hallway mixing with the darkness of my room from when I shut off the lights, coating the lean man in shadows.

“Goodnight, Percy. And…thank you. So much.” I think he smiles, but it’s hard to tell.

“No problem.” He turns to leave, fiddling with his phone to no doubt reset the camera loop, but he ends up hesitating in the doorway. He stands there for a split second, thinking, before whispering into the cold room, “I--I only met Apollo two, three times, and usually just in passing. The Gods tend to keep to themselves, you know? I just…” He shakes his head sharply. “Nevermind, doesn’t matter. Be safe, okay? I’m proud of you, no matter what happens.” 

He moves to leave again, but through my steadily growing confusion, I’m suddenly struck with a realization. “Wait! Who--who was the God? The one who betrayed you?” 

Percy freezes at that, staring off into the darkness for several seconds before his soft voice cuts through the suffocating silence.

“His name was Hades, God of the dead.” A shiver runs down my spine, the room seeming to drop several degrees. Then Percy’s gone, leaving me to the darkness and my spirling confusion. 

I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

The clean, white hallways seem more suffocating than usual, like they’re closing in on me with every step I take. It’s irrational, and literally impossible, but no matter how much I try to tell myself that, the feeling stays. 

I wrap my arms around myself for comfort, keeping an eye out for anyone else. It would not be fit for a Goddess, much less one of my stature, to be seen as vulnerable or in need of comfort. Those sorts of things are below us, and yet…

My mind flashes back to the previous night without my permission, when I discovered the most horrific of things: my brother, whom I’ve mourned for over two years, and Lester Papadopoulos are one and the same. Hestia was equally as shocked, and understandably so.

That was the first time I’ve ever seen her cry. 

And the second time was only an hour ago when we watched the interviews together. It was hard at first to see my brother in the stranger he’s become, but as I watched closely, I started to see it in the way he fidgeted with his hands, or the way he spoke about his “brother” from District Twelve. It’s him, it’s really, truly him. And that hurts .

We agreed to keep this between us, to not tell anyone, even Artemis. As much as it pains me to keep this a secret, I know it would tear apart everyone in this makeshift family if they knew that they were sending him to certain death. And after Hades…well, we can’t afford anymore cracks in this broken home. 

I’m passing Hermes’ bedroom door when I hear muffled music from behind it. The only reason I could hear it at all was because I was passing so close, which strikes me as odd. Usually, if my brother were to play music, he’d blast it so loudly that you could hear it from the other end of the hallway, nevermind that he has noise dampeners embedded into his walls. For it to be so quiet…

I walk cautiously to the golden door, not paying any mind to the peacekeepers guarding it. This time, it’s far easier for me to knock on the door, but as soon as I do, the music cuts off. Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser. 

“Come in!” 

My younger brother’s cheerful voice rings clearly through the thick metal, so I nod at the guards to open the entrance. None of the personal rooms’ doors are electronic to prevent anyone from attempting to hack them, though unfortunately that means that we have to have guards stationed at all times. Of course, the system isn’t perfect, as much as Father likes to pretend it is, so little hiccups like with Hestia’s room happen often enough. I would much prefer not to be guarded at all times, I protect myself thank you very much, but after everything that’s happened over the past eleven years, Father has grown too paranoid. And Zeus’ word is law, so if he says we should be guarded, then it would be foolish to debate the issue.

When I enter the expansive space the God of thievery, lying, and obnoxious hijinks (okay, that last one isn’t technically one of his abilities, but it may as well have been) occupies, the first thing that registers is the severe lack of a mess. 

Usually, his room is covered top to button with dirty clothes, old dishes, and other miscellaneous items that the Avoxes have given up trying to pick up. Instead of looking like a bomb of filth was set off, though, this time it’s sparkling clean, the entire floor or spirling blue and silver mosaics visible and shining like it hasn’t been covered in pizza grease for years. Even the couches and the many, many mismatched tables and bookshelves are spotless. They’re even dusted! He only cleans when he’s incredibly nervous about something, like right before his first date, or before his first day in his job. Why would he be nervous now?

I finally spot my brother in one corner of the room, leaning against a table with his hands hidden behind him and a familiar grin on his face. It’s his patented “I know I’ve done something wrong, but if I act natural then no one will ever know” grin. I narrow my eyes with suspicion.

“Oh! Athena! Well, this is a surprise! I was just finishing, uh…” His eyes dart around, obviously looking for an excuse for…whatever he’s been doing. For the God of lies, he really is horrible at it sometimes.

“Cleaning?” 

He laughs nervously and smooths out his coat with one hand. I frown deeper when I realize that he’s still in his getup from the interviews that ended over two hours ago. His suit, a ridiculous blue thing that I am convinced is made entirely out of sequins, is a mess, his belt and tie missing. His makeup is smudged horribly and his hair frizzy and splotched with his natural brown. Plainly put: he looks like an absolute mess.

“Ha, me? Cleaning? Nah, my room’s always like this! You just haven’t been here in a while…” He trails off as I walk closer, his eyes shifting suspiciously around as he shuffles subtly in an attempt to keep whatever he’s hiding from my sight.

“Right.” I drawl, my tone as dry as desert sands. Sweat starts to bead on Hermes’ forehead.

“Ye-yeah! And don’t you have the Games to prepare for? They’re tomorrow, so you better get to bed early! We don’t want you dead on your feet for the first day!” He moves forward to push me back towards the door, swift on his feet as always, but I outmaneuver him. I use his outstretched arm to pull him further forward, using the momentum to throw myself behind my stumbling brother. “Hey! No fair--” 

When I finally get a look at what the God had been trying to hide, I only become more confused. Laying innocently on a simple table is an antique music player, the type that would play those old vinyl records. I turn towards my younger brother with my eyebrow raised as high as it will go; he’s shuffling his feet anxiously, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Why were you trying to hide this?” He looks up at that, his eyes wide with confusion that mirrors mine.

“Don’t you recognize it?” I lift my other eyebrow to join the other. 

“No…should I?” He winces at that, probably realizing that he could’ve used my confusion to get out of telling me anything. Not that it would’ve worked, anyway; I’m far too wise to be victim to one of Hermes’ tricks. 

“Uhh…yeah? I mean, it has been a while since I’ve used it, but…” the shorter boy sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping as all his energy seems to just disappear. He looks tired, I realize. More tired than I’ve ever seen him, and he once tried to stay up for four days straight on a dare. “Look on the side, at the engraving.”

I move to do as he says, not entirely sure if this is a prank or not. I wouldn’t put it past him, but honestly? I’m too frazzled from everything that’s been going on to care. I run my hand over the player, crouching to peer at its side to read the words etched on the side. My breath hitches when I’m finally able to decipher the almost unreadable script.

To my brother, who I love very, very much. Happy birthday!! 

With love from, 

     Apollo.

I remember this now. It was Hermes’ fourteenth birthday, and Apollo, who was only eleven at the time, had gotten this for him. They were both obsessed with it, playing the records Apollo had also gotten for his eccentric older brother on repeat for months. Even after the obsession finally faded, they would still play it all the time. It used to annoy me so much.

I turn slowly till I’m facing the God once more, the two of us just staring at each other for an agonizingly long moment.

“Are you going to tell Father?” His speech is slurred with stress, obviously worried I’m going to snitch on him. To be fair, just a week ago I would’ve. Now, though?

“...No. No, I won’t.” He sighs in relief, his entire body deflating.

“Thank you, Athena! I don’t know what I’d do if this got destroyed, too.” His saddened expression stings, the secret I’ve been sworn to chafing under the weight of my guilt.

“I just…have a question.” Hermes nods enthusiastically as he runs up to the old machine, taking out the vinyl inside delicately.

“Fire away!” I nod, biting my lip.

“How have you been keeping this hidden for so long? It’s quite big, and I’m sure it is difficult to hide.” He ducks his head, focusing intently on the vinyl as he puts it back in its case.

“I-I haven’t played it since…” He trails off, but I can easily finish his sentence. 

Since Apollo disappeared. 

Hermes shakes his head and continues like nothing happened. “It’s just been collecting dust for the past two years underneath the blue couch. Makes me glad I never cleaned.” He chuckles, the usually vibrant sound strung out and tinged with a deep-rooted sadness.

“Why play it now?” He glances at me, a tinge of amusement coloring his teal eyes.

“Blunt as ever, dear sister. But to answer your question, I guess I’ve just been feeling nostalgic recently. Especially after…” He trails off again, a pensive look on his face. “If I tell you this, you have to promise that you will not tell anyone else. You got that?” I’m taken aback by the uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice, his teal eyes boring into my own silver ones. After a second of hesitation, I nod.

“Okay, I promise.” My brother visibly relaxes and returns his intense stare to the record player.

“During the interviews, everything was going as it usually does, with the same sort of tributes that we get every year. Everything was going perfectly…until the last one.” My eyes widen in shock at that declaration. Is it possible that he knows? 

“The boy, Lester, he--Gods, he felt so familiar. His eyes, and that laugh… it echoes in my mind, even now. You’re--you’re going to think I’m crazy-” His laugh is high pitched with anxiety. “But…he felt like… he felt like Apollo did. Like sunshine and music. That sounds weird, nevermind.” I feel numb. I can only nod along as he rambles on.

“Hell, he even had that nervous tick he used to have before he trained himself out of it. Y’know, the one with his hands? And--Athena?” 

I snap out of the panicked daze I had found myself in. I have to tell him, don’t I? Otherwise, this will just drive him crazy, or worse, he’ll figure it out himself. In all honesty, I think he already knows, he just doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth. I can’t blame him for that, I wish I could ignore it as well.

“Yes, brother?” 

Hermes narrows his eyes at me. He’s obnoxious, as vibrant as a peacock, and a nosey fool, but at the end of the day, he’s also incredibly intelligent and fantastic at reading people. He knows I’m hiding something.

“Usually by now, you would be telling me that I’m being stupid, that I’m only seeing what I want to see or some other nonsense. What aren’t you telling me?” 

I’m the one to break eye contact this time, focusing intently on the floor. I promised Hestia I wouldn’t tell anyone, but does this count as telling him if he’s already pieced most of it together?

“You…I knew you were an excellent actor, but…I wouldn’t have known you felt that way just looking at you on stage.” He scoffs and crosses his arms.

“I’m not in a mood for your mind games, Athena. What’s going on? And don’t you dare lie to me; you and I both know that that won’t work-” 

“Lester is Apollo.” Silence covers the room like a thick blanket, suffocating and uncomfortable as Hermes stares wide-eyed at me.

“Wha--What do you mean-” I sigh and finally meet his eyes again, trying to express how serious I am with just my gaze alone.

“Lester Papadopoulos, fourteen year old tribute from District Twelve, is our younger brother. I-I don’t know how, or why, but he is.” Hermes gapes at me, his eyes blank with shock like his mind had stopped working. On any regular day, his expression would be hilarious, but needless to say that this is not a regular day. 

“How-how do you… what .” I sign again for what feels like the millionth time, and pull out the photo I had tucked away into the folds of my dress and my phone.

“Hestia…she saved some things, too, including photographs. I-I had the same feeling after the Evaluation, and Artemis had accidentally let slip what Hestia did a few weeks earlier, so I went to her hoping to prove myself wrong. For the first time in my life, I was disappointed that I was right.” I know I’m rambling like an idiot, but I can’t stop the floodgates once they’re opened. To stop myself, I shove the photo and the phone into Hermes hands. 

I can see the exact moment it fully registers what exactly he’s looking at, his eyes widening while his face turns whiter than the makeup he still has on.

“It’s impossible…” He whispers brokenly into the icy silence, staring between the two pictures, trying to rewrite reality into something that makes a bit more sense. It won’t work, I’ve already tried.

“I’m sorry.” It feels like the only acceptable response for any of this, but even then it seems lackluster.

Hermes shakes his head vigorously. “No…no, he would have--” His voice breaks, and I lay my hand on his for comfort. I don’t think he even notices it. “He would have said something! He-he stared at me like I was a stranger at best, it just--doesn’t make sense!”

I speak slowly, as if talking to a skittish animal. “Hestia and I came up with a few theories, but…we don’t know for sure.” 

Most of those theories don’t make much sense in context, like that Lester is hiding from his captors (why would he volunteer for the Hunger Games if he was hiding?) or that he is secretly working with District Thirteen (I refuse to even consider that possibility, it’s far too out of character for him) as well as several others that make my logical brain ache. Still, I’m sure Hermes would appreciate knowing something, having some sort of lifeline to hold onto.

My blue-haired brother stares at the photos for a few seconds longer before looking back up at me intently, determination etched into his youthful face.

“Tell me everything.”

Percy wasn’t kidding when he said we would be woken up early. The sun isn’t even up when I’m being dragged out of bed for the quickest breakfast I’ve had since coming here, even though the Games don’t actually start until ten due to most Capitol citizens being late risers. The arenas tend to be pretty far away from the Capitol, so we have to head out at the time the Game Masters give us. 

Percy and Melpomene will not be going with us, as per the rules, and will instead be heading to the Games Headquarters, working hard on their end to get us sponsors and strategize how and when they’ll send whatever gifts we receive. Rachel and Mitchell, on the other hand, will travel with us until the final send off. I never really understood that, but rules are rules, I guess.

Emma and my final goodbyes with our representative and mentor are rushed, though I could’ve sworn Melpomene had real tears in her eyes as she waved us goodbye. Percy, because he’s apparently required by law to be as nice as possible, actually hugs us before pulling away.

“Any final words of advice?” Emma asks, her arms crossed defensibly over her chest.

“Once the gong sounds, get out of dodge immediately. Don’t bother with the Cornucopia, that’ll just be a bloodbath. After that, find a water source and stay on your guard. Nowhere is safe, no matter what type of environment you’ll be stuck in.” His voice is deadly serious. 

“Anything else?’ I ask this time. 

“Stay alive.” All we can do is nod at that. What else is there to say?

Rachel and Mitchel arrive, and Emma and I are promptly separated. I’m taken to the roof first, Rachel by my side. All I’m wearing right now is a simple shift (the Capitol could care less about gender norms, which I suppose is one good thing about the place. I never really minded dresses. Liked them, even) and I shiver in the cold predawn air. I’ve been told that our actual clothes for the games will be given to us in the catacombs below the arena.

A small hovercraft appears out of thin air, shimmering into view before an odd-looking ladder drops down. It only has two rungs that are widely spread apart; how would I climb this? I get my answer when I place my feet and hands on the bars, the body instantly freezing due to some sort of current going through the ladder. It pulls me safely up and into the silver aircraft, but instead of letting me go like I expected, I’m still stuck. I start to panic, especially when a woman with the largest syringe I’ve ever seen comes into view.

“This is just your tracker, Lester. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can inject it.” Stiller? I’m a statue! But even though I can’t move, the current doesn’t prevent me from feeling the sharp pain of the metal tracking device being inserted deep under my skin. The Gamemasters don’t want to lose a tribute, after all. That has never happened before, but they’re all too paranoid to risk it. I’m finally let go and led to an uncomfortable metal chair bolted into my ride. I guess the Capitol’s generosity ends here. 

The ride is spent alternating between thinking about home and wondering just what I’m going to be up against. In just a few short hours, my family is going to see me fight for my life on live television, is going to see me suffer, possibly kill someone, probably get killed myself, all under the guise of entertainment. I remember what Percy said on the train, that the whole Game is a gamble. I’m beginning to think that that’s true for me as well. When it comes down to it, the Game Masters decide who will be the winner. None of us really get a say, no matter what the other tributes think. 

I try to imagine what the arena will look like. Will it be set in a forest of some kind? Or maybe a small island, or an icy tundra? Anything is possible, and that scares me more than the other tributes ever will. I have no idea what to expect, and I have only Percy’s advice to go off on, some of which could be completely useless depending on where we’ll be.

I wish my family wouldn’t watch, that I could protect them from seeing whatever happens, but I know I can’t. That doesn’t stop me from praying to whatever deities still exist that they be spared from the worst of it, especially Miles and Georgie. They’re too young for this. I’m too young for this, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?

The windows black out some time later, signaling that we're nearing the arena. Rachel is somber as she leads me off the hovercraft and into the underground catacombs that we’ve landed in. We follow directions to my destination, the chamber for my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In District Twelve, they call it the stockyard. The place animals go before they’re slaughtered.

I will be the only person who enters this Launch Room, and this generation of tributes will be the only one to use this arena, but some others from past Games were kept up as historic sites. Those are popular vacation destinations for Capitol residents to visit. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, see the sites where the more infamous deaths took place, even participate in reenactments. I’ve heard the food is excellent. 

I try to keep my measly breakfast down as I brush my teeth and take a shower for probably the last time in my short life, and Rachel insists on combing my hair. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every tribute. Rachel has no say in my outfit, she doesn’t even know what it will look like, and she rips open the package holding the outfit like it personally offends her. She helps me dress in the undergarments, simple charcoal pants, a deep purple long-sleeve shirt, a sturdy black belt, and a thin, hooded jacket that falls almost to my knees.

“The jacket’s material is made to reflect body heat. You’ll need it, especially at night.” Rachel says. Lastly, I pull on a pair of leather boots, ones that are better than I could’ve hoped. They’re comfortable, and have treads that are good for running. I’m definitely gonna need that.

Rachel reaches out to fix the jacket so it falls better, but I’m surprised when I catch a glint of gold hidden inside the jacket. She shifts the jacket more and I see that it’s the pin from the interviews, the one with the arrow. I lift my wide eyes to her mischievous ones, and in response to my silent question, she just raises her finger to her lips. 

“There, you’re all set. Move around, please, and make sure everything’s comfortable.”

I spin around and swing my arms around. “Yeah, it fits perfectly. Thank you, Rach’.”

“Well then, now there's nothing else to do but wait.” Rachel takes in a deep breath, looking almost as nervous as I am. “Do you want any water?” I accept the glass gratefully, sitting down on the couch with Rachel while we wait for the dreaded call. The terror seeps back in with the silence. I could be dead, completely and utterly dead, within an hour. Not even that, if I’m unlucky enough. And knowing me, I’m most certainly unlucky enough. My fingers obsessively trace the tracker while I bounce my leg, pushing down on the foriegn device hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Do you want to talk?” Rachel asks, her bright eyes dimmer than I’ve ever seen them. I shake my head. I don’t trust my voice right now, but I stick my hand out. She grasps it with both hands and squeezes it tightly. We sit there for what feels like hours until a pleasant female voice announces over the speakers that it’s time to launch.

I stand up on shaky legs, keeping a hold of one of Rachel’s hands even after I step onto the metal plate. “Remember what Percy said, okay? Run, find water, and do the best you can from there.” I nod, desperately trying not to cry. “Also remember that, while I’m not allowed to bet, if I could, every cent of my money would be on you.” I laugh bitterly at that.

“Me?” She smiles, sorrow and determination warring in her emerald eyes. 

“Yes, you. I believe in you, Lester.” The tube I’m in closes, breaking our handhold, cutting her off from me. She smiles at me one last time before the cylinder rises. For maybe fifteen seconds, I’m stuck in total darkness, and then the metal plate is pushing me out of the cylinder and into the open air of the arena. I’m momentarily blinded by bright sunlight, and I’m conscious of only a strong wind and the acrid smell of dust and sewage. 

Then I hear the announcer, the feminine voice booming all around me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”

Chapter Text

We're living in the past

Inside a strange Utopia

The monsters in our hearts

Are chasing shadows in the dark

- Strange Utopia by Axel Johansson -

~

60 seconds. 

For one full minute, we have to wait on the metal plates or else we’ll be blown sky-high by the landmines. 

My eyes finally adjust to the light, and I immediately wish they didn’t.

 On either side of me, the other twenty-three tributes are placed equidistant from each other, all of us circled around a gigantic, golden horn. Its gaping maw is filled to the brim with bags, weapons, food, and anything else any tribute could ever possibly need, while other things are strewn around outside the Cornucopia, too, though their value visibly decreases as they get further away from it. For instance, there’s a small sheet of plastic sitting just a few paces away from my feet that I could use as a makeshift shelter in a storm if I get creative enough. However, just within the mouth of the cave, I can see a tent pack that’s likely made to withstand any type of weather. 

All that, though, is predictable; this is the initial setup for every Game. The part that fills me with dread, however, is the arena itself, because this year it’s set in the ruins of an old city, concrete and decrepit buildings the only things to be seen for miles. I’ve never seen anything like it before, not in real life anyway. Sometimes, Georgie would bring home textbooks from school, and one of the most memorable ones to me was her history book. Only one chapter of it was dedicated to the Old World, and even that was only a couple of pages long, but one thing that always stood out to me was the singular picture. 

It was a city, one made of dark, lighted towers and a seemingly endless stream of other buildings, each one indistinguishable from the next due to just how dark and fuzzy the picture was. One building, though, always caught my eye; maybe because it was the clearest thing in the image, or maybe because of how much it towered over everything else, or how it came to a sharp point as if trying to pierce the sky. Whatever the reason, I always liked that picture, that tower, and how alive it looked with its bright lights and deep shadows.

The city I’m stuck in now reminds me of a lifeless version of that, a version where the once-mighty towers have crumbled into ruin, where the lights have been snuffed out, where glass and stone litter the sunbaked ground. 

Needless to say, I don’t like it one bit. Why couldn’t it be a forest? Or maybe a nice tropical island? At least then water and prey would be a guarantee, but nooo. Instead, I get shoved in a decaying, dusty city from ancient times that’s blisteringly hot just so that everyone I love can watch me die a horrible death. Yay. I’m ecstatic, can’t you tell?

Twenty seconds.

The announcer's voice booms from hidden speakers; while the other tributes start shifting into position, ready to run when the cannon goes off, my limbs lock in place, my mind numb with indecision. Should I risk it and make a break for the horn? Or should I run away, like Percy said? Having just one of the items in there would help me immensely, but on the other hand, Percy was right when he said it’ll be a bloodbath. There’s no way I can fight off twenty-three bloodthirsty kids, especially considering that at least two of them have expressed how they will enjoy seeing me die. It’s so tempting, though, to run in and grab what I need, to get food and water and life-saving supplies that will just end up in someone else’s hands if I don’t get it first.

Something catches my eye in the horn. There, resting innocently on a pile of blankets, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung and waiting to be used. I know that it’s meant for me, I can feel it. It’d be so easy to run in there and grab it, I know I’m fast enough. But the question is how I would get out of there? Even if I’m pretty good with a bow, I’m not a fighter, especially at short range. I’d be up against kids who can take me down with a single swing of that club propped up at the entrance of the horn, or one of the many spears leaning against the wall deeper in. I’d be dead within seconds.

Three seconds left. 

Just a few tributes to my right, Lityerses shifts forward, ready to run towards the Cornucopia. Even with the sun in my eyes, I can still see when he turns his head towards me. I can still see his vicious grin, as if encouraging me to go to the horn, too. Encouraging me to fall right into his deadly trap.

That, paired with Percy’s warning echoing in my head like a broken record, makes up my mind for me. When the cannon goes off, I swiftly grab the plastic and a small loaf of bread lying a few feet away and bolt in the opposite direction of everyone else.

Well, that’s the way it went in my head. Unfortunately, my daring plan of escape didn't exactly work out that way. In all honesty, I should have expected that.

My hand had just closed around the bread when I felt something soar over me, right where my head was a split second ago. I whip around, but curse as I lose my footing on the uneven ground, and, uh, gracefully save myself with a really cool handspring. Yeah. I totally didn’t fall on my ass on live television. Nope, didn’t happen. 

But if my now sore butt is anything to go by, that’s exactly what happened, consequently leaving me wide open to the person who attacked me. Unfortunately for my already depressingly short lifespan, It’s the knife-throwing girl from District Four, her inky hair swishing madly behind her as she advances on me with an ugly sneer on her face. I scramble back onto my feet, ignoring the faint sting from a rock cutting into my hand. 

I refuse to die now, I refuse .

She reaches for another knife, and I blindly tear across the plaza in the opposite direction, abandoning the tarp and bread in favor of surviving more than a minute in this hellscape. 

I hear the knife before I feel it, thankfully, and manage to duck in time. I lose my balance, though, and stumble, losing a precious few seconds that I really cannot afford right now. 

Pain jolts up my spine when something blunt hits me from behind, sending me sprawling across the ground again. 

“Ha! Gotcha! Thought you could run, did you?” 

Her boot digs uncomfortably into my back, pinning me to the ground at a painful angle, my face smashed into the cracked concrete below me. She grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks up; I desperately claw at her arm, choking down a gasp at the stinging pain.

“Heh, you’re just as pathetic as you look. The judges must have fucked up if they thought you were worth anything above a one. You had Jackson do that, didn’t you? You had him get you that score, you little cheating whore.” I fight back a shudder as she whispers right next to my ear, her knife angled over my throat. Anger flares red-hot in my chest.

That’s it. I’m not going to just lay here silently, waiting for death-by-posturing. Oh, and by knife.

She’s still talking while I brace one forearm against the ground and subtly shift so that my toes are planted firmly on the floor. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and push up with all my might. The girl yelps, obviously unprepared for her prey to fight back, her weight disappearing from my back. I hear more than see when she lands just beside me; I take advantage of the opening and leap up onto my feet, grabbing the knife she thankfully dropped when I shoved her off and stumbled away from her.

If she was mad before, she’s absolutely livid now, spitting curses and clawing at the sheaths attached to her belt, the source of her apparently endless supply of knives.

“You’ll regret that, you pathetic little-” Before she can pull out another one of her knives, I throw the one I got at her hand, surprising us both when the blade pierces its target, crimson blood gushing from the wound. “Ahh-!”

“Hey!”

Shouts from my left, vaguely in the direction of the Cornucopia, startle me, my head whipping around to see the terrifying sight of several tributes rushing at me. The girl’s shrieks must have alerted them. I need to get out of here, now .

I quickly scan my surroundings, my eyes landing on a small backpack a few yards away.

Score. And the first stroke of luck I’ve had in longer than I can remember. Which isn’t that far back but still. It’s the principle of the matter.

With one last glance at the screaming girl and oncoming mob, I rush for the supplies, not stopping as I scoop up the pack and bolt for a gap between two buildings, praying desperately that no one follows me.

The only things that do follow me are the cannon shots that signify the number of dead tributes. Eleven shots, eleven kids dead. Thirteen left, including me, to continue the show and entertain the masses with senseless violence. The people watching are probably commenting on how fortunate I am that I’ve survived this far, saying that I’m lucky to be alive.

Well, I don’t feel very lucky.

To be fair, I actually got pretty far away before everything went to shit. 

I ran for what felt like hours, leaping between buildings, climbing over rock piles and random clumps of metal, crouching into shadows anytime I would hear something out of the ordinary. I haven’t even touched the supplies I managed to grab yet, too focused on getting as far away from other people as possible. At first, I was tempted to get into a building, set up shop in an enclosed, defensible space that wasn’t open to the elements. 

The shrill scream, a sound that could only come from someone being viciously murdered, that came out of one of the taller buildings quickly dissuaded that idea. I’d just be a sitting duck, anyway, especially if I went too high.

Eventually, I’m forced to find some sort of shelter when dubious-looking clouds start covering the previously clear sky. As much as I like the nice break from the glaring sun and depressing lack of wind, a storm isn’t all that much better, especially since that means I’ll have to brave going indoors.

I hesitate next to a large river, its unbelievably clear waters rippling with the first drops of rain. Well. At least I found my water source. Another amazing stroke of luck, though it just makes me more nervous, like someone at any time is just gonna jump out of the shadows yelling  “sike!” and chop my head off. 

 This is such a bad idea, but staying out here exposed to the elements (and more) is much, much worse. With a steadying breath, I start walking along the gently curving river, scanning the surrounding buildings to find one that doesn’t look too decrepit or like it’ll collapse with the slightest gust of wind. 

“No, not that one. Not that one either. Uh, no way in hell am I going in there…” I mutter to myself, speeding up with one wary eye on the steadily darkening clouds above me, gnawing on my bottom lip nervously as the temperature starts to plummet. Not good, not good at all. I should’ve gone into one of the other towers I ran past; Yeah, I might’ve gotten slaughtered, but at least then I wouldn’t have had to worry about death via crappy weather.

I start to lose hope when I finally come across a smaller, squat building that looks sturdier than the others. I almost didn’t see it; the stone structure is tucked behind two larger towers, which is probably the reason why it managed to stay in relatively good shape compared to its exposed counterparts. 

I shuffle cautiously towards one of the windows, all of its glass shattered and laying on the ground in jagged pieces. I frown, narrowing my eyes and crouching down to pick up one of the larger shards. The glass is sharp and dirty, but there’s not a speck of dust on the clear surface.

This city…it feels old, which makes no sense since it’s an illusion crafted by the Gamemasters. To be honest, nothing in the past week has made much sense, so I guess that’s not entirely out of the ordinary. What is out of the ordinary, however, is that even though this place feels ancient, this broken glass most certainly does not. Maybe I’m just being overly paranoid, but I have a sinking suspicion that someone broke this glass, and recently, too.

Someone else is here already.

My eyes widen with that sudden realization, and I stumble back and away from the window that looks more and more like a trap.

I’m too late, though. Fear strikes my heart even before the small, circular object flies out through the window I was just crouched under, a red light blinking rapidly on its side. I have no idea what it is, but I know it’s nothing good--all my instincts scream at me to run, so I do. I run as fast as my legs will carry me towards the river, its waters now a rushing torrent because of the ensuing storm. I’m soaked to the bone with rain, but I barely notice the cold. At least, not until a searing heat burst over my back, a tremendous boom shaking me off my feet and sending me rolling across the ground.

A bomb. It was a freaking bomb . That’s all I can think about as I lay sprawled on my side, my back burning and my lungs filled with dust. 

How do I keep managing to find trouble so fast?! It hasn’t even been a day yet, and I’ve already been threatened with a knife, chased by a murderous mob, and blown up! At this point, I am fully willing to beat someone up, preferably the Gods; I just want to get back home to my family, dammit.

I roll onto my back with a groan, promptly dissolving into a coughing fit. I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that spring up, desperately trying to clear my lungs. I sit up weakly when the coughing dies down enough, opening my blurry eyes to try to see who the hell just attacked me. The rain, now a relentless torrent, does not help with my vision--I can barely see anything as I squint defensively through the darkness. Oh, no, wait--I do see something. I can’t see it well, but the soft, golden glow is pretty hard to miss--oh, it’s gone, shit.

I wipe my soaked sleeve against my eyes and force my legs to crouch under me through sheer force of will, shakily standing up. I look to the side and belatedly realize that I’m right over the river. Literally. When the explosion sent me flying, I was lucky enough to land on what was left of a bridge, the piece sticking out over the turbulent waters and ending abruptly just meters away. I don’t remember this bridge being here before…

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when I catch another glimpse of that golden glow. I glare out into the murky night and stand up straighter, preparing for whatever this other tribute will do.

“Who’s there?!” I yell out, my voice croaky and not as firm as I would like it to be. Maybe it was stupid to give away my exact location to my assailant, but at this point I could honestly care less. I’m sore, tired from running all day in the scorching heat, and just…so tired of everything. Plus, if I’m going to die? I’m gonna go down fighting. My moms didn’t raise no coward.

The glowing…whatever it is stops moving, and I can finally see a faint outline of the person carrying it. They’re small, but that’s all I can really tell for sure, but I’m not about to underestimate them based on their size. They were most likely the one to throw that bomb at me, after all. Unless there’s more than one other person here…

Without warning, the mysterious person starts advancing towards me, silent against the howling wind. I start to panic a bit, searching for a way off the bridge. I find none; unless I want to take a swim with the fishes, literally, I can’t do anything to get out of this person’s warpath.

My search for escape is abruptly interrupted when the bronze object comes flying at my head. I barely manage to duck under it, and I’m forced to step back to avoid getting impaled by another identical golden object. Because of course there’s two .

The other person steps back, too, letting me see them in full for the first time, and quite honestly? It’s the last person I would’ve expected. 

Standing across from me, in all her midget glory, is Meg, the twelve-year-old tribute from District Eleven. 

Chapter Text

Welcome to the panic room

Where all your darkest fears are gonna

Come for you

You'll know I wasn't joking

When you see them too

- Panic Room by Au/ra -

~

The wind howls in tandem with my racing heart; I can’t hear anything except for the storm raging around Meg and me, the rain falling in icy sheets from pitch-black skies. The small girl’s golden swords gleam dully, both held ready at her sides as she stares me down. I don’t dare to move, too afraid of being stabbed with the razor-sharp weapons, but Meg has no such reservations. After a second of hesitation, she lifts her curved blades and crouches down into a fighting position, her glasses glinting in the light that her swords seem to exude.

“-your--chance--!” I barely catch snippets of whatever she was trying to say, each word snapped up by the vicious wind. She stomps her foot, frustrated when she realizes that I can’t hear her, and wipes her arm over her face, her blade coming dangerously close to her face. 

“-fine--!” She takes a menacing step forward and I scramble back, gasping when I almost fall off the edge of the broken bridge. I look down, immediately regretting it when all I see is dark, swirling waters. The worst part, though? I may not be able to see much, but I’m pretty sure the water’s rising.

“Haha, um…so is there any way we can talk this out?” The sword suddenly flying at my head is my only answer, and I have a sinking suspicion that it roughly translates to “no, I’m just gonna kill you instead”. She seems like the type of person to say that.

I duck under the sword, the blade whistling as it swings over my head, falling into a low crouch, almost falling backward in the process. With my heels hanging over the edge, one hand clutched in a death grip on a rusted support beam, and a murderous midget on the attack, my hopes of surviving at least the first day are quickly becoming more and more unrealistic. 

Good thing I never liked reality in the first place.

When Meg slices downwards, my mind goes blank and my body moves . I push myself forward with a yell, slamming into the younger girl and circling my arms around her torso in a tackle. We’re sent tumbling back down the bridge, all the way back to solid ground; the bloodthirsty gremlin kicks, claws, and bites at me all the way, shouting in my ear the whole time. It’s a testament to how wild the wind has gotten that I can’t understand a word she says despite how close we are. 

I feel when we start to slow down and quickly push the small girl off, sending her sprawling as I stagger to my feet on numb legs. It’s too cold for this, I think, shivering violently. I need to get out of here and fast before I freeze to death. Or get stabbed. Either one is a very real possibility at the moment, though I have a feeling that both of those things are always going to be possibilities for as long as I’m here.

A glint in the corner of my eye catches my attention just as Meg starts to stand, using a sword as a crutch. I turn slightly and-- there . Meg must’ve dropped one of her swords on the way down, the menacing blade glinting in the twisting shadows. I run towards it, scooping it up (by the handle, of course, I’m not stupid), and swiveling back around to face Meg once again, though this time with a bit more confidence considering that I now have something to protect myself with. 

I can see Meg’s scowl even through the stormy darkness. I can feel it, too, her beady black eyes trying to burn holes into my head. I glare back and hold her weapon out in front of me, waiting for her to make the first move like before, but before either of us can even twitch a muscle, the sky lights up and muffled music--the Anthem-- plays. Both my attacker and I silently agree to a brief truce, the two of us staring at the synthetic sky as pictures of fallen tributes flit in and out of view. I feel a pang of sadness when Lee’s face appears but I quickly stomp the feeling down… only for it to come back with a vengeance when Emma’s cold eyes, distorted by the rain but unmistakably hers, stare back at me. Even if she was kind of a passive-aggressive asshole, and even if I do feel a bit relieved that at least one person who has a personal vendetta against me is out of the picture, I can't help but mourn for her. She didn’t deserve any of this--the girl who so desperately wanted to live didn’t deserve to die so quickly. 

The lights shut off with a flourish, the foreboding darkness swallowing up the ancient city once again. Honestly, this much darkness only makes me miss the sweltering sun. At least then I could see.

I adjust my grip on the stolen sword’s hilt, sweat and water mixing to make the leather wrapping slick and uncomfortable, and turn my gaze back to my assailant. First things first: survive tonight, I tell myself, then I can wallow in self-pity later when I’m not in the immediate danger of getting gutted.

To my surprise, Meg still has her face turned towards the sky, the shadows coating her face too thoroughly to see her expression. After another second, she takes a deep breath and resumes her new favorite pastime: glaring daggers into my soul while planning out the worst and most painful ways she can kill me. Well, likely planning--I won’t pretend to understand her thought process. Or anyone’s, for that matter.

She rushes at me again and I crouch lower into a defensive stance, fully prepared for another round of a game I like to call “narrowly avoid imminent death”, when I suddenly get the overpowering feeling that there’s danger, not in front of me, but from my right. Meg is only a few feet from me, but I still look away, my instincts perplexingly telling me that the danger isn’t here, but out there. The flash of silver from the inky darkness only confirms that feeling.

“Shit!” I only catch a glimpse of Meg’s bewildered expression before I’m tackling her again, both of us dropping the swords in the process as we fall back onto the muddy concrete, my body over hers to shield her. But shield her from what? 

I get my answer soon enough.

“What the fu-!” Her enraged cursing is abruptly cut off when an arrow sprouts from the ground, exactly where Meg was just standing. I follow the arrow’s trajectory path, estimating where it must’ve come from, though that ends up unnecessary when five vaguely humanesque shadows separate from the landscape, surrounding us and closing in with wild jeering that echoes with the howling wind. I feel like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of starving wolves, their weapons glinting like razor-sharp fangs, their soaked hair whipping in the wind like matted fur, their eyes like beacons in the stormy night. A tremor racks my body, and not just because of the cold.

“Now, now, now. Lookie what we have here!” The reedy voice that rings out somewhat breaks the whole “wolf” illusion but is nonetheless jarring, albeit in its own obnoxious way. At least it’s a voice I recognize, though that doesn’t give me much comfort. It’s the pale guy from District Two, and my heart sinks right down to my toes at that realization, because if one career is here that means the other four figures are careers as well. 

And that means one of them is Lityerses. Whelp, I’m screwed. Again. Gods, my parents have probably already had at least twenty stress-induced seizures by now.

“Aww, little Lester thinks he’s protecting her. How cute . Hey Lit! Don’t you think it’s cute?” The largest figure growls, a deep gravelly sound that sends my hackles on end.

“Shut up, Octavian. And don’t call me Lit.” The other three guffaw at that, though they quickly quiet down when Lityerses draws his sword with a shrill skree . I only tense further when he takes a step forward and away from the circle he and his friends made, a hiss making its way out of my mouth before I can stop it. The broad man hesitates briefly before chuckling darkly, amused by…whatever amuses psychopaths. Honestly, why does he have to be so damned creepy?!

“Still feisty, I see. I can fix that.” Faster than I can register, he sprints forward, appearing in front of me in a flash. I flinch back but it’s too late--Lityerses grabs me by my chin, forcing me to look at his face. I struggle with whatever strength I have left over to get out of his relentless grip, but to no avail; my attempts to scratch at his wrists and arms only seem to amuse him further, a sharp grin spreading over his marred face, his dark eyes poisoned with malice. 

“I’m sure you know my reputation--that blonde brat told you, didn’t he?” He brings his sword to my neck and I jerk backward, fear sinking its claws into my mind and making it hard to think past how he’s gonna chop my head off . Unfortunately, Lityerses’ claws are just as strong and he keeps me in his grip, his hand tightening its hold to the point where I’m sure that he’s gonna break my jaw with just sheer force alone. “Try not to scream too much, hm? Don’t want to draw in any more unnecessary attention.”

Just as Lityerses’ bronze sword starts digging into my vulnerable throat, just when I’m sure I’m gonna have to say vale* to my head, the hand on my jaw releases its iron hold and the man’s overbearing presence disappears. I double over, cradling my sore face as I stare at the spectacle before me with wide eyes.

Apparently, Meg got sick of laying on the ground being ignored and decided that the best way to solve our predicament (which is all her fault, might I add) was to kick the psychopathic murderer who is currently trying to kill us in the balls. It’s quite impressive, actually; I have no idea how she got out from beneath me and close enough to the guy without Lityerses, his lackeys, or myself noticing until it was too late. Regardless of how she managed this, it was a very effective distraction, especially when Meg went after the others. Their terrified screams as they try to avoid the tiny warmonger’s warpath will never not be funny, though I’m forced to stop staring when the girl wielding my the bow shoots an arrow that goes wide and lands just centimeters away from my knee. 

I stagger to my feet, backing away from the chaos to try to figure out what the hell I’m doing and how I’m gonna possibly get out of this mess. The frigid rain beats against my battered, exhausted body and for the first time since the rain started, I shiver violently. At least I’m doing better than Octavian and the two older girls who are very obviously losing to Meg, or Lityerses who is still on the ground groaning--oh, wait, nope he’s getting back up, shit.

I back up further, seriously considering running away. Literally everyone here wants me dead and are currently occupied, if not for much longer. I could easily get away…if my legs would actually move. Instead, they stay uselessly rooted to the spot, my instincts screaming at me that I can’t leave yet, not without the sun’s guardian -

BOOM.

My eyes snap to the sky, a clap of thunder shaking the ground and rattling the surrounding buildings. I brace myself as the wind reaches a crescendo, whipping by so quickly that it’s hard to stay standing and completely impossible to hear anything other than the howling gusts. The darkness seems to grow even thicker, tendrils of shadow becoming blankets--I can’t see anything past five feet in front of me. At least, not until lightning strikes the sky, the light blinding and leaving me seeing stars. And then it’s followed by another bolt. And another. And then several more that streak the clouded sky with branches of pure electricity.

The weight of the situation doesn’t really set in until one of those bolts touches the ground just yards away from where I'm standing. A scream lodges in my throat and I scramble back, narrowly avoiding falling on my ass again when I slip on a patch of mud. Or what I assume is mud; I’m sure I’ve said this before but I can’t see shit.

Also, holy fuck I almost got struck by lightning! I thought that was supposed to be super rare or something?! I suppose that the Gamemasters follow their own rules, but still…lightning? Out of all the things I could’ve encountered on day one, it’s lightning . Gods, maybe the Gamemasters really were mad at me for my arrow stunt in the gym and this is their revenge. Maybe I wasn't worried for nothing. 

A sharp crack echoes through the air as another lightning bolt strikes a nearby tower, the light illuminating the ground enough to see the outlines of the other six people present. What I see makes me vaguely ill.

Apparently, the sudden electric storm was just as distracting to Meg as it was to me; it likely only drew her attention for a quick moment, but for trained killers? That moment is more than enough to get the upper hand. Two of them are holding Meg down, the others watching and taunting the petite girl from the sidelines. Lityerses, who I now realize (with no small degree of dread on my part) is standing, turns his feral gaze from the small mob to me in that microsecond of light the bolt provided us. Then everything goes dark again, the light dancing in the clouds above doing nothing to dispel the suffocating darkness. 

Before I know it I’m running, but not away from the others like I so desperately want to. Instead, I blindly dart back into the fray. One advantage I have is that even though I can’t see anything, no one else can see me, either. Because of this, I somehow managed to circumvent Lityerses, avoiding the aura of anger and…something else I can’t quite identify. While I run, his roar of anger, one with ferocity equivalent to the thunderheads above, echoes behind me. 

My body begins to shake violently, but not because of the cold this time.

When I hear a faint scream through the pounding rain and rumbling thunder, I swerve sharply towards its general direction, praying that I’m not risking my life for nothing. I end up stumbling upon the group just a few seconds later. Literally. I run full throttle into something soft but sturdy, yelping as I’m sent staggering backward. Orienting myself quickly, it doesn’t take much time to realize that I’ve found who I was looking for when I see the four silhouettes looming over me. 

For a terrifying second, I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. I can’t move, my mind is blank, and I feel horrifyingly exposed and… and alone for the first time since I can remember. Gods, I’m so tired. It would be so easy to just…let them kill me. It’s not like I’ll win anyways; I can die now and stop being so tired, so beaten down, so alone . Maybe, when I die, I’ll even get my memories back in whatever afterlife exists. That’d be nice. Yeah, that’d be--

No. 

A soft whisper pulls me out of my spiral just as one shadow begins gliding its way toward me. I don’t know how I heard it or where it came from, but the gentle and somehow familiar voice slices through the blanket of weighted apathy with as much efficiency as a knife.

Don’t give up, little warrior. You’re still needed. You’re still wanted.

'…Who are you?' I think. I don’t dare speak it aloud, too scared of the possibility that I’m now hearing voices in my head. That's the last thing I need right now. 

Amusement that isn’t my own pokes at my mind.

Just don’t give up, young one. The girl needs you, so GO.

The presence in my mind, because there’s definitely someone there, tugs hard on my mind (don’t ask me how that works, I have no idea) and brings me back to the present. This gives me just enough time the register the axe swinging down toward my skull; I fling myself to the right, the blade thankfully only nicking my ear. I roll on the ground and come up running--I dart past the other tributes, staying low and only slowing down once I reach the downed form of the one and only Meg. The wind snatches away her words, but I can feel in my soul that she’s using every curse word combination known (and not known) to mankind while she struggles to sit up. 

I reach out to her, wanting to drag her away before Lityerses’ goons realize where I am, but she flinches away from my hand the moment I make contact. Even this close to her, I can only pick out a fuzzy outline of her features and that’s with my perfect eyesight. She lost her glasses at some point and while I don’t know how heavy the prescription on them is, there’s no doubt that she can’t tell who I am. Which is a problem. Obviously.

“It’s okay, it’s just me! Lester!” I’m practically screaming just so that I can be heard, which…doesn’t make much of a difference since I can barely hear myself. Still, something must’ve got through to the little gremlin because suddenly she’s grabbing me by the arm and using me to pull herself up. I scramble to regain my balance when she almost causes me to faceplant into the silted ground, but after a few seconds of floundering, we miraculously manage to stand without any (more) embarrassing incidents.

“Where--out of here--!” Once again, her words are snatched by the wind, but this time I catch what she’s trying to say: how do we get out of here? Well, that is a good question and one I thankfully have the answer to.

“Run!” I grab her hand, pick a direction that isn’t anywhere near where I last saw the careers, and sprint towards freedom with Meg in tow.

Chapter Text

There's a fork in the road in front of me

At the crossroads of identity

The Devil is standing to the left

He says "either way, they both lead to death"

- Follow my Feet by The Unlikely Candidates) -

~

“What the fuck was that?” 

I’m standing at my desk when the door to my right swishes open, letting in a clearly and predictably irate Hermes. I’ve been dreading this confrontation with my younger brother for almost an hour now and, to be honest, I’m surprised it took him this long. 

I’m also a bit taken aback when I notice what he’s wearing: he apparently, for the first time that I can remember, has forgone his usual flashy attire, opting for a simple light blue tank and grey shorts and not a trace of hair dye or makeup. I realize after a moment that he’s actually in his night clothes; did he really walk all the way over here, to another building no less, in that? 

“Well?! What the actual, ever loving fuck was that, Athena?! You could have killed him, you could have-”

I slam my holographic pad down onto the desk, cutting Hermes off before he could spiral into a rant, and stare him down. I’m suddenly incredibly thankful that I’m in a private office and not in the Control Room, where the night shift could overhear our rather…delicate conversation.

“Brother. Calm yourself and sit down, before you talk yourself to death.”

His glare only intensifies as he straightens to his full height, his fists clenched into shaking fists. Hm, perhaps that was a bad choice in words.

“Don’t tell me what to do, especially after that little performance of yours. I mean, lightning, really? Out of all things?!”

I feel myself stiffen in response to the accusation. “Well, what else was I supposed to do, Hermes? Tell me, what would you have done if you had control over the arena? Our little brother was in mortal danger, I did not want to take any unnecessary risks.”

“Any risks?!” He was nearly screaming at this point. “You call that lightning storm risk free?!”

I return his glare, irked at his refusal to listen to me. He’s never listened to me really, not when he was younger, and certainly not now.  

“I never said that it was ‘risk free’, Hermes. I wanted to avoid unnecessary risks, there’s a distinct difference,” I chide heatedly. “Nothing in this Game is completely risk free, no matter how careful I am or how resourceful our brother is. I did what I could to shield Apollo and get him out of trouble as quickly and painlessly as possible, without seeming suspicious. Do you know what father would do to us if he found out about Apollo? Do you you know what he would do to Apollo ?”

Hermes gapes at me like a fish out of water, opening his mouth to speak, but I bulldoze over him before he gets the chance.

“Every second our brother is stuck in that arena, he’s in danger of actually, truly dying. If I don’t play my cards right, with the Games and with Zeus, then we’ll never get him back. Do you understand that, Hermes? Do you ?”

The brunet flinches back at my harsh tone, and for a moment guilt pokes at the edges of my resolve, threatening to crumble it to dust. But no, I have to stay steady. I have to force it into my little brother’s thick skull what exactly is at stake here, and I can’t do that if I’m soft on him.

“I-” he cuts himself off, refusing to meet my glare as he wraps his arms around himself in a mock-hug. I heave a sigh and rub at my temples to ward off the steadily growing headache. 

“If you have anything else to say, say it now or leave. I have work to get back to.” 

I turn away, allowing the silence to stretch for a few seconds, but Hermes, for once in his life, does not say a thing. I’m just about ready to throw the nuisance out of the room when he finally speaks up, his voice timid enough that I wouldn’t have heard him if I hadn’t been actively listening for it.

“Is this how they feel?” 

My brow furrow, confusion and a budding sense of curiosity tugging at my mind at Hermes’ cryptic question. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Is this-” He hesitates, rocking back and forth on his heels as he bites at his lips, a nervous habit I had thought he grew out of years before. “Is this how other families feel, every year? When their kid gets sent to the Games? I mean, it always was just that to me before: a game, or at least a decent trade off to avoid another war, but-”

His words come out as a torrent that pours out of him faster and faster with every syllable; soon enough, he begins to pace back and forth.

“Apollo’s the one stuck in there now, someone we love, and suddenly it feels different, like we actually have something to lose because we do! Someone we love may die any day now because of a Game we control! How fucked up is that, Athena?! We have all the power in the world, and we can’t do a fucking thing when it really matters, all because of a system that we actively reinforce and because of traditions we decided to continue!”

Hermes closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, finally coming to a stop in front of me. All I can do is sit there and stare dumbfounded at my younger brother.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and…well, I just…” He glances at me, eyes pooling with nervousness and something else I can’t identify. “What if…what if we’re wrong? About the Games? And if we’re wrong about the Games, then who’s to say that we aren’t wrong about-”

“Stop.” I cut him off harshly, horrified at what I’m hearing. “Stop, Hermes, please. That sort of thinking is treason, and you know fully well what happens to traitors.”

Surprise flickers across his face, then bitterness, then a deep-rooted anger that I’ve come to expect of him whenever this particular subject is brought up.

“Don’t you dare, Athena, you don’t get to-”

“To do what? Talk about Hades? Or perhaps about Luke.” 

I know it’s petty, and perhaps a bit too harsh, but after today I’m absolutely exhausted and thoroughly sick of this horrible, wretched situation. In fact, I’m fully prepared to boot out Hermes if he doesn’t calm down soon; I wasn’t lying when I said I had work to do, important work and planning that could be the deciding factor on whether or not my youngest brother dies.

Hermes bristles and straightens to his full height, his azure gaze blazing with barely contained animosity. Literally blazing, too; light bleeds from his irises, his skin glowing a faint gold that contrasts sharply against the dull blue of the office’s lighting.

“Don’t.” He spits out venomously. “Don’t say his name. He may have been my friend once, but I’m not like him, and I never will be.”

“I never said you were.” I reply, my words clipped as I eye my brother warily. “But-”

“But what, Athena?!’ His personalized light show intensifies, his body vibrating dangerously in barely contained anger and power. “You always have to control the situation, always have to be the one who’s right. You don’t give a shit about treason - hell, you’re committing it now just by trying to save Apollo! All you care about is your stupid reputation and your precious rule book; are you so blinded by your pride that you refuse to even concider than maybe, just maybe, your aren’t always right?”

I stand, effectively towering over my smaller brother as pure fury courses through my veins. “Have all those years playing the fool for TV muddle your brain, Hermes? What I’m doing - what we’re doing - is important and necessary; you’re only lying to yourself if you think otherwise, and we both know how good you are at lying.”

He scoffs. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, sister . Me or Apollo, for that matter. All you ever did was scold us or tell us to go away or both! You never cared before now, so don’t you dare pretend to be some sort of hero for any of this. All you’ve ever been is a cold, heartless-”

My fist is flying at Hermes’ face before I can stop it, hitting its mark with a rather loud crunch that echoes in the abrupt silence. My brother stumbles back, cradling his face with his hand as he stares at me in shock.

“Did-did you just…?”

I stand up straighter, glowering at the other God. “Leave. Now.”

His eyes widen in an expression that would be humorous in any other situation. “Athena-”

“ Now .”

I let some of my own power shine through, amplifying my voice enough to shake the walls. Hermes scrambles back, finally leaving, when he stops in the doorway.

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone. but-”

“Hermes…” I growl threateningly. He just looks me in the eye, his own pale with pain and no small amount of resentment.

“If you don’t get Apollo home, it won’t end well for you, and not just because of father.” 

Then he’s gone, the door sliding closed behind him. I stare at the scorch mark he left behind on the floor, sitting numb in my seat before everything crashes down on me at once. A sob tears out of my throat, a waterfall of tears close behind as I finally fall apart. 

My legs feel like they’re on fire by the time Meg and I find shelter from the ongoing storm. We don’t dare enter any of the buildings; that’s the first place any pursuers would look and there’s too high a chance that other tributes would be hiding there, too. 

It’s a stroke of luck when we come across a bridge, this one thankfully crossing over land and intact enough to work as a makeshift roof. We both collapse when we finally reach dry-ish ground and I just lay there, heaving for breath. After all of that, I’m too tired to do anything but close my eyes, listen to the steady downpour, and thank the Gods that I’m alive.

I don’t know how much time goes by before I hear a grunt somewhere to my left, followed closely by the sounds of scuffling on cement. My head snaps to the side, my heart pounding like a bass drum in my chest at the sudden and unwelcome reminder that I’m not alone. 

“Hey, Lester, psst.” 

Meg is sitting criss-cross just a few feet away, and while I can only see her outline in the relentless darkness, I can feel her dark eyes boring into me.

Hey, maybe if I just pretend to be asleep she'll leave me alone?

“I know you’re awake, dummy.”

Dammit.

I prop myself up with my forearms, wincing as the movement pulls at my burned and battered back, and narrow my eyes at the girl who tried to kill me. Y’know, the same one I just saved from certain death. 

Tessa’s right, aren't they? I really do have no sense of self-preservation. 

“What?” I snap, hiding a wince at how sore my jaw is and ignoring how it makes it hard to speak.

She scoffs and stands up with more grace than I’d expect from a beaten up twelve year old, walking over to loom over me with her hands on her hips.

“We don’t have any supplies or weapons. We need a plan.” 

I stare up at her incredulously.

“Wait, wait, wait just one moment. We?! Ya tried ta kill me! And now ya want to, what, team up with me?!” I force my legs under me, standing up on shaking legs as I wave my arms around. “No, nope, that’s not happenin’. For all I know, you’ll just stab me in the back the moment I turn around! How about, after tonigh’, we just go our separate ways and pretend this night never happened?”

She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one leg, contempt and incredulousness rolling off her in waves.

“If you’re so worried about me killing you, then why’d you help me?”

I splutter uselessly for a second, scrambling for an explanation that makes sense, but come up tragically empty. There…really isn’t one, is there? I know I shouldn’t have done it, that saving her just meant that she’d be able to have another go at me later on, but looking back…I would’ve felt so guilty if I left her to die. She may scare the living crap out of me, but she’s only twelve. And beyond that, I’m not the type of person who just leaves someone like that if I can do something about it, even if that someone is, well, Meg. 

“Don’ know,” I spit out through clenched teeth, frustrated with myself. “Doesn’ matter. How about this: we stay here till the rain stops, call a temporary truce, then leave in the mornin’. Separately .”

She glares up at me, her fingers twitching dangerously, but I refuse to step back and show any hint of fear. I’ve heard that small creatures can sense fear, and I don’t doubt that Meg is no exception. 

(Not that I’m scared…oh, who am I kidding, I just saw her take on several mountain-sized kids at least five years her senior; I stand no chance against her if she tries to kill me again, especially considering how tired I am right now. I feel like I could nap for six months and still be tired.) 

“You lost my sickles. You’re gonna help me get them back.” 

“Seriously? You’re blamin’ me for losin’ your stuff?! Last I checked, you’re the one who attacked me an’ set off the explosion tha’ alerted the butchers, so I’d say it’s actually your fault.”

Now that she’s closer I can see her face a bit more clearly, allowing me to see when it curls up in confusion. Or maybe disgust - that seems like a more "Meg" reaction.

“Butchers? Who the fuck are they?”

Oh, District Eleven must have a different name for them, too. Figures.

“Careers, butchers, whatever ya call ‘em in Eleven; they’re all just fancy names for the upper District Tributes.” I shake my head, impatience and annoyance growing in the face of this small, violent gremlin of a girl. “Tha’ doesn’t matter, either. Point is: why would I help ya?”

Meg looks thoughtful for a second before a dagger appears at my throat, seemingly appearing from thin air. “Help me, or I’ll kill you right here.”

I stiffen, my eyes going wide and snapping down to the small, silver blade resting just below my chin. I narrow them into slits after the intial shock passes, anger and trepidation swirling in my gut and climbing up my throat, threatening to choke me.

“Why-” I venture carefully. “Do ya want my help? The butch-the other kids will likely be gone by mornin’, and even if they found an’ took your swords-”

“Sickles.” She interrupts, the blade digging deeper into my neck.

“Fine, fine. Even if they took your sickles , I wouldn’t be much help in gettin’ ‘em back. Either way, whether it’s real easy or hard ta get your stuff back, I’m next to useless.” 

She rolls her eyes, then settles them back into a harsh glare. “You’re obviously not all that useless if you scored a twelve. Do you want to die?”

“No!” I exclaim defensivel, wincing when the blade digs deeper. “I just don’ understand wha’ you’re tryin’ ta do. Ya know all tha’, so why aren’t ya killin’ me now?! ‘Specially since ya were so keen on doin’ just that earlier!”

Meg scrutinises my face intently for an uncomfortably few, long seconds. My feet itch to move away, preferably run for the hills, but I know that Meg would be able to slit my throat before I could get too far. With a grimace, I resign myself to standing as still as possible. 

“Before, you were more useful to me dead. Now, you’re more useful to me alive. Simple as that.”

 I squint at the twelve-year old in disbelief. 

“I-tha’ make no sense!” 

She rolls her eyes again, but sheaths her dagger in her jacket sleeve much to my relief.

“It makes perfect sense. Now sleep; we go back in the morning.” 

Turning back around, Meg walks away and up to the wall where she sits. I reluctantly follow her lead and collapse against the wall, though I keep as much distance from the other tribute as possible. She obviously has the same idea;  her body is turned away from me, though the reappearance of her dagger is a clear warning against attacking her. 

Sighing heavily, I tip my head back against my rock backboard and massage my sore jaw, taking advantage of the temporary peace to take stock of my various injuries. Thankfully, there aren’t very many besides the aforementioned bruised jaw; there’s just the minor burns on my back and a few shallow cuts that are barely bleeding, so I suppose I got lucky this time around.

I have to find a way to get away from Meg, through any means necessary; I saved her, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to be stuck with her for however long it takes for her to decide that I am, indeed, useless. 

On the other hand, I kinda need to go back, too; even if the burns and cuts are minor, they still need to be cleaned out to prevent infections, and the river water would work perfectly for that. Also, now that I’m sitting and relatively safe for now, I remember that bag I grabbed. I still don’t know what was in it, but something in there has to be useful; I suppose it would be too much to ask for it to have medicine or bandages, but I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.

I pull my knees to my chest, frustrated tears springing into my eyes as the day finally catches up to me. Between my steadily growing headache and aching body, not to mention all that time running, I’m just so tired. It also doesn’t help that I’m being hunted down by blood thirsty maniacs, the Gamemasters are obviously working against me, and that the only ally I have at the moment is Meg. Which doesn’t bode well for my future, or more specifically, my lifespan.

Gods, I fucking hate this. 

With one last weary sigh, I curl further into myself, close my eyes, and just listen to the rain pounding against the pavement around and above me with a heavy heart.

I got absolutely zero sleep last night. Which is to be expected when one is forced to sleep under a bridge, during a rainstorm, while trapped in a death game. Sounds fun, right?

Wrong. I’ve just managed to fall into a light doze when the sun makes itself known with it’s unnecessarily harsh glare, the makeshift roof above me doing nothing to block it out. I groan and attempt to curl up further on the unyielding ground, hoping to get some more rest before another hellish day starts, but it’s already too late.

My breath hitches when the dull pain radiating from every inch of my body registers; my entire body feels like one giant bruise and my skin’s itchy with dried blood. Pair that with the soreness that comes with laying on the uneven ground all night and I think you get the rather miserable picture.

On the plus side, at least I’m almost completely dry.

I push myself up, shoving any lingering pain to the back of my mind, when my stomach growls and I finally notice the familiar gnawing feeling in my stomach. Ugh, this is not the time to be hungry, though I suppose it makes sense since I haven’t eaten since breakfast the other day. Just another thing to worry about, I suppose. Another one on a very, very long list…

When my eyes finally fully adjust to the light, the first thing I do is try to spot Meg, dead set of keeping an eye on her and her knife. I muffle a sigh of relief when I see her laying on her side several meters away, probably still sleeping considering I’m not dead and/or hadn’t been rudely awakened by the little demon in some other, equallly unpleasant way.

Running my hand through my hair, I take the chance to scan my surroundings now that it isn’t obscured by rain and shadow. The bridge’s ceiling is low, but the gaps on either side are wide enough that I’m surprised it shielded Meg and I at all. It’s made of what looks like solid, grey concrete, and a small pool of water sits in a hole in the cracked concrete ground just a few feet away while another identical wall stands stoically on the other side. 

Wait, no, not identical, I realize as I squint ahead. The glaring sunlight makes it hard to see, but it almost looks like there’s…color on the opposite wall. Yeah, there is! I steal one last hesitant glance at Meg before I plant my feet firmly on the ground and stand on shaky legs, using the wall as support. 

I should take this opportunity to sneak away, before Meg wakes up. I really, really should, but… I’m kinda curious; I didn’t realize before now, but this is the first bit of color I’ve seen in this damned arena that wasn’t natural. So, against my better judgement, I make my way forward, stepping carefully over the stream, and hobble as silently as possible to the other wall.

“Wha’...?” 

The entire lower wall is covered with what seems like every color of the rainbow, nonsensical shapes and inflated letters dominating the space. I stare, confused, but also intrigued; it’s obviously art, but I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s so untamed and clunky, yet weirdly elegant and personalized, with bold lines that practically scream “look at me!” despite how faded it is.

One thing I do know is that it looks like nothing I’ve seen in the Capitol. Which is odd, considering that the Capitol made this arena. Why would they make this, especially if doesn’t serve a purpose? How did they make this, when it looks like it’s been here for decades?

My eyes latch onto a smaller, faded portion of text laying below everything else, one that’s different than the rest. It’s a full sentence, for one, and also  isn't in that same blocky style everything else is. I crouch down to get a better look and mouth the words silently to myself.

“Eventually, I think Chicago will be the most beautiful great city left in the world.” - Frank Lloyd Wright

“What are you looking at?”

I whirl around, almost falling over in the process, to find Meg squinting her eyes at me and standing with her arms crossed on the other side of the puddle. 

“Uhh…” 

Oh, how could I be so stupid?! I got so lost in thought that I completely forgot about Meg; she could've easily snuck up on me and killed me if she wanted to! Shit, anyone could’ve done that and I would be none the wiser until their weapon was in my back or their hands around my neck. I really, really need to work on my spatial awareness, Gods…

“What’s that?” 

I panic a bit when she steps over the water and starts marching towards me.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just- uh, some art, I guess.”

She glares at me, unimpressed, and comes to a stop next to me. Tilting her head, she stares at the wall with an unreadable expression before turning away abruptly.

“It looks weird. You’re weird. Let’s go.” 

Meg stomps away, her footsteps echoing, and with a huff of frustration and one last glance at the strange wall, I trudge after her.

“Do you even know how to get back to the river?” I ask. I think it’s a very reasonable question, but she just turns her head around to glare at me again, her beady eyes narrowed to slits.

“Yes, I do. Shut up.” 

She turns back around and resumes walking while I raise a skeptical eyebrow. There’s no way she knows where we’re going after that mad dash last night. Hell, I don’t even know where we are, or even from which direction we came from! 

I don’t say any of that, no matter how much I want to, because believe it or not, I actually do have some survival instincts. 

“We don’t even have a plan!” I protest instead as I clumsily climb over a pile of rubble. “We don’t know what we’re walking into; it could be a trap, for all we know!”

I refuse to flinch when the mini demon spins all the way around, her glasses glinting dangerously in the light as she brandishes her knife again, though at least she’s not quite as close this time. Small mercies, I guess. 

“I said: shut. Up,” she spits venomously. “Or I’ll make you. I know what I‘m doing, unlike you.”

“You’re right, I don’ know what I’m doin’,” I internally congratulate myself when she looks faintly startled at this admission. “But at least I’m able to admit tha’. This is only the second day, there’s no way ya know the arena well enough ta know how ta get back. We’ll jus’ get lost!”

Meg bristles at the accusation, and for a second I think she’s actually gonna stab me. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when all she does is roll her eyes and plant her hands on her hips, though her dagger is, unfortunately, still clutched firmly in hand. I mimic her position mockingly just to poke the sleeping bear (or more like: poke the wide awake and already murder-inclined bear, but I digress) and Meg’s eyes narrow so far that all I can see is a bottomless pit of brown.

“Well then, Mr. I’m-perfect-and-always-right, what do you think we should do?”

I scoff, rolling my eyes right back.

“I just said that I ‘ave no idea what ta do. And, for the record, I never said I was perfect, or right. It’s jus’ called common sense.”

She scowls at that, her pudgy face scrunching up like she smelled something nasty.

“You’re stupid.” She sheaths her blade once more (I really have to get that away from her before she actually stabs me. Actually, wait, aren’t we going back to get her other weapons? Fuck, I did not think this through, fuck -) and twists back around on her heel, looking side to side before pointing straight ahead. “That way, c’mon.”

Sighing loudly, and already regretting every decision I've made in this damned arena, I reluctantly follow the whirlwind of a girl as she marches forward.

           "We'll, screw my opinion, I guess." I grumble under my breath as I trudge after Meg.

          "Keep up, slowpoke, I'm not gonna wait up for you all day." I squint mulishly at Meg from where I'm climbing over yet another pile of dilapidated stone and twisted metal, the girl somehow having already made it to the other end of the street. How the hell did she got so far ahead of me so fast?!

           "You're the one dragging me around to do your errands," I point out as I scramble to catch up "So really it's your fault if I slow ya down." 

        She just sticks her nose in the air and snaps back, "You were the one to drag me along first. Now hurry up, it's almost noon and I need my swords. Y'know, the ones you lost." 

        I throw my hands up in indignation, barely holding back a wince when that pulls at my various bruises." I have already told you, that wasn't my fault-" 

        "Yadda yadda, doesn't matter," she cuts me off, flapping her hand at me as she spins back around. "Shut up and walk. I wanna be there before it gets dark and you're not helping."

We do, remarkably, find our way back to the river, the familiar crystal clear water dyed pastel pink under the sunset. As you can tell, it took the two of us several long, demoralizing hours to get here, the whole time spent shifting between suffocating silence and painfully one-sided conversations. For all her fighting prowess and sharp attitude, Meg is absolutely terrible at small talk, so I'm actually kinda relieved that we managed to find our way back. Despite the circumstances, of course. Can't forget that I'm probably gonna be dead the minute Meg gets her hands on those swords (sickles, whatever ).

"Yes! I told you I'd get us here." I send Meg my best withering glare in response to her ridiculously smug smirk.

"I'm pretty sure you're the only one happy about that”, I say dryly as I stretch my sore legs out. “Honestly, I'm more impressed that we didn't run into anyone on the way here."

The cannon went off once while we were walking, making that eleven tributes left, including Meg and I. The odds of us not running into any of them all day is…well, I don't really want to think about that.  

"I thought I told you to shut up?" She glares and cuts me off before I have the chance to respond. "We have to keep moving. We were further down…"  

Meg hesitates, her brows furrowed in thought, or maybe frustration. Then, without warning, she begins to march down cracked stairs and towards the river's edge. I scramble after the little gremlin, cursing her silently as I jog to catch up. For someone with such short legs, she is ridiculously fast.

After a second of watching Meg scan our surroundings and deliberating on if it's a good idea to take my eyes off the murderous midget, I come to the conclusion that, no, that would be a horrible idea. I look away anyway. 

Meg is right, I'm miffed to discover - the skyline, while fairly similar to what I remember from yesterday, is slightly off. There's a huge, squat building right up on the water that was definitely not there before, not to mention all the other smaller discrepancies. This isn't where we need to be, and I'm cursing every deity that might exist for that. 

Just as I'm considering throwing myself into the river, I catch sight of something's ng to my left. Covering my eyes against the setting sun's harsh glare, I squint into the distance. Is that…?

"We have to go that way." Meg and I stare at each other, both of us pointing in opposite directions. Meg, predictably, scowls and points more firmly to our right.

"No, it's that way." I scowl right back.

"You're wrong - I recognize that bridge down there. Y'know, the one you tried to slice me in half on?" She squints in the direction I'm pointing, her face scrunched up. 

"I don't see it, nothing's there. You're being stupid, we obviously need to got the other way." I growl, the annoyance and frustration that's been growing in my gut since I got pulled into this mess finally boiling over.

"Look here - I don' give a shit what ya think about me, I really don'. I get it - at least one of us is gonna die by the end of this, it's stupid to even consider being friendly. But for gods' sake, if you're gonna drag me around, at least trust me a little bit! I'm not gonna lead you to a trap, I'm not gonna intentionally mislead you or anything like tha'. You've made it clear tha' I'm gonna die either way, so it doesn't really matter what I do. So please, just fuckin' trust me, just this once, so we can get your damn sickles ." 

By the end of my rant, I'm breathing heavily and fighting back the urge to throw up. Meg's eyes are wide, her arm finally lowered as she stares at me in muted shock.

"...Okay. Let's go that way." 

"Oh, I think not."

I'm barely able to get a glimpse of the blonde boy before a painfully familiar silver arrow finds itself lodged in my thigh.