Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s cold, unseasonably cold, for a July morning. Even under the downy covers, I find myself curled into a ball, jaw set to keep my teeth from chattering. The first beams of light have infiltrated through the pasty curtains, my bed awash with the glow of a new day.

Reaping Day.

There’s a knock on my door, and I pull my blankets over my head. “The Reaping isn’t until two.”

“Charity?”
I look up, expecting the voice of my mother and certainly not the voice of a young boy. I wrap my blanket around me and abandon the cocoon of my bed, wincing as my feet touch the cool floorboards. I saunter towards the door and gently crack it open.

“Sebbie, what time is it?”
“Five to eight,” he murmurs. “I wanted to go to the beach.”

“Does Mom know you’re here?” Somehow, I’m referring to both my mother and his.

“Miss Misty’s making eggs,” Sebbie replies. “I didn’t wake her up, I promise. She was awake when I got here.”

I take a deep breath, examining the neighbor-turned nuisance that I agreed to take in for some reason. 

“Let me get dressed.”

I’ve wandered to the kitchen by the time the clock clamors, ushering in a new hour. My mother is hunched over the stovetop, wooden spoon in hand. Sebbie is sitting at our wobbly dining table, on my mom’s whittling stool. He swings his legs back and forth. I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I tiptoe behind him, placing my arms out in front of me and grabbing his waist. He jumps off of the stool, squealing as I grind my knuckles into his chestnut hair. 

“Hey!” Sebbie whines. I pat him on the back before making my way towards the smell of fresh eggs.

“That’s for waking me up early.” I gingerly wrap my arms around my mom, kissing her on the cheek. “Good morning.”

“Hi honey,” she smiles. Years of hard labor in the forests has taken a toll on the woman. Her brown hair is streaked with gray, pulled back into a braid that extends past her ribs. She’s wearing a black eyepatch today, masking the mangle that was once her left eye. After an accident with the woodchipper, she was forced to retire early from the carpentry industry, collecting a meager check from the Capitol every month. Still, she made good use of her time at home, whittling figurines for the elementary school in District 7. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit.” I reach for the cabinet above the sink, grabbing two plates. “It’s cold, don’t you think?”

“It’s chilly,” she agrees. “Windy. Wonder if a storm is rolling in.”

“Just our luck.” I take two forks from the silverware drawer. “How did you sleep?”

“As good as anyone on the eve of the Reaping,” she scoffs, turning off the burner. “You?”

“I did alright. Would’ve been better if I could’ve slept in.” I shoot a glare at Sebbie, his hands folded across the table. “But someone had other plans.”

“The tide is out!” Sebbie’s eyes drift towards the window. “It won’t be long before it comes back in. I can feel it.”

“Eat first,” my mom says, dumping a spoonful of eggs onto one plate and two servings on the other. I sit down at the table, pushing the plate with more food towards Sebbie. 

“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her as I take a bite.

“Thanks, Miss Misty,” Sebbie adds. No one calls my mom by her first name but Sebbie. Although he’s practically lived here for four years, he’s far too shy to call her mom. Not when his mother is still around, at least.

“Finish every bite,” she warns Sebbie. “You’re growing. You need nutrients to grow.”

“What are you now, twelve?” I kick his leg under the table.

“Fifteen.”

“Well, you should learn how to act your age.”

“Charity!” My mom shoots me a dirty look. I meet Sebbie’s glance, who’s beaming. I’m my mother’s only child, and yet Sebbie is still somehow her favorite. After the Second Quarter Quell, we found him at our doorstep every Sunday evening, then every other evening, and eventually every day, asking if we had any leftovers from our past meals. He had a sister, Farah, and a mother who worked as a nurse at the primitive clinic in 7. After Farah was Reaped for the Second Quarter Quell, his mom had a breakdown of sorts. Watching Farah be mauled to death by carnivorous squirrels on the second day of the Games pushed her over the edge. Since then, Sebbie has spent most of his time at our home, to escape her Morphling fits. 

I shovel the last wad of eggs into my mouth. “I’m leaving with or without you in a minute,” I say to Sebbie before pacing to the front door, slipping on my boots. He hastens his eating, barely swallowing before tackling the pile of eggs on his plate again and again. I shrug a jacket over my shoulders, watching him wipe his mouth and scoot off of the stool. He beats me to the doorknob, twisting the worn brass and pushing the door open. 

“Bye Miss Misty! Thanks again!”

“Be back soon,” she hollers at us. “And Charity?” My mom stops me before I step outside, handing me a plate of eggs. “Would you bring this over to Sebbie’s mother?” She leans in close, whispering the next sentence in a hushed tone. “I don’t know if she’s eaten since Friday.”

Friday. The last day we brought food over for her. I glance at Sebbie, who’s picking at his fingernails. I take the plate and say goodbye again before joining the boy on the dirt road. He stares at me expectantly.

“Change of plans. We’re stopping at your place first.”

He sighs, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Can we make it quick? She was in a bad mood this morning.”

“Is that why you came so early?” We begin the walk to the Light household. It’s not far by any means; just a few hundred meters down the road. But the journey is always filled with apprehension. What kind of mood is Mrs. Light in on this fine Sunday morning? Or any morning, for that matter. It’s incredible how quickly the Games and ungodly amounts of drugs can change someone.

“Partially,” he replies. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, so we continue the walk in silence.

The curtains are still drawn over the windows of the home. I knock on the door, and after hearing no response, I let myself in. Sebbie elects to stay outside, which was probably smart. The house is, as usual, a mess. Dirty clothes are strewn across the floor. Bottles, both empty and half full, crowd the end table by the living room sofa. This is where I find Mrs. Light, sound asleep on the stained cushions. I set the plate down on the floor, knowing better than to disturb the Morphling bottles, and close the door behind me, her snores shaking the house. 

“She’s sleeping,” I tell Sebbie as I join him on the road.

“Good,” he says. “I don’t think she slept much last night. She woke me up at six because she was crying so loudly.”

“About what?” I regret the words the second they come out of my mouth. Why wouldn’t she be crying? She’d already lost one child to the Hunger Games. Every 4th of July must be agony for her. Part of me doesn’t blame her one bit for drugging herself through the day, but the other part of me sees the young boy she left behind. Forced to pick up every broken piece of her, every broken bottle littered throughout the house.

Sebbie looks at me, then smiles a bit before focusing his gaze on the trees ahead. I still see him as the gaunt boy on our doorstep, barely eleven and scared out of his mind. He slept with my mother that night, because I was adamant on keeping my bed to myself. As the years went by, however, I occasionally let him crawl into bed with me, as it seemed to be one of the only things to stop his nightmares.

The trek to the beach takes longer than it does to go from my house to Sebbie’s, and even longer when we’re starting at the end of the dirt road, outside the dilapidated homestead. The sun has risen considerably by the time we get there, although it can’t quite breach the heavy clouds overhead. 

There’s an old utility road that’s largely overgrown, swallowed by grass and accompanied by a chorus of echoing crickets. Sebbie treks a few steps ahead of me, skipping over gnarled tree roots that jut into the path. A white canopy of flowers protrudes from the pine trees.

“Hogweed.” Sebbie points to the toxic blossoms.

“Hogweed,” I confirm. He had told me enough about the lumberjacks who came to his mother’s clinic, the ones who were unfortunate enough to fall into a patch of hogweed. Its caress was painful enough, leaving fiery red burns on the skin. But once the clouds dispersed and the sun shone on the burns, they swelled into pustules that wept incessantly. We’re careful to avoid the plant as we continue.

There’s a log facing the beach, wide enough to seat half a dozen people. Sebbie climbs onto the fallen tree limb next to me. A barbed wire fence obstructs what would be a picture perfect view of the ocean. The fence extends for miles in each direction, though to the south it eventually makes a T with the District 7 border fence. Beyond that is trees, more trees, and if you make it through the next hundred swaths of trees, you presumably end up on the outskirts of District 4. Of course, none of us have ever been there. But in school, while studying the map of Panem, the teacher told us we were in the southwest corner of District 7, in a city that was likely much bigger before the Dark Days. Just below us was District 4, the fishing district.

I’ve never fished before, despite living by the ocean. Fishing was illegal in District 7, and the fence prevented any citizens from getting any ideas. Still, it felt calming to watch the waves crash onto the rocky shore. On clear days, plumes of mist erupted from the swells, emanating from gargantuan creatures living in the sea. We saw one on the beach once; long dead, the rotting carcass emitting a nasty odor. I think my mom called it a whale, but I could be wrong. I was more focused on not throwing up from the abhorrent smell.

Today, there’s nothing but kelp dotting the shoreline. Sebbie and I sit in silence, staring at the exposed beach.

“I need to tell you something,” he says. I glance over at him, and see that he’s picking at his fingernails again. A habit he borrows from me whenever I feel particularly anxious.

“What?”

He lifts his head, fixated on the horizon. “I signed up for tessera.”

I exhale heavily. “Sebbie.” Except I don’t know what else to say. He knows I’m upset. He refuses to meet my gaze.

If your family is impoverished, all children eligible for the Reaping can sign up for tesserae. One entry provides a year’s worth of oil and grain, and you can enter as many times as you’d like. However, each entry is one more slip added to the bowl of names eligible to compete in the Hunger Games. One more chance of having your name called. 

I signed up for tesserae when I was fourteen. Things were already tight, but after Sebbie started living with us, I knew we wouldn’t have enough money to feed three people every day. On the first of every month, I collected the allotment of sustenance provided. The grain was unrefined and coarse, yet my mother still managed to make something resembling bread out of it. One entry was enough to keep us from starving. Still, it meant there were fourteen slips labeled Charity Arbor in that Reaping bowl. Fourteen chances to be sent into the Arena.

Sebbie was fifteen, meaning that without tessera, his name was in the bowl four times. After taking tessera once, this raised his total to five. Five slips labeled Sebastian Light. This didn’t raise his odds dramatically, but I’m not pleased regardless.

“This is your last year of eligibility. We aren’t going to make it without the monthly tessera. It’s the least I can do.”

“I take tessera so you don’t have to,” I snap. “That’s my job. Not yours.” 

“You’ve got to stop protecting me, Charity,” Sebbie groans, finally shifting so he’s facing me. “You can’t protect me for the rest of your life.”

“Trust me, I know.” I look away from him. I don’t want him to see my eyes welling up. “But let me protect you for now. Don’t even think about taking tessera again, got it?”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me?”

Our eyes meet. His bottom lip trembles.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

I wear the same dress I’ve worn to every Reaping. It used to be white, but years of wear and tear have muddled it into a pale yellow. The collar and hems are ruffled, and three porcelain buttons stretch perpendicular to my chest to my neck. A brown sash is the finishing touch for a festive outfit on a forlorn day. 

My mother insists on braiding my hair, and although I hate having my hair pulled and twisted around, I only let her do it once a year, and today is the day for the annual hairdo from hell. I wear it down just like she does, except unlike her I let it fall down my shoulders so it brushes my inner arm. 

“Beautiful as always,” she smiles, cupping my face in her calloused hands. I offer a timid smile, my nerves beginning to boil in my gut. Like a thousand butterflies that can’t find a landing strip. I wait for her to drop her hands and turn away before I begin to fidget with my own. 

We walk to the Town Square. I made sure Mrs. Light was awake after dropping Sebbie off, and sat with her while she ate the eggs that were now lukewarm at best. She took a total of three Morphling capsules between bites. Enough to keep her mostly sedated at the Reaping, but not enough to offer blissful sleep. 

The clouds have begun to part. I quickly kiss my mother on the cheek before entering the queue to check in. Peacekeepers surround the square. I give my name to the burly man at the front of the line and am escorted to a crowd of eighteen year old girls, most of whom I recognize from school. None of us speak to each other. We stand, breathing in the humid air reminiscent of pine. 

I can barely make out Sebbie in the sea of heads, his mousy hair brushed and held back with bobby pins. Before I can attempt to make eye contact with him, the loud ringing of a microphone makes my body jolt, and I refocus my gaze towards the stage.

The mayor is there with his wife. Across from the couple are the only living Victors from District 7: Orchid and Cedar. Orchid’s an older lady, probably in her early sixties. Her knees are knobby, and her eyes wander aimlessly. A cane leans against her seat, just within arms reach. I don’t know when she won the Games, but I do know that she’s likely one of the earliest Victors. Meanwhile, Cedar is much younger, only in his late twenties. I briefly remember watching his Games as a child. He had stolen as much food from the Cornucopia as he could, then waited out the Games by rationing his food supply and collecting rainwater. Once it was down to two tributes, he easily decapitated the other in an ambush.

In the center of the stage is a lady who looks like she’s from the Moon. Her skin is tinted sea green, and she wears an outlandish outfit consisting of a jade dress adorned with sparkles, knee high heels, and a garland that is probably supposed to be festive but instead looks like pine needles stuck in her hair. 

“Welcome everyone!” Cassia booms, her voice echoing throughout the square. She’s been the escort for District 7 for as long as I can remember, and despite only bringing home a victorious tribute once in her career, her energy never seems to wane. “Today, we are gathered here to remember the sacrifices our Capitol made to ensure a life of security for all of Panem. And most importantly, to select two courageous citizens to represent District 7 in the 54th Hunger Games!” She claps excitedly, and some Peacekeepers half-heartedly follow suit, but the rest of the crowd is as silent as a shrew.

We watch the same film put out by the Capitol every year. A film that details the atrocities the Districts committed, the Capitol’s bloody response, the annihilation of District 13, and finally, the Treaty of Treason, which states that each district will offer a male and female tribute aged twelve to eighteen to compete in the Hunger Games, a primitive battle to the death. The winner will live in luxury, and the Capitol will graciously bless the winning district with goods to last until the next Hunger Games. A never ending cycle. 

After a few speeches and introductions by the mayor and Cassia, the viridian escort ravenously claps again, somehow unbothered that she is the only one applauding. “Yes, yes! Now, let’s not delay further. It’s time to meet the courageous young woman who will be representing District 7, in the 54th Annual Hunger Games!” She paces towards the glass bowl, jam packed with names. I gape at the way she walks, astonished at how she can carry herself in those heels. Her hand dives into the pile of papers, fishing around before one makes its way out of the bowl. Cassia returns to the microphone, unwrapping the rolled paper, but not before she briefly stumbles.

I almost laugh, until I hear my name being called.

There’s no way.

An eerie silence fills the Town Square, and I can see the girls around me slowly shift until all eyes are on me. 

This cannot be happening.

I’m dumbfounded; at a loss for words, even. I feel suffocated by the amount of attention being cast in my direction, and I briefly make eye contact with myself on the screens broadcasting the Reaping to all of Panem. That’s right. This is my first introduction to the country. To the Capitol.

A gaggle of Peacekeepers have already made their way towards me, and the girls separate to form an aisle in the square. My feet carry me forward, propelled by an unseen force. I don’t dare search for Sebbie or my mother. I know I’ll lose it if I see either of them.

I stare ahead, focusing on the seal of Panem hanging behind Cassia. I clench the ruffles of my dress to keep my hands from trembling, but as the cameras are angled towards me again I let go. I don’t want to be seen as fragile. Easily broken. A leaf barely clinging to a twig. 

I find myself at the foot of the stage. One, two, three steps, and then I’m facing my neighbors, teachers, classmates, and everyone else in Panem. As a tribute, I should feel dominant. Almighty. Here I am, standing before the entirety of District 7, in my once white dress with ruffles, porcelain buttons and a mahogany colored sash. My head is held high. A slight breeze, just an echo of the morning wind, dislodges a strand of hair from my braid and tickles my nose. 

I should feel empowered. Instead, I feel immeasurably tiny. Microscopic. No, not that small. Like a puppy standing on its hind legs. Attempting to impress everyone but appearing laughably pathetic.

“Miss Arbor, what an honor!” I slowly turn to face Cassia, who has adjusted the position of the microphone so it faces me. “How are you feeling?”

I don’t know how to answer. I should come up with something fake, just to appease her. But I can’t find the words. My gaze shifts south towards her pointed heels.

“I like your shoes.”

An orchestra of uneasy amusement bellows from the crowd, while Cassia conducts the audience with a melodic laugh that sounds so high pitched, it’s barely discernible. 

“Thank you, dear! I spent hours deciding on which shoes to wear. I wasn’t sure if I’d like these, but I’m certainly glad you do!” She places her hand between my shoulderblades so I’m facing forward again. Her fingernails are long enough to creep up my nape. “Charity Arbor, the female tribute from District 7! Let’s have a round of applause!”

Again, the clapping is muted at best. I don’t care. I don’t want to be applauded. I just want to get off of the stage as quickly as possible. There are so many emotions, so many questions running through my head. The last place I want to process them is in front of beady camera lenses amplifying my misery.

“Oh my, we’ve been having too much fun, haven’t we? We still need to pick the male tribute!” Fun. That’s not the first word I’d use to describe the Reaping. I stare daggers into Cassia as she bumbles to the bowl across the stage. Another name is picked. And the only person I can think about is Sebbie.

Please, don’t let it be Sebbie. Anyone but Sebbie. Please don’t read his name. I don’t know if there’s a higher power, but I’m pleading to anyone and anything that could be listening. 

Cassia returns to the microphone. She unfurls the slip, and I inhale sharply as the name rings crisply amongst the Square.

I don’t even process the words slipping past her lips. The buzz in my ears drowns out the echoes of her voice as a smothering pressure wrings my lungs of oxygen. A wave of vertigo nearly brings me to my knees but I steady myself in an instant when I think of my mom. Of Mrs. Light.

She’s screaming. A wretched sob claws through the square, its agonizing reverb pulsating in every ounce of my being. I clench my jaw.

Stand straight. Feel the way your body is supporting you from falling over. Focus on your center of balance and stare straight ahead.

I forbid my gaze from straying towards the boy’s section. I can’t look at him. I can’t even spare a glance towards Mrs. Light’s heart-wrenching wails. I don’t trust myself to keep from bawling. Instead, I avert my eyes to the solitary camera in front of me, fastened to a birch pole. The glint of the afternoon sun conjures the illusion of a teardrop in the lens of the camera. Tears threatening to stain a paralyzed face.

It’s not fair. None of it is fair. Why him? Wasn’t I enough? A volley of uniform footsteps chip through the deafening hum in my ears, dissolving into footsteps I know all too well. Normally joyous and liberating, they have consolidated into a solemn rhythm. A boy marching to the beat of his own drum, sludging through a swamp. Cassia asks him something, and I can’t make out the question or any audible response. It’s only after she congratulates us on being chosen to compete that I am jolted back to reality. She steps aside and extends her hand with an encouraging nod, glancing at the two of us. And only now do I shift my gaze towards the boy in front of me. 

Freckles dusting across fair skin. Sullen, brown eyes. He wears black trousers, a tattered gray dress shirt, and brown loafers that were once gleaming, but the toll of time has sucked all light out of them. The loafers I bought him on his twelfth birthday for his first Reaping, which he’s worn every year since then.

Sebastian Light extends a hand towards me, and I grip it tightly before pulling him towards me. I wrap my arms around him, and I feel him let out a heavy breath that he must have been holding since he took the stage. 

“Keep it together.” A warning for both myself and Sebbie. He nods into my shoulder.

Chapter Text

We’re heralded into the catacombs of the Justice Building. Two Peacekeepers push me into an ornate room with towering bookcases lining the walls, along with a pair of azure, plush sofas. The doors close, and I hear the click of a lock being turned into place.

I stand there for a moment, eyes wandering across the room, before I collapse onto one of the sofas. There’s a mahogany coffee table between the couches, with pastries, dinnerware and a pitcher of water. I take a glass and pour myself a cup of water, bringing it to my lips. I don’t realize how badly my hands are shaking until the rim of the glass trembles against my teeth, and I recoil. I set the glass down again and place my hands in my lap, staring at the familiar creases and folds of my dress.

Technically speaking, this is not my first time in this room. I had ventured through the maze of corridors in the Justice Building once before, though the abysmally infinite pit in my chest had been somewhat more bearable. Perhaps time heals wounds after all.

First Farah, now Sebbie and I.

The crushing weight from before returns with a vengeance. Nausea settles into my gut as I close my eyes, burying my face into my hands. Couplings of silent sobs rack my shoulders. I can’t afford to shed any more tears. I don’t want to be bleary eyed and sniffling when the cameras come back.

I remember clearly now. Farah was sitting in my spot, just like dozens of dead tributes before her. My mother and I stood solemnly with Sebbie and Mrs. Light, all exchanging somber embraces. Farah wore a blue blouse, peppered with white polka dots. I had laced together a halo of wildflowers for her that morning, which she fondly flaunted throughout the ceremony. Even when they called her name, she wore a smile on her face and assuredly strutted to the stage. Her confidence at the time didn’t surprise me by any means, but her stoicism during our goodbyes certainly did. Farah hardly said a word as we attempted to comfort her. She dropped her tenacious facade the second the doors to the Justice Building swung shut.

As the time ran out, I wrapped my arms around her, breathing in the smell of flowers. Following a barrage of hugs, the daisies had become entangled in her hair. I remember holding myself back from fixing them for her. I let my eyes flutter shut as my chin rested on her shoulder, and for the first time, she spoke softly in my ear.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Perhaps you were right.

An abrupt knock on the door shakes me from my stupor and before I know it, my mother is rushing towards me. Wordlessly, I stand and fling myself into her arms, biting my lip to keep from crying further. Mom doesn’t hold back; the violent wails wracking her body are strong enough to nearly knock me back to the sofa.

I find myself running my palm over her hair, stroking her intricately woven braids. I try not to tell myself that this is the last time I’ll see her.

“I’ll be okay,” I say quietly. She doesn’t say anything in response. So we hold each other in silence for what seems like an eternity.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she finally croaks, pulling away to meet my gaze. I take her trembling hands in mine. “I couldn’t protect you.”

“Nothing could,” I murmur. “It’s not your fault.” I knew she was blaming herself for it. Blaming herself for allowing me to take tessera.

“If they just let me work more,” my mother says, her fingers brushing against her eyepatch, “we wouldn’t be in this mess. You wouldn’t have to put your name in more.”

“It’s not your fault.” I say it with more conviction this time. My grip on her hands tighten considerably. “I’m going to be alright. I’ll be home in a few weeks.” 

What happens if I do go home? If I win, it means Sebbie dies. Plain and simple. I’m given a second shot at life, but it comes at the tremendous cost of an innocent child. There’s no winner here. 

Mom tugs at my wrist, and I let go. She digs her hand into her pocket and places her fist in my palm. 

I stare at the token in my hand. It’s a figurine of a pine tree, unpainted but startlingly lifelike. The ends of the branches are dulled, with grooved spheres clinging to them. Pine cones.

“I didn’t have time to paint it this morning,” she says softly. “I needed a new set of green paints. I wanted to give it to you after I finished it.” I twirl the tree around between my fingers, my thumb sliding against the smooth wood.

“It’s pretty enough already,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

The door opens again, and a Peacekeeper is standing in the doorway. “Time’s up.” I kiss my mother on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself.”

And then she’s gone, and I’m standing alone again, grasping what could be the last link to my mother I’ll ever have.

I’m about to sit down, not expecting any more visitors, but another round of knocking brings me to my feet. This time, it’s not my mother.

It’s Mrs. Light.

Her eyes are bloodshot, eyelids swollen with salt. The doors close, and I’m unsure if I should hug her or keep my distance. It’s clear that she’s already said her goodbyes to Sebbie. I can see that much, with the damp streams of tears still glistening on her hollow cheeks.

“Mrs. Light,” I begin, but she shakes her head, collapsing onto the sofa in front of me. I sit across from her. Her lips are quivering.

I won't try to address her again. I have no idea what’s going through her mind, and I’m not about to try and act like I do. A daughter torn apart on live television for the entire world to see. A husband who slit his wrists in the forest following her death. And now her son, the only one she has left, sent to play the Games that killed Farah.

“Sebbie adores you,” she chokes out. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is when you’re around.” I lower my head, struggling to hold back my own tears. “He trusts you.”

That last part angers me slightly. He has no one else he can trust. He’s lost Farah, his dad, and his mother is too drugged to care for him properly. But I can’t hold a grudge against the woman. Not now. Not when things are like this.

“Charity.” Mrs. Light finally raises her head, and the ferociousness in her eyes is so strong, I find myself shrinking back into the couch. “I don’t know what your plan is, but promise me that you’ll protect him. Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”

I think back to our conversation on the beach, just a few hours prior. When he told me he had taken tessera. When I promised him to never do it again.

If he wins, he’ll never have to play in these Games again. He’ll never have to claim tessera or worry about his mother. 

I think of Farah. I see her in her mother’s eyes.

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, nodding my head. “He’ll be home before you know it. I’ll make sure he sees you again.”

Something shifts in her gaze, but I can’t quite discern what changed. An eerie calm envelops the woman’s frame, her quiet spasms suddenly gone still. Mrs. Light rises, never breaking eye contact with me.

“Thank you, Charity. I wish you the best of luck.” And with that, a Peacekeeper steps inside and ushers her out. Two more walk in and take my arms, and I’m paraded through the Justice Building, towards the towering exit down the hall. 

The sun is bright, and I squint through the maze of citizens and Peacekeepers forming a path for me to walk through. A sleek car awaits, with Cassia standing by the open door. She waves excitedly at me, as if we were old friends. 

Gravel crunches behind me and I turn to see Sebbie flanked by two Peacekeepers. The three men catch up to us, and I hear the guards say something before a scream rips through the crowd.

I whip my head around to see the Peacekeeper to my left raise his weapon. One of the men in white escorting Sebbie follows suit, and I hurriedly grab the boy’s wrist. Our eyes sift through the cluster of people as the remaining Peacekeepers prod at our backs, and we quicken our pace.

Cassia’s attention has been diverted to the screaming as well, and for a brief moment, I see a pair of bloodshot eyes reaching through the wall of bodies. Her sickly fingers brush the sleeve of Sebbie’s shirt for a split second.

The gut twisting shriek of a mother losing a child pierces through my body, before being promptly silenced by a bullet to the head.

Chapter Text

We’re pushed into the car before I can even register the ring of the gunshot. Cassia is yelling about something, but I’m not listening to her. I’m holding Sebbie close to me, and he’s writhing in my arms, clawing at the windows, screaming until I can hear his vocal cords seize, and eventually I stop fighting him. He kicks me in the stomach during the mayhem, crawling across my lap and pressing his forehead against the window. I only look for just a second, to see the crowd dispersing as Peacekeepers huddle around the bleeding body on the ground.

And then we’re accelerating. A cloud of dust obscures the pandemonium behind us. I press myself against my seat, inhaling deeply. Praying the leather will envelop me whole. There’s a few ruby droplets that have stained my dress. 

There’s no use in keeping it together at this point. The tears have begun to fall, and I hopelessly try to dab my eyes dry with my dress, but they just keep coming. I feel a weight press against my arm, and I wordlessly pull Sebbie towards me as he sobs into my dress. Gut wrenching sobs that I haven’t heard for years, since we watched Farah die. They aren’t even sobs, they’re just primal howls, like he’s purging himself of every tear. He just screams and screams, unable to form cohesive words. 

“Now, now!” Cassia chirps from the front seat. “We’re almost to the train station! This must be my favorite part, you know. Seeing your eyes when we board.”

And now, a new emotion is broiling in my chest. The shock is seeping away, pushed out of my body by unbridled rage. How tone deaf could you possibly be? I knew citizens from the Capitol had worms for brains, but the first taste of pure idiocy has slid down my throat, and it’s bitter. Acrid. Malevolent. 

“Shut the hell up,” I whisper, voice unsteady. Only the seat belt strapped across my torso keeps me from lunging forward and ripping the garland from her fat head. She tuts at that, shaking her head and refusing to meet my eyes.

“I understand you’re upset,” she begins. “But-”

“Upset?” Now I’m screaming. “Do you even have a heart?”

“Charity.” Sebbie is tugging at the ruffles on my dress, but I can’t back down.

“We’re just animals to you, aren’t we? District filth. You can’t even spare a moment of silence, because your head is so far up your ass that you can only think of what concerns you .”

“Charity!” I turn to the boy beside me. Snot dripping from his nose. A tapestry of tears woven across his cheeks. And those fragile, hazel eyes. 

The fury subsides, and I lower my head.  A horrible part of me says I shouldn’t be angry. It wasn’t my mother. It was Sebbie’s. This is his ire to unleash, not mine. 

The car is silent for the rest of the blissfully short trip. I don’t speak to Cassia as she opens our door, and we climb out of the car. I don’t care about the cameras that are surely poring over every ounce of melancholy that we cannot conceal. 

As much as I hate to admit it, Cassia definitely undersold the luxury of the train. The chrome exterior, the lavish carpets that seem to add an extra spring to my steps. There’s a banquet set out in the main room, dressed to the brim with pastries and other hors d'oeuvres. A slim woman with close cropped black hair wordlessly escorts me to my quarters, a spacious room with a bed that could easily sleep four and a huge walk-in closet that’s bursting with clothes.

And then I’m alone again, sitting at the edge of the monstrous bed. Cassia told us to return to the banquet room by five, so in the meantime I opt to retreat to the bathroom and wash my face. Scrubbing away any evidence of my outburst. 

I probably owe Cassia an apology. I need her on my good side if she’s going to help us find sponsors. But I’m too pissed to even think about how I’d go about it, so I lay on the mattress and watch the countryside roll by. We aren’t too far from the Capitol, and at the speed we’re going, we’ll probably be there by dusk. 

There’s a knock at the door before it slides open, revealing the woman from before. I glance at the clock on the nightstand, not expecting to see it’s already five. She extends her hand, and I begrudgingly follow her through the corridors.

“What’s your name?” I ask, hoping to ease the awkward silence. She simply smiles, and does not offer a response, so I don’t ask again.

Once I arrive, I see that Sebbie is already there, with a full plate of food. The appetizers from before have been replaced with a roasted turkey, mashed potatoes garnished with herbs, a fruit bowl chilled by ice, amongst other dishes. I sit next to him, across from Cassia, Cedar and Orchid, whose hands are clasped tightly. Her milky eyes examine me carefully. I raise my knife to cut out a slice of turkey, but I’m quickly stopped by the quiet woman, who does it for me.

“I can do it,” I say.

“That’s what she’s here for,” Cassia says mirthfully. There’s nothing in her tone to indicate our argument. “She’s your Avox, after all.”
That’s right. Avoxes were the servants of the Capitol, usually those who had committed crimes severe enough to remove them from society, but not severe enough to be punished by execution. As a result, their tongues are cut out and they’re delegated to serving others for the rest of their lives. A twinge of guilt resonates in my chest when I remember the sad smile she gave me after I asked for her name. I purse my lips and thank her softly as she places a juicy slice of turkey breast on my plate. I take a bowl and ladle a creamy soup into it that smells of mushrooms, and add mashed potatoes, a clump of grapes and two dinner rolls to my plate. So much more extravagant than the scrambled eggs Sebbie and I feasted on that morning.

I look at Sebbie, and see that he had changed his outfit entirely. Now, he’s dressed in a cotton shirt that hugs his hips and baby blue jeans. He offers me a timid smile, but it doesn’t quite mask the deep grief that I know he’s harboring.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know who I’m saying it to, but Cassia jumps on the apology, hurriedly brushing away my tantrum as she calls it. I’m too worn out to object. That’s one less thing I need to worry about.

“I also want to extend my condolences,” Cedar says, however it is directed solely at Sebbie. “I understand your mother has passed.” Orchid doesn’t say a word. She’s busy stirring a sugar cube into a cup of steaming tea.

So that’s that. I knew that Mrs. Light wouldn’t survive being shot point blank, but a tiny part of me had hoped that she’d pull through.

Who will Sebbie go home to if he wins this? Everyone in his family is dead. He has no one.

That’s not true. He has my mom. He still has me, but I don’t want to think about how if he wins, I’ll be gone too.

I think back to my conversation with Mrs. Light. The intensity in her voice when she asked me to protect him. And it’s only now that I slowly begin to realize she knew what little chance Sebbie stood against the other tributes. The ones who have trained for their lives to slaughter as many as possible in the arena. She knew how hopeless it was to offer us encouraging words.

She took the easy way out. Flinging herself towards her son, touching him one last time before her torments were blasted away by gunfire. 

And now I understand. There can only be one winner. One person to wear the crown. A beacon of light that shines through the dark aura surrounding the Games.

Sebbie will be the winner of the 54th Hunger Games. I’ll make sure of it.

Chapter Text

After dinner, Cassia eagerly turns on a replay of the Reapings by each district. District Seven is always the last Reaping of the day, and Cassia lamented during the meal about how the footage wasn’t compiled quite yet. But as the Avoxes brought out trays of chocolate cake, pudding and some kind of coffee flavored ice cream, Cassia was giddy with excitement as the reel was finally ready. She taps the screen of a flat device the size of my palm and the grandiose television screen built into the wall springs to life. 

We go in order, starting with District 1. A lithe, lean girl by the name of Ambrosia volunteers quickly. Her shimmering blonde hair appears to have sparkles in it as she strides to the podium. The tributes from District 2 have a mischievous glint in her eyes. The boy’s forearms are easily the width of a tree limb, and the muscles under his shirt bulge as he moves.

The girl from District 4 is quite the sight. She chortles loudly when her name is called, and her laughter grows when the escort offers the opportunity for someone to volunteer and no one steps forward. There’s something slightly unhinged in her grassy eyes that both intrigues and frightens me.

Eventually, we reach District 7. My name is called. I’m relieved to see I don’t look quite as panicked as I felt when the Peacekeepers took me to the stage, although I cringe a bit when they end up replaying my comment about Cassia’s shoes. 

“Oh, you’re adorable!” Cassia squeals, turning to face me. “Did you really like those shoes? Honest?”

I hated them, to be honest. 

“They’re cute.” I put on the biggest shit eating grin I can muster. I can hear Cedar smirk at that, while Orchid purses her lips to hide a smile. Even Sebbie giggles a bit, all of which Cassia is seemingly oblivious to.

Then there’s Sebbie. As I suspected, the cameramen did an excellent job of capturing the terror in my eyes. Sebbie looks just as aghast. This time, I did hear what Cassia had asked him. She had mentioned that he looked like a dapper young man, to which Sebbie had thanked her and focused his gaze on me. Heat bursts from my cheeks as I watch the two of us embrace, which is followed by a string of oohs and ahhs from Cassia.

“You two really do have a special relationship,” she smiles. “Are you dating?”

“No,” we both quickly respond in tandem. It’s a common question that we’re both used to when meeting strangers. But I’ve never seen Sebbie in that way. He’s handsome, but the relationship we share is far too intimate to be described as romantic. No, he’s like a brother to me more than anything else.

“We’re like siblings,” Sebbie says. “She’s known me since I was little. Her sister and I were friends.”

Friends is one way to put it.

“Your sister,” Cassia murmurs, tapping her nails against the mahogany table. “She wasn’t named Farah, was she?”

There’s the realization. Of course Cassia knew Farah. She was the escort for the tributes in the Second Quarter Quell. 

“Yeah, it was.” Sebbie stares at the enormous slice of cake on his plate. “She was reaped for the 50th Hunger Games.” I glance at the mentors, who are watching him intently. Then, I see the look on Cassia’s face as Sebbie’s family tree is slowly put together in her head. The woman shot in the crowd. Farah.

“Oh, my,” she says softly. “I see.”

The girl from District 9 has just been Reaped. She’s young, no older than thirteen, and she promptly bursts into tears when they call her name. Peacekeepers grab her arms as she kicks and cries, screaming for her mother. The rich meal I had savored suddenly feels like a lump of wet sand in my stomach, and I force myself to sit through the rest of the Reapings without hurling. 

Once the tributes from District 12 have been selected, the screen goes dark. The sun has begun to set over the mountains by now, and a soft, pink light has bathed the train carriage in a comforting hue. I look at Orchid and Cedar, who have been whispering to each other throughout the meal. Cedar catches my gaze, and smiles lightly.

“Well,” he exhales, staring at the two of us. “I like that you two know each other. There’s some chemistry there already. I think we can play on that during the Interviews.”

Yes, the Interviews. Each tribute will have their moment to shine, albeit for three flimsy minutes. It’s your final chance to wow the audience before you’re thrown into the fighting ring the next day. 

“I would like to suggest,” he says, “that you two start thinking about your plans in the arena.”

“How?” Sebbie asks. “We won’t know what it’s like until we’re there.”

“True,” Cedar says. “But you can get a grasp of what your strategy will be. Look at your weaknesses and figure out how to supplement them.” Orchid nods approvingly, never speaking louder than a whisper.

My weaknesses? I’m not very strong, first of all. I can carry the heaping bins of crude grain and oil that we’re given in tessera, but in hand to hand combat, I’d certainly be overpowered. I’ve never been a confrontational person either, and the idea of stumbling upon someone with a sword makes me squirm.

“Charity,” Cedar lowers his glass of wine. It’s the second one he’s requested this evening. “Would you consider yourself a fighter?”

“As in someone who likes to pick fights? Or someone who doesn’t give up?” I like to consider myself to be in the latter category. Even if I’ve almost entirely given up on myself in the last few hours. After Mom’s injury, we became much poorer. Farah dying a year later was even more excruciating, after we suddenly had three mouths to feed with no more money than we had before. The tessera helped, but the baskets of huckleberries Sebbie and I illegally harvested from the woods were our saving grace. The various herbs Sebbie recognized on our walks to the beach became the newest additions in shoddy salads. The money we scraped together to buy knife sharpening kits for Mom brought some felicity into the household. It was difficult, but I never gave up on finding new ways to keep our bellies full. To keep from sinking into the dark pit that claimed Mrs. Light.

Cedar didn’t expect me to say that. His eyebrows furrow, before his lips stretch across his teeth in a knowing smile.

“I like that answer.” I’m not sure what answer I’ve given him, but he seems to be pleased with it. He turns his attention to Sebbie. “What about you?”
Sebbie can’t even crush the spiders that crawl through the floorboards of our home. So it surprises me when he responds in the affirmative. I look at him, puzzled. 

“How would you consider yourself a fighter?” Cedar presses. 

“What does it matter?” Sebbie crosses his arms. “As long as the job gets done, who cares?”

I wasn’t sure how I expected Sebbie to answer, but I definitely didn’t expect that. His voice is hollow. Devoid of emotion. It’s something I’ve never seen in him before, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

Orchid seems just as perplexed as me. She looks at Cedar, then at both of us. Then she’s standing and pushing her chair into the table, smoothing down her floral dress.

“I think,” she speaks for the first time, “that District 7 has an excellent chance of winning this year.”

Chapter Text

I spend far too long in the shower, pressing as many buttons as I can that engulf me in soaps, lotions and scalding hot water. I don’t mean to, for the most part, but who’s going to stop me? There’s obviously no limit on hot water on these trains, unlike home where we had around five minutes for a warm shower on a good day. Naturally, Sebbie would take as long as he could whenever he bathed in our home, after ensuring that Mom had already showered. But if it was my turn, he was sure to leave me with thirty seconds of hot water before a deluge of ice soaked me to the bone. Which would promptly be followed by me chasing him around the house with a towel, threatening to drown him in the bathtub.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

I’ve just changed into a flowing nightgown when I hear the knock on the door. It’s a rhythm I’ve heard for years at all times of the day, albeit it’s normally against aging oak rather than the sleek, platinum doors of the train that slide open. 

I don’t say anything as I open it and see Sebbie standing in the hall, dressed in flannel pajamas. I don’t say anything when I crawl into bed and feel his weight beside me. Although the bed is certainly big enough for each of us to have our own space, I don’t say anything when he lays his head on my chest and clenches my nightgown, eyes fluttering shut. It’s not the first time he’s slept in the same bed as me, but he hasn’t done it in a long time. Still, I welcome his embrace. We don’t speak about the Reaping, or his mother, or anything for that matter. I doze off with my fingers buried in his hair. 

By the time the sun rises, he’s already gone. I’m tempted to wear my dress from the Reaping, but the silky smooth texture of the nightgown is far too tempting. I bumble around the walk-in closet for a bit, searching for clothes made of similar material, before deciding on black leggings and a matching black top that hugs my curves. Once eight o’clock rolls around, I head to the room with the food.

Once again, the caterers on the train have not disappointed. The table is stacked high with hotcakes, bowls of fresh produce, pitchers of steaming beverages and pork links. Cedar is already there, pouring syrup over the pancakes. He raises his head briefly when he sees me, and offers me a mug of tea. I thank him and sit where I sat the night before, helping myself to pancakes, sausages and fruit.

“There’s eggs as well.” He gestures to a plate with a metal dome. I take one, struggling at first to wriggle it onto my plate with just a fork and knife. An Avox is there in the blink of an eye with a spatula to plop it next to the rest of my food.

“Thanks,” I say to both of them. Cedar grunts in response, chewing loudly. We eat without speaking for a few moments, before he eventually sets his cutlery down.

“We’ll be there in about an hour,” Cedar says. “There’s going to be plenty of cameras, so do with that what you will. Stylists will take it from there, though.”

Both Sebbie and I will be assigned a team of stylists to perfect our image for the Capitol. Frankly, I think I look just fine already. But I know the stylists will find plenty of things to pluck, scrub and rip off of my body. 

“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.

“Probably still asleep,” Cedar replies. “Orchid’s never been much of a morning person.” With that, the doors slide open and a sleepy Sebbie stumbles through, still rubbing his eyes. He’s changed into tan slacks and a white polo shirt, with a glistening belt wrapped around his hips. I can’t help but wonder what time he left my room last night, if he still looks so exhausted.

“Good morning,” he says, taking the seat next to me. He eats very sparingly, only taking an apple and a hard boiled egg from the ice chest. I think of breakfast the day before, when Mom insisted on giving him larger portions. I sneak a cinnamon bun onto his plate before he can object. He needs to bulk up as much as he can before the luxury of food vanishes in the arena. He scowls, before grabbing another roll and tossing it towards me. Although my appetite has largely been satiated, I still eat it. It’s sweet, with a cream cheese frosting that leaves my fingertips sticky with sugar.

Cassia and Orchid join us by eight thirty, though neither seem too interested in breakfast. Instead, Orchid accepts a mug of black coffee from an Avox and sits by the window, sipping idly. Meanwhile, Cassia is brushing our hair, smoothing down our clothes, and buzzing about how we’ll be at the Capitol shortly, how plenty of sponsors will be waiting, how the stylists have so many brilliant ideas about how to dress us for the Tribute Parade. 

I’ve just finished wiping off my fingers when we pass through a tunnel, the outside light snuffed out in a second. Sebbie and I share a look.

“Look outside,” Cassia croons.

The cabin is illuminated by sunlight once more, and my eyes widen at the sight of the city in front of me. Sebbie lets out a soft gasp. We can’t resist scampering to the window and pressing our forehead against the icy panes. 

Hundreds of clandestine skyscrapers jut from the valley floor like silver toothpicks. They reach impossibly high, several times higher than the tallest pines back home. A polished railway snakes through the metropolis, across gleaming water and through the maze of towers. Cars dot the massive roads surrounding the city, with a staggeringly high amount of lanes to accommodate the vehicles. 

“Woah,” Sebbie gapes.

“Woah,” I say in agreement. 

The Capitol train station is crowded. I gawk at the hundreds of people crowded outside of the carriages, cheering and snapping pictures of us as we disembark from the train. A man with aquamarine skin blows a kiss towards me, and I awkwardly smile as Cassia ushers us through the terminal, with Cedar and Orchid following closely.

“They’re all here to see you!” Cassia exclaims. “Smile for the cameras, Charity!”

Sponsors . Of course. Now would be an excellent time to look appealing. I brush my mousy fringe behind my ears and try to think of something happy. But the roar of the crowd and the flashing lights are so overwhelming, I feel faint.

Then, Sebbie is nudging my hand, and a pleasant hum rings throughout my body. I’m in foreign territory, but I have Sebbie with me. I’ll be fine.

I clench my fist around his wrist and feel his fingers interlock with mine. He squeezes my hand a few times, and I squeeze his in return. And for the duration of our journey through the station, we surprise each other by squeezing the other’s hand at random, which sends us both into giggling fits. And all I can do is hope that a few nice pictures came of it. 

Once we’ve been seated in the back of an elongated car with a sofa and chilled glasses of spirits, I ease my grip on Sebbie’s hand. But he doesn’t let go of me. My eyes skirt in his direction. He’s staring at the back of the driver’s seat, gaze unwavering. Then, he squeezes my palm and subtly smiles. I yank my hand free and kick his foot.

“Ow!” He punches my arm, and I grab at his hair, forcing him into a headlock.

“Hey, hey,” Cedar interjects, setting down a crystalline glass. “No fighting until you’re in the arena.”

“She started it,” Sebbie points at me.

“No I didn’t,” I scoff. “He kicked me in the foot.”

Cedar begins to speak again, but Orchid shushes him, placing her hand on his shoulder. I notice a silver wedding band around her finger, a milky agate stuck in the center. There’s an almost mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You two remind me of my grandkids,” she says warmly. “They’re twins. Only nine, but they bicker and fight just like you do.”

“I don’t know,” Sebbie tsks. “Charity threatened to drown me a few weeks ago.”
“You used up all the hot water,” I cry out. “You had it coming!”

“Don’t worry,” he sneers. “I’m sure you’ll have your chance when the Games start.”

His smile fades the second the words come out. I know he meant it as a joke, but the reality of where we were, why we were here, and what would happen in a mere week stung worse than pouring alcohol over an open wound. “I’m sorry,” he says hurriedly, but it’s too late. I just pull my knees to my chest and watch the buildings whiz by.

There’s nothing I’m dreading more than the idea of killing Sebbie. I know I couldn’t do it. Even if, heavens forbid, he turned on me and held me at knifepoint.

I’m not sure if I’d ever say it out loud, but I’d rather kill myself than be forced to face the possibility of killing him.

Chapter Text

“One final touch!” The woman with no eyebrows smatters something grainy under my eyelids. My skin is still tingly from the solution they doused me in when I arrived at the Training Center. Before we got the chance to even see our living quarters, Sebbie and I were whisked away to separate rooms that mirrored the laboratory of a mad scientist. A team of five Capitol stylists proceeded to pluck, strip, polish and conceal every hair and pore I possessed. Then, after taking measurements of my hips, waist, chest, neck, wrists, and seemingly every other part of my body, I was promptly fitted into a jumpsuit lined with evergreen frills. The fabric was elastic, fading into mahogany at the torso. Emerald glitter adorns my eyes, with a rich chocolate lipstick and heavy mascara. My hair is braided and tied into an updo of sorts, with plenty of sparkles mixed with the brown locks.

I look absolutely ridiculous.

But I knew better than to object. I had no choice in my styling. I’ll wear what they give me and I will not make a fuss. Even as I exchanged worried glances with Orchid as my prep team insisted on another chemical solution to “enhance my complexion,” she simply raised her finger to her lips. Don’t complain.

So I don’t. I let them prod and poke at me as if I were a frog ready to be dissected, and after a grueling four hours, I’m ready for the Tribute Parade.

Sebbie looks almost as outlandish as I do. He’s in a matching jumpsuit, though his hair has been straightened and flattened so it’s pressed directly against his scalp. When he first notices me, I can see him struggling to refrain from laughing at my get-up. I scowl at him as Lars, my head stylist, pins a stubborn strand of hair behind my ear.

“Wonderful!” His teeth are unnaturally white, and his face is painted with a gallery of swirling tattoos. “Charity, you might be the prettiest tree I’ve ever laid eyes on!”
Trees. It’s what every District 7 stylist has attempted to convey through the costumes the tributes are forced to wear every year. Although lumber is the primary industry in District 7, we have our fair share of paper mills as well. In fact, I’m sure the stylists could weave a gorgeous origami-like dress that would acknowledge the paper we export to the Capitol.

But trees seem to be all the rage, so I’m stuck looking like a diseased pine.

I don’t look as ridiculous as some of the other tributes, though. The District 12 tributes are in hideous coal mining outfits, carrying dusty picks and hunching under the weight of muddy yellow hard hats. The tributes from 10 look even worse: they’re covered head to toe in polka dots, with cowbells tied around their necks. 

The Careers--the tributes from 1, 2 and 4--are, of course, in the brightest, most trendy outfits. The tributes from 1 and 2 are wearing gold and silver, respectively. The tributes from 4 are in scaly, glimmering textiles that resemble a fish with rainbow scales. The boy is shirtless, proudly showing off an impressive six pack. But my eyes are trained on the girl, who looks quite uninterested in everything around her. She’s in a long skirt that seems to mirror the tail of a fish, with a matching top wrapped around her chest. Her auburn hair flows freely, though a pearl headband pushes her bangs back to reveal steely eyes, a sharp jawline and thin, glossy lips. Rather than converse with the boy from her district and the rest of the Careers, she stands idly by the black horse harnessed to her chariot. I watch as her fingers dance mindlessly through its mane. Something about her makes me want to saunter over and say hello.

As the thought crosses my mind, her gaze shifts from the horse to me. We stare at each other briefly before she smirks and winks at me. Blood rushes to my cheeks, but before I can find a way to respond, she’s already turned away, returning her attention to the whinnying stallion.

Valeria, Sebbie’s stylist, clicks her tongue. “It’s almost time! Into the chariots, you two!” I climb into the carriage, careful to not tip the chariot as I grasp the wooden handlebars. Sebbie settles in next to me as Cedar and Orchid step in front of the horses, scrutinizing us. They converse quietly as I fumble with the frills on my sleeves, anxiously twisting the fibers.

“I’m sorry,” Sebbie says quietly. “About earlier.”

I glance at him, wondering what he means before I remember his comment in the car. About drowning him.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “We’re both stressed. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean.”

Usually, Sebbie would jump on that opportunity to say something even more infuriating. But he just nods. He knows better at this point.

In the last day and a half, his bubbly personality I was so familiar with has faded into something much more sullen. When things got dark, I knew Sebbie would be the first one to shed light on a hopeless situation. After his father committed suicide and Mrs. Light went off the deep end, he still managed to crack jokes here and there, though I had a feeling he was simply masquerading as a jester to conceal the grief he held in his heart. And he’s still doing that now, to a degree. But for the most part, he’s dead silent. Blunt when he’s forced to speak. As if nothing matters anymore.

“Smile and wave to them all,” Cedar snaps his fingers at us. “Eye contact goes a long way.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Lock eyes with someone in the audience and don’t let go. Hold it for a bit,” he elaborates. “Form a connection with them. Don’t let them forget you.”

“How?” Sebbie says. “They’ll forget us within a few months.” Cedar frowns at him, before walking alongside the chariot until he’s standing directly across from Sebbie. Even though Sebbie isn’t that tall, he still towers over Cedar from his position in the chariot. 

“They won’t forget you if you take this seriously,” he growls. “I don’t care what connection you try to make. Just look happy to be here, wink at a few people in the crowd, do something that catches their attention. If you want to try and find sponsors, now’s your first good shot.”

Sebbie opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it, and simply purses his lips and faces forward. Meanwhile, Orchid has made her way to my side of the chariot. I kneel so we’re facing each other at eye level. She leans on her cane, examining my makeup.

“You’re a pretty thing,” she mumbles so only I can hear her. “You clearly love the boy next to you. You want to protect him.”

I try to not look surprised, but my eyes betray me. I inconspicuously glance behind me and see that Sebbie has given up on holding his tongue and is now arguing with Cedar over sponsors.

“He’s too stubborn,” I murmur. “He’ll never listen to me.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Orchid says soothingly. “He adores you. Anyone can see that. If he’s going to listen to anyone, it’ll be you.”

I don’t know about that. He listens to me when I tell him to buy soap at the market. He listens when I tell him to wash the dishes after dinner. But when I ask him to do something that isn’t related to domestic work, he never listens. I’ll never forget the time Farah and I warned him against using the shiny, teardrop leaves along the trail as toilet paper, to which he told us to shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. A few minutes later, he waddled back to the trail in agony, with tears streaming down his face. Farah and I couldn’t stop laughing, even as we half carried him to the clinic. Who knew that using poison ivy as toilet paper would be so painful?

“He has to live,” I say softly. “Please, Orchid. Help me save him.”

Before she can consider my pleas, however, a booming welcome from the hosts of the Hunger Games bellows throughout the stadium speakers. Orchid pats my hand and hobbles away as Lars and Valeria rush around us, saying something about staying in formation and smiling bright. Then, the stallions are trodding along, and I grab the handlebars as our chariot begins to move. I feel Sebbie’s fingers around my wrist, and I quickly understand. And as we emerge into the stadium, I intertwine my fingers with his, and squeeze his hand.

The lights are blinding. All I can see are faces and bodies decked out in chartreuse tuxedos, lavender wigs, fierce tattoos and a slew of surgical enhancements. They’re screaming, cheering, and they all look so foreign to me that I can’t help but laugh. Who do these people think they are?

There’s a woman with ears that are pointed. She bears a striking resemblance to a goblin, with her scarlet cheeks and lips the size of earthworms. I subtly gesture towards her, and Sebbie giggles. She doesn’t seem to realize we’re laughing at her though, because she giddily screeches and points at us. Everyone around her follows her finger, and suddenly, we’re on the big screen, our jubilant smiles being broadcast across Panem.

“What do you think would happen if I fell out of this chariot?” Sebbie smirks. Normally, I’d be paralyzed with fear at the idea of seeing Sebbie tumble out of the carriage, but I’m so fed up with the Capitol, so fed up with our situation, that I just laugh.

“Your head would be crushed like a melon,” I reply.

“You think they’d broadcast that?”

“They’ll be broadcasting much worse in a week’s time,” I say. “Consider it an appetizer before the main course.”

And now we’re laughing so hard, we can barely stand. And the crowd is loving it. They have no idea what we’re talking about, which just makes it even funnier. As our chariot races towards the end of the aisle, the applause has grown deafening. Caesar Flickerman, the main host of the Hunger Games ever since I was little, is reading off our names now, and the crowd is screaming their heads off.

For the first time since my name was called in the Reaping, I can feel a shred of hope beginning to bloom in my head. Maybe we’ve earned some sponsors. Maybe the audience won’t brush District 7 off like they normally do.

Maybe, just maybe, we have a chance of winning.

Chapter Text

I’ve lost all hope by the time lunch rolls around the next day.

The day started well enough. Breakfast was exquisite; poached eggs paired with steak so tender it practically melted in my mouth. I’ve only had steak once in my life, and I remember the meat being quite gristly and tough to chew. Even the poorest cuts from the butcher were a special treat, so I did my best to savor every bite of bovine rubber. But now, after trying some of the finest steak Panem had to offer—probably shipped in from District 10—I fell in love with the delicacy.

Cedar asked us about our survival skills, and Sebbie mentioned his knowledge of plantlife, which piqued the elder’s interest. Cedar suggested spending some time at the flora and fauna station, and Orchid was in agreement. So that’s where we started.

The Training Center was massive. The gymnasium was filled with various stations specializing in all sorts of fields: knots, flora and fauna, first aid, spear throwing. After being lectured by the lead trainer on the rules of training, the Capitol experts who ran each station, and mentioning three or four times that fighting between tributes was strictly prohibited, we were set loose.

“Do you want to start at the flora and fauna station?” I ask Sebbie, who’s scanning the gymnasium. His eyes linger on the ax throwing corner before settling on a faux terrarium towards the back of the enclosure. 

“Sounds good to me.”

The man working the station looks fairly normal for Capitol standards. In fact, the only alteration I can see on his body is a vine tattoo that snakes up his throat. He seems eager to teach us, probably because most tributes have lined up to dabble in weaponry. He’s even more excited when Sebbie scores near perfect on the poisonous plants exam he administers just before we’re dismissed for lunch. I manage to score decently as well, though not nearly as good as Sebbie. But by the time we leave to eat, I’m able to identify a dozen plant species in coniferous environments.

Throughout our training session, however, I’m scanning the rest of the tributes. Especially the Careers. The girl from 2 can throw a spear from fifty feet away and still hit a moving target. Ambrosia from 1 is incredibly skilled with a sword, and easily disarmed five Capitol trainers in seconds. The boys from 1, 2 and 4 were just as menacing.

How are we supposed to survive when a quarter of the competition has been bred to kill?

Most tributes sit alone at lunch. Some sit with their district partners, like Sebbie and I. Then there’s the Careers in the center of the cafeteria, pounding the table and telling rowdy jokes. Once again, the girl from 4 is not part of their group. She sits by herself in the corner, carefully eyeing everyone else as she sips from the beef stew we were given. I’ve barely touched mine. All I can think about is the girl from 1 skewering a dummy with a machete.

“You should eat,” Sebbie says. I glance at his bowl and see that it is nearly empty. I remember the cinnamon bun I gave him on the train the day before. If I’m making him bulk up, I might as well do the same. Even if I have no appetite. I force myself to finish the bowl, and although it tastes heavenly, it settles like a lump of coal in my stomach.

“Do you think I could spend some time at the ax throwing station?” Sebbie inquires.

To be honest, the idea of Sebbie breathing the same air as the Careers makes me queasy, and him throwing axes with them makes me feel even worse. But I think back to our conversation on the beach before the Reaping. When he said I couldn’t protect him forever. And as much as I hate to say it, he’s right.

“Just be careful,” I respond. I’ve barely finished the sentence before he’s leaping from his chair and scurrying to the corner of the gymnasium. I watch him scamper away, feeling defeated.

So I make my way to the knot tying station. As it turns out, my habit of picking under my nails and twisting my fingers pays off when you’re trying to tie a knot. The instructor praises me vehemently after I’ve mastered an improvised clinch knot, and I’m working on a rudimentary snare when I feel the presence of another tribute at my side.

I don’t have to look up to know that it’s the girl from 4. She speaks to the instructor briefly before sitting next to me, fiddling with a rope. We don’t speak for a solid ten minutes, and I never shift my gaze towards her.

“Need any help?”

“No,” I reply cooly, focusing on the wire in my hands.

“Well, you seem to be better at this than me. What if I need your help?” I glance over at her and see that she has already strung together the patchwork of a gill net. 

“You don’t need my help,” I say. “Seems like you’re doing fine on your own.”

She laughs at that. It’s not as unhinged as her laughter from the Reaping, but it carries a manic undertone that sends shivers down my spine. 

“You never know,” she coos. “I may need your advice.”
“If you want advice, ask the instructor,” I snap back at her. It’s probably foolish of me to speak so sharply to a girl who could slit my throat in a second, but I don’t care. “Or you could ask your friends from 1 and 2.”

“You think we’re friends?” She giggles again at that. I finally raise my head.

“I’d assume so, given that you guys tend to kill everyone each year.”

She smirks, and sets her net down. Then, she leans in close. I feel myself backing away instinctively, but her lips eventually find my ear, and they brush against the cartilage ever so gently as she speaks again.

“Between you and me, they’re the first on my kill list when we enter that arena.”

That surprises me. She pulls away, and smiles again, though this time, it’s much more gentle. She extends her hand.

“I’m Iris.”

I stare at her palm. “I’m Charity.” I don’t shake her hand, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. Instead, she stands and kicks her net towards me.

“Keep it.” And then she’s gone, striding in the opposite direction. I kneel there, struggling to make sense of my conversation with Iris. The instructor chuckles a bit.

“Do you want to see how she made this net?”

I watch as her fiery hair vanishes behind a corner.

“Absolutely.”

For the rest of the day, I tie knots and set snares until my fingers are red and sore. Sebbie and I join Cassia, Orchid and Cedar for dinner that night, and they drill us with questions about the other tributes.

“The guy from District 2 is huge,” Sebbie says through a mouthful of pasta. “He’s probably worth three tributes alone.”

“Not surprised,” Cedar says. “District 2 is known for producing the strongest tributes. They train their entire lives for the Games. Same with 1 and 4.”

“The girl from 4 seems interesting,” I say, stirring my noodles. “We talked a little bit.”

“Excuse me?” Cedar slams his fist into the table, making all of us jump. Even Orchid, who’s as placid as a peony, jolts in her chair. “Why the hell were you talking to a Career?”

“Because she’s not like them!” I plead. “She hates them as much as we do.”

“Bullshit,” Cedar growls. “Don’t be stupid, Charity. They’ll manipulate you in any way they can to benefit themselves.”

“She literally said they’re the first on her kill list,” I say. “I don’t know, but I feel like she’s different from the other tributes from 4.”

“She’s right,” Sebbie mutters. “I saw her go over to Charity. She seems okay.”

“That’s what she wants you to think,” Cedar sighs. “I don’t want to hear anything else about you two talking with Careers, got it?” He stands and forcefully pushes his chair in, which shakes the table again. “I’m going to bed.”

We eat in silence as he stomps to his room, while Cassia clears her throat. “Well, on that note, does anyone want dessert?”

Chapter Text

That night, I dream of Farah. 

It’s the day before the Reaping of the 2nd Quarter Quell. We sat on a rotted log on the beach, one that had stood there for so long, clumps of moss had begun to grow on the wood. Sebbie had joined us briefly, but went home early as his mother insisted on trimming his hair before the Reaping ceremony. So it was just the two of us, staring at the crashing waves. 

“I’m worried about Sebbie,” Farah sighed. He was only eleven, but next year, he’d be eligible for the Reaping. I was fourteen, and Farah two years my senior.

“Why? He still has one more year.”

“I know that,” she said. “Do you remember that one kid from last year?”

She doesn’t have to mention his district or even his name for me to figure out who she’s talking about. A twelve year old boy from 12 had been reaped. He survived the bloodbath, but was tortured over the course of three days by the Careers after they found his fire. He finally died after one of them beat him so severely, he choked to death on his blood.

“Yeah.”

“When it happened,” she said slowly, “all I could see was Sebbie. I can’t let them send him into that arena. He wouldn’t last a second.”

It shocked me at first to hear Farah speak so unconfidently about her little brother. But I knew she was right. Sebbie was scrawny, loud mouthed and cried easily. If he was Reaped, he’d probably die on the first day. I almost wanted to say “at least it would be quick,” but I held my tongue.

“Maybe he’d surprise us,” I murmured. “He does it all the time.”

Farah laughed at that. An airy, bouncy laugh that makes me feel tingly and warm. “He sure does. He’s a little shit, that’s for sure.”

I smiled, and leaned on her shoulder. She pulled me closer and wrapped her free arm around my waist, and a million butterflies came to life in my stomach. She smelled of vanilla and pine.

“Farah?”

“Yeah?”

“What if it’s me?”

Farah exhaled, and turned so she was facing me. There’s a cozy glow in her eyes, and the way she looked at me made me feel important. Wanted.

“It won’t be you, Charity. Your name’s only in there three times.”

“That didn’t stop the boy from 12 last year,” I said quietly.

“He probably took tesserae,” she said. “And if not, he was just incredibly unlucky.”

“What if I’m unlucky too?”

“You won’t be.”

“Well, what if it’s both of us?” The 50th Hunger Games were unique in that there were double the amount of tributes. Instead of one boy and one girl from each district, it was two boys and two girls. The idea of charging to my death with Farah made me feel lightheaded. But Farah just cupped my cheeks in her hands.

“Then we’ll go down together.”

I couldn’t bring myself to break away from her intense gaze. Instead, I inched closer to her. Her eyes flickered towards my lips.

And then she kissed me. My eyelids fluttered shut after the initial shock of her mouth against mine, and I relaxed as she grinned in the middle of the kiss. I’m too shy to tell her it was my first kiss, much less ask if it was any good.

Farah pulled away, but when I opened my eyes, she was gone. I sat on the log alone, with nothing but the roaring seas to keep me company. Something wasn’t right. 

“Farah?” I called out, scanning my surroundings. She had simply vanished. I stood, shouting her name again, but once again, nothing.

Then, the forest came alive with a low hum. I squinted through the maze of trees, searching for the source of the sound. Suddenly, a flurry of gold flooded through the greenery. Shiny squirrels with golden fur and sharp fangs. I screamed as they overtook me, and fell backwards into the sand. The rodents scrambled across my body, sinking their needle-like teeth into my skin, as I cried out for Farah. But she never came to my rescue, and just before one gouged my eyes out with its claws, I woke up with my hands around my throat, calling out her name.

I gasp, letting my hands fall to my side. I whip around, my hair stuck in my eyes, and once I’ve realized I’m safe, and that there are no demon squirrels ripping me to shreds like they did to Farah, I finally calm down. I touch my cheeks, and realize there are tears streaming down my face.

“Oh, Farah,” I say softly. “I wish you were here.”

She only kissed me once. I skipped home that morning, giddier than ever. I wanted to go see her again that evening, but Mom needed help cleaning the kitchen, so I pouted the entire night as I scrubbed the tiles, the feeling of her lips ingrained in my mind. I weaved a flower crown for her the next morning, and she happily wore it throughout the day while Sebbie begged for me to make him one as well. I pooled together all of my spare change, and suggested that we get ice cream in the town square once the Reaping ceremony was over.

“Anything for you, Charity Arbor,” she crooned, kissing my hand when Sebbie wasn’t looking. Then, they returned home.

The next time I saw her was in the Justice Building, where we said our goodbyes.

She on the second day of the Games. A slow, excruciating death that was replayed dozens of times in the Capitol. She sobbed uncontrollably as the squirrels ripped her apart. Even when all that was left of her was ligaments and muscles, she still croaked and groaned, gasping for air. Her cannon didn’t fire for hours after the attack. She suffered, alone and scared, throughout the ordeal.

Mr. Light was hardly home anyways, owing to his long hours in the forests. He ended up killing himself the day afterwards. We brought food and flowers to Mrs. Light and Sebbie, but neither acknowledged our presence. Sebbie only came to us a few weeks later, asking if we had extra food.

The rest was history. My mom took him in, as it was clear that Mrs. Light couldn’t take care of him anymore. We cleared out a space in the living room and hung curtains to create the illusion of a tiny, private room for Sebbie. It wasn’t much; just some blankets on the floor, a box of clothes and an oil lamp. But it gave him an escape from Mrs. Light’s increasing drug rampages. It was a place for him to sleep when her wails rattled the house throughout the night. 

I found myself becoming more protective of him as the years went by. We kept each other company during school, sitting with each other at lunch. Walking together to and from classes. Even as money ran thin, we visited the old spots in the woods that Farah had found, harvesting berries and herbs for dinner. We sold useless trinkets for clothes and other household necessities. We did everything we could to keep our families alive.

And now, four years after Farah died, we were next on the chopping block.

I knew there was no use in going back to sleep. I was too frightened that if I drifted back into slumber, I’d find myself being eaten alive by squirrels again. So I watch the sun rise over the Capitol, mesmerized by the way the skyscrapers sparkled as dawn broke through wispy clouds. I find the pine tree token my mother gave me after the Reaping, and pass it between my fingers. It’s not quite symmetrical. The branches on the right side of the tree twist and turn, appearing disheveled. I hadn’t noticed it when she first gave it to me, and now I’ll never be able to know why she carved it the way she did.

I’m the first to arrive at the dining table. A team of Avoxes promptly serve me a hot breakfast, and I eat quietly as the morning light becomes more prevalent.

Training is dull again. Sebbie and I start off together at the fire making station, and as long as I have someone there to exchange shifts with, I can get a fire started using a bow and drill. But the flint fire starters that they provide us with are much easier to work with.

Sebbie opts to work on primitive survival while I wander to the weapons. I spend about half an hour at each station, and I quickly realize how horrendous I am with really any weapon. You’d think I’d be adept with an ax, given that everyone and their mother knows how to use one in District 7. But frankly, I hate the way it feels in my hands. It’s a powerful tool for chopping wood, but it feels inappropriate to use it in any other fashion. Back home, the boys start taking shifts in the forests when they turn sixteen, while the girls can either focus on a work study program or join the boys at the same age. I had opted to go down the teaching path, tutoring the elementary kids after classes were over. But most parents who work as lumberjacks take their children to work a few times a month, which gives us precious time to learn how to use axes and saws. I only followed my mom to her shifts a few times, and I was far too young to even hold an ax, let alone swing it. And after Mom’s injury, I never touched one again. So I’m at a disadvantage compared to most kids from 7.

I’m half decent with a knife, though. I’ve tried whittling before, but I was never nearly as good as my mom. But years of watching her carve and chip at wooden figurines certainly haven’t hurt. The knives at the Training Center feel much lighter than the ones at home, and it takes a bit for me to get used to using them. But once I’m warmed up, I find that my aim isn’t horrible. If I needed to throw one, I could potentially hit a target. But I’m abhorrent when it comes to hand to hand combat. I was promptly defeated within seconds by the Capitol trainers every time I entered a sparring match.

After being knocked on my butt for the fourth time, I give up trying to fight traditionally. Which is a relief, because the lunch announcement came as I got up from the rubber floor mats.

“You’re quick,” a trainer tells me. His face is obscured by a mesh mask. “If you can get behind someone, you could do a lot of damage.”

“How?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Go for their neck,” he says. “Choke them out from behind. If you’ve got a knife, even better. If you’re fighting from the front, hit ‘em in the throat. Odds are, they’ll reflexively reach for their neck. That’ll be your chance to deliver the final blow.”

My fingers dance along my larynx, and I nod slowly. “Thanks for the tip.”

I’ve just sat down with a garden salad when I hear the commotion. Someone’s yelling at the far end of the cafeteria. I raise my head.

“Check it out,” Sebbie whispers from behind me.

Iris and the girl from 1, Ambrosia, are shouting about something. I can’t quite hear what they’re arguing about, but they’re spewing nasty, horrible curses at each other. Iris is red in the face, screaming her head off.

Then, Ambrosia spits at her, and all hell breaks loose. Iris immediately right hooks her in the chin, sending the blonde to the floor. By now, Capitol guards have arrived and ripped Iris away from her. I find myself beginning to stand, suddenly fearful that they’re going to kill her.

But instead, they wriggle her into their grasp and wrestle their way to the elevators, all while Iris is berating the rest of us, saying we can kiss her ass, until the doors slide shut with a pleasant chime.

The cafeteria is eerily silent. Then, mumbled chatter begins to buzz throughout the crowd.

“Wonder what that was about,” Sebbie grimaces. “Seemed nasty.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, still staring at the elevator. Dumbfounded, and for the first time, rendered speechless by the redhead from the fishing district.

Chapter Text

Our individual sessions with the Gamemakers come the next day. They’ve been watching us in the Training Center ever since we first arrived in the Capitol, but today is our chance to show them what we’ve learned. What we’re worth.

Iris doesn’t show up until after lunch, when we’re sitting in the cafeteria, waiting for our names to be called. She stares straight ahead, not looking at anyone else. Except for me. When she first arrived as the dishes from lunch were picked up by Avoxes, her eyes strayed towards mine. 

Then, she sat grumpily next to her district partner, crossed her arms, and waited her turn. Just like the rest of us.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cedar’s outburst regarding my encounter with her. This morning, Orchid and I shared a cup of tea while watching the sun rise. Once again, it was a restless night. Farah didn’t show up in my dreams; instead, it was Iris, weaving a tapestry of death around me like a swaddle. The ropes fastened around my neck, and I woke up gasping for air.

“What’s Cedar’s deal with District 4?” I ask absentmindedly, stirring three cubes of sugar into the steaming beverage. I have never been too fond of tea, and we couldn’t afford to waste sugar on it, so I often drank it flat. But I can use as many sugar cubes as I want in the Capitol, and I’m not about to decline the offers of the Avoxes when they bring me more cubes.

“When he won his Games,” she murmured, “it was down to him and the boy from 4. I don’t know all of the details, because he never told me, but they seemed to have a very special bond.”

I glance towards her, and see something reminiscent of regret drifting in her eyes. “Like, they were good friends?”

“Something like that.” She takes a sip of tea, and winces before setting the cup down. “Too hot.”

I smile lightly, before remembering the weight of our conversation. “Did he betray him?”

“The boy from 4 did, yes,” she replies. “Cedar told me all about their interactions during training. They agreed to be allies once the Games started. Instead, he killed Cedar’s partner.”

The sweetness of the tea suddenly tastes acidic on my tongue. A fleeting image of Iris murdering Sebbie crosses my mind. 

“Iris wouldn’t do that.” I’ve said the words before I can even process them. But I don’t feel confident when I say it. Instead, I feel confused. Why am I defending her? 

Orchid voices my unspoken concerns. “She’s been training to kill for her entire life. I can’t tell you what exactly you should do in the arena, but I wouldn’t trust her for a second.”

“I don’t plan on it,” I reply. “Once the gong sounds, I’m grabbing Sebbie and sticking with him.”

“Does he know that?”

I stop. What kind of question is that? “Of course he does.”

“Has he told you his plans?”

I stare at Orchid, bewildered. “Do you know something I don’t?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “Not necessarily. I’m not his main mentor. That’s Cedar’s job. My job is to take care of you.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “If that’s the case, what do you think I should do for my session with the Gamemakers today?”

“I hear you’re decent with knots,” she says, taking another sip of tea. This time, it seems to go down smoothly. “Would you be able to make a few snares?”

“Maybe,” I answer, examining my fingers. They’re red and sore from the past few days. “That girl from 4 can make a gill net. Do you think I should try that?”

“Wouldn’t do you much good if the arena doesn’t have a water source,” Orchid says. The idea of a barren wasteland with no fresh water makes me queasy. They’ve had arenas like that before. Once, the arena was a fierce desert, with nothing but sand dunes and cacti for miles. The only way to get water was through sponsors. Unsurprisingly, almost all of the tributes were dead by the fifth day. “I’d suggest a trap. Use what you learned with the snares, string up a net that can entangle a tribute. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” 

I think of my nightmare, where Iris had netted me and strangled me to death, and know there’s no way I’ll be doing that for my session. But I don’t have the energy to argue with Orchid, so I respond with a feeble “we’ll see” and head down to the Training Center, where I breeze through the flora and fauna, knots and primitive survival stations once more to refresh my brain.

And now, I sit with Sebbie and the rest of the tributes who have yet to perform for the Gamemakers. Ten minutes have passed since the girl from 6 was called, and none of us bother with making small talk. 

“Sebastian Light.”

Sebbie glances at me before standing. I lightly slap his wrist as he walks out, and he shoots a sneer in my direction as the doors close behind him. And then, I wait for what seems like an eternity before the intercom comes to life again.

“Charity Arbor.”

I make my way through the cafeteria, and step into the gymnasium. It’s been largely cleared out to give the tributes as much space as possible to show off their skills. I can’t help but stare at the Gamemakers as I pace to the center of the room. Most of them look fairly bored, and I’m not oblivious to the bottles of alcohol that occupy each table.

“You will have ten minutes to show us what you have learned in the past few days,” the Head Gamemaker says. “Your time starts now.”

God, what am I going to do? I don’t have time to puzzle over it for much longer. The clock is ticking. 

So I exhale loudly, and grin at the Gamemakers.

“How are you all doing today?”

All of them stop what they’re doing, and slowly turn towards me. I force myself to keep smiling as the weight of their glares threaten to pin me to the floor. I wait for a few seconds, and when none of them answer, I continue with a cheery tone.

“I get it. Must be boring, watching all these tributes show you the same thing over and over. You all deserve a break.” One of them smirks at that. Good. Keep them entertained.

“I must say,” I exclaim, sauntering towards the knots station, “this is probably the fanciest gymnasium I’ve ever been in. And I’ve learned a lot more here than I could ever learn back at home.” My hands grasp a ball of fine thread. “Have any of y’all ever been camping?”

There are a couple head shakes, but most are still focused on me. Wondering what my next move will be.

“Fair enough,” I say, unraveling the fabric. “I haven’t done it much either. Unless you count sleeping in a house with a roof that’s caved in.” This is true. After a particularly severe windstorm when I was young, the gusts and heavy rains destroyed our roof. For months, my mom and I slept under a tarp until we could afford to fix it.

“But I’ll tell you what!” My fingers are dancing fervently now, frantically looping and twirling around the cordage. “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a hammock. Of course, I can’t make you a proper hammock in ten minutes.” I’m moving faster than I expected, though. I’ve already completed the first row of stitches, though I know I’m running out of time as I hurriedly move on to the second. “So instead, I’ll show you how useful this rope can be.”

Halfway done with the second row. My eyes dart towards the clock hanging above the door. I have four minutes left. 

I mentally curse myself for taking on such a daunting challenge. How on Earth am I going to complete even part of a net in ten minutes? I’m no seamstress, by any means. And as I keep glancing at the clock, I can see the seconds ticking by, and I’ve barely completed the second row. By the time I’ve added the final stitches, I have a minute left.

I stand, heat burning on my cheeks. I’m sure the Gamemakers will laugh hysterically when I turn around and show them what little I’ve completed.

But something clicks in my head. I think of Iris, and how carefree she is. Not bothered by anyone or anything in her way. I think of the men behind me, surely waiting to see what I’ve come up with.

Who cares what they think of me? I’ll be nothing more than a passing memory for most in a few weeks.

No. I won’t let them forget me. If I’m going down, I’ll go down with pride.

So I turn, and begin to smile widely again. I raise my pathetic excuse for a net, and instead of cowering when they burst into laughter, I laugh with them. 

“I know, I know,” I giggle. “Not too impressive. But I’ll tell you what,” I drop the net to the floor, and kick it towards them. Their amusement begins to fade, as they stare at the tangled rope below the platform that separates us.

“I bet you’ve never seen such a pretty girl play with ropes before.”

The timer goes off, and I bow. 

“Thanks for your time, folks!”

The Head Gamemaker stares at me with beady eyes, before nodding curtly.

“You are dismissed, Charity Arbor.”

I swivel on my heel and march through the doors, onto the elevator, and only when the compartment shoots through the chute towards the seventh floor do I release the tension in my shoulders.

We all reconvene later that evening to watch the scores be broadcast. Sebbie, Cassia and I are seated on one sofa, while Cedar, Orchid, Lars and Valeria share drinks across from us. Caesar Flickerman, a boisterous man with mauve hair, reads off the scores one by one.

Ambrosia scores a ten. No surprise there. The rest of the careers score eights or nines, except for Iris, who also earns a ten. I wonder what she could’ve done to earn such a high score, given that she was kicked out of training the day before for clocking Ambrosia in the jaw. 

I score a six, while Sebbie earns an eight. I can’t be too bothered with that. I’m surprised I didn’t score lower, if we’re being honest. My sorry excuse for a net wasn’t anything special. But either way, the scores are low enough that the other tributes won’t consider us to be much of a threat. However, they are still high enough for sponsors to pay closer attention to us. I embrace Sebbie as our scores fade away and the scores for the District 8 tributes are read off.

“I’m proud of you,” I whisper in his ear.
“I’m proud of me too,” he replies. “You too, I guess.”

I shake my head, but even my bangs hanging in my face can’t hide the relieved smile that’s manifested on my face. Our mentors and stylists are congratulating us as well, and even Cassia says she expected no less from us (not before lamenting that we could’ve scored higher). Neither of us care. 

The only thing between us and the Games are the Interviews in two days. We’ll have all day tomorrow to discuss strategies, and the day after, it’s showtime. Then, once the buzz of Interview night is over, we’ll be sent to the slaughterhouse.

But once the adrenaline from the training session is over, for the first time, I feel anticipation. My knees are bouncing as dinner is served, and I eagerly stuff myself with countless helpings of wild rice, pork chops and broccoli.

Because I know I’m not a lost cause. Sebbie and I won’t be overlooked. We’ve made a decent impression with our appearance in the Tribute Parade, and our training scores will only boost our odds of outlasting the other tributes once the Games roll around.

I stare at the logo of the 54th Annual Hunger Games that’s displayed on the TV screen, as Caesar reminds the audience to donate to their favorite tributes, and to tune in for the Interviews.

And I know that whatever I’ll do for the Interviews, I’ll make sure the audience never forgets me.

Chapter Text

The next two days are a blur.

I spend the morning with Cassia on the day before the Interviews. She forces me into twenty different pairs of foofy high heels, which leave my feet blistered and throbbing by lunch. For four hours, she drills me on proper Capitol etiquette, which consists of excessive blabbering, smiles all around, and even mimicking her high pitched laugh. Surprisingly enough, that isn’t too hard.

“Don’t clench your fists, Charity!” Cassia sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. “It’s bad etiquette.”

I relax my fingers and set my palms on my lap.

“Fold your hands!”

“Cross your leg! No, the other leg!”

“Chin up, young lady!”

Needless to say, I’m thrilled when I’m dismissed for lunch.

After satiating my appetite with grilled salmon and asparagus, I work with Orchid for the rest of the day. We spend around an hour trying to decide what angle I should go for in the Interviews. I’m pretty, but not pretty enough to be considered a sex symbol for the Capitol. I’m not opposed to missing out on that, anyways. I’m determined, but not bloodthirsty. I’m level headed, but I wouldn’t consider myself clever by any means.

“Well,” Orchid says, “That leaves us with two options. You can either find another angle, or you could just be yourself.”

“What if being myself causes us to miss out on sponsors?” I ask. I’m willing to do anything if it means Sebbie and I can get support from outside the arena. Even if it means stripping myself down to nothing but a sheer dress for all of Panem to see. It’s been done before, but I have no idea if it worked or not.

Orchid purses her lips. She opens her mouth to speak, but pauses, and looks down. I sit expectantly, waiting for her response.

“Do you see yourself coming out of there alive?”

The question hits me in the chest like a train. I answer before I can even process that I’m lying.

“Of course.”

“Even if it means Sebbie dies?”

Flames prickle behind my eyes, and suddenly the room feels very hot. I don’t move a muscle, because I know the slightest twitch would unleash a flood of tears.

“Charity, I know your goal is to keep him alive. You told me that on the night of the Tribute Parade.” I don’t want to say anything. We both know she’s right. But it doesn’t make the elephant in the room any easier to ignore.

I’ll have to die if Sebbie lives. And I keep telling myself that I’m willing to do that.

So why does the idea of death scare me so much?

I don’t know what happens when you die. Will it be like going to sleep and just never waking up? Trapped in a limbo between consciousness and an endless void?

Or maybe there’s something else when you die. When your physical body gives out, your spiritual body lives on. But where? How?

The unknown scares me. I know that already. I know I hate being left out of the loop on things. It’s the only way I can feel even a tangible thread of control in this chaotic world. If I know all of the variables, I can take all of them into account when navigating this journey. 

But I don’t know what will happen when we’re thrown into the arena. Maybe we’ll die in the first minute of the gong ringing, and neither of us will go home. How many tributes have gone through this same process as me? Believing they could win, or at least help their partner win, only to be slaughtered in seconds. 

I blink away my tears. Orchid takes my hand in hers and gently caresses the top of my hand. 

“If it were my sibling who were Reaped,” she says, “I would do anything to save them.”

I sniffle a bit louder than I hoped I would. “Do you have siblings?”

She doesn’t answer. I don’t press her. I look at the wedding ring on her finger. She clearly had children, as she had mentioned her grandkids back on the train. Were one of them Reaped, at one point? Had she given up everything to try to save someone as well?

Her eyes shift towards mine. I’ve seen many different emotions flicker through those milky irises. But now, there’s an alarming intensity present.

“If this is your last hurrah,” she whispers, “you better make it count. Go on that stage and show the world your true colors. Don’t let them—don’t let us turn you into something you’re not.”

She squeezes my hand, and declares that our session has ended early. I wander to my room in stunned silence, left to ruminate over her words.

I don’t show up for dinner. Instead, I order a plate of those cinnamon buns from the train, and an Avox arrives in minutes to deliver me the rolls. I sit cross legged on the plush mattress, stuffing them into my mouth indiscriminately while wiping my sugary fingers on the bedspread.

Someone knocks on the door, and I’m about to tell them I’m not coming to dinner, but instead Sebbie lets himself in. We stare at each other for a bit before he sits next to me on the bed.

“What happened?” he asks softly. I realize there are dried tear streaks on my cheeks, and I hurriedly wipe my face.

“Nothing,” I reply. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been holed up in your room for the past three hours and you’re eating an entire plate of cinnamon buns.”

“What’s your point?”

Sebbie stops to think for a bit, but instead of delivering a motivational speech like I feared, he simply plucks a cinnamon bun off the plate. We eat quietly while the sun dives below the mountains, leaving pink traces in the sky.

“So,” I mumble, my stomach starting to feel sore from the excessive sugar. “What’s your plan for tomorrow?”

Sebbie shrugs. “Cedar wants me to talk about my sister. Because they’ll probably mention her.”

Fair enough. By now, Capitol citizens have probably made the connection between Sebbie and Farah. The same last name, the same mousy hair, same wide eyes. There was no denying the resemblance. 

I feel selfish for not putting too much thought into how Sebbie feels about all of this. Reminded of his sister over and over again by training in the same gymnasium, speaking to the same stylists, enduring the same rituals Farah went through in the days leading up to the Quarter Quell. At least Farah had her family back home. Sebbie has no one. 

“I need to tell you something.” It’s like we’re back on the log, staring at the mighty sea. The salty wind is foreboding, but not cruel enough to leech the heat out of our bones. It’s familiar, it’s comforting. The sounds of the forest surround us, and our only concern is Sebbie signing up for tessera.

“What?” 

I find it hard to look at him. Still, I force myself to turn in his direction.

“Your mom visited me after the Reaping,” I begin slowly. “She asked me to protect you. I intend on keeping that promise.”

He’s silent. I let my confession simmer for a moment.

“You’re lying.”

I gape at him, jaw slack. “What do you mean?”

“You’re lying,” Sebbie says again, voice low. “She couldn’t have visited you.”

“She did,” I insist. “After she said goodbye to you.”

“She never said goodbye to me!” Sebbie cries out. He stands abruptly, and for the first time, I feel intimidated by the younger boy as he towers over me. “I didn’t see her until a Peacekeeper shot her in the head!”

No, that doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t she have seen her son before he was sent to the Capitol? “Mrs. Light didn’t see me until after my mom left,” I stammer. “She—she had been crying. I thought she saw you first.”

“Well, she didn’t,” he snarls. “I thought she was too drugged to go! But she was seeing you instead?” I can see the tears welling up in his eyes now, and I know mine are threatening to make a reappearance.

“I-I don’t know why she—Sebbie, listen, only one of us is coming out of here alive. And I’m going to make sure it’s you.”

“What’s the fucking point!” He’s yelling now. I instinctively inch backwards, as if the comforters would shield me from his fury. “I have no one back home! Everyone in my family is dead! It’s about time I join the club.”

“Don’t say that!” I scream at him. I’ve dropped the plate of cinnamon buns at some point. Shards of ceramic litter the carpet. I rise and grab his shaking wrists. He writhes in my grasp and briefly breaks free, but I sink my fingers into his shoulders, my thumbs pressed against his clavicles. I hold him still, practically spitting in his face with how frantically I’m speaking. “You’re not going to die.”

“You can’t stop me from killing myself,” Sebbie whispers. 

My blood runs cold. For an agonizing few seconds, I feel as if my trachea has swollen shut. Pure terror seizes my senses as my eyes flicker to the floor, towards the sharp projectiles that surround the bed. My iron grip on his shoulders only strengthens.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I can’t.” It’s no use. My lips are convulsing, hopelessly attempting to hold back a volley of misery. “But please, please , don’t leave me, Sebbie.”

I’m so close to him, we’re practically breathing the same air. He’s stopped shaking by now, but at this point, I’m trembling like a ravenous earthquake. There are so many things in his eyes, so many emotions to pick apart. 

“Get off of me.” He rips away from my grasp and stomps out of the room, slamming the door shut. My knees feel wobbly, and I collapse back onto the bed, sobbing into my pillow. For eons and eons, I scream into the pillowcase, soaking it with snot and tears.

An Avox eventually comes in to clean up the mess. I pretend to be asleep as they clear the carpet of the remnants of the plate. They bring a blanket over my shoulders, but I don’t sleep for several hours. I hide under the covers, like a child waking from a nightmare.

Except this is a nightmare that never ends.

Chapter Text

“Your eyes are so puffy!” Lars gasps as he dabs a cream on my eyelids. 

I hardly slept the night before. Sebbie’s curses still rang loud and clear in my mind. We avoided each other for the entire morning, before we were taken away by our respective stylists to prepare for the Interviews. I wanted more than anything to run to him, but an invisible barrier seems to separate us. I can’t see it, but I can feel it in the way we avoid each other’s eyes.

My prep team is scurrying around me, applying touches of this, strokes of that, across my face. There are curlers in my hair, bobby pins stabbing my scalp, and a strange hairspray that makes my eyes burn. My comment about Cassia’s shoes during the Reaping was apparently quite popular with Capitol citizens, and they’re dying to see me in high heels. So, once again, I’m wobbling around in stilettos, wearing nothing but a flimsy bra and panties, twisting my ankles and falling a dozen times.

“She isn’t wearing heels,” Orchid says firmly. “We don’t want to send her out there covered in bruises.” A wave of relief floods through me, and I silently mouth thank you to her as she leaves the room. Eventually, Lars opts for a pair of silvery wedges that offer some lift, but ensure that I won’t fall on my face once I step onto the stage.

It takes around fifteen minutes to get me into the hefty dress they’ve prepared, but once I see myself in the mirror, I realize the exhausting hours of prep work truly paid off.

I look incredible.

My hair is pinned into a braided updo, with soft ringlets framing my face. Dazzling diamonds hang from my ears, coupled with a necklace that glitters under the fluorescent lights. My lips are painted a soft sienna, and translucent powder shimmers on my skin. 

And the dress—oh, the dress! It’s a muted sapphire, extending past my shins. It billows from my ribs, rippling with every movement. The fabric is sparkly, but far from tacky. It’s much more subtle, like glints of light reflected on calm water. The sleeves are off the shoulders, with silver mesh securing the dress in place across my chest. 

“Oh, Lars,” I whisper, hardly able to process that the stunning girl in the mirror is no stranger, it’s me . “It’s perfect.”

He beams with pride, and I take his hand, sincerely thanking him. Because as much as these people frustrate me, I cannot deny that he has given me a precious gift; one last night, not as a scared girl, but as a beautiful maiden.

All of the tributes are filed into the Capitol Amphitheater, where the Interviews are held. We all have our own designated wards, and a private waiting room for finishing touches. I’m standing by the sofa, examining a painting of camas, when I hear the door to Sebbie’s prep room swing open. I instinctively turn, and my face falls.

During Farah’s Interview, she wore a sleek brown dress just a shade lighter than milk chocolate. Today, Sebbie wears the exact same color. He’s in a coffee pinstripe suit, a pristine white collar poking out from the blazer. A green tie dangles from his neck, neatly tucked into the suit. His shoes are black, polished and elegant.

He isn’t wearing much makeup, but what little has been applied makes him look so much younger. He’s not fifteen anymore; the stylists have concealed his cheekbones, softened his features, so he appears as nothing more than a young boy, thrust into a cruel world.

“Oh, Sebbie,” I whisper, the barrier between us crashing down. I tentatively step towards him, my fingers grazing his collar. The flap on his right side is sticking out, so I adjust it and gently let my hands cup his chin.

He’s silent, but I can see the way he’s looking at me. Scanning my dress, then my hair, then his eyes are locked with mine.

My heart aches. The little boy I took in all those years ago still looks so freshly wounded. But with his hair slicked back, I see a playful charm dancing in his eyes. 

This is no helpless boy. This is a young man going to his first dance, or a school award ceremony. Handsome, maybe a bit anxious, but ready for what’s ahead.

I think of Farah, of Mrs. Light, and even his father, whom I hardly ever saw. I wish they were here to see him. I’m silently asking myself if there’s an afterlife again, but right now, I decide to believe there is. Because that way, maybe they can see how much Sebbie has grown, and how far he’s come.

Without saying a word, he embraces me, and I nearly collapse into his grasp. I have to hold back my tears, because the last thing I need is mascara smeared across my face.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” I say softly into his ear. “We’ll be okay.”

All of us file into a line, as Caesar Flickerman enters the stage, welcomed by a roar of applause. He greets the audience, fires off a few jokes, before introducing the first tribute of the night: Ambrosia.

Her stylist has clearly incorporated several angles into her outfit for the night. It’s a short, black dress that looks like it was washed with glitter. A deadly energy exudes from her, and she answers all the questions with tact and a hint of flirtatiousness. There’s clearly a bit of extra concealer on her jaw, where Iris hit her. If I squint hard enough, I can see faint bruising peeking through the powder.

Florian is much more charming. He laughs along with Caesar and makes a few remarks that almost make me smirk. He’s certainly attractive, and his natural charisma seems to be resonating loudly with the audience. But I’ve seen the way he fights. He’s not someone I’d like to cross.

Viridia and Justin, the tributes from 2, are more reserved. They’re still quite confident and brash, but they’re not as outgoing as Ambrosia and Florian. Justin has a sadistic edge in his voice that makes me feel queasy, and I’m relieved when the girl from 3 takes his place on the stage.

I wasn’t really looking for Iris during what little downtime we had before getting in line, but now that I see her on the big screen, I can’t deny how stunning she looks. Her hair is straightened, falling like a glossy curtain across her bare shoulders. She wears a sea green gown with a teasing slit on the side that reaches scandalously  high, and her wrists are adorned with twinkling bracelets.

“Iris, you had quite an interesting reaction when they called your name in the Reaping!” Caesar exclaims. “You were laughing, and why is that?”

“Well,” Iris clears her throat, “I’m just happy I was able to get out of 4.”

“Really?” Caesar raises an eyebrow. Murmurs ripple through the audience. “And why is that?”

She gives the camera a knowing smile. “I think everyone back home knows why. And I think they were just as happy to get rid of me. But now that I’m out, I’m going to raise hell until they ship my body back.”

Her words are brazen. Again, I’m taken aback by her crude tone. Even Caesar seems conflicted on what to make of her comments, but the timer indicating the end of her interview saves him, and he hurriedly thanks her for her time before welcoming Alabaster, her district partner. He tries to ask Alabaster a question about Iris, but he brushes him aside.

“That’s no one’s business,” he scoffs. “Won’t matter when the blood starts flowing, anyways.”

The tributes from 5 and 6 leave a mediocre impression on the audience, but as Caesar wraps up the interview with the boy from 6, staff members usher me behind the curtains.

Suddenly, my hands begin to sweat. I can’t wipe them off on my dress, so I ball them into fists instead. But then I remember Cassia’s constant doting about what to do with my hands, so I force them to remain still at my sides. 

I try not to think about how this may be my last public appearance in good light and good health. The next time I’ll be on the big screen, it’ll either be a name in the sky as a fallen tribute or who knows what else. A murderer? A survivor?

I think of my mother. I think of my peers back home. They all know the real me, more or less. But what about the rest of Panem? They know nothing about me. Now’s my chance to make an impression.

I inhale deeply, and open my eyes as the curtains part, my name booming in the speakers.

The lights are blinding. I struggle not to shield my eyes as I pace towards the two chairs at the front of the stage, where a lavish Caesar extends his hand towards me. We shake, and I sit on the plush chair, right leg crossed over my left.

“Charity! How are you feeling tonight?” He points the microphone towards me. I lean in, donning a smile. No fake responses. Be yourself.

“Very special,” I answer. “I’m in a beautiful dress, in a magnificent city, and I’ve had some of the best food of my life in the last week.”

The crowd laughs, and Caesar doesn’t hold back either.

“Oh, I bet! That dress of yours is gorgeous, indeed.” He gestures towards the bosom of my dress. The cloth emits a subtle sapphire glow under the stage lights. “What material is this? It’s lovely.”

“Don’t ask me,” I giggle. “I have no idea.”

“Do you mind if I touch it?”

“Go for it.” I inch closer, and he gently grasps the fabric, careful to avoid touching me directly. 

“Oh, my! It must be some kind of silk, but it’s a lovely dress for a lovely girl. Am I right?” Another round of hoots and hollers from the Capitol citizens. I blush, waving and offering tiny bows. 

“Now, during the Reaping,” he says, “what did you say to your escort?”

I begin to blush. “I said I liked her shoes.”

“And are you wearing heels today?”

“Absolutely not,” I laugh. “You think I could possibly walk in those?”

“Cassia does it every day!” Caesar beams, and chuckles arise in the crowd. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I could walk in heels either.”

“Sounds like I’m in good company, then.” Flashes from camera lenses come from the audience. This is good. Things are going well.

“So, Charity,” Caesar says. “You come from District 7, yes? What’s your favorite pastime back home?”

I lean back, feeling a bit more relaxed. There’s something about Caesar that’s very familiar and friendly. Even though he’s easily one of the most recognizable faces in the country, he isn’t intimidating or scary by any means. Rather, he’s quite jovial, and doesn’t hesitate to make me feel at home. 

“I love nature,” I begin. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s a lot of forests in 7. Which makes for some incredible scenery. I feel most at home when I’m outside in the woods.”

“Is there anything in particular you like to do in the woods?”

“Not really,” I reply. “Just being outside and tasting the fresh air always makes me feel better.”

“I don’t blame you,” Caesar smiles. “I’ve never been to District 7, but it sounds like a lovely place.”

“It is,” I say encouragingly. “It’s a lovely place with some lovely people.”

“And your district partner, Sebastian,” Caesar says, gesturing towards the curtain with his hand, where Sebbie is certainly preparing his entrance, “you two seem close, yes?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“And how did you two meet?”

I wasn’t prepared for this question. Truthfully, I’ve known Sebbie for most of my life. I met him through Farah, as we often walked to school together because we lived in such close proximity to each other. Once Sebbie started school, he joined us on our walks, and until her death, the three of us were practically unstoppable. 

But if I mention how we met, I’ll have to talk about Farah. And for some reason, it doesn’t feel right to remember her like this. This should be Sebbie’s story to tell. Not mine.

“Sebbie lives down the street from me,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “We walked to school together. Over time, he’s practically become my little brother.”

Oohs and ahhs echo from the audience. Even Caesar clicks his tongue, offering a sad smile.

“I know you two must be grateful to have each other right now,” he says. The timer buzzes. “It has been an honor to speak with you, Miss Arbor. Let’s give our tribute from District 7 a round of applause!”

Immediately, the crowd erupts with rambunctious cheers, the sound of hands clapping deafening me. Caesar takes my hand and kisses it, and because I’m feeling bold, I blow him a kiss in return. This prompts a standing ovation from the crowd, and I take a final bow, grinning wider than I ever thought possible. I prance offstage, feeling giddy. 

I’m surrounded by my prep team and my mentors immediately, and all are offering praises. Even Cedar smiles at me and pats me on the back.

“Well done, Charity.”

I turn towards the TV in the main room, where Sebbie is walking onstage. He’s poised, appearing incredibly flamboyant as he dances towards Caesar and plops into the chair, waving at the crowd.

“Sebastian, welcome! Do you prefer Sebbie? I believe I heard Charity call you that.”

“Either is fine,” he replies with a toothy grin. “You’ll be calling me a Victor in a few weeks time, though.”

I smile at that. All of his qualms from the night before seem to have vanished. 

“Bold, I like it!” Caesar raves. The spectators voice their agreement. “Now, Sebbie , I understand that your family has a history of participating in the Games, am I correct?”

I grimace at that. We all knew Farah would be brought up during the Interviews, but I had hoped they would be able to talk about Sebbie more before immediately ripping open a wound that was still healing. Sebbie’s smile softens, and he purses his lips.

“Yeah,” he nods. “My sister, Farah Light, was in the 50th Hunger Games.”

A chorus of gasps escape the crowd. Siblings participating in the Games wasn’t unheard of, but the odds of two children from the same family being Reaped were still fairly low. Come to think of it, I can’t name a specific instance where it’s happened before. But over the course of fifty four years, I’m sure this isn’t the first time something like that has occurred.

“And how did she do?” That question angers me. Everyone knows how Farah did. The winner of the 2nd Quarter Quell was a robust boy from 12, not her. 

“She died on the second day,” Sebbie says bluntly. “Mauled to death. I’m sure you all remember.”

“I do remember,” Caesar nods grimly. “She was a lovely young lady, and she fought valiantly. I’m sure you will fight just as fiercely.”

“Oh I will,” Sebbie nods furiously. The merriment in his tone has vanished. “Caesar, it’s one thing to lose a sibling. But to be forced into the same situation that killed your sister? That’s something entirely different.”
“I’m sure it is,” he muses. “Do you have a strategy for when you get into the arena?”

Sebbie laughs at that. “I guess you could say that.”

“I don’t think you’ll share it with us though, will you?”

“Sorry,” Sebbie tsks. “Can’t do.”

“Fair enough, I figured I’d ask,” Caesar chuckles. 

“But regardless,” he says, “I hope to break the family tradition of Lights being smothered in the Games.” Sebbie faces the audience, and his eyes focus on a camera. “Don’t worry about finding the light. Sometimes, it’s safer to be left in the dark.”

I frown at that. I’m not sure what he means, and it’s clear that Caesar doesn’t know either, but the timer’s going off before he can ask, and he’s wishing Sebbie a happy Hunger Games and sending him on his way. We’ve definitely garnered the best crowd response out of all the past tributes, and as Sebbie leaps down the stairs, I immediately throw my arms around him.

“Nice job out there,” I smile into his hair.

“I think you did better than me,” he says, pulling away and glancing at Cassia. “What do you think?”

“You were both marvelous,” she beams. “Absolutely marvelous!” Cedar and Orchid nod in assent.

We return to the apartment, and consume a rich meal of roast beef, green beans, several kinds of exotic soups and twice baked potatoes that carry smoky undertones. Dessert is a gelatin dish that tastes of caramel, coupled with fluffy cake garnished with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s easily the best meal I’ve had so far during my time in the Capitol.

No one mentions that it’s the last time all of us will share dinner together.

Chapter Text

Farewells are exchanged at the end of our last supper. 

Cassia seems fairly indifferent about our impending demise. She says she just hopes she gets tributes who are more respectful next year, though she still holds me close and peppers a kiss on my cheek by the end of the night. Our mentors give us some last minute tips—don’t go for weapons in the Cornucopia, run away from the Cornucopia no matter what, and something else that probably involves avoiding the Cornucopia—before embracing us both.

“Keep him alive,” I whispered into her ear. She nodded into my shoulder.

“You’re one special girl,” she said softly, pulling away and cupping my cheeks. “I know I’ll never forget you, Charity.”

I retire to my room afterwards, knowing very well I’m not going to get a wink of sleep. So I wrap the blankets around me and stare outside, dazzled by the glistening lights of the city. 

Sebbie doesn’t bother knocking on my door. He enters and quietly crawls into bed with me. I pull him close and he nuzzles his head into my collarbone. We sit like that for an hour or so, not saying a word. My eyes are beginning to close when he shifts his position and I see that he’s still wide awake.

“I’m scared,” he mumbles.

“I’m scared too,” I say. “It’d be weird if we weren’t scared.”

Sebbie slinks away from my grasp and sits up. He reaches into the pocket of his pajama shirt.

“Your mom visited me after the Reaping,” he says. “She was the only one who came to see me.” He fishes out something I can’t quite discern in the dark room, and extends his hand towards me. “She gave me this.”

I take the item out of his palm, and examine it closely.

It’s a pine tree. But it’s not quite like mine. Although the right side of mine seemed to be disfigured, the left side of his is the one that looks off. I lean towards my nightstand and grab my figurine, then place the two together.

“It’s like a puzzle piece,” I murmur incredulously. “They fit together. See?” I give him my token so he can see for himself. He smiles.

“She really wants us to stick together, huh?”

“I guess so.” I scoot backwards so I’m sitting up against the headboard of the bed. He gives me my figurine back, and I set it on the nightstand once more.

“Charity,” Sebbie says in a low tone, “I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get into that arena. Cedar has given me ideas, but I honestly have no idea what’s going to happen.”

“I know,” I say soothingly. “I don’t know either.”
“I’ve been thinking though.” I glance at the younger boy and see the city lights reflected in his eyes. “When we were at the Training Center, working with the plants, did you notice anything familiar about them?”

“Sure.” Most of the plants were species I had some degree of familiarity with, as I saw them nearly every day back home. In the forests, along the roads, or at the clinic where Mrs. Light worked. “They’re like the plants back home.”

“And why would they have the tributes study plants like the ones back in District 7?”

I think for a moment.

“They must be widespread throughout Panem,” I suggest.

“Or,” Sebbie presses, “the arena is going to be similar to the environment we grew up in.”

That’s something I didn’t consider. But it makes sense. They wouldn’t have us work with ponderosa needles and balls of pine sap as kindling if we wouldn’t be seeing the same stuff in the Games.

“So you think the arena could be in Seven?”

“At the very least, it could mirror the forests,” Sebbie says. “And that gives us a huge advantage over the others.”

I grin. “Maybe you did learn some critical thinking in school.”

“What grade did you get in math, again?”

“We’re about to go into the Hunger Games, and you really want to make fun of me for failing math?”

“I gotta make fun of you as much as possible while I’ve got the chance,” he snickers. A twinge of pain resounds in my chest, because I know this will likely be our last night together, knowing we’ll be alive the next day. After tomorrow, it’s anyone’s guess.

“I’m not going to take shit from someone who’s barely hit their first growth spurt, but okay.” I turn on my side and he immediately punches me in the back. I kick him under the sheets, and he wrestles me to his side, where I slap at his fumbling hands. Within seconds, I have him pinned down.

“You should really get better at fighting,” I scoff.

“It’s not my fault you’re a million pounds bigger than me.”

“So you’re going to make fun of my grades and my weight?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Kill you,” I smirk. It’s something I’d never even think of saying a week ago, but the last seven days have wrung me out mentally and emotionally. I’m grasping at straws to find something to laugh at. And Sebbie’s laughing too.

“You couldn’t kill me even if you tried.”

“I literally have you pinned down right now,” I shoot back.

“That’s because I wasn’t ready.”

I let go of his wrists and climb back to my side of the bed. “Are you ready now?”

“Hang on, let me just-”

I tackle him again and press him against the mattress. “Too slow.”

“I hate you,” Sebbie sighs, but not before snuggling up with me under the blankets. The sounds of the city have largely quieted, and the mood has transitioned from sickeningly sweet to solemn in a matter of seconds. I listen to his breaths and inhale the smell of his shampoo, stroking his arm.

“What if it comes down to the two of us?” he asks. “What then?”

“Then we’ll figure it out when the time comes,” I answer. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’d probably kill myself if we were the last two standing.

“You’re all I have left,” Sebbie murmurs. “Farah’s gone. Mom and Dad are gone. It’s just you.”

“You have my mom as well,” I squeeze his shoulders. “She’ll take care of you when this is all said and done.”

“And how do you think she’d react if I came home and you didn’t?”

I look at the boy in my arms. Still nothing more than a runt, but he’s my runt. Only I get to mess with him. If anyone else laid a finger on him in the arena, they’d have to get through me first. And even though I’ve made it clear that I’m not a fighter, I’d rip someone to pieces before they hurt Sebbie.

But he’s right. These Games are going to change my mother forever. Farah’s death was painful enough for all of us, even Mom. She had spent countless days at our home when the Light parents were working, as the four of us played card games and hogged the living room. But now, she’s going to lose either her daughter or an unofficial son. Not her blood, but still her son. 

“She loves you,” I whisper. “I think she’s always favored you over me, anyways.”

“But I’m not even her kid,” he shakes his head.

“You became her son after the Quarter Quell,” I insist. “She gained a son and I gained a brother. And I’m so glad I can call you that.” Sebbie inches closer to me and I rest my chin on his scalp. “When that gong sounds, I’ll find you, okay? I’ll find you and we’ll figure out what to do from there.”

He doesn’t respond. He just nods quietly. 

“But for now, try to get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

His breathing evens after a few hours, signaling his descent into slumber. And I somehow manage to fall asleep just before the sun rises, but it only feels like a few moments, because by the time I finally close my eyes and take a deep breath, it’s morning, and there’s a rapping at the door. I gently nudge Sebbie, and he grunts.

“Time to go,” I whisper. He’s still half asleep, so I escape his embrace and grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the walk-in closet. I shower and brush my teeth, scrubbing my skin until it’s a fiery red. I dress, and by the time I’ve left the bathroom, Sebbie’s gone. I take my pine tree figurine and cast one final look at my bedroom, taking in the luxury of a plush bed and fresh clothes, before stepping into the corridor.

Two guards escort me out of the apartment. I was hoping to say goodbye to Sebbie and the mentors before leaving, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I clutch my token in my hand as we walk outside to a waiting car, where I’m dropped off at a hovercraft pad. The rungs of a ladder hang from the belly of the beast, and as I grab the ropes, an electrical current freezes me into place. The crew of the hovercraft hoist the ladder up, and a gloved woman in white injects something into my arm while I’m immobilized.

“Your tracker,” she says through a surgical mask. “Monitors your vitals and location in the arena.” The current is paused, and I’m strapped into a seat while the hovercraft reaches cruising altitude. 

Eventually, I’m given permission to walk around, and I enter a glossy dining room, where Lars of all people sits at the end of the table. He greets me warmly as Avoxes serve the final Capitol meal I’ll ever get to enjoy. And although I know I should eat, I can only pick at my eggs.

“Try to get something in you,” Lars sings. “You’ll thank yourself later.” He’s right, but I can only stomach so much before my nerves start to twist my insides into knots.

The windows of the hovercraft dim, signaling our imminent arrival. My ears pop as we descend into the Catacombs of the arena, a maze of tunnels and tubes.

Lars and I arrive in an ill fitted room that smells of paint and cement. There’s a clothes rack that holds my arena outfit, a table for us to sit at, and a few extra pastries and glasses of water and orange juice. I strip and Lars helps me into the new clothes. Thermal leggings, combat boots, woolen socks. I don a polyester sweatshirt and a smaragdine coat, and tuck my token into an inside pocket of the jacket.

“Insulated clothes,” he murmurs as he zips me up. “Expect some rain.” His merry tone has largely disappeared. Even he understands the gravity of the situation I’m about to be thrust into.

He offers me a donut, but I decline, so we sit quietly until a pleasant female voice announces that there is one minute until my launch time. My heart begins to pound, and I find myself taking shallow, quick breaths.

“Hey,” he says. “Charity, look at me.” His eyes are a strange color; halfway between violet and burgundy. They’re clearly contacts, and I can’t help but wonder what his true eye color is. “The Capitol likes you. I know you’ve got some sponsors after last night’s Interview. Just hang in there and they’ll take care of you and Sebbie, okay?” 

I nod. My tongue feels swollen to the size of a plum. Still, I’m able to choke out one final goodbye.

“The dress was beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you for making me look like a princess. On my last night.”

“That wasn’t your last night,” he says calmingly. “You have many more nights as a princess to come. You can do this.”

It seems we have very different definitions of what “you can do this” means. For him, it means I can win the Games. For me, it means I can keep Sebbie alive for long enough that his victory will be ensured.

Ten seconds left. I hug Lars one last time before stepping into a transparent tube, the entrance sealing as I turn to face him. He gives me a thumbs up and taps his chin. Right . Chin up.

The platform begins to rise. I steel my nerves and take a few deep breaths. You’ll be okay. Find Sebbie and get out of there. 

And as blinding sheets of light assault my eyes and the smell of salt and pine infiltrates my senses, the arena shakes with one final announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the 54th Annual Hunger Games begin!”

Chapter Text

There are trees everywhere that look just like the ones at home. Towering firs that form an ominous web of greenery. Behind me is the sea, lapping at the sandy dune that houses the tribute pedestals and Cornucopia. 

The sixty second countdown begins as Orchid and Cedar’s warnings echo in my brain. Don’t go to the Cornucopia. But oh, the goods! Supplies seep from the entrance like a maelstrom of life. The value of the items appear to decrease the further they are from the mouth of the Cornucopia, but there are still plenty of things that could be useful. There’s a pack of bouillon cubes just a few yards away from me, and if I could just make it a bit further, I’d be able to pick up a backpack filled to the brim with what could only be more prizes.

Sebbie! Where is he? I’m scanning the tributes around me, and I can’t see him. He must be behind the Cornucopia. I’ll have to run through the mob of tributes if I want to find him. I clench my jaw and lean forwards, devising my plan. Get to the other side of the clearing, pick up whatever I can on the way, and bolt for the woods.

When the gong sounds, I’m flying off the pedestal. The sand is much softer than I anticipated, and I find myself dragging my feet through the sediment. I miss the bouillon when I attempt to grab it during my chase, but I’m able to snag the backpack and hoist it over my shoulders without missing a beat. Still, the others are much faster. The blood has already begun to spill. One of the Careers has pinned a scrawny girl down and swiftly drives a knife through her chest. I look away, and wriggle through the maze of crates and boxes. I’m just about through the chaos, focused on an ax half buried in the sand, when something crashes into my shoulder and I hit the ground, my temple pulsing.

There’s a heavy weight on me. I flip around so I’m on my back and my eyes meet the fervid gaze of the boy from 5. He’s thrusting his fist down and I barely miss a blade in my forehead, though the serrated edge still slices my cheek open. While he’s raising his knife again, I hear the voice of the Capitol trainer during my hand to hand combat lessons. Go for their neck.

But my hands are pinned down by his knees and all I can do is swing my head from side to side to avoid his attacks. So instead, I drive my leg into his crotch.

He yelps like a wounded dog, curling up and falling to my side. I’m hoisting myself up when he pulls me back down, dragging me through the dirt. My fingers weakly grasp the handle of the ax in the sand and I swing it in his direction. There’s a sickening thud, and I immediately drop the weapon when I feel it embedded in his torso. His fingers have released their iron grip on the bloodstained knife, and I snatch it without thinking before staggering through the sand dunes, in the direction of the forest. Towards safety.

I’m about a hundred yards into the foliage when I remember my partner. I haven’t seen him at all. I didn’t even make it through the bloodbath before retreating into the woods. What if he’s still there? I whip around and begin hobbling towards the Cornucopia again. I scream his name, but there’s no response. Is he gone? Bleeding in the sand, already eliminated from the Games? No. He wouldn’t have gone down that easily.

I’ve arrived at the clearing again, but the violence is still in full swing. I can only briefly pick out faces and recognize that none belong to Sebbie. There are easily half a dozen bodies on the ground, and for a horrible second, I see the ax still stuck in the boy from 5. He hasn’t moved.

I’ve got to get out of here. If I don’t, I’ll lose it. I turn around again and begin to sprint through the woods. Something tastes metallic in my mouth, and my hand grazes the fresh cut on my cheek. I press my palm to the wound while running, gasping for air. It feels as if I’m breathing in pure fire. Tears are burning my eyes and I can hardly see through the thick brush, but I keep moving. I run for an eternity, until the grisly sounds of metal on metal and screaming is drowned out by leaves rustling in the wind. 

I collapse as the foliage begins to thin out. I dig my fingers into the soil and vomit, retching until there’s nothing left in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to keep walking further. So I lay in the brush, staring at the canopy of trees, as I try to catch my breath. 

I’m alive.

I’m so sorry, Sebbie. There’s a tiny part of me that’s furious. Why didn’t he wait for me? If I found him, we’d be fine. We’d be together. But the only thing going through my head during the bloodbath was fleeing. Running as far away as I possibly could. Orchid would tear me a new one if she were here. 

Orchid! I think of our conversation before my training session. How she seemed so reluctant to discuss Sebbie’s plans for the arena.

And then I’m back at the Interviews, watching Sebbie converse with Caesar. He said something I didn’t understand. Don’t worry about finding the Light. Sometimes, it’s safer to be left in the dark.

He was going to leave me all along.

Orchid told me to trust him. Sebbie even told me, albeit cryptically, last night that he would run off. In front of the entire nation. All of them knew he was going to go off on his own.

“Dammit!” I gasp, burying my face in my hands. “Damn you, Sebbie!”

My fingernails are caked with dirt and dried blood. I don’t even know if the blood belongs to me or the boy I murdered.

Murdered. Did I murder him if he was going to kill me? Was it self defense? It doesn’t matter. He’s dead because I swung an ax at him. My actions ended his life. There is no gray area there. A family just watched their son die because of me.

And Sebbie’s gone, but I don’t think he’s dead. I won’t know until tonight, when they display the fallen tributes. But he’s on his own. And he knew the entire time he’d be alone in the arena. But why? Why didn’t he want me with him? We’ve been two peas in the same pod for the last four years. Even longer, if we’re counting the time I knew him through Farah. Did he think I’d weigh him down or something?

I don’t want to think about it. I’m angry and heartbroken and confused and scared, and it’s too overwhelming. One thing at a time.

The wound on my cheek has stopped bleeding, but regardless, it’s dirty. The exertion of my run, coupled with puking up my breakfast, has left my mouth dry. I need to find water.

I lean against a tree and shrug my backpack off of my shoulders, examining its contents. There’s a sleeping bag, tightly wrapped in the main compartment. A flint fire starter. A water bottle that’s drier than sandstone. A small cooking pot. Bandages, cotton pads, fever pills. And finally, a spool of thin rope. I can’t help but laugh at that. How ironic would it be that I bullshitted my way through the Training Sessions with some rope, and now I have plenty of it in the arena?

I’m most relieved to see the fire starter and the sleeping bag. I won’t have to worry about cold nights. But I’m still no closer to figuring out my water situation. 

I can hear the faint hum of the sea through the trees, so I figure that’s a decent place to start. I can’t drink the saltwater, but if there are any creeks in the arena, they’ll flow into the ocean. If I can find the mouth of one, I could follow it until it turns to freshwater.

So that’s where I start. I shoulder my pack and tuck my knife into my belt. Then, I trudge through the woods. It isn’t long before I’m standing on a rocky shoreline. There’s hardly any sand here. The beach is largely gravel, with mossy rocks swallowed by the waves. I opt to remain just out of sight in the tree line. The last thing I need is someone seeing me.

I follow the curves of the coast for around a mile or so. The rocky beach bleeds into fine sand, and I eventually stumble upon a brook that erodes through the sediment. I’m about to journey further into the forest, to follow the stream, when the first cannon fires.

It’s been at least an hour or two since the Games started, but the fighting at the Cornucopia must’ve just ceased. I count each blast on my fingers. The shots stop after I run out of fingers. Ten tributes are dead. At least one is the boy I killed. The others could be anyone’s guess.

I continue through the trees.

The sky is just beginning to darken when I finally find the waterfall. It’s tucked into the side of a cragged cliff face, with ferns blossoming around the small pond below. I immediately run to the edge of the water, scooping up handfuls and scrubbing my cheek. The lack of stinging confirms my hopes: it’s freshwater.

I fill my bottle and the cooking pot. I remember hearing something about fast flowing water usually being safe to drink, but after watching countless tributes die from drinking supposedly clean water during Farah’s Games, I’m not about to take that risk. I’ll boil it when I’ve made camp.

I don’t want to settle down too close to the pond. It could very well be the only freshwater source in the arena other than rain, which means my little pond could get very crowded. While clasping the cooking pot in my hands, I hike another half mile or so until I’ve found an area in the forest devoid of shrubs. 

If I’m going to make a fire, I need to do it now before it gets too dark. I remember a trainer teaching us how to make an underground fire pit that gave off little to no smoke. So I get on my knees and start flinging handfuls of loam to the side, until I’ve created a hole that’s a foot or so deep, paired with a tunnel to allow smoke to escape. 

I was concerned about the vegetation and tinder being too wet to create a fire, but I have little to no difficulty in doing so. My stomach growls as I set the pot of water over the flames.

“Food tomorrow,” I murmur to myself. I’m close to the beach, and I saw a few crabs scuttling around during my walk. If I can snatch a few, it’d give me some sustenance, at least.

Back home, we have a tradition of writing letters to lost loved ones and setting them alight. The idea is that the messages will be carried by the wind, and hopefully, the ashes of our letters will be delivered to the world where the dead reside. I didn’t know any of the tributes who died, nor did I know their families, but I wonder if they have similar traditions in their districts. Where they send off their dead with a written goodbye. If our practice stretches across the nation, I wonder what the family of the boy I killed will write tonight, as the fire crackles in the night.

Once I’ve boiled my water, I swish it around in my mouth to get the lingering taste of vomit off my tastebuds. Then, I down the entire bottle in a few minutes. I’m tempted to drink what’s in the pot as well, but I don’t want to throw up again because I drank too much water too quickly. So I fill my bottle with the remaining water in the pot and toss the disturbed soil over my fire, snuffing it out in an instant.

As the last tendrils of smoke dissipate in the air, the sound of trumpets pervade the stillness of the woods. A brilliant blue glow is cast from the sky, and I raise my head to see the Capitol emblem, followed by portraits of the tributes who died today. 

The first is the boy from 3. Then, both from 5. I wince as the narrow eyes of the boy I killed seem to pierce my soul. I didn’t even know his name. Somehow, I feel like it’s easier that way. If there were a name attached to the life I took, I’d never stop hearing the wind whisper it. 

The boy from 6 is next. Then, both from 8. I exhale shakily. Sebbie’s alive.

The young girl from District 9 who was crying for her mother during the Reaping appears next. I bite my lip at that. I can only hope her death was quick.

The last three tributes are the girl from 11 and both from 12. The anthem finishes with a final chord, before the Capitol seal disappears. 

So that’s it. Ten tributes gone. Sebbie is still alive. So are all of the Careers. I wonder what Iris is up to. She’s probably alone, just like me. Does she feel as scared as I do? Doubtful. Fear is not something I see easily in Iris.

I’ll make a proper shelter eventually, but it’s too dark and I’m too tired to think about constructing one now. I hoist myself onto a low branch and climb up around thirty feet or so. I’ve never slept in a tree before, but I’ve climbed plenty. I find two limbs that are fairly close together, and I straddle the branches while unfurling my sleeping bag. Once I’m balanced, I take the rope from my bag and tie a few firm knots around the branches, so I’m secure. I wiggle around and shift positions a few times to test the durability of the limbs, and they hold up well enough. So I tuck myself into my sleeping bag and try to sleep on the first night of the Hunger Games.

Chapter Text

I don’t sleep for longer than a few hours.

Throughout the night, two cannons fired. Each time, their blasts woke me from the early stages of slumber, and I was far too rattled to try and sleep after the second shot. Just before the sun rose, I heard muffled conversation through the thick juniper, but it faded just as quickly as it reached my ears, leaving me to wonder if my mind was just playing tricks on me.

An incessant rumble from my stomach forces me out of the cocoon of my sleeping bag. I pack my bag and hop from the branches until I find firm ground. Food first, then shelter.

I wander towards the beach, and see that the tide is out. Excellent . I glance both ways to ensure I am alone on the sandy strip, then scamper towards the shoreline. There are crab carapaces tucked into the sand, big ones too. There are a few fish gliding through the tidepools as well, but no matter how quickly I stab at them, they always seem to barely escape my blade.

So I move onto the rocks that hug the water, and see a few shells glued to the algae. Limpets. I carve them off and toss them into my bag.

But the biggest find of the morning hid underneath the rocks. After turning one over, there are two tiny crabs that raise their miniscule pincers at me. I grab both and wince as one pinches at my thumb. 

“Yeah, okay,” I grumble, shoving them into my backpack. I can’t help but think of Sebbie, and how much he loved the sea. This is what you wanted? To be pushed around by crabs the size of quarters? I wonder if he’s on the shoreline as well, searching for food. I look around again, half hoping I’ll see him in the distance. But for now, it’s just me on the beach. 

I find some more crabs scuttling under rocks, which I toss into my pack. My water bottle’s just about empty, which means I’ll need to return to the pond if I want to boil my latest finds. I begin the trek, my boots clambering over clovers and weeds.

I fill my pot and bottle, and rinse the scabbed cut on my cheek. It doesn’t hurt too bad, and it seems to be healing just fine, so I don’t worry about it as I return to my campsite to start another fire. I didn't entirely fill the hole I dug the night before, so I quickly hollow out the earth and spark another blaze, setting the pot of water over the flames until it bubbles like a cauldron.

The limpets go into the pot first, followed by the crabs. I feel slightly guilty, seeing the crabs wriggling around as I dump them into the scalding water, but then my stomach howls with hunger and my guilt fades away.

As they cook, I start carving the earth with my knife, doing my best to shovel out enough soil to create a small depression. I don't need a fancy shelter, but I'll need something that's inconspicuous. A lean to wouldn't work in my favor.

I wait for the limpets and crustaceans to cool before rinsing my dirty knife and scooping the meat out of the limpets. They taste like snot, but they provide calories which I desperately need. The crabs go down a bit easier, and there's a hint of sweetness in the meat that leaves me craving more. I discard the shells and boil the water in my bottle before taking a few sips.

For the first time since the bloodbath, I'm wishing I retrieved my ax from the arena as I cut wood. I can get the job done with a knife, but an ax would be much more efficient and less taxing on my hands. By the time I've gathered enough logs to conceal the depression in the ground, the grooves of my hands are an intense pink, with cracks in the skin oozing blood.

I set my sleeping bag down in the hole and tie the logs together with rope, so it creates a shield of sorts. I pull it over me as I lay in the hole. It's pitch black and smells of dead leaves, but it offers some protection. I stuff the cracks between the logs with leaves, twigs and dirt for good measure. It's not the best shelter, but it keeps me hidden.

I still have plenty of rope, and given the presence of crabs in the shallows, I decide to keep my knot tying skills fresh and work on a crab ring. I've never made one before, and the nets I worked on in the Capitol were far better than whatever I have going on right now. But after a few hours, I have a decent net woven.

I secure the framework of the net with the sturdiest pieces of wood left over from my shelter project, and I lug the ring towards the water. It’s high tide by now, and there’s a jetty that pokes into the sea that I cast my net from.

It promptly falls apart.

“Shit!” I desperately reel in what I can salvage, but the wood is floating away and my net has been reduced to a mess of knots. I can almost hear the nation laugh at my misfortune as I trudge back into the safety of the forest, seething as seawater drips down my leg. My rope skills in the Training Sessions have come back to bite me in the ass. I feel like a fool, and even more vulnerable knowing that dozens of cameras are likely broadcasting my failure as I collapse on the ground.

I’m too frustrated to bother going back to the beach and looking for baby crabs. The tide’s too high anyways. There won’t be any tidepools to scour until twilight, which is rapidly approaching. I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be, but there’s still a gnawing pain in my stomach that won’t go away. I carve off some pine bark and stuff the pulp into my mouth. It’s not tasty, but it’ll keep my stomach from growling too loudly. 

I’m nibbling on another piece of soft pine bark when the anthem resonates in my ears. The portraits of the girl from District 3 and the boy from District 10 light up the sky. Then, the anthem finishes, and I’m left alone in the dark again.

Half of the tributes are dead. All of the Careers are still alive, including Iris. Sebbie’s alive as well.

I want to look for him. But I still feel a shred of anger broiling in my chest because he deserted me. I shouldn’t be mad. Odds are, neither of us will make it out of here alive. But how am I supposed to protect him when he’s not by my side? 

He loves the sea. If he’s anywhere, it’ll be on the coastline. He could be just a few hundred yards from me and I’d have no idea.

But it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be near me. And our mentors seem to agree. I’m still trying to make sense of it all, but Sebbie must have a plan. A plan that involves me not getting in the way. All I can do is trust that his plan will work out.

I doze throughout the night. Only my grumbling stomach forces me out of my sleeping bag sometime in the late morning. A diet of crab and limpets isn’t going to keep me going. And I can’t stab the fish in the tidepools quickly enough. That could change if I had a spear.

I spend the afternoon carving divots into a branch that’s as thick as my wrist. I tie the prongs together with rope, and venture onto the beach, searching for any footprints in the sand. There are a few gulls that have evidently been clambering along the shore, and some still glide overhead, cawing at me as I approach the tidepools. But no one else, as far as I can tell.

There aren’t as many fish in the tidepools today. The ones that have lingered are much smaller than their counterparts from yesterday. Still, the spear comes in handy, and I’m able to skewer three fish that are tiny enough to fit into my open palm, laying side by side.

I’m doing okay on water, so I don’t go to the pond immediately. Instead, I stab a stick through the fish and roast them like kabobs over my fire. They don’t taste like much of anything, to be honest. But they numb the pain in my stomach. I nibble on more pine to trick myself into thinking I had a large meal, but it doesn’t help much.

I make a trip to the pond to fill up my water bottle, and boil it with the dying remains of the fire. I drink most of it as day becomes night, and as I’m snuffing out the embers, the anthem comes and goes, revealing that no tributes have died today.

There’s a faint ringing in my ears. I only register its meaning as the silvery parachute glides through the trees, nesting itself in a branch high above me. A gift! My first sponsor gift! They must’ve seen how I miserably failed in securing substantial food. I can only imagine what goodies it holds. Soup? Bread? 

I clamber up the tree and yank the parachute down. The compartment attached to the strings of the parachute is quite small. I pop it open, expecting the sweet aroma of a fresh meal. But instead, I find something entirely different.

It’s a coil of wire. Around as thick as the rope I have. I toss it around in my hands, puzzled. Why would they send me wire?

Snares. Of course. I need to make snares if I want to trap food. But I’m too tired to think about it right now. I take my belongings and stuff them into the small depression I’ve made in the ground, before tugging the bundle of logs above me. I settle into my sleeping bag, and I don’t even realize that I’ve fallen asleep until I’m awoken sometime later to the sound of laughter directly above me. 

“You are in so much trouble,” a familiar voice sneers.

Chapter Text

My knife is pointed at Iris before I’ve even realized I’m awake.

She backs up slightly, raising her hands. “Easy, I’m not going to hurt you.” She has a nasty cut that stretches from her widow's peak to the edge of her right eye. 

“What do you mean, I’m in trouble, then?” I snarl, jabbing the knife towards her again. I can only pray that she can’t see how badly my hands are trembling.

“Well, let me think.” She glances at my rudimentary shelter. “Your shelter sucks. If it rains, you’re going to be buried in mud. And it isn’t stealthy, by any means.” Iris gestures towards the crab carapaces and fish bones around my campsite. “You’ve got crab shells and dead sculpin all around you, so anyone would know that someone’s been camping out here.” 

“What do you want?” I ask, refusing to lower my weapon.

“I want to be allies,” she replies nonchalantly. I pause for a moment. We stare each other down.

“I don’t believe you.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now.” 

I don’t move. “How about I kill you right now? To spare myself the trouble?”

“I’d love to see you try.”

I lunge towards her, swinging my knife. She dives below the blade and grabs my hand, wriggling the knife out of my fingers. I try to elbow her in the hip but she takes my other hand and holds my wrists behind my back. The icy blade is pressed against my throat. Her breath is hot, and I can feel her lips moving through my hair.

“You’re quick, I’ll give you that.” Iris loosens her grip on my wrists and I stumble away from her. She extends the knife towards me, but I don’t take it.

“Why do you want to be my ally?” I murmur.

“I think you could use the help,” she answers casually.

“People don’t help each other in the Hunger Games,” I shoot back. “We kill each other until there’s only one person left.”

“Okay, and?” Iris sits down on my sleeping bag, tossing the knife towards me. “Maybe I need your help.”

It’s just like our first conversation at the knot tying station. Her flirtatious attitude, my timid self gaping at how blunt she was. I stare at the wound on her forehead, which is still bleeding fiercely. A cannon fires, and I jump in my boots.

“Must be Viridia,” Iris scoffs. “Do you have bandages?”

“Who’s Viridia?”

“The girl from 2,” she replies. “I’d love to talk more, but I’m starting to feel a bit dizzy, so could you patch me up?”

I stare at the girl from the fishing district. Blood has coagulated in her auburn hair, and it appears matted and oily in the morning light. Dark bags hang under her eyes. She has no supplies with her, and four merciless days in the arena have carved away at what little fat she had to begin with. She’s not quite skin and bones, but she’s alarmingly thin.

I take the knife at my feet and cautiously saunter closer. “If you try anything, I’ll kill you.”

“Fair enough,” she smiles wearily. 

I still have some water left in my bottle, so I use what little remains to clean off her face. She winces as I dab at the wound with a cotton pad.

“What happened, anyways?” I ask, keeping firm pressure on her forehead.

“Ran into the Careers,” she replies. “I’ve been watching them since the Games began. They’re camped out at the Cornucopia. Whenever they went out to hunt, I stole food. Ended up being a bit too slow this morning and they found me.”

“Hold this to your head.” I tap at the wad of bandages and she complies as I unfurl the roll of gauze. “So Viridia cut you?”
“No,” she grimaces as I begin wrapping it around her forehead. “She was covered in burns or something. They came back to get medicine, and Alabaster said he wanted to do the honors of killing me. But he whispered in my ear to run after cutting me, so I did.”

I stop wrapping her wound. “He let you go?”

“Guess so,” Iris says. “And now he’s dead, too.”

I tie a knot at the back of her head, so the bandage is secure. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She has beautiful eyes; not as green as I thought they were, but not quite hazel, either. 

“You should be good.” I back away from her, suddenly feeling flustered. “Just take it easy.”

“I’ll do my best, Doctor Arbor,” she winks, and I shake my head, looking away to conceal the smile creeping up on my face.

“How do you even know my last name? I don’t know yours.”

“I remember you from the Reaping,” she replies. “And it’s Weston. Iris Weston.”

“Nice name,” I say.

“Thanks.” She lays down on my sleeping bag, stretching her limbs and folding her hands. “Got it from my parents.”

My fingers find the pine tree token in my pocket, and I grasp it through the fabric of the coat. I miss my mom. What would she think of me right now? I’ve partnered with the one person my mentors told me to stay away from. I have no idea where Sebbie is. I’ve had a grand total of three limpets, half a dozen baby crabs, some sculpin and a handful of pine over the course of four days, if we aren’t counting my breakfast I puked up on day one. I’m not doing too well, by any means, but I’m alive. So that has to count for something.

“I didn’t hear Alabaster’s cannon,” I say, still keeping my distance from Iris. She absolutely could’ve killed me by now if she wanted to. But I’m still weary about letting my guard down. 

“You must’ve slept through it,” she replies. “He said he wanted to do the honors of killing me. But he cut my face and told me to run. Viridia tried going after me but Alabaster nailed her with a spear, so Florian stabbed him in the chest. I just ran until I found you.”

“And how long were you here? Before waking me up?”

“Not long,” Iris says. “You look pretty when you’re resting, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I blush at that, before scowling again. “Not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” she giggles. “I’m surprised you didn’t have sponsors lining up because of your looks.”

“I mean, I did get this last night.” I dig around in my backpack and toss the coil of wire towards her. “Not sure what it’s for. Maybe a snare.”

She examines the wire, then looks at my net. “What’s that?”

“Tried to make a crab ring,” I mumble. “It didn’t work.”

“What did you use?” She takes the net and runs her fingertips over the knots.

“That and some wood,” I answer.

“Well, that’s what the wire’s for,” she grins. “You probably can’t make a ring but we can make a crab snare.” Iris reaches towards the knife by my side. I let her take it as she begins to cut parts of the net. “Can you pass me the rope, too?”

“Sure.” I fish the rope out of my pack and set it down by her knee. She barely acknowledges it. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as she untangles some knots, using the tip of the knife to loosen them up. There’s something oddly endearing about the way her lips purse when a certain knot isn’t cooperating.

What are you doing? I shake my head. Those thoughts are only going to screw me over. I stand and announce that I’m going to get some water. Iris insists on me taking the knife, just in case I run into trouble. So I leave her to undo the knotted rope as I hike to the pond, carrying the pot and my water bottle. 

My eyes wander around the watering hole as I fill my bottle. There are all sorts of plants that flourish along the banks of the pond. Wild rose bushes dotted with pink blossoms encompass much of the shoreline. Peeking out from the twigs are shiny leaves, shaped like teardrops. I squint, and notice the green stems fading to a wicked red tip. Poison ivy.

I fill the pot and walk alongside the cliff face where the waterfall roars. There’s a few berry bushes along the rockface. The fruits are akin to small grapes, their hue much darker than the grapes I’m used to. I think of the plant books Sebbie and I studied religiously from Mrs. Light’s bookcase, and suddenly a name pops up in relation to the berries.

Belladonna . Such an unassuming name for something so deadly. Most people in 7 knew better than to eat wild berries, so I can’t recall Sebbie mentioning anyone coming in to see Mrs. Light due to ingesting poisonous berries. But the symptoms listed alongside the painted images in the weathered book were nothing to mess with. Slurred speech, convulsions, heart racing so quickly it could seize up at any second. I leave the berry bush behind and return to my campsite.

Iris hasn’t moved since I left. Much of the rope has been unraveled, and she’s formed a square with the wire that she’s lacing the rope through. Two pieces of wire stick out from the center, with one curving towards itself again like a candy cane. The other stands straight, with rope fastened securely around it. More strings tie the trap together, and when she lifts the contraption, it flutters shut. 

“It should be done,” she says. “We just need bait.”

“You made that while I was gone?” I’m stunned at the craftsmanship of the snare.

“Wasn’t too hard,” Iris shrugs, though I can see a glint of pride in her eyes. “I’ve made plenty back in 4.”

“It looks lovely,” I smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when it catches something,” she smirks. “Let’s go look for bait.”

We walk along the beach for a bit, tugging a few limpets free from the barnacle encrusted rocks. Iris finds a few bunches of shells that look like droplets of oil, that are apparently called mussels. So she picks them off and shoves them into her pockets. Iris skewers the globs of limpet tissue with the curved part of the snare. We clamber along the jetty for a bit before she tosses it into the water, tying the excess rope to a rock. I watch as the gleaming wire sinks into the abyss.

“Now, we wait.” Iris leans back on the rocks, and I follow her lead, though it’s not comfortable. She seems to be right at home, though. The gentle wind tangles her hair, blowing her bangs into her face. She’s staring at the horizon, and she looks so peaceful, so content. The angry glare I’ve seen on her ever since the Tribute Parade is gone. I can imagine this is a side of Iris that not many people have seen, and I feel a bit voyeuristic to witness such a precious moment.

There’s a puff of mist in the distance, emanating from the cresting waves. I point to the disturbance, and tug at her sleeve.

“Is that a whale?”

The dorsal fin breaches the water. A long, pointed thing resembling a thorn. It sinks just as quickly as it appears.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “Orca. Technically not a whale, but close enough.”

“I’ve never seen a live one before,” I say dreamingly. “One washed up on the beach back at home, and I’ve seen the spouts, but I’ve never seen one like this.”

“They’re pretty,” she agrees. “Sometimes they’ll get stuck in our nets when we’re out at sea. It’s a bitch to cut them free.”

“What’s it like in 4, anyways?” I ask, shifting my gaze to the trees.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what do you do on a typical day?”

Iris exhales, brushing her hair back. “I usually wake up at around five. Go for a run. School starts at seven, and it’s mostly weight training, combat and weaponry for the first half of the day. After lunch, we have general education. Classes end at two, and I work on the docks until eight in the evening. Then I go home, eat dinner, and start all over again the next day.”

“So you do train for the Hunger Games?”

“Officially, it’s all physical activity to prepare for sixteen hours of fishing every day once you get older,” she smiles. “But yeah, you could say that.”

Interesting. My day is a lot less packed than that. I have school, then work study afterwards. The boys go straight to the timber yards when they’re sixteen. The girls can choose between that or a work study program, where you can hone your skills for another career that doesn’t involve chopping wood all day. I opted to do that, and spent most of my time after classes at the elementary school. It worked out well, as I could bring my mom’s figurines to school for the kids to play with. I figured I’d end up being a teacher once I finished school. I liked the practice lessons enough, and something about watching the kids grow and apply what I had taught them brought me an immeasurable amount of joy. 

“How about you? Do you guys just work in the forests nonstop?” Iris turns to face me. Her skin is sun kissed with freckles. 

“Not really,” I reply. I tell her about an average day back home.

“It’s cool that you guys can choose your career,” she muses. “Only those who graduate at the top of the academy can choose something other than fishing.”

“Were you not the best student?”

“No, I was one of the smartest kids in class,” Iris grins. Her gaze shifts towards the sea. “But I got caught sleeping with the mayor’s daughter, so that derailed any future plans for me.”

My eyes widen. I wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. There was definitely a stigma around same sex relationships in 7, but for the most part, people knew to be sneaky with their partners. It’s the main reason why I never told anyone about the short lived romance Farah and I shared. Even if it was socially acceptable, I still don’t think I’d mention it. What we had was intimate. Personal. It was a secret I wanted to keep to myself. 

“Is that why you hate your district so much?”

“I don’t have my district,” she says absentmindedly. “They hate me.”

“Just because you were dating the mayor’s daughter?”

“Exactly.” Iris laughs a bit. “She got away with a few lashings, but her dad stepped in and fixed things for her. My parents disowned me. So did everyone else.”

“That’s so dumb,” I shake my head. “There are bigger things to worry about than who’s fucking who.”

“Tell that to the Peacekeepers in 4,” Iris smirks. “It’s boring there. When something like that happens, everyone has to put their two cents in.”

“So that’s why you didn’t care about being Reaped?” I ask. “Because you didn’t see a future back home?”

“Something like that.” She glances at the water. “Let’s see if we got anything in the snare.” I want to ask her more about her life in District 4, but the finality in her tone tells me not to pry. So I don’t.

Iris lets me do the honors of pulling up the trap. I can’t tell if I’m being overly hopeful, but it certainly feels heavier than it did when we first dropped it into the water. 

There’s a few pale blobs entangled in the net as it breaches the surface, and Iris cheers as we tug the snare onto the rocks, where three very confused crabs, each larger than my fists, wiggle their legs. Their carapaces are a deep red, with the tips of their monstrous claws tinted black. 

Before I know it, I’m throwing my arms around Iris. I have to contain myself from jumping for joy, as I’m afraid I’ll lose my footing on the jetty and tumble into the water. So instead, I embrace the girl who was responsible for serving up the best food I’ll have had since the Games started.

“Thank you,” I whisper into her shoulder. At first, she’s still. Then, her hand slowly finds the small of my back and presses me closer. And we stay like that for a few moments, locked in each other’s arms, giggling over the five star meal we’re sure to enjoy in a few hours.

Chapter Text

We stop at the waterfall on our way back to camp, and I’m greeted by a troubling sight.

The belladonna plants have been stripped clean.

“Iris,” I say steadily as she fills up a pot. “Did you pick any berries?”

“Hm? No, why?” She sets the pot aside and stands, pacing towards me. I point to the bush.

“Belladonna,” I reply. “Poisonous berries. There were hundreds of them earlier this morning, now they’re gone.” My hand inches towards the handle of my knife.

“You think someone else is here?” Iris scans the pond. 

“They’re either here now, or we just missed them.”

“Well, how poisonous are they?” We begin the walk back to our campsite. I keep stealing glances over my shoulder, but no one seems to be trailing us.

“Ten berries is all it takes to kill you,” I say. “So whoever picked them will probably be dead soon enough.”

“I guess we’ll be waiting for a cannon tonight,” she smiles smugly. “How many are left right now? Ten?”

We tally up the remaining tributes for the rest of the walk. Both from 1 and Justin, the boy from 2, are alive. Both tributes from 3 are dead, along with Alabaster and the tributes from District 5. The boy from 6 died in the bloodbath with the tributes from 8 and the little girl from 9. The boy from District 10 died yesterday. The girl from 11 and the tributes from 12 died on the first day. Which leaves Ambrosia, Florian, Justin, Iris, Sebbie, me and four others still roaming the arena: the boys from 9 and 11 and the girls from 6 and 10. 

I’m reluctant to start a fire, as I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched. But Iris convinces me by mentioning that the crab meat will go bad if we don’t cook it soon. So I relent and get a fire started in the earthen hole, careful to keep the smoke opening clear.

I boil what’s in the water bottle before taking the pot and easing the crabs into the simmering water. I place the lid on top as Iris plays with a few sticks by our sleeping bag. She pats the fabric and I walk towards her, collapsing by her side. I rest my head on her shoulder and she gently places her arm around me. I watch the flames lick the underside of the pot as the sun dips below the trees.

“You really care about Sebbie, don’t you?” I peek at the curvature of her jawline. She’s looking down at me, the fire casting a warm glow on her normally sharp features.

“He’s like a brother to me,” I say softly. “We took him in after his sister died.”

“In the 50th Hunger Games, right?”

“Yeah.” It feels inappropriate to talk about Farah when I have another girl’s arms wrapped around me. Screw it. I can trust Iris. Seeing her mirth when we caught the crabs, hearing her carefree laughter as we walked along the beach, and especially considering the fact that she sought me out as an ally, I’ve done a complete 180 on my view of her. “We were pretty close.”

“Best friends?” she asks.

“Something like that,” I reply. I think of the cameras and microphones that are probably picking up every second of our conversation, and I reverse course. Maybe I can tell Iris about Farah another day. But not when the entire nation is sure to hear it. 

But Iris seems to understand. Her grip on my waist lightens, but I scoot closer to her. I can feel her smile as her cheek rests on my temple.

“I’ve been there before. I’m sorry she passed.”

I nod solemnly. “Sebbie lost everyone. His dad killed himself after Farah died. His mom became a drug addict, so she couldn’t take care of him. He was only eleven. So my mom and I let him stay at our house, and ever since then, he’s been a part of the family.”

She hums. “Must’ve been hard when both of you were Reaped.”

“It was,” I confirm. “His mom got shot by Peacekeepers afterwards.”

“Wait, what?” Iris pulls away, spinning so her body is facing towards me. “Why?”

“She was trying to reach for him in the crowd.” I squeeze my eyes shut as I relive the painful memory. “They killed her in front of us.”

I open my eyes, and see that Iris has lowered her head. Her shoulders are shaking. “Are you okay?”

She shakes her head and makes her way to the fire. “I’m fine. Let’s eat.”

We crack open the steaming crabs with rocks we found at the beach. The meat is juicy with a buttery aftertaste, which leaves me craving more even after we’ve already cleaned out the carapaces and claws. Iris is mostly silent throughout the meal, picking out pieces of shells from the pinchers. I dump the excess water from the pot in the bushes and smother the fire with handfuls of dirt as the stars twinkle overhead. The entire time, I shoot glances towards Iris, who’s facing the tree trunk next to my sleeping bag. Eventually, I sit next to her, leaving a generous amount of space between us.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” I ask.

A blast of deafening trumpets makes us yelp. Both of us focus our attention to the sky as the anthem plays. Viridia’s portrait is shown, followed by Alabaster. Iris laughs drily as the Capitol seal gleams in the night sky, before vanishing with a triumphant final note.

“ That’s what’s wrong,” she says through clenched teeth, pointing at the emblem as it fades into the night. “This entire system is what’s wrong.”

“What, you mean the Games?”

“The Games, the Peacekeepers, the Districts, all of it.” Iris stomps towards the smoldering remains of the fire. “Rounding us up to kill each other for sport. Implementing soldiers in every district to keep us in line. Exploiting us to serve the elite. This damn government sees our misery as nothing more than entertainment.” She kicks the dirt, and a few embers briefly glow in the night before fizzing out. “It’s all a joke to them! They don’t care about us, they only care about themselves.”

“Iris,” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“They’re killing us for fun!” Her voice is a bit too loud, and I think of whoever plucked the belladonna bushes clean. Wondering if they’re still around. “And we can’t do anything about it! We’re trapped, Charity!” She finally turns to face me, and I see the unmistakable rivulets of tears coursing down her cheeks. “It’s hopeless. All of this is hopeless.”

She kneels on the sleeping bag next to me, and buries her face into my coat as she sobs. I pat her back as she cries, all while blinking back my own tears.

I’ve never heard someone decry the Capitol so viciously, so openly, without fear of reprisal. What can they do, anyways? She’s already stuck in the Games. It’s not like they can punish her anymore than they already have.

I doubt they even aired her outburst. Words carry power. Her words, if broadcast to the nation, could incite violence across the districts. It would be much easier to snuff out her voice and just let her die in the arena.

But I don’t want to lose the girl in my arms. Not yet.

I run my fingers through her flowing hair, whispering soft affirmations that we both know are lies. I can’t do anything else. I can’t fix the Capitol. None of us can. Even if one district decided to stop catering to them, they’d be destroyed. Just like they did to District 13. We’d never stand a chance against their weaponry and their militia.

“Hey, look at me,” I breathe, my fingers finding her chin. She removes her snot stained face from my chest, and I brush away the stray tears on her cheeks with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you get some rest? I can take the first watch of the night.”

Iris stares at me, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She wraps the sleeping bag around us and snuggles next to me. Neither of us speak for a bit, and for a second, I think she’s asleep. But then, she adjusts her position so she’s facing me.

“If it comes down to you and Sebbie, what are you going to do?”

“Kill myself.” I don’t think twice about my answer. “He’s going to win. That’s the only option.”

She doesn’t respond, but I feel her nod against my coat. I half wait for her to ask another question, but instead, a cacophony of soft snores move past her lips. I stare into the inky abyss of the night, reflecting on her spiel as she sleeps.

The Capitol has the power to do anything, including making life in the districts even a bit easier. Hell, even abolishing the Hunger Games would be an excellent start. But instead, they’ve glamorized our suffering. Made it into a pop culture piece. Fetishized the agony we endure every day and dehumanized us to the point where no one could ever take pity on district filth. 

We’re like pets. Non sentient possessions they can play around with and discard once we’ve worn out our charms. We are the prey, and they are the hunters. 

I don’t know if we could ever overthrow the Capitol, even if all of the districts united. We’ve already been through famines, riots, natural disasters and the intense brutality of the Peacekeepers, who execute anyone they deem an outlier. A threat to the regime. 

So instead, we send our kids into a gladiator ring. We make do with what little resources we’re given in exchange for decades of back breaking labor. While we starve, the Capitol feasts on the blood of district children.

I sip from my water bottle as the hours go by. A cannon fires around halfway through the night. Iris wakes as the earth shakes with the force of the blast.

“Just a cannon,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s okay,” she responds, cracking her neck. “I feel rested. I can take over from here.”

I don’t want to cheat her out of a few more hours of sleep, but at the same time, I know I can’t stay awake for much longer. So I relent, giving her my knife and pulling the sleeping bag up to my chin, enveloping us in its warmth. And for the first time since I’ve entered the arena, I fall into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, Iris is gone.

I abandon the sleeping bag quickly, and fish for my knife. My bottle and the pot are gone.

“Iris?” I call out in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. The sparrows sing to me as I walk around the perimeter of our campsite. There’s nothing.

A cannon fires, and my heart sinks. “Iris?” I’m yelling a bit louder now, my heart beginning to race. Do I stay here? Do I look for her?

I don’t have to choose. She comes stumbling through the brush a minute later, clearly winded. She’s carrying the pot and the water bottle, and water splashes out of the closed pot as she sets it down, racing towards me. Our bodies crash together and she holds me tightly, exhaling what sounds like a sigh of relief.

“Where did you go?” I gasp, my nails digging into her shoulders. “You scared me!”

“I just went to get some water,” she pants. Her hand finds my hair. “I heard the cannon, and came running. I’m so sorry, Charity. I was going to be back before you woke up.”

I bury my face into her collarbone, breathing steadily until I’m no longer trembling. “You can’t leave without telling me. You didn’t even take the knife with you!”

“I wanted to leave it with you!” Iris shrieks, stepping backwards. “Just in case someone found you!”

“What good would a knife do if I’m still asleep?” I want to tear into her and just scream my head off, but it won’t benefit either of us. So I sit back down on the sleeping bag, legs folded beneath me. “I’m sorry. I just, I was worried. That’s all.”

“I know. It’s okay.” She pats my wrist. “I found some berries, though. Huckleberries, I think.”

She fishes a wad of black fruit out of her pocket. I examine the berries carefully, and recognize them in an instant.

“Sebbie and I used to pick these all the time,” I say longingly. “Have you tried them before?”

“No,” she admits. “But I recognized them from training. Are they good?”

I pop one into my mouth, and hum as the familiar sweetness bursts on my tongue. “You tell me.”

She tastes a few, and her eyes widen. “Oh, man. These are great.”

We boil our water while snacking on huckleberries. The cannon last night and the cannon we just heard means there’s only eight tributes left. I can only pray that Sebbie is among them.

This also means that interviews will be conducted with the families of the remaining tributes. Sebbie has no one to vouch for him, so I can imagine they’ll probably talk to my mom about both of us. I smile a bit when I think of her hurriedly braiding her hair and searching for the crimson eyepatch she only wears on special occasions. Then I remember that I’ll never see her again if my plan to get Sebbie out of here alive works out, and the huckleberries seem a lot less appetizing than they did before. I gulp down some water to clear my head. 

Iris inhaled her share of berries even quicker than I did. She sucks the juices off of her fingertips, and I can’t resist staring at the mystical, deadly girl in front of me. 

“Why didn’t you kill me when you first saw me?” It’s something that’s been nagging at me ever since she asked to be my ally. She had the perfect opportunity to do it. I was sound asleep, knife exposed, hardly hidden under an atrocious excuse for a shelter. 

There’s a sullen look on her face. She smiles weakly.

“I guess you’re just too damn likable.”

I bite my lip, too shy to respond properly. So instead, I ask if we should go crabbing on the jetty. But she’s gone quiet, and turns away from me. What she says next feels like a punch in the gut.

“I think I should leave.”

Her words slice into me like a scythe. I look at her, bewildered.

“What?”

Her eyes stray towards the maze of trees that extends beyond our campsite. “Yeah. I’m leaving, for good.”

I don’t know what to say. I lost her only for a brief moment, and it seized me with panic. And now, after reuniting, she’s leaving again. 

“Why?” It’s hardly a question. It’s more like a plea. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t go.

Iris gives me a melancholy smile, standing up and adjusting her coat. “You have a mission, and that’s to make sure Sebbie wins. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Iris, you’re not holding me back,” I insist. “We can ride this out together. You don’t have to go just yet.”

“Except I do.” Her gaze is focused on the thick foliage. The hum of the forest, coupled with waves battering the shoreline, create a steady background noise that accompanies her unsure steps towards the towering trees. “I don’t want to have to kill you. If I stay, I might be faced with that possibility.”

“Then don’t kill me. Stay here. We’ll be okay. I promise.” I get up and hurry towards her, reaching for her shoulder.

“You can’t promise anything in the Games,” Iris murmurs. She turns and takes my hands in hers. They’re smudged with dirt, grime clogging the grooves of her palms. “I’ve never met someone like you, Charity. I’ve never felt like this around anyone else.” Heat expands in my chest, and the forest suddenly feels quite hot and stuffy. “I don’t know if I like how I feel when I see you. It reminds me that neither of us will see each other after this ends. Either one or both of us will be dead.” Her eyes are determined, and I realize that no matter what I do, I won’t be able to change her mind. But still, I try.

“Please don’t go,” I whisper. “Not now. We can protect each other, we can make it work.”

“Oh yeah? If you had to choose between saving me or Sebbie, who would it be?”

I know she doesn’t mean for the remark to be hurtful, but it still stings. I lower my head, and let go of her hands. Because she knows just as well as I do that he will always be my first priority. I came here to save him, and I’ll die doing just that if I have to.

She laughs a bit. A genuine, jovial laugh that sends shivers down my spine. 

“Tell you what, if your plan works out, maybe I’ll see you again.” Iris wraps her arms around me, and I blindly return her embrace, unshed tears blurring my vision. I wipe them away as she begins to leave. Leaves crunch under her footsteps, and the crackling sound stirs something in me.

“Iris, wait!” She turns around, and before I can stop myself, I’m closing the distance between us and pressing my lips against hers.

She stiffens at first, before leaning into the kiss, her hands finding my hips and pulling me closer. We move together in tandem, a fusillade of passion and regret dripping from our embrace. I break our kiss and she briefly chases my lips with hers, before our foreheads touch and we just hold each other. Panting, crying, and anything in between.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “You can go now.”

Iris tilts my chin up with her dainty fingers, and presses one final kiss to my cheek, before turning away and venturing into the woods. She never looks back, and I stare at her burning red hair until it disappears in the forest.

I collapse onto my sleeping bag, pulling my knees to my chest. There’s a stray huckleberry caught in the fabric, and I numbly chew on the fruit. I pick at my grody nails, flicking the dirt into the wilderness. I’ve practically picked my fingertips raw at this point, but I don’t stop. There’s something relieving about the pain. It reminds me I’m still alive, and I can feel something other than the hollow pit enveloping my insides.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Minutes? Hours? But I don’t move. I just listen to the sounds of the forest and think of Iris.

Then, there’s a scream.

I’m flying through the trees, shoulders brushing against twigs and leaves. I slice away vines and greenery with my knife, pushing through the vegetation, a sense of hysteria carrying me along. Because I know that scream. I know what it means.

She’s lying in the grass, blood gushing from a multitude of wounds. The brutish boy from 2, Justin, is hacking her to bits with a machete. He hears my plight, but before he can turn around, I’m yanking his head back and dragging my knife through his jugular. He collapses to the ground, blood spurting from his neck. His body seizes briefly before going still.

I kneel next to Iris. Her injuries are far too severe to treat. Even if she had been attacked outside of a Capitol hospital, there’s no number of blood transfusions, stitches, and prosthetics that could fix her. She clutches my wrist with what’s left of her hand, and I brush away her hair as her throat gurgles.

“S-Stay,” she chokes, tears mixing with blood that cascades down her jaw.

I nod. “I’m not going anywhere.” A cannon fires, signaling Justin’s death. Her fingers graze my cheek, and I take her hand in mine.

Her eyes are not afraid. She’s accepted her impending death. That much is clear. Still, she trembles fiercely.

“It’s okay,” I coo, doing my best to hide my woe. “You can rest. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

I can’t tell if it’s because she’s shaking so badly, but I think I see her nod.

“Th-Thank you,” she croaks. “For everything.” I smile forlornly, and hold her bleeding hand to my face, gently rubbing circles around her palm, until her tremors stop, and her hand falls to the gaping wound in her chest. 

I don’t need to hear the cannon fire to know she’s dead. But still, when it goes off, I begin to cry. I’m covered in blood; both hers and Justin’s. Her eyes are fixated on the clouds that glide carelessly through the open sky. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, phlegm clogging my throat. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s my fault. If I hadn’t let her go, she would still be here. She would’ve never ran into Justin, and she would’ve never been tortured so brutally. We’d be on the jetty, cracking jokes, hunting for mollusks and filling our water vessels at the pond to boil our dinner. I should’ve forced her to stay. I should’ve tried harder.

But I know what Iris would say if I told her that. She’d insist it wasn’t my fault. The only one to blame is the Capitol.

That’s it. It’s the Capitol after all who threw us into the arena. It was the Capitol who forced us to lose every ounce of humanity we had left to kill each other mercilessly. It was the Capitol who promoted us, and encouraged us to murder our brethren in cold blood. 

The blood on my hands was due to my own actions. But my actions were triggered by the situation the Capitol put me in. No, the blood belongs to them and them only. Iris, Justin, and every other tribute that died in the Games. Their deaths were caused by the Capitol, first and foremost. 

There’s no way that they let Iris get away with saying what she did last night. They must’ve caused Justin and her to cross paths, somehow. Perhaps triggering a landslide or something that forced Justin in our direction. And where Justin goes, I’m sure the Careers follow. Which means I don’t have much time before they stumble upon me.

But I’m tired of running. I’m tired of being a spectacle for the Capitol to gape at. I’m tired of being nothing more than a pawn on their chess board. If they want to come at me, so be it.

Either way, I know I should get going. The hovercraft will be here sooner than later to retrieve the bodies of Iris and Justin, and they can’t do that when another tribute is too close. 

So, I clear Iris’s face as best as I can. I briefly touch the bandage on her forehead, which is now soaked with blood from the various mutilations on her body. I plant a delicate kiss on her temple, which is already starting to cool down. Reminding me that she’s gone.

Justin’s backpack is dripping crimson as well. I rummage through his belongings as I hear the faint hum of the hovercraft. He has a bloodied machete, which I don’t take. Even touching the handle of the weapon that killed Iris makes me nauseous. But I do take a hatchet that hangs from his belt, along with two packs of jerky strips, iodine pills to purify water, and a sleeve of crackers. I’ve only walked about twenty feet before I hear the iron claws of the hovercraft disturbing the trees behind me. I watch as it takes Justin’s body first, then it comes down one more time. The claws intertwine beneath Iris, and her mangled arms and legs are limp as she ascends into the sky. Her hair flows freely, the wind whispering through the red locks, before she’s gone as well.

I watch as the hovercraft flies off. Where the Capitol doctors will clean off the bodies, go through the embalming process, and send them off to be stuffed into wooden coffins, where they’ll be shipped back to their home districts. Iris spoke so poorly of her parents. Will they be mourning her death? Or will they be indifferent?

I wander for much longer than I expect to. There’s sprigs of camas that pop up along the game trail, but they’re wilted, and their bright yellow blossoms seem muted in the afternoon light. I return to find my campsite undisturbed. The fire has gone out by now, and my water bottle needs to be filled up. I’m careful to avoid dipping my filthy fingers into the water as I pour it from the pot. I use the excess water to scrub my hands as best as I can of grime and dried blood.

There are only six tributes left in the Games. Me and five others. It’s safe to assume the tributes from 1 are among the five. Or are they? Iris and I heard one cannon last night, then another this morning. Then she died, along with Justin. I expected the Careers to come running, because they couldn’t have been far when I killed him. But no one came to his rescue. Were they the ones who died earlier today?

I won’t know until tonight, when the nightly death toll is displayed. And dusk is rapidly approaching. I’m not too hungry, and I don’t have the motivation to drop the crab snare off the jetty. So I force myself to eat two jerky strips. It’s much more reminiscent of the steak I had at home, compared to the fine cuts at the Capitol. Gristly, tough, and overly salted.

I have no desire to sleep in my hidden hole in the ground. I rip apart what’s left of the log platform I created and scatter the wood around the area, and fill my depression with soil, leaving the crab snare hidden in the bushes. I climb the same tree I ascended on day one, tying myself to the same fork of branches and resting my head on the rough bark. The anthem ushers in a sequence of four portraits. Justin is first, followed by Iris. Her sharp eyes glare at the camera, though there’s a hint of sarcasm that seeps through via a faint half smile. Then, the boy from 9 appears, followed by the girl from 10. Faces attached to the cannons Iris and I heard before she died. 

The anthem finishes. I close my eyes and eventually fall asleep, but the entire night, I’m haunted by Iris. She stands in the woods, mutilated and mangled, coughing up blood and asking why I couldn’t save her. And I keep telling her I tried, but she just keeps crying and bleeding until the arena is barraged with blood, and I’m flailing in the burgundy sea, begging for forgiveness until the blood fills my lungs and I asphyxiate.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, there’s a body beneath me.

I don’t move. I peer through the leaves and make out a pale figure on the ground, around ten yards away from my tree. She’s partially covered by foliage, but her skin contrasts greatly with the lush greenery. 

She’s covered head to toe in boils. Weeping, bulbous pustules ringed with scarlet skin. She’s still alive, but barely. I can hear her gasping for air in the bushes, and see her chest rapidly rising and falling. I watch as she hacks and chokes, and the boils ripple with every shudder. Until her body finally gives out, and a cannon fires. 

The hovercraft is there in an instant to retrieve her corpse. The blisters burst as she breaks through the branches, viscous fluid dripping from her fingertips. 

There’s something familiar about the boils. I wrack my memory, but nothing’s coming to mind, so I try to push the image of her body out of my head and begin untying the rope that secures me to the tree when I hear footsteps.

“She’s gone, I saw the hovercraft.”

“Damn it!” 

I’ve only heard the voices a few times before, but I immediately place their owners to the tributes from District 1. I freeze, and soundlessly tie a knot around my hips as the two stumble through the bushes.

They’re covered in the same boils that plagued the dead girl. Ambrosia doesn’t seem to be as sickly, but Florian is much less fortunate. He’s hobbling along, pus filled cysts creeping across his neck and cheeks. His forehead is dotted with either acne or more of the pustules. The handsome man from the Interviews is long gone, and in his place there’s a diseased boy who’s barely able to walk.

“Who was it, do you think?” Ambrosia asks as they continue past my tree. 

“The girl from 6 or 7,” Florian sputters, falling to his knees and coughing. I can’t tell from my viewpoint, but I think there’s a string of blood hanging from his lips. “Probably ran into the same kid we did.”

“Then it must’ve been the girl from 6. He wouldn’t touch the girl from his district,” she hisses. I suck in my breath, heart pounding. She snags the crab snare I left in the bushes. “You think Iris was camping here?”

“Looks like her snare,” Florian says as Ambrosia hooks it to her belt. I have to slap my palm over my mouth to keep from screaming. It’s the last thing I have of Iris, and they’re going to take it. “Maybe she partnered up with the dead girl.”
“Nah,” Ambrosia scoffs. “She was all over the lumber girl. If she’s still alive, she can’t be far. I think there’s a pond this way.” She slices through the plants with a gleaming sword, and the two disappear from sight with my crab snare.

I don’t have time to mourn the loss of my main food source and last link to Iris. Because I’ve realized I’ve seen those burns before. From the white flowers in 7, that lined the utility road to the beach. Where Sebbie and I carefully danced around them to avoid their toxic touch.

Hogweed.

And only one other person in the arena would know about its poisonous properties.

I’m thankful that I secured myself to the branches again, because I suddenly feel quite faint. I grip the tree limbs as my heart pounds in my ears.

Sebbie’s been poisoning the other tributes.

It all makes sense. The belladonna bushes, stripped of fruit. The hogweed rashes. The kid the remaining Careers ran into. Viridia’s burns that Iris talked about. 

It was all Sebbie. Gathering an array of poisons to kill off the others.

Did Cedar tell him to do it? We all knew he was a whiz with plantlife. I’ve never seen someone poison their way to victory in the Games, but this can’t be the first time it’s been done. And it’s brilliant, really. Sneaking around, gradually adding fatal doses to food and water, tricking other tributes into believing a certain plant is safe when it’s sure to cause nothing but agony. If anyone could do it, it would be Sebbie.

But Sebbie has never been a fighter. He’s never been willing to stand up for himself. When someone messed with him at school, the first thing he’d do is run to me in tears. To think of him as someone who’s probably killed countless tributes in the last week is jarring, to say the least.

Maybe it wasn’t him. But the only other person they could be referring to is the guy from District 11, who probably hit his first growth spurt as a toddler and can bench press three hundred pounds. That’s no kid. The only kid left is Sebbie. There’s no use in trying to convince myself he didn’t kill all those people. Plus, they specifically said it was a kid from 7. And it sure as hell wasn’t me. Sebbie has been behind all of this.

No wonder he didn’t want to partner with me. If my theory holds true, it means he’s a prime target. 

This entire time, I’ve been determined to protect Sebbie. But have the roles been reversed? Has he been trying to protect me?

The idea is almost laughable. But somehow, I have a feeling that this is the case. All along, he’s been stalking the competition. Killing when he can. Concocting deadly potions for others to stumble upon. And keeping his distance from me to ensure my safety.

The only thing that stands in the way of us going home is other people who have the same goal. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been horrified to see Sebbie turn into a killer. But I can’t look at him differently for doing what he did when I’ve already killed two people. I don’t think any of us can judge each other for what we do in the Games. For what the Capitol makes us do.

There are three people left, other than Sebbie and I. There’s Ambrosia, Florian, and the boy from 11, but Florian seems to be on his way out. Meaning I only have to worry about Ambrosia and the tribute from 11, though I haven’t seen or heard anything regarding the latter since the bloodbath. 

I wait a few hours before climbing down from my tree and journeying to the pond for water. What I don’t expect to see is an emaciated Florian lying on the banks of the pond, eyes glazed over. I instinctively crouch in the bushes, and his head slowly turns towards me. But he doesn’t move.

It could be a trap. Ambrosia could be a few steps away, waiting to pounce. But as I wait, my eyes locked with his, nothing happens. No one comes to kill me. No one comes to Florian’s aid. I toss a rock that sails over Florian’s head, splashing into the water, and still, the woods are silent except for the pleasant bickering of birds.

His wounds seem even worse, now that the sun is directly overhead. I’ve only seen a hogweed victim once, while Mrs. Light was discharging him from the clinic. It was a lumberjack who’s harness tore while sawing branches, and a patch of hogweed broke his fall. He was lucky, as his clothes mostly protected him from the toxic flowers. Plus, the injury occurred just after dusk, when the sunlight couldn’t aggravate the blisters. But his arms and neck were bloated and bubbly, and I felt sick just looking at him. 

Florian looks so much worse. He has no relief from the sun, no relief from the thick clothes we wear in 7. It’s almost as if a repulsive pox has infested his skin. I have to hold my breath as I approach him, my knife drawn.

“You’re in my water,” I kick his ankle, and he winces.

“Don’t know what to tell you,” Florian replies. His voice is gurgly, and now I can clearly see the blood seeping from his gums.

“Where’s Sebbie?” I ask, squatting so we’re almost at eye level.

“Piss off.”
I tip his chin forward with the blade of my knife. “You might as well tell me. You’re gonna die anyway.” The open sores on his collarbone already look infected, with jagged scarlet streaks snaking across his exposed skin. Whenever he speaks, it sounds like he swallowed liquid concrete, meaning whatever infection he contracted from the poisonous plants has already reached his lungs, and given by the red streaks on his neck, it’s rushing towards his brain. He’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. I realize that Ambrosia must have left him here to die. There’s no use in carrying around two hundred pounds of dead weight. It would be a lot easier for her to just dump him here. I can’t imagine why she didn’t kill him, though. Maybe she didn’t have the heart to do it?

Florian’s jaw is clenched, either from pain or a silent oath to keep quiet. I press the end of my knife into his skin until a droplet of ruby drips down his neck.

“I’m not helping a lumber girl,” Florian snarls. 

“Well, this lumber girl is about to carve you up if you don’t give me some fucking answers,” I hiss. More blood oozes from the fresh cut on his throat, just above his Adam’s apple. Finally, he sighs.

“East,” he attempts to clear his throat, but his voice is still as guttural as ever. “Around three miles. There’s a cave. He was there yesterday.”

That’s good enough for me. I get up, feeling my joints crackle as I pace to the rushing waterfall. I fill my bottle and watch Florian, whose eyes are still on me.

“Charity.” Red spittle bursts from his lips, and he attempts to hawk a glob of mucus and blood into the bushes, but it just hangs from his mouth, dribbling down his chin. “Please.”
He doesn’t have to say it. I already know what he wants: for me to put him out of his misery. But I don’t want to kill anymore. I’ve already killed two people since the Games started. And two is far too many.

Still, I drift towards him. I’m not going to kill him. But I won’t object to him doing it himself.

“Pick your poison.” I gesture to the knife and hatchet hanging from my belt. His eyebrows furrow.

“Was that Justin’s?” His hand weakly points to the hatchet. I grip the handle, taking a step back. He starts hacking again. Maybe he won’t have to commit suicide after all. At this rate, he could be dead by dusk.

“Yes.” I respond solemnly.

“Was it quick?” His eyes wander towards the clouds, and I think of Iris. The precise slices in her skin. The messy amputations of her fingers. The deep carvings in her abdomen, and the blood that saturated every inch of her clothes. The agony in her touch as she slipped away.

“Considering what he did to Iris, it was too quick.” Justin deserved to feel every ounce of torture he put Iris through. But that wasn’t my punishment to dole out. No, if there’s another chapter after we die, I can only hope Justin will face the consequences of his actions in hell.

“She was something else,” Florian nods, spit glistening on his face. And suddenly, I feel ill, seeing the boy in front of me speak of Iris. He didn’t care about her. None of the Careers did. Maybe Alabaster held some sympathy, seeing that they came from the same district and that he gave her a second chance. But I know for a fact that Florian couldn’t care less about my companion. I wonder what Ambrosia and Iris fought about in the cafeteria for the first time since their argument. I’ll never have the chance to ask her now.

“What did Sebbie do to you?” I inquire, nodding towards Florian’s various ailments.

“White flowers,” he says, wincing as he shifts to face me. “Berries. Snuck ‘em into my water.”

Belladonna. The perfect poison. Hogweed, toxic berries, and countless hours under the sun which only exacerbated his blisters. A cocktail of death.

“Is he safe?” I can’t believe I’m asking him this, but if he encountered the Careers, they probably didn’t let him off without a few lacerations.

“Amb cut his arm,” he replies, voice thick. He coughs up another spitball. “Nothing else, though.”

I purse my lips, and unclip my knife from my belt. I place it in Florian’s raw palm, and take a few steps back, just in case he tries to slash at my heels. He doesn’t.

“Thanks for the intel,” I say, and nod towards the knife. “Hope that helps your predicament.” And for the first time, I see him smile. It’s not pretty, by any means. But it almost seems heartfelt.

“Good luck,” Florian smirks. I shoulder my backpack, and begin my excursion to the east. I’ve only made it around half a mile or so before I hear a cannon fire, and I know that Florian’s out of the competition. The hovercraft sails above me to retrieve him, and I continue through the brush as a cluster of clouds rumble in the distance.

Four tributes left.

Chapter Text

The rain starts about an hour later.

It was only a drizzle at first. I’ve dealt with plenty of rain back home, so I zipped up my jacket and pulled my hood over my head. But after a cannon fired, it became relentless, bombarding anyone and anything in its path. The leaves cave under the weight of the water droplets and dangle precariously from twigs, ushering rivulets of water that drench me in minutes. Even with my hood, I’m still soaking wet in a matter of minutes. Lars was right: this is one hell of a rainstorm. 

The promise of a hopefully dry cave and seeing Sebbie again keeps me plundering through the mud, but by the time dusk falls, I realize I need to find shelter for the night. Climbing a tree isn’t an option. I’ve already come this far, and I’m not going to die by slipping on a branch. 

The terrain has changed considerably over the course of my walk. The trees seem more sparse, and the mossy forest floor has become inundated with river rocks. It’s no longer flat either; the earth is undulating, with jagged cliff faces and hills that make my legs hurt just looking at them.

I find an outcropping of granite that provides some relief from the sheets of rain. It’s no use trying to start a fire. Anything flammable is far too wet to use by now. So I grit my teeth and curl up in my sleeping bag, shivering in the night.

The anthem plays. Florian appears, followed by the girl from 6 who I saw this morning. Then, the last tribute is the boy from 11. I exhale a sigh of relief. It’s down to me, Sebbie and Ambrosia. Two tributes from 7. Orchid was right. Our district will almost certainly have a winner this year.

Sebbie’s probably warm and cozy in his cave. I can see it now. He’s rubbing his hands over a crackling fire, laughing as the rain continues to fall. Dry as a desert. I shake my head as I set my backpack down beside me, so I can use it as a pillow. But I don’t sleep for quite some time. I just stare into the darkness, listening to the rain, until it eventually lulls me into a restless daze. 

Boom! I sit up straight as the earth quakes, pebbles tumbling into my shelter. How long have I been asleep? The rain has somehow gotten worse, becoming a torrential downpour that’s beginning to flood my shelter. There’s a flash of light in the distance, and I hear another boom. This time, it’s much closer.

I roll up my sleeping bag and jam it into my backpack as the third lightning strike hits. It’s only a few meters away this time, and the thunder that follows makes the earth convulse violently. I’m stumbling through the vegetation, branches smacking me in the face as I desperately carry myself across the uneven ground.

The rain falls ferociously. A deluge of icy water clouds my vision, and I have no way of knowing where I’m going. I can vaguely gauge the trees around me whenever my surroundings are illuminated by lightning, but even then, it’s only for a brief moment before the rain is distorting everything around me again. Puddles splash beneath my boots as I run, dirty water trickling down my calves and soaking my cotton socks. The rain chills me to the bone, and I keep my fists balled as I sprint, trying to keep my fingers from going numb.

I feel the hairs on my arms rising before lightning strikes alarmingly close to me. There’s a feral crash as a tree smashes into the ground a few meters away. I look back to see its smoldering remains sizzle out in the storm, smoke snaking through the leaves. The thunder that follows nearly knocks me to my knees, but I keep running.

Another bolt scorches a towering redwood in my path. The thunderclap resonates throughout my body, and my toes catch on a gnarled tree root. I reach forward to steady myself, but I’m too late, and my body twists as I hit the ground shoulder first. Pain explodes in my ankle as I scoot towards a tree, mud seeping into my leggings. I grab the trunk and try to hoist myself up, but I quickly realize I cannot put any weight on my right foot without crumpling to the ground. I scream in a mix of anger and agony. How cruel is it that I’ve come so far, only to be immobilized by an injured ankle?

I begin to crawl through the brush, dragging myself through the muddy soil. I can’t give up now. Not when I’m so close to the end. 

My hands have gone numb. I drag myself beside the fallen tree that’s still glowing with heat, and the throbbing pain in my ankle seems to grow exponentially. My body aches, and when I try to stand, my leg buckles beneath my weight. Eventually, I sink into the mud, lying on my side as the arena rumbles, lightning peppering my surroundings. I’m sorry, Sebbie. It’s hopeless. I can’t move, and I certainly can’t fight to save my life. I’m going to die here, drowned in a maelstrom of rain, stuck in the mud. I’ll be delivered back to District 7 in a block of clay. 

Lightning strikes just above me, and for a fleeting moment, I think I see a figure in the darkness. This is it. I don’t try to shield myself or take any evasive action. I lie there, waiting for death. The forest lights up again, and whoever’s chasing me is much closer. Is it Ambrosia? Is she here to finish me off? Perhaps she’ll be quick. I close my eyes, and wait to be skewered in the neck.

Someone’s yelling in my ear, but I can barely recognize the voice as being masculine before there are arms underneath me and I’m standing upright, leaning on my left leg. And only then do I see the familiar freckles dotting the cheeks of the boy in front of me.

“Sebbie?”

“Yeah,” he nods with a giddy grin, face damp. “It’s me.”

I lean into him, my face pressed against his shoulders as a week’s worth of angst escapes my body. I’m crying harder than I’ve ever cried before, and Sebbie’s just running his hands over my back, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, as I completely and utterly unravel in his arms. I’ve toiled over this boy for four long years. Broken my back time after time to try and build as normal of a life for him as possible. Being separated from him, even if it was just for a week, seared a hole into my chest that I never recognized until I had him in my sight again. He’s grown to be a part of me, practically an extension of my very being. The love I feel for him is terrifyingly perfervid, and this love is the only thing that keeps me from rotting in the mud.

I pull away as another web of electricity prances through the violet clouds, and I cradle Sebbie’s face in my palms. “You’re really here,” I cry, pressing my forehead against his. “You’re okay? You’re alive?”
“I’ve been better,” he laughs, “but yeah. I’m alive.” Another tree falls victim to Heaven’s fury, and we hold onto each other as thunder shakes the arena. We need to get out of there, to a place that’s not surrounded by prime lightning targets. But I can’t take my eyes off of the boy in front of me. There are various blemishes on his arms and hands, undoubtedly from his exposure to the poisonous plants. I quickly spot the cut on his arm that Florian mentioned, though it isn’t as bad as I feared. Really, it’s more of an abrasion than anything. In fact, he looks more or less healthy. If anything, he looks bigger, and his voice has dropped a few notes.

“Have you grown?” I sweep his wet hair so it’s not hanging in his eyes. The beam on his face is so familiar, so safe, that I almost forget that we could be seconds away from being fried by lightning.

“I think I finally hit my growth spurt,” he simpers. “Stand up, let’s see who’s taller.” I can’t help but laugh at that. It’s absolutely ridiculous. The arena is practically falling apart, and yet our first priority is to see if I still have an inch of leverage over him. I try to stand as straight as possible with only one functioning ankle, and my certain slouch doesn’t help my case as I feel his palm on my scalp.

“I’m taller!” Sebbie cheers, spinning me around.

“No way.” My foot slips, and I grab his arms. He places a sturdy hand on my back as I nearly crumple to the ground.

“What happened? Can you walk?” 

“No,” I say through gritted teeth, a fresh jab of pain seeping through my bones. “I think I sprained my ankle.” 

Lightning briefly casts a coarse shine on his distressed features. “We need to get out of the trees.” He wraps his arm around my torso. “Hold onto me.”

I clutch his waist as tightly as possible. I can’t feel my fingers at this point, so I could absolutely be cutting into his skin with my nails. But he says nothing, and I can’t move without him by my side. So soon enough, we’re hobbling through the storm, albeit at an agonizing rate.

“Let’s get to the clearing,” he pants. We have to practically scream to hear each other over the deafening storm. “Where the Cornucopia is. It’s not far.”

“Don’t they want us to go there?” I shout over the relentless rain. “For the final showdown?”

“We don’t have a choice!” Sebbie tightens his grip on my waist, and we continue through the forest, as the arena rocks and rumbles. We’re tripping and stumbling the whole way, but every time we fall, he scrambles to his feet and lifts me up again. I sneak a glance behind us, and my heart plummets as I see the trees caving in, sinking into the soil. Waves of loam oscillating as far as I can see through the haze of the storm. The earth dissolves into a spinning cesspool of organic material, reverting to its roots as a whirlwind of force and fury. The sound is absolutely petrifying, like a stack of a thousand papers shredded in a blender, combined with sparks of flame triggered by lightning and thunderclaps that make every bone in my body vibrate. I hop along as quickly as my leg allows me, and Sebbie doesn’t have to look behind us to visualize the carnage. 

The trees begin to thin, and there’s a golden glint in the distance. We’re almost there. Just a few more yards and we’ll be out of the woods. Pebbles and sediment pelt my back, and I have to duck to avoid a branch that’s flying through the pandemonium.

I collapse as we enter the clearing, red hot pain shooting up my calf. Sebbie hoists me up again.

“Not yet,” he says, pushing forward. “We have to get away from the trees.”

“I can’t,” I gasp. It’s like molten lead is being poured across my foot. I can barely keep up with Sebbie, even though his strides are short and patient.

“Yes you can,” he insists. “Just a bit further.” We only make it about ten feet before I’m laying on the sand again, chest heaving. Every muscle in my body has given up on me. I’ve finally run out of steam. Everything around us is pitch black, so I can’t see what’s left of the forest. The storm rages on, but the earth seems to have settled.

Sebbie sits next to me, intertwining my fingers with his. A lump forms in my throat when I see the blistering marks on his wrists.

“I was supposed to protect you,” I choke out, eyes closed. “I couldn’t even find you until it was down to the three of us.”

“You really think I was going to just abandon you?” Sebbie laughs. I look up, puzzled. There’s a knowing smile on his face.

“What?”
“I’ve been watching you,” he says. “When you were on the beach. With Iris. I checked on you every other day or so, if conditions allowed.”

“The belladonna,” I whisper. I think of my last night with Iris. When I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone. “That was you?”

His smile contorts into a painful grimace, and he lets go of my hand to stare at his own. The blood on his hands may not be visible, but it’s still there.

“Yeah,” he says solemnly. “It was. Did Iris tell you?”

“She said Viridia had some burns, but that was it,” I respond. “I didn’t realize it was you until this morning.” I don’t have to elaborate. We both know the unspoken confession that hangs on my lips. I didn’t realize you were killing everyone with poison until I saw your victims.

“I didn’t want to,” he mumbles. “I saw the hogweed patch on the second day. Found the belladonna while you two were on the jetty. Used the camas and poison ivy as well. Charity, I killed so many of them.” His words are slurring together at this point, and I know he’s about to cry. So I shush him. We have cried enough tears to satisfy a millennia of mourning. 

“You didn’t kill them,” I say softly. “The Capitol did. The Capitol damned us all. You did what you had to do to survive. So did I.”

His eyes are locked with mine, before he stands and extends his hand. I take it, and he helps me to my feet as I lean on my left leg.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sebbie strokes my cheek. “We’ll be okay. We just have to get through the night and we’ll figure it out from there.”

For a moment, I believe him. I truly believe that we’ll be safe. That this is just a nightmare, and in the morning, we’ll go home. Mom will be there to buy us ice cream afterwards, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives eating desserts and playing yard games. We’ll take every day for what it truly is; a blessing.

But my daydreams are snuffed in seconds.

I’m not sure what I register first. Whether it was the moon reflecting off Ambrosia’s sword or the sound it makes as it slashes through the air. But I’m pushing Sebbie to the ground and unclasping my hatchet from my belt as I see her silhouette materialize into a blistered, bloody girl. But all I see are eyes filled with bloodlust. My hatchet’s clashing against her sword, and I raise my weapon for another attack, but I’m a second too late, and I find myself back on the ground, a squelching sound penetrating my ears.

Ambrosia yanks her sword out of my abdomen, and I weakly kick at her shins, my heel catching on the hatchet that’s been knocked out of my hands. I’m flinging it towards Sebbie with my foot, and there’s a guttural scream that rips through the night. I only realize that it belongs to him when I hear the cutting edge clang against steel. There’s another primal scream, and then, it’s abruptly cut off, replaced by a gasping whimper. I feel the weight of her body fall behind me.

And then, the rain lets up. The clouds part. And the soft glow of dawn illuminates the arena, as a distant, familiar blast carries the confirmation of Ambrosia’s demise.

“Charity!”

Sebbie’s voice sounds distant in my ears. Like I’m underwater, or he’s a million miles away. Caught in quicksand, dooming me to die alone. But then his face is hovering over mine, and he’s pressing on the open wound in my stomach, which hurts tremendously. I whine as he lets go.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay. We just need something to stop the bleeding. There’s stuff in the Cornucopia. Can you make it to the Cornucopia? We can fix it. You’ll be fine.” It echoes in my ears, and I understand what he’s saying, but it sounds so far off and so outlandish that I can’t believe it for a second.

“Sebbie.”

“Do you have anything? Bandages or something? Maybe Ambrosia does.”
“Sebbie.”

“It’s going to be alright. I’ll make you better, I promise. I just-”

“Sebbie!” My hand finds his cheek, fingertips leave trails of blood across his freckles. He finally stops, finding my hand in his. “Sebbie,” I gasp, bringing my other hand up and cradling his face. “You won .”

He stares at me as if I’m speaking gibberish, and his fists fall to the collar of my coat. He shakes his head as the tears begin to fall, lips quivering.

“No, it wasn’t supposed to end like this!” Sebbie sniffles, burying his forehead in my clavicle. I can feel my heart pounding in every fiber of my being, as warmth leeches into the sand. “ You were supposed to get out of here alive, not me!” His shoulders are trembling as he makes a futile attempt to control his cries, and I feel like I should be crying too, but my well of tears has long run dry. 

The stars are coming out, even as the sun rises. I can see them twinkling in the last strings of night. They dance through the clouds that once carried so much sorrow, and I can hear the waves gently lapping at the shore behind me. The forest is still alive and well, and there are no signs of the destruction that twilight brought. Robins chirp and chortle as the cicadas fall quiet, and finally, I feel at peace. I’ve done what I needed to do. Sebbie’s going home.

Something clicks in the back of my mind, and I reach for my pocket, my bloody fingers curling around my pine tree. I find myself pressing it into his hand, and he’s fighting me every step of the way, shoving it back towards me and vehemently denying my half of our token, but I squeeze his hand shut once I feel his fingers feebly wrapped around it.

“Keep it,” I whisper. “This way, I’ll always be with you.” 

His eyes, once bright with youth, have aged centuries. And my heart hurts, knowing he had to grow up so quickly. Forced to mourn the lives of those he lost. And then, forced to fight for his own. Forced to kill so many people. He’s still a child, who had to become an adult in the span of a few years. He never had the chance to truly be a kid. 

But it’s over now. He’ll never have to fight for food, for security, for respect. My mom will be there to take care of him when the tough days consume his mind. The riches poured down on him by the Capitol will ensure a lifetime of food, luxuries, and most importantly, safety. He will never have to play these Games again. He’s going to be okay.

Sebbie was right. I’m going to be just fine. Nothing can replenish the blood I’ve lost, the physical parts of me that have been marred. But I know he’ll be protected for the rest of his life. I’ve done what I needed to do. My mission here is complete.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. I hold his body against mine, drinking in his warmth.

And as the sun’s light becomes blinding, my surroundings fading into a brilliant white, I’m whispering it back with my hand locked in his, until there’s nothing left but a jubilant hum that warms my insides.

Someone’s standing in the distance. I squint my eyes as they walk closer, their steps bouncy and carefree. Shimmering, auburn hair slinks from side to side as a familiar pair of eyes find mine. I raise my eyebrow, and Iris smiles. She begins to speak, but the voice does not belong to her. It belongs to Caesar Flickerman, and the words finally allow me to sleep. A lullaby ushering an eternity of rest.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the victor of the 54th Hunger Games, District 7’s Sebastian Light!”

Chapter Text

On a misty summer morning, as the chickadees begin their morning calls, Sebastian Light travels to the cemetery. He carries two roses in his right hand, and thumbs a worn necklace with a familiar pine tree pendant. There’s a letter tucked away in his shirt pocket, folded and creased alongside a lighter.

The walk to the cemetery isn’t too arduous. Just a mile or so from his mansion in the Victor’s Village. Puddles splash under the man’s boots, and there’s a familiar chill in the air that raises goosebumps on his exposed skin. A few stray rain drops fall from gray clouds that cloak the town in a dreary lull. The windows of every shop are shuttered. Even if it wasn’t Reaping day, no one would be open for business at this hour.

Still, he is not alone once he reaches the cemetery. Cedar stands over Orchid’s grave, laying a flower of the same name on the dewy grass. Over two decades of increasing alcohol abuse and heart crushing survivor’s guilt that Sebastian’s all too familiar with have taken their toll on the man. Cavernous wrinkles mar his skin, and his salt and pepper hair is slick with grease and grime. 

“Thought you’d come by when the sun came up,” Cedar says, the ghost of a sad smile etched in his eyes.

“I could hardly sleep, anyways.” Sebastian embraces the former mentor. He smells of body odor and booze. “Figured I’d get an early start to the day.”

“Might as well.” His eyes stray towards the flower alongside Orchid’s headstone. The pearly petals caress the worn marker. “Can’t believe we’re in this mess again.” He scoffs and pulls a carton out of his coat, snatching a cigarette from the box. “You got a lighter?”

Sebastian fumbles for the lighter in his pocket, tossing it towards the older man. A sharp flick, a hearty inhale, and Cedar passes it back to him. He raises the cigarette inquisitively, and Sebastian shakes his head. 

“You know I don’t smoke.”

“Figured I’d ask. Today’s a special day.” They both laugh half heartedly at that. Cedar glances towards a familiar pair of headstones a few rows down. “Give them my best wishes.”

“Will do.” He begins to walk towards the graves.

“Wait.” Sebastian turns, and Cedar smirks at him. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The younger grins through pursed lips. “I’ll see you this afternoon.” Cedar strolls through the arch of the cemetery gates with a curt nod, and vanishes in the fog. 

Meanwhile, Sebastian’s feet carry him to the plot he’s visited every month for over twenty years. Two headstones, side by side, with two familiar names carved into the marble.

It’s been twenty one years since his life changed forever.

He didn’t speak for a few days after they lifted him from the arena. The congratulatory shoves on his shoulders, the applause from the Capitol, it all rang soundlessly in his ears. Cassia’s praises felt suffocating. The prep team dressing his wounds and scrubbing the scars away was the only thing he relished. The raw pain distracted him from the hollow hole in his heart that Charity left.

“You earned yourself quite the nickname out there, kid,” Cedar grinned. “Capitol’s obsessed.”

And it’s a name that was forced onto him for the rest of his life. He was forced to embrace a new identity that the audience adopted for him. Posters printed with it, shirts advertising his victory, and that sickening name repeated on every channel for months. All while reeling from the death of the only person who ever understood his anxieties. Who could calm him when everything was falling apart. He stared emotionlessly at the massive screen during the Recap, when Caesar replayed the Games for all to see. He watched as the hosts commented on his use of poison. He watched himself harvest belladonna and grind the berries into a fine puree, slipping the juices into the food and water of camps he stumbled upon. Littering the sites with hogweed and poison ivy. Crushing camas into a fine powder and sprinkling it on anything edible. The multitude of meals and tools gifted by sponsors. They highlighted his one sided encounter with Charity and Iris on the fourth day. He hid in the trees, watching carefully as they feasted on crustaceans. The Capitol edited out Iris’s tirade against them, but he heard every word, and committed them to memory. He will never forget her speech.

Then, there’s the encounter with the tributes from District 1. They found him in the midst of poisoning their food, garnishing their supplies with hogweed and belladonna. He wriggled out of their grasp and got away with nothing more than a superficial cut on his forearm, but he was unable to add a fatal dose to their water as planned. Still, the poison weakened Florian considerably, and his ailing state was highlighted as Charity interrogated him about the whereabouts of the future victor, before giving him her knife so he could end his suffering. Florian slit his wrists in the pond, bleeding to death in minutes. A familiar fate that made the victor shrink back in his seat, thinking of his late father.

Finally, the horrible storm. Sprinting through the sea of turmoil, desperately searching for Charity. Finding her crumpled in a heap on the ground. Their trek to the clearing, a moment of rejoicing, and then, the crushing blow. Charity skewered through the stomach. A hatchet buried in Ambrosia’s chest. And their final goodbye, which brings almost everyone in the audience to tears.

He bowed deeply as President Snow took the stage, and placed a crown atop his head. His eyes are needle-like and cold. There is no warmth in his voice when he congratulates the Victor, and no thanks is returned in passing. 

“Poison,” Snow murmured as the golden halo envelops the Victor’s hair, the sickly scent of roses carrying his words. “What a powerful tool it can be.”

“Yes, sir,” he responded, any trepidation left long replaced with fury. He is not afraid of the man in front of him. He’s lived through his worst fear already: losing Charity. There is nothing that scares him now. Not even the crushing, hateful stare that Snow gave him brought any anxiety. He’s always wondered why President Snow glared at him with such ire, but he knew it was no use trying to figure it out. Instead, he donned the most convincing smile he could muster as Caesar extended a hand, introducing him for the first time with a new name and a new image. One that reflected the nature of his victory. A silent poison, slipping through the trees, killing anyone and anything it touches.

“Here he is, folks! The Victor of the 54th Annual Hunger Games, Blight !”

And today, Blight kneels in the cemetery, fingers grazing the frozen ground. He sets the first rose on the patch of grass in front of Misty’s headstone. He found her sound asleep upon returning from the Victory Tour, cold to the touch. The official cause of death was listed as pneumonia, despite her health being superb when he left. He was too grief stricken to question its authenticity. Every day afterwards was spent alone, huddled in his house, staring numbly at the walls. 

He lays the final rose atop Charity’s headstone. Years of wear and tear have muddled the once pristine marble. His knuckles graze her name, carved into the rock, before standing and journeying to his final destination of the day. It takes about an hour, and all the while his mind is restless. Running from horror to horror that he’ll never be able to let go. Most Victors plagued their worries with alcohol and various drugs. To ease the pain of reliving their past Games. Cedar was one of plenty. And for the first time, he understood why his mother sought Morphling following the demise of her husband and her daughter. Of course, he can never fully forgive her for leaving him to escape the nightmares. Rather, she had created a new one for him, as long as it meant she could experience even one fleeting moment of peace. But he’d be lying if he said he was never tempted to barter for drugs that could offer one night without abhorrent nightmares. Sometimes, the faces of the tributes he killed haunted him. Their mutilated, bloated bodies smothering him with hogweed and forcing belladonna down his throat. Blisters and boils consumed his body, and just before he could explode in a fountain of pus and blood, he’d wake with a strangled sob. But other nights, Charity would visit him. Every now and then, it was a peaceful dream. They were still stuck in the arena, sure, but they were together. Crabbing at the jetty, dancing in the sand, one of them flipping a table after the other pulled a winning hand in poker. But other nights, her corpse stood just outside of reach. Begging him for mercy, calling him a killer, and anything in between.

The beach is just as serene as it was twenty years ago. The log they sat on hasn’t moved an inch. Mushrooms sprout along the rotted wood, tendrils of fungus snaking across emerald moss. The air is salty and sweet, and for the first time in years, a massive black fish breaches the waves. A whale.

Blight pulls out the letter in his pocket, and rereads its contents, before lighting it on fire. The papery ashes are carried away by the breeze until there’s nothing left but smudges of black on his fingertips. He wipes his hands on his pants, and begins his journey back home, the papyrus words left unspoken, but never forgotten.

Dear Charity,

Today is the twenty-first anniversary of the day our lives changed forever. 

What plans did the universe have in store for us, if the Games didn’t take you away?

When I was younger, I always envisioned something along the lines of us getting married and growing old together. But I know your heart was elsewhere. You were and continue to be my protector, and most importantly, my best friend. Though, I can’t say I never wished we were more. I think you always knew how I felt, deep down. And I always knew it’d never work out for so many reasons. But the love I hold for you hasn’t changed one bit.

This world has changed so tremendously since I lost you. The Games are still going, and today is the day of the Third Quarter Quell. They’re calling for the tributes to be reaped from the Victors of each district. Orchid’s long gone, so the only female victor is a girl named Johanna. Cedar’s still here, along with two others who’ve made it back home. But regardless, there’s still a one in four chance that they’ll call my name today.

I think I understand what it’s like to protect someone now. Johanna has no choice but to go back into the arena. They tried to force her into sex slavery after she won, and when she said no, they killed her family. Ever since then, she’s been…brash, so to speak. Never afraid to speak her mind, even if no one else agreed. When they announced the conditions for this year’s Reaping, she was just as furious as the rest of us. But either way, me, Cedar and the other victors have agreed to protect her at all costs in the arena. She’s strong, no doubt about that.  She’s more than capable of taking care of herself, and she proved that when she won her Games four years ago. But I saw what the Games did to her. And I know what they did to me. So, if I’m Reaped, I’ll try to take the lessons you taught me and apply them to her. I don’t know if I’ll be as good of a partner as you were, but I’ll try my best.

As horrible as things seem, the energy surrounding the Games is much different than past years. There’s hope, believe it or not. Last year, two tributes from District 12 won. They were supposedly in love, and the girl threatened a double suicide at the end of their Games. So both went home. I can’t lie and say I didn’t feel a bit angry when the hosts let both of them win. Why couldn’t it have been us? Why couldn’t they have saved you?

But their victory has brought hope. The districts are beginning to rebel, slowly but surely. We’ve been organizing strikes and protests. The Peacekeepers gunned down fourteen of us last week, but our fury has reached other districts. 8 and 11 have joined us in rebelling. We hope to spread the word to others as well. And these Games will be the perfect opportunity. They will be unlike anything seen before. I don’t know what the future holds, but for the first time since you died, I feel hopeful. Perhaps we do have a life ahead of us, free from the grasps of fascism and tyranny. It may be too late for me, but the generations that follow could have a life of liberty.

I hope to write another letter by this time next year, but if one doesn’t come, I plan on telling you what’s on my mind personally. Wherever you go, I will follow. Just like when we were kids.

I love you endlessly, Charity Arbor. I miss you every single day. I hope to see you again soon.

Yours truly,

Blight

Sebbie