Chapter Text

[0] Renaissance

[76 ADD] – 76 YEARS AFTER THE END OF THE DARK DAYS

“If anyone is found to have shared this information prior to a public announcement, they will be tried and hanged as a traitor of Panem at the earliest opportunity.”

There was a mahogany table in the centre of the office. It was circular and yet, President Amarie Dux still seemed to sit at the head of it. Those in attendance– twelve mayors from the districts, two political officials and a Peacekeeper guarding the door – watched her as she carefully leafed through a stack of thick, yellowing paper. She liked writing things down; paper was easier to save, and easier to burn.

Outside, the Capitol celebrated the beginning of a new year. They could not see the stars behind the bright fireworks marching in the sky. There was music, accompanied by drinking and dancing and debauchery. Food flowed without pause. The glass wall of the office looked out onto the burning colours as they died in the night.

“This is not a discussion,” she continued, her deep voice ringing against an explosion outside. “I am simply giving you prior notice of changes being made in Panem so that you can plan how to implement them in your district. You may ask questions if you wish.”

As if on cue, Mayor Barnabas cleared his throat. He was a rugged man with a beard that remained untrimmed. President Dux hardly trusted him to fasten his own necktie, but District Seven trusted him to lead. He spoke as if his voice was the most important in the room – it rarely was. “What of Snow?”

There was a wry smile before President Dux spoke. “Snow decided to retire from his political career with immediate effect,” she reassured with an edge of finality. “I understand it was an election that was not publicised well in the districts, but we had a large turnout here.”

“Can we guarantee it was a fair election?” pushed Mayor Barnabas.

“You are welcome to count the ballot papers yourself if you wish.” President Dux shook her head. “Snow does tend to melt in the warmer months. Unfortunate, really.”

There was a murmur across the table, interrupted by the sudden noise of another firework. President Dux folded her hands on top of her papers and waited until the attempt at conversation died out. “We shall begin with an apology,” she continued when there was silence. “On behalf of the Capitol, I apologise for the 75^th Annual Hunger Games. I understand the importance of the victors to their district and the impact of their loss. Whilst I am glad of the opportunity to intercept a rebel plot, we should not have supported the late President Snow in this.”

“Is this apology going to stretch to anything physical?” asked Mayor Barnabas, accompanied by hidden, worried glances of the other people at the table. “District Seven lost-“

“District Seven had victors strongly involved with the rebel plot,” interrupted President Dux. She did like Mayor Barnabas; he was loud, reckless, and often stupid. “I suggest that you do not push the issue. Our apology is to those who were involved. Odair has been publicly congratulated on his second victory. There is to be no tour. He - and the other remaining victors, for that matter - are excused from all public and private duties.”

“And the Games?” asked Mayor Vellamo, the sallow-skinned leader of Four. “Will they continue?”

“Certainly.”

“But we will have no mentors!”

“We will provide citizens of the Capitol to act as mentors for the next ten years. We did do this before and although there were concerns, we now have plenty of people working within the Games who are willing to safely see a tribute through to the arena.”

Mayor Vellamo shook her head. “We won’t all have a victor in the ten years, Madame President.”

“A tribute can fend for themselves. They will have an escort, after all. If a mentor is so important to you, simply ensure you have one.”

Avian Quintus had remained silent. He was not a mayor, but President Dux had invited him as a representative of the recently tamed District Thirteen. There had been a promised leadership position if he publicly supported Dux through her campaign, and he had, ferociously. He had not been told anything of his new position yet. He risked a cough, and President Dux looked in his direction. “District Thirteen?” he asked, simply. “They will be participating?”

President Dux smiled, as if placating a child who had incorrectly answered a simple sum. “Of course,” she answered. “The population can sustain it, yes?”

“I suppose it can, if the emigration program continues as expected.”

There were whispered rumours running through the darker streets of the outer Capitol, where some households in trickier financial situations were being offered free accommodation and employment in Panem’s newest colony. The alternative was a harsh sentence in a debtor’s prison, but the possibility of a reaping turned it into a difficult decision. Avian had heard the stories himself but had not been able to read into President Dux’s intent.

“District Thirteen’s inclusion in the Games will be part of the new spectacle,” she confirmed, and Avian’s breath caught in his throat at the declaration. “Consider this a renaissance if you will – a new birth of the Games. As their mayor, Quintus, I will be expecting you to announce the reaping to them soon. We’re working on extending the train system to you already.”

Avian nodded, grimly.

President Dux continued. “We do have one final change to the Games to discuss. We will be trialling the inclusion of tributes from the Capitol.”

This prompted discussion. President Dux allowed it to run through her gathered crowd, listening and carefully considering what she could catch. Mayor Barnabas’ voice rose above the others. “The Capitol?” he cried, with a fist making contact with the wood of the table. “You would send your own tributes?”

“We had our own fair share of rebellion within our city walls,” admitted President Dux. Her voice silenced any other conversation, cutting beneath high-pitched concern. “Then, there is the matter of the Quell – it may have been Snow’s idea, but there was no one among us who stepped in to stop it. The Games are a reminder of our faults as a society, and the Capitol has enough sins to atone for although we will, of course, have our own system.”

President Dux took a pause to rustle through her paper again, stopping to admire a final firework that burst across the sky as the celebration came to an end. “There will be a reaping,” she concluded. “We will not offer tesserae, as you do. We will increase entries alongside convictions. If there is an adult who cannot pay a debt or who speaks against Panem, we will leverage their children’s entries. We shall see if the rebellion continues to grow when their children are at stake, as we do with the children in the districts.”

There was no opportunity to disagree. President Dux passed around the amendment to the Treaty of Treason, heavily implying that refusing to sign was not an option. At the final signature, President Dux announced the end of the meeting.

Chapter Text

[1] Legacy

Sparkle Lustre allowed herself to look down. It was a mistake.

“Faster.”

She swallowed the sick feeling in her throat. It pooled in her stomach. With the strength she had left, she continued to pull herself up the net and tried to ignore that she was extremely, extremely high up.

“Do you think this is faster?”

Sparkle pushed herself, holding on tighter and pulling herself up the last few metres of the netting. When she could, she placed her palm flat on the cold tile of the ceiling for a brief second and then went to grab the rope once more.

“Ten seconds. Hold it.”

She balled her hand into a fist before relaxing her fingers and placing them back against the tile. As she counted, she took deep, steadying breaths until she reached the magic number. When she took hold of the netting again, there was no comment. Sparkle took this as a sign she was finished, and began her slower, calmer climb down.

Her hair was sticking to her neck with sweat, her braid nearly undone. The friction burns across her hands were screaming as she kept hold. Sparkle gritted her teeth and continued - there was no feeling in the world that would have made Sparkle let go of the rope. Once she touched the mat beneath her, her heart rate finally began to slow.

Sparkle’s sister was waiting for her on the floor, holding a bottle of water out to the younger girl. Sparkle took it and used the cool water to ease the pain in her dry hands before her dry throat.

Dazzle scowled. “You shouldn’t treat water so carelessly.”

“Obviously, I won’t in the arena.” Sparkle took another drink. “Here though, there’s no harm. How was it?”

“You could be faster, but you did make it all the way to the top, I suppose. That is progress, although a volunteer that makes their weaknesses so clear…”

Dazzle trailed off, not needing to continue. Her judgemental eye caught Sparkle’s as she emptied the water bottle in one last swallow.

“I haven’t really been focusing on climbing,” countered Sparkle, quickly jumping in to fill the silence between them. She took the opportunity to run her fingers through her hair and braid it again now that she was on the ground. “You haven’t seen my spear throwing, or any of my axe work…”

“I saw it at the evaluation where we picked you,” interrupted Dazzle. “I had to fight off so many accusations of favouritism when we announced you were going to be our volunteer this year. Get your things.”

Sparkle’s training bag had been stashed at the base of the net before her climb. She took it from the floor and onto her back in one swift motion. Then, she took off after her sister as the victor began to make her way to the exit.

“It wasn’t favouritism though,” said Sparkle as she caught up. In a small voice, she added, “was it?”

Dazzle shook her head. “Your weaponry is good,” she admitted. “You have no competition for spear work, and your axe ability is a good standby for close combat. Still, I know your weaknesses. That’s why I wanted to see your climbing today.”

“Was it enough?”

“It was passable. I would hope you’re aiming higher than passable though, Sparkle.”

Sparkle found the straps of her backpack on her shoulders and held them tightly until her knuckles turned white. She disliked criticism and Dazzle doled it out like tesserae in District Eleven.

“Just remember,” her sister continued. “You cannot show weakness. The fighting will be real, and your competition will be desperate, and desperation changes how people will fight. They will use absolutely anything against you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” asked Dazzle, cold. She looked back at her sister as she continued. “Janus told me that you’ve been working hard at building an alliance with the boy already. He’ll be desperate too. He’ll do anything. There’s only one winner.”

“And that’s why you wanted to see me climb? Because I’ve already been working with my partner?”

“I wanted to see your weakness.”

Dazzle stopped. Sparkle stopped behind her.

“I know how much you rely on other people,” continued Dazzle. “I know you better than anyone else. There is only one person who comes out of that arena alive. You know the conversation that I’ve had with President Dux-“

“Ferro is a good partner,” stressed Sparkle. “That is all. We complement each other really well. I have the distance, he has close combat, and at least at the beginning we can-“

“You must win.”

Dazzle did not leave space for an argument. “I haven’t trained you as hard as I have for second place,” she said, waiting until Sparkle slowly nodded to continue. “There will be an alliance and they are useful at the start, but you need to watch your back for every single minute of those Games and break it as soon as someone else is a threat to you. There is one victor.”

Dazzle was right, and Sparkle hated when her sister was right.

The pair continued to move towards the exit. “Take your time,” instructed Dazzle as they walked. “Go back to my house – it’s nearer the square. Have a shower. Catch your breath. Make yourself look presentable. A victor does not arrive to the reaping in a whirlwind because they need-“

“To make an impression,” finished Sparkle.

Dazzle allowed a soft smile of approval. “You need to prove that to me. Mama and Papa will meet you at the square – someone turned up at dawn to interview them once the Capitol caught wind you might volunteer. Gem is still packing because that boy cannot be trusted to be organised, but I’m going to go straight there.”

Sparkle fixed a rehearsed smile to her face to match her sister. “I know what I’m doing, Dazzle. You can trust me.”

The smile was convincing. Dazzle did not notice the slight tremor in her sister’s hands behind the façade.

***

Ferro Revere declined the opportunity for a final training session on the morning of the reaping. It prompted several conversations about whether the boy from the lower city was truly dedicated to his role, but Ferro had waved them away. A final hour in the gym would make no difference to his ability. Instead, he wanted to spend time on what he still had the opportunity to control.

He had set out his clothing the previous night, having spent several coins for someone to bleach his old reaping shirt to a new white. It was a size too small, sitting tight across his arms and chest now that he was ready to volunteer but it emphasised his upper body and he was proud of that. Ferro took a moment to lift his arm in the mirror, trying to see what Panem would see on their screen as he volunteered.

“Do you think all victors spend their time admiring themselves in the mirror?”

Alyssa had a mischievous grin as she entered Ferro’s bedroom without knocking. Ferro caught her in the reflection, dropping his arm and returning to buttoning his shirt. It did not matter – she had already seen him. “Pa wants to know if you’re nearly ready,” she continued, settling down on Ferro’s unmade bed as if it was her own. “What would you like me to tell him, that you’ll need a couple more minutes of flexing in the mirror before you can stomach breakfast?”

“Shut it,” threatened Ferro, but there was a red flush spreading across his cheeks and nose, betraying him. “A victor is allowed to enjoy their own company.”

“You can have that luxury when you’re actually a victor,” Alyssa grinned. She wore white, as was tradition for a first reaping. It shone in contrast to the black jacket that Ferro was shrugging onto his shoulders. “You better be able to keep your eyes off your own reflection when it comes to the actual Games. I won’t have you embarrassing me.”

“You won’t be embarrassed when we’re living in Victors’ Village.” Beneath his jacket, Ferro tucked in his shirt. He had thrown a necktie across a chair the previous evening and he grabbed it now, draping it around his neck. “We’re not going to be from the lower city much longer, Alyssa.”

“And when I win, we’ll be just like Gem and Dazzle!” added Alyssa with a wistful expression. “You know, Gem was telling me the other day about how he has never seen someone as good at archery as I am in the junior classes! He’s thinking about moving me up to the intermediate training already. He might even let me volunteer early!”

“If you say so.”

“He did! I could be District One’s youngest victor. Just imagine that!”

“I’m imagining it.”

Ferro was not imagining it. His attention had been turned back to himself as he ran his fingers through his hair and dragged it back from his face. His father would probably say it was acceptable – the Revere family never cared much for appearances – but Ferro knew that the Capitol would consider his appearance until there was nothing left to criticise.

“Are you going to eat?” asked Alyssa. “Pa did make something whilst you were getting ready, but you’ll have to be quick.”

Ferro finished tying his necktie. “It’s okay – I’ll eat on the train.”

***

District One was the home of Panem’s luxury, and they were determined to show it when Panem was watching. They built a reaping of bright colours against the white stone of their central market, with merchants hanging colourful bunting and canopies from their shop windows. The staircase to the Justice Building had been dressed in red carpet, and the entrance to the centrepiece had been transformed into a stage. Here, a microphone sat at the centre framed by two large, crystal balls full of paper slips. There were red chairs for the victors to sit, underneath a plaque which had been carved with their names.

Dazzle Lustre, as the most recent victor, had taken a seat nearest the front. The camera had caught her shaking her head as her brother arrived in a hurry, having only just dropped his bag at the station. The final victor could only laugh as her protégé’s look of disapproval was broadcast to the nation.

Those without eligible children were registered outside the central market, directed to nearby viewing areas where they could watch the event on provided screens. The families of those standing in the reaping pens were shown to wooden stands, built to allow them to stand and watch over the heads of others. Many would put younger children on their shoulders, all dressed in their finest clothing.

In the reaping pen, Ferro sucked absent-mindedly on his index finger. The small wound from the Peacekeeper still bled and it was a challenge to keep the blood from his white shirt. He had positioned himself at the very front of the crowd so that his path was clear but if he looked over his shoulder, he could see Sparkle. She was continuously trying to smooth non-existent creases from her blue dress, and Ferro could not catch her eye.

At the hushed countdown of a camera operator, the mayor of District One stepped to the microphone. He was a stout man, balding but who tried every product to prevent it, who had memorised the required speech several years ago. He delivered it in an animated tone. “The Capitol have provided us with water, with food, and with a purpose to grow our wonderful society,” he spoke, voice echoing around the central market. “In return, they ask for nothing except our unwavering loyalty, our consistent hard work, and our finest young people to compete for the highest honour that Panem can bestow unto an individual: the honour of being a victor. Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to officially welcome you to the beginning of the 95^th Annual Hunger Games.”

The crowd rippled with loud cheers. Following his speech, the mayor introduced Taylia Eventyr. District One did not need an introduction to their infamous – and often disliked – escort. It was tradition to place a wager on whether Taylia would finish the reaping without trying to explain that she was personally responsible for Gem and Dazzle’s victories, so people held on to her every word to try and win themselves a few coins. She stepped to the microphone and the crowd applauded again, before falling into a silence of anticipation. Taylia stood taller, smiled brighter, and found the nearest camera.

“It is a delight,” she began, in her familiar accent of the Capitol, “to be back in District One. I am honoured to have been your escort for five glorious years – and two victors, of course – and I am looking forward to our adventure together for these Games. I wish you luck, District One, as we move into our reaping. May the odds be ever in your favour!”

As tradition dictated, Taylia started with the female tribute. She clacked across the tile in her high-heeled sandals, moving to the crystal bowl that had been used for all ninety-five years of the Games. It was full, with each slip written in meticulous handwriting and sealed with red wax. Taylia reached into the pool, choosing a slip from the very centre of the pack. She followed the expected formalities, bringing it back to the microphone and breaking the seal with her long fingernail.

Sparkle took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

“Your tribute,” announced Taylia, her voice clear. “Alyssa Revere.”

Ferro could not hide his laughter. His sister, with her own wry smile, played her part very well. Her white dress had caught the breeze that was funnelled across the central market as she walked from her pen and on to the red carpet. At the staircase, she took each step with confidence and relished the moment where the attention of her district – of Panem – was focused on her. She even looked straight into the camera that was following her, giving the watching audiences a smile.

Sparkle’s calm face had fallen. She was trapped in concentration, waiting for her moment, as her hands continued to straighten the skirt of her blue dress. Ferro tried to catch her eye and laugh at his sister’s audacity, but there was nothing that could take Sparkle’s focus away from the escort at the microphone.

Alyssa stopped beside Taylia, the escort draping a loving arm around the girl’s shoulders. “A strong, confident, and fully capable young girl,” she introduced with a smile, pulling Alyssa closer and into a brief hug. Alyssa was pretty and seemed polite, which meant Taylia adored her. “Sweetheart, the Capitol would welcome you with open arms, but we have to follow tradition. District One, do we have a volunteer?”

This was it. “Yes,” called Sparkle, in a steady voice. She did not wave but her voice was loud, travelling to the Justice Building and attracting Taylia’s attention. “I volunteer.”

Taylia grinned. “Brilliant. Come on up, sweetheart.”

Alyssa, knowing that she was no longer needed, hurried off stage. Sparkle granted her a brief shake of her hand as they crossed paths, which Alyssa accepted gratefully. There was an aura of confidence to Sparkle, reflected in how the crowd moved around her to grant her safe, uninterrupted passage to the stage. As she moved to the front, the crowd cheered her on.

“District One’s enthusiasm is truly unmatched,” laughed Taylia, trying to be heard over the support for Sparkle. When the volunteer reached the top of the staircase, Taylia took her by the hand and led her to the microphone. “Tell them your name, sweetheart.”

“My name is Sparkle Lustre,” announced Sparkle, leaning into the offered microphone. “I hope you recognise my name. There is no family with three victories in all of Panem, but Lustre will be the first. We will all bring honour to District One.”

Sparkle stole a glance over her shoulder to look at Dazzle and Gem, both watching her with genuine, bright smiles. The camera caught a shot of the three siblings exchanging their looks, the familial resemblance seeming more obvious on the large screen.

“Sparkle Lustre!” cried Taylia, clapping her hands together as she forced herself into the lingering shot. “Panem, please spend some time this evening reminding yourself of the wonderful victories of both Gem and Dazzle – Gem, of course, being my first tribute in District One.”

Taylia took a moment to speak of how her own ability had led Gem to his victory. District One had heard the story before and did not believe a word of it. They interrupted with a further cheer for their newest tribute. “Of course,” continued Taylia, gritting her teeth to hide her annoyance at being interrupted. “Miss Sparkle will be the next wonderful competitor for District One, and she will not be facing the arena alone. We still need to meet our male tribute!”

There was a familiar voice in her ear, buzzing in through the small earpiece she wore during the broadcast. “Be careful not to overrun,” it warned, familiar with Taylia’s way of telling long, winding stories of her own success at any moment. Taylia prided herself on hiding her anger at having her time seemingly cut short. She approached the ball of male names with a bounce in her step, grabbing a slip from the top – there would be a volunteer anyway.

“Viksi Tyler.”

Viksi Tyler was a tall, slender fifteen-year-old with a face that reminded those around him of a rat. His face fixed itself into a determined smile, but his pointed nose betrayed his nervousness by fixing itself at the paving beneath his feet. His body folded in on itself in an attempt to escape the camera. It is very obvious, thought Taylia, that some people are just not meant to be tributes.

Viksi did not have to worry about his name being called. He had barely made it to the stage when Ferro’s hand shot into the air, accompanied by a shout that rang from the surrounding buildings.

“Oh, someone is eager,” cheered Taylia, scanning the crowd for the volunteer. Viksi gratefully scampered away. “You’re supposed to wait until I ask for a volunteer, to give everyone a fair chance. What do you say, District One – should we let our volunteer come on up?”

There was a cheer: they accepted the shout.

Ferro took his time to leave the crowd, embracing the shouting and applauding of his home. He beamed widely, shaking the hands of the others around him as they clapped him on the back. When he finally reached the top of the staircase, Sparkle handed him the microphone. Ferro took it gladly.

“Ferro Revere,” he announced, before Taylia gave him the nod to introduce himself. “I’m very excited to be here, and even more excited to come back. Thank you for your support, District One!”

Taylia looked over her two new charges with a critical eye. They were pretty enough, by district standards, and seemed polite and well-spoken. It was going to be a good year, she decided, and she joined in with the applause before taking her microphone back. “I can see why they were happy to let you volunteer,” she shouted over the crowd. “It has been such a wonderful reaping. Two volunteers, and a district absolutely full of excitement. I cannot wait to be back next year but for now, my work escorting your delightful tributes to the Capitol safely must begin. Thank you, District One, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

***

Sparkle was not permitted to be visited by her siblings. As previous victors, Gem and Dazzle both had to be seen at the station in preparation for their duty as mentors. Instead, her first visitors were her two parents who were very familiar with the routine. Her mother entered first, clutching a lace handkerchief which Sparkle knew she would wave as the train departed the station. Her tears were forced.

“My little girl,” she cried, her voice too high-pitched to be truly hysterical. She had acted in this manner for both Gem and Dazzle, and both victors had recounted stories of television shows filmed in the Capitol using an older lady wailing with a handkerchief as a recurring character. “My youngest, off to the Capitol already. How proud I am of you. How much I’m going to miss you until you come back.”

Sparkle’s father, who looked thoroughly tired of the display, had edged in through the door behind his wailing wife. He gave Sparkle an approving nod with no tears in his eyes. “We are proud,” he reiterated, with no sense for the melodramatic.

“I’ll make you proud,” corrected Sparkle. “We’ll be the first family in Panem with three victors.”

Forgetting herself, Sparkle’s mother lowered the handkerchief. “We’ll host your victory party at Gem’s house,” she thought, aloud. “He has the better view over the meadow behind the import warehouse. People will be very impressed when they realise they can see the river from there.”

Her father pushed his dark framed glasses up his nose. “You just be careful now,” he said. “We’ll celebrate your victory when you’re back. You make sure you get here.”

***

“Keep an eye on that girl,” warned Ferro’s father, a stern man who barely passed as related to his blonde children. His tone came with a bite that Ferro was familiar with. “You know what that family is like. They wouldn’t know loyalty to their district if it bit them on the ass.”

“Careful,” warned Ferro. He glanced around the room nervously, certain that the Capitol would hear his father’s language and somehow hold it against him.

“They ain’t going to hear me,” continued his father, misjudging his son’s concern. “Those Lustre people won’t listen to a thing someone from the lower city says. Your victory is going to make us better than that, Ferro. We’re going places!”

Ferro still looked around, focusing on the door. If the Peacekeepers were still guarding outside, they would hear him. “Please just let me do what I need to. Playing to the Capitol is just as part of the game as fighting.”

“And you don’t want your old man embarrassing you.” His father’s smirk did not match Ferro’s concern. He ruffled his son’s hair. “I get you. I won’t wave too hard at the station. I best send Alyssa in before she starts running her mouth to those camera people and embarrassing you more than I can. You come back now.”

“I will,” promised Ferro, leaning into his father’s touch.

Chapter Text

[2] Unconventional

Epona Jericho wanted to spend her morning at the gymnasium. Instead, Icarus dragged her into tradition. She had joined the other graduating students at the camp by the old quarry and had stayed the night with them, remaining warm by their bonfire until the early morning sun sent them swimming in the cool water.

She paddled at the edge of the deep pool and kept a distance from the splashing of the other students, combing her hair with her fingers in an attempt to brush out the scent of smoke. There were many congratulatory shouts aimed in her direction as the sun continued to rise on the reaping morning. Epona responded to each politely, even though many of the comments dripped in bitter jealousy.

“How are you holding up?” asked Icarus, calling from his seat on the grass. He had been swimming as the sun rose, his hair still dripping water down his face, and he had not yet put his shirt back on.

Epona pointedly ignored his bare chest. She had trained alongside him since joining the institute and it was not uncommon for Icarus to go without his shirt. He preferred a good show to a good battle, and Epona had reluctantly grown used to him. “I’m holding up nicely,” she replied.

“I’m getting excited now,” answered Icarus, even though Epona had not asked. “I want to meet everyone else and work out their strategies and actually get a chance to kill. I’m so tired of playing with dummies, and with the-“

“We will need to be moving soon,” interrupted Epona. “You will want to put on a clean shirt before we make our way to the plateau.”

Icarus was as familiar with Epona’s interruptions as she was with his ego. He looked down at his chest, seeming surprised to find that he was not wearing anything. Then, he looked back to Epona with a bemused expression. “Is that all you can think about? Changing a shirt?”

“Well, it does seem to be the most pressing issue at the present.” Epona glanced back at the quarry behind her, where a handful of the students were still swimming. Their red uniforms had been tossed aside on the grass, with no concern for creases or stains. “We all need to be moving, or we’ll be late.”

“We have plenty of time.”

Epona tried not to scowl, having been told that it was unbecoming on a tribute. She was not successful. “Make sure you stand at the front of the crowd,” she instructed. If Icarus would not let her control his timekeeping, she still wanted control of the event itself. “You need to listen carefully for the name, and you need to be the first to call out when Ayanna asks for a volunteer. You can’t play around with this, Icarus.”

When he found his shirt, Icarus used the material to dry his hair and face. “Everyone knows I’m the volunteer, Epona,” he replied. “I can take my sweet time with it if I want to.”

“People want to be a tribute. They might try and take it from you.”

“You don’t trust our classmates?”

Epona shook her head. “I don’t trust anyone.”

She left the water. The grass was thick beneath her feet, and Epona sat to put on her socks. When she looked back at Icarus, his cheerful nature had fallen in favour of a hard glare. Epona approved; the fire behind his eyes was what made him a strong tribute partner.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s a great thing to say to your partner,” he said, with venom. “You don’t trust anyone, Epona?”

“No.”

Epona’s answer was plain, leaving a space between the two that was only filled with the distant hollering of the other students. She began to put on her boots, buckling them as the silence stretched out. Then, Icarus seemed to splutter an, “are you serious?”

“Yes,” answered Epona. Icarus waited for her to elaborate, but it never came.

“Fine,” he settled, eventually. “I know where I stand with you, at least. I’ll remember this conversation when we’re in the arena.”

“We will be a good team.” Epona climbed to her feet and turned her back on the quarry and the rest of the graduating class. She set off across the grass and onto the gravel path.

“Wait,” called Icarus. He waved the uniform that he had not yet managed to put on. “You know it’s tradition for the volunteers to wear red, right?”

Epona knew every tradition, even if she did not see the point of them all. Without turning to face him, she called a short, “I shall try.”

***

Leon Marin-Cortez was not important. He sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of his attic room, trying to tame his hair into something respectable for the day’s events. His father still snored softly behind an improvised wall of an old bedsheet, but Leon had been awoken by the distant cheering of the graduating students and their celebration. They were the important ones. From his broken window, the distant quarry had begun to bleed with their red uniforms.

He scowled, and the unremarkable boy in the smudged mirror scowled back. There was a hatred for the institute students that sat in his stomach, heavy like granite. He could hardly stand to hear their excitement as the wind carried it to his home, knowing that he never truly escaped their grey, judgemental eyes when their paths crossed. He was little more than an inconvenient curiosity to them.

“I’m from District Ten,” he told those that asked, repeating the story that the Capitol had given him. “We had to get permission from the Capitol to move, and we’re so grateful that they let us.”

They rarely believed him. They each saw tributes from District Ten each year, and they did not look or speak like Leon did. Leon and his father simply recited the story each time anyone doubted them, having been warned of painful repercussions if they ever mentioned their boat which they had accidentally sailed into the ocean off District Four.

“Leon?”

There was a knock at the hatch in the floorboards. It shook Leon from his reflection and set him crawling through the dust, unlocking the space which served as their front door. Jasper poked his head through the floor when it was unlocked, his own black hair already styled in preparation for the holiday. Leon placed a finger to his lips and nodded in the direction of his father’s bed. “Still sleeping,” he clarified, in a hushed voice.

“He’s got to be awake soon,” warned Jasper as he finished climbing the ladder. He closed the hatch behind him as he stepped into the room. “Reaping is in an hour. You’re going like that?”

Leon’s hand went straight to his hair. “It will be okay?”

“They might not like it.” Jasper shook his head as he spoke. “Your shirt is fine, but they like your hair to be neat. You have to look your best in case you’re shown on camera.”

“I know. I’ve done two.”

Leon had been alone with his father in a small, dreary cell when a screen had shown him a reaping as mandatory viewing. He did not have the language to understand why some children eagerly rushed forward whilst others stood in place and wept. Later, he watched a tall, slender girl throw a knife into a fleeing boy and the Games truly began.

He was expected to take part the following year. He was dragged to the plateau by Peacekeepers, where he could not understand what was said but he did recognise the ceremony. His name was not called. By his second reaping, he was trusted to attend the gathering by himself. He knew there would be a volunteer. He knew he was safe.

That year, the volunteer returned as a victor. There was celebration, and gifts, and pride. Leon finally understood the Games – they honoured the effort of survival, and Leon appreciated it having survived with his father before being dragged forcefully into Panem. He almost wanted to prove his own ability in the competition but District Two fielded highly trained volunteers, rather than lost explorers.

“It’ll be fine,” reassured Jasper, watching Leon try to flatten his curling hair with little success. “We won’t be shown anyway. They’re only going to want to see Icarus and Epona.”

Leon had heard enough of the volunteers since they had been announced, but Jasper enjoyed talking about them. “They are good?”

“The best.” Jasper grinned, his eyes becoming glazed in his idolisation of the institute’s finest students. “Icarus is unmatched with a knife, and I’ve heard that Epona is a skilled swordfighter. They’re going to bring honour to District Two.”

Leon faked pride; District Two was not his home, but there were too many people expecting him to say it was. “Two’s got too much honour,” he lied. “Can’t keep up with the names of your victors.”

District Two paled in comparison to life aboard his father’s boat. It was built on monotonous routine and expectation, and it was immovable, like a boulder.

“It was a tough year, apparently,” continued Jasper, excitedly. “They could have picked any of the students and we’d still have won. They’re all really jealous.”

“They could volunteer, if they wanted to.”

Jasper looked at Leon with a confused glance, his eyes wide. There was a pause and when Leon did not elaborate, his friend placed a hand on his shoulder gently. Leon looked back at him.

“No,” explained Jasper, as if explaining to a child. “Maybe it was different in Ten, but we have to make the right choice of tribute because winning will bring us honour. You don’t volunteer unless you’ve been chosen.”

Leon did not accept patronising commentary on his thoughts without a fight. He shrugged Jasper’s hand from his shoulder. “You could if you really wanted to,” he argued, with a bite.

“It happened once, in the 80^th Games. The boy was jealous he wasn’t chosen, and he volunteered anyway, and the alliance tore him apart as soon as the gong sounded. It’s not honourable.”

“Honour,” replied Leon, sarcastically. Jasper did not notice his mocking tone. “It’s all honour in District Two.”

In his mind, Leon did not hold honour in the same standing as survival and victory. District Two fought successfully, but for the wrong reason.

“You probably don’t understand honour, being from District Ten,” answered Jasper. He was flippant and smiled at his friend, who was growing angrier at the comments. “It might take you a while to understand that victory is for certain people. You’ll get it eventually.”

Leon forced himself to match the smile with his own smaller grin, more sly than welcoming. His mind had begun to run unattended, conjuring ideas he did not dare to speak aloud. He placated Jasper. “Well, I am good at settling in to places where I don’t belong.”

***

District Two was built of the stone for which it was known. The reaping was a splintered event across their many large settlements, all crammed in against the quarries and stone mines which tore through the earth. The crowds would wait in shadow, joining the reaping celebrations through intermittent video feeds.

The main gathering, attended by the students in red, was held on the plateau. It sat on a rare, uninterrupted piece of land where the sun was free to bake the dusty ground. The wooden stage was a permanent feature, but there had been some attempt at celebration throughout the night and it had been adorned in red bunting.

The staging was simple: a stone podium, a microphone and two glass bowls which were filled with paper slips of no consequence. Beside them, there were four wooden chairs for the four celebrated victors. They had each arrived promptly and taken their seat, except for Mason Gregory who had been intercepted by a reporter from the Capitol. He answered their questions with a dazed expression, the celebration still new for the recent victor.

The crowd were grey, like their stone. Epona had followed Icarus’ guidance and managed to find something red. She tucked her institute blouse into her skirt as she walked, uncomfortably aware of how sharp the fabric seemed against everyone else. The quick scratch from her registration had seemed to hurt more than it normally did, and the sun seemed stronger than it did on every other year, but Epona did her best to ignore each sensation and find her place in the large crowd.

Icarus seemed to have already forgotten their earlier disagreement, as he waved Epona over as soon as he caught sight of the red. Epona obliged.

Leon had walked to the plateau with Jasper. His father remained with Jasper’s mother at the very edge of the crowd, leaving the pair to find their own place within the pens. “We need to stand over here,” instructed Jasper, and Leon chose not to mention that he understood the routine. His mind was too busy with considering what if to be offended by the patronising guidance.

The stage was busy with movement, Ayanna Cain directing different cameras to catch her best side. In her vivid green dress, she stood against the grey, beige, and white landscape of the children in front of her. Unfortunately, the dust being kicked up on the plateau had begun to disrupt the satin and she spent most of her time brushing it from her skirt. “We have a perfectly good area beside the Justice Building,” she mentioned to those around her, although no one in particular listened. “There is no dust there at all. We could be there instead.”

Before she could demande a response, the crowd stopped shuffling. The mayor, a woman with her hair scraped into a tight bun, stepped forward without the need for a clock. She delivered a rousing speech about how the Capitol had helped Panem in their time of great need. “District Two,” she added, looking directly to the camera in front of her, “have always been loyal to the Capitol, and we continue to provide the essential stone upon which Panem is built. When we send our tributes, we send our best. Today, we welcome our warriors for the 95^th Annual Hunger Games and we hope the Capitol will welcome them with open arms.”

There was a loud applause. The mayor introduced Ayanna, waving her to the centre of the stage as the camera operator indicated they were broadcasting live. Ayanna took her position, placed both of her gloved hands on the stone lectern, and straightened her shoulders. “Good morning, District Two,” she announced, beaming. “The Capitol will, of course, welcome your tributes. I am honoured to be escorting them once more.”

Her enthusiasm was matched with silence, but Ayanna expected this. District Two always refused to cheer, meeting the reaping with dignity rather than raucous celebration. “I wish you luck as we move into choosing our first name. As we say, may the odds be ever in your favour!”

A volunteer would replace the chosen child immediately, but Ayanna took her time in choosing a slip. She ran her hand across the folded papers in the glass bowl and built the quick action into ceremony. When she did choose a name, she held it in the air as she took it to the podium. “Citrine Kione,” she called, and the crowd rustled in anticipation.

A black-haired girl with two long braids stepped from the thirteen-year-old pen. She was small and wore a pair of silver glasses that slid from her nose as she walked, but there was no red in her outfit. “Be careful on those stairs, dear,” Ayanna called as Citrine began the climb, wrapping her arm around the small girl’s shoulders and pulling her to the podium once she was within reach. “Do we have anyone who wishes to volunteer for Citrine?”

“I volunteer,” called Epona. She was clear, concise, and quick, leaving no opportunity for anyone else to step in. Icarus raised his hand to pat her on the back, but Epona gave him a cold glare, turning from him. The crowd left a path to the stage.

“How wonderful!” clapped Ayanna, gesturing to the girl in red. “You go down there now, Citrine – that’s right, back to the crowd. Let’s have our newest volunteer introduce herself.”

Citrine seemed pleased to escape. Epona replaced her quickly, walking tall with determination set in her face and taking each step with military position. Ayanna chose not to pull her into a hug and instead waved her to the centre, handing a microphone out to her. Epona looked down at it and stated clearly, “Epona Jericho.”

Ayanna continued to hold the microphone. She waved it slightly to indicate that the Capitol wanted more, but Epona either did not notice or chose not to indulge them. The escort gave another quick brush of her dress before placing the microphone back on its stand. “Well,” she stated, watching curiously as Epona continued to stare down a nearby camera. “Epona Jericho. I saw you step right out of our eighteen-year-old pen, here at the front. You look very capable of representing District Two. A cheer, please, for your newest tribute.”

The crowd clapped. With the brief applause, Ayanna took the time to move to the bowl of male names. She led an identical ceremony to choose a perfect name, although the piece of paper was far from perfect; it had been on the bottom, bent from the weight of the paper above it. The edges curled inwards as Ayanna smoothed it against the stone. “Cody Andesite!” she called, and the search for the tribute began.

Cody was stood in the eighteen-year-old pen, beside Icarus. With a laugh, he clapped the volunteer hard on his back as they shared a joke and a cheer. Cody left the pen to take to the stage as Icarus chose to embrace the camera that was already following him. He continued to applaud and cheer with the people crowded around them and stepped into the central aisle with a wave to the crowd.

“I volunteer.”

The call did not come from Icarus.

Icarus stopped, his hand still mid-wave in the air. He slowly lowered it, turning to get the attention of the escort. “There’s a mistake,” he called, as he hurriedly waved his arms until Ayanna was listening to him. “That’s not right. I’m the volunteer. It’s me!”

His voice grew more frantic. A Peacekeeper stepped forward and took him by the arm. They looked to Ayanna and the mayor for clarification. Ayanna glanced nervously at a nearby camera, before beginning, “I’m sorry-“

“I volunteer!” With each shout, Icarus’ voice became pained. He was rushing to the stage, tangling himself in the velvet rope in his desperation to pull away from the Peacekeeper. He still cried, with a shrill “I volunteer!” coming with every passing moment. The Peacekeeper held him still.

Ayanna carefully set her face in a calm, neutral expression. She tried to match the mayor. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “The rules are very clear concerning our volunteers. We must take the first person to volunteer. We can’t allow anyone who tries to shout afterwards. Otherwise, everyone would try!”

“But I volunteer!” Icarus was screaming now, being pulled back into the crowd by the Peacekeeper. “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

Icarus had taken the attention of both crowd and camera. However, during the confusion, the crowd surrounding Leon had stepped aside. They had heard his shout and did not greet him with celebration. Instead, they turned as if he was revolting to them. It allowed him a clear path to the central aisle through the plateau.

Leon was hesitant as he stepped forward. There was no one to lift the velvet barricade for him so he lifted it himself, leaving his pen and the safety of obscurity for the centre of the crowd. “I volunteer as tribute,” he repeated, loudly. His voice wavered when it was competing with Icarus’ screams. “I was first.”

Ayanna spotted her volunteer. “Yes, you were!” she beamed, grateful for a distraction from the boy shouting at the front of the audience. “How exciting! Come on up to the stage and introduce yourself, then. You’ve caused quite a stir!”

Leon remained where he was. He felt every eye in District Two – in Panem – glaring at him. He could not meet them and so his head was kept turned to the floor beneath his feet.

“As quick as you can, please. We need to keep our reaping moving today!”

He forced his left foot to move, and then his right foot, all the way to the wooden staircase. There, Ayanna took his hand and helped him up each step before grabbing him firmly by the shoulder and positioning him beside Epona. She stood at least a head taller than him, with a glare that would cut stone.

Ayanna spoke again, in her high-pitched Capitol tone that Leon found difficult to decipher. Her announcement swum around his head until it became a blended mess of sound before she pushed the microphone into his face. Leon finally looked up. “Uh,” he hesitated. “Leon Marin-Cortez. Fifteen.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” exclaimed Ayanna. Leon allowed himself to take a deep breath; he had answered correctly. “Well, District Two, here are your tributes for the 95^th Annual Hunger Games: Miss Epona Jericho and Mr Leon Marin-Cortez.”

The applause was hesitant. Leon thought he could see his father turn away from the stage, but Ayanna grasped him by the shoulder and marched him to the car behind the stage before he could be certain. “It’s so exciting when things are different to how we expected,” the escort chattered, filling silence between her two tributes as a Peacekeeper opened the car door and she directed them to a seat. “It’s just a short drive to the Justice Building, and then we can go on to the train station as soon as you’re finished saying goodbye.”

Ayanna had sat in the centre seat, between her two new charges. She shook her head gently. “We forgot to shake hands on the stage. It would have been nice to show some unity.”

Epona was cold as she spoke. “I would not have shook hands with him.”

“Oh, Epona, sweetheart. It’s just tradition, to show the healthy competition before we get into the arena.”

“He’ll be dead before the first cannon fires.”

***

Epona enjoyed efficiency, and her goodbye demonstrated this. She sat herself on a sofa in the Justice Building and waited, with a courteous nod to the escorting Peacekeeper. There had been a brief moment where she had been rattled by the sudden change in the expectation of the reaping, but she had adjusted to it now – the new, small boy would be easier to outlive than Icarus, anyhow.

“Epona,” her father said gently as he entered the room, her mother following closely behind him. It sounded as if he was going to say more but he did not, simply taking the seat beside his daughter. He did not take her into a hug although it was clear that he wanted to.

Epona’s mother remained standing. “What your father is trying to say,” she said, filling the silence, “is that we’re very proud of you.”

Epona nodded. “Thank you.”

“We’re just a little worried, that is all.”

Her mother took a seat on Epona’s left, ignoring the sign from her daughter that she did not want to be held. She wrapped an arm around Epona’s shoulder. “It can be quite dangerous, you see,” she continued. Epona allowed herself to be cradled. “We know this is what you want, but we do want to see you again.”

“You will,” replied Epona, simply.

***

“Why would you do that, mi sol?”

Leon’s father entered the room in a whirlwind, his clothing askew. He had clearly rushed to the Justice Building. He took his son’s face in his hands, only for Leon to grab them and hold them by his chest. “Because,” he stressed, although he struggled to explain his thought exactly. He had begun to regret it now that he was saying goodbye, but it was too late to regret.

“Because,” repeated his father, softly. There were tears in his eyes. “Leon, you are not like these other children here-“

“That’s why I have to do it.” Leon dropped his father’s hands. “Pa, I think I can do it. It’ll be just like it was when it was the two of us, on our boat. Then, I win, and the Capitol will finally let us have whatever we want. We will be able to travel again. We won’t be stopped here.”

His father considered this for a moment, a wistful look being broken by a shake of his head. “No, mi sol,” he answered. “You will be able to do it, I know. You have that skill, but it will be other children out there-“

“I can beat them,” interrupted Leon.

“That is what concerns me.”

Chapter Text

[3] Companion

Isabel Alambre lay in her cot with her thin pillow growing warm in the summer air. She could feel the breeze drifting in from the window, but it did very little to break through the crowded dormitory. It had taken a long time for the children around her to fall asleep and the nervous energy still hung in the air, electric in the small room. Isabel had not managed to sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling, counting in her head to try and force sleep to come to her.

Her best friend, Kinnie, slept in the cot beside her. Isabel had been comforted by listening to her soft breathing as she slept, happy that at least one of them was able to. Now, however, Kinnie’s breathing was deep and unsteady. “Come here” she whispered in the dark, and Isabel turned to face her.

Isabel shook her head through the barricade of bed sheet. “It’s too warm. You go back to sleep.”

“That ain’t going to be possible, knowing you’re still counting stars over there.”

In the moonlight, Isabel could make out Kinnie’s familiar grin. The Community Home would be chaos in a few hours, with children fighting over the stale bread as the House Mother tried to tidy everyone’s hair. It would be a rush to find lost trousers and lost children, all threaded through with a nervous energy that Isabel detested.

“You really so worried that you can’t sleep?” asked Kinnie. She turned on to her side, looking straight to Isabel.

It was surely unheard of, at her big age of thirteen, to be kept awake by the reaping. “We got more entries than some of the others.”

“You’re good with numbers,” reassured Kinnie. “You know our odds ain’t that bad. We ain’t got that much tesserae, only enough for ourselves and the little ones.”

“We already got picked once.” Isabel’s voice was growing louder than a whisper, strained in frustration. Her letter – the one that told her she had been chosen in the pre-reaping draw and would need to be at the full ceremony – had arrived the week prior.

“So has everyone else in that ball.” Kinnie gave up on her bed, pulling herself into a sitting position. Her eyes were bright, and Isabel thought they looked like the moon. “Think of the good in it, Issy. We’ll get a feast tonight to celebrate. And we don’t have to go to school. And we have a whole day where we don’t have to wear blue.”

Their reaping outfits had been organised the previous night, sorted by size and given without any care for colour, fashion or style. Kinnie had been lucky: her dress was a delicate blush pink, with the name of the mayor’s daughter carefully inked on the label. It fitted her tall frame well and, in Isabel’s eyes, made her friend look like the princesses in the story book the House Mother would read. Isabel had been handed a heavy, black contraption that would likely have her die of heatstroke before the reaping even began.

She scowled into the dark. “I’m going to look like I’m in mourning before the tribute is even called.”

“Wear mine, then. The pink would look lovely with your hair.”

Isabel had lived on the Community Home’s strict rationing since her third birthday, whereas Kinnie had clearly had several good meals before joining the Community Home at ten. There was a good head of height between the two friends. “You know that it won’t fit me. I’d look like I’m drowning in ruffles.”

“You’ll look fine anyway. We can put your hair up and use the belt like a ribbon.”

Despite the sticky, summer air, Kinnie dropped from her own cot and came to hold Isabel in hers. She did not fight her friend’s affection but refused to let her climb under the rough blanket. “It’ll be another silent supper if one of us gets picked,” lamented Isabel.

Kinnie rolled her eyes. She was always the sunshine in an otherwise monotonous day. “And it’ll be a fun one if we don’t,” she argued. “The mayor will drop off all the donated food again, and we‘ll eat like President Dux herself. Odds are it’ll be two kids we’ve never heard of anyway.”

Isabel could not argue. It often was someone unknown, although she had experienced two silent suppers on a reaping evening since she joined the Community Home. There was a rustle of joy as they filled their plates. Then, the meal would have an empty chair at the table and there would be a toast to an absent friend. They would watch together on the television, hold each other throughout the inevitable, and only cry in the darkness of the night. District Three’s only victor was a Community Home kid, the House Mother would repeat proudly though this brought little comfort when each passing year showed the victory to be luck rather than skill.

“You’re going to look beautiful,” said Isabel, wistfully; she calmed her mind by returning to dreams of pink, satin ruffles.

“We’re both going to be beautiful,” determined Kinnie. “If we end up going to the Capitol, all of Panem will agree – and that’s a really big if, Issy. All that worrying will make you look dead tired tomorrow.”

In the distance, the moon was battling the early strain of sunlight. It would not be long until it lost. Kinnie continued, “you get a snatch of sleep now, before that bell rings. It ain’t worth worrying about.”

Isabel tried to listen.

***

Azazel Deleon detested the factory’s night shift. The pay was higher, which was why he found himself sorting the different coloured wiring into the different coloured crates, but it was mind-numbing, and he wanted nothing more than his bed. It had even been a preferable assignment, with Tesla as his desk-mate and the factory ignoring quiet chatter as it built towards the reaping day closure, but the overseer had spent the entire shift hovering around Azazel’s table.

The factory stretched into the final hour. The overseer finally went to the other side of the floor. With a quick glance over his shoulder to check they were alone, Azazel looked back to Tesla’s gloating smile. “They know you so well,” the boy whispered with a chuckle.

“Shut it,” warned Azazel, but there was no bite to his tone. There never was if Tesla was there. “They have not left me alone all night.”

“It’s your own fault. You hit the penalty mark last week.

“Couldn’t stop myself staring at your beautiful face.”

Tesla dropped his grin, wrinkling his nose as he always did when Azazel said something complimentary, or over the top, or oftentimes both. It made Azazel think of the rabbits that braved coming underneath the fence to the only grass that District Three had to offer, eating dandelions until a loud noise drove them back to the surrounding lands. He laughed at Tesla’s obvious displeasure.

“Fine,” scoffed Tesla. He placed his elbows on the desk and stared at Azazel as if he were staring at a sunset. “I’m going to put in a request to move to another desk. Violet’s been looking for someone new since the start of the week.

“The day Tesla Faraday asks to move away from me is the day I die.” Azazel mimed his eyes rolling back, but only briefly as there were still piles of wires to be sorted on his desk. “Violet works faster on her own anyway.”

“You work faster on your own too.”

“That’s a lie.” Azazel winked. “I’m useless with someone and alone.”

A heavy boot stamped on the metal gangway above the factory floor. “Faraday, Deleon,” came a booming voice. “Get on.”

“I’ve finished, sir,” chorused Tesla, with a grin. “I was reminding Zel to get his ass in gear.”

“Check your tone,” shouted the voice, but Azazel could hear the smile which accompanied it. He scowled. Tesla was not in trouble. He never was. He was the bright, quick-working boy who could manage every task. He was the sort of person that Azazel knew he would never manage to be.

“You shouldn’t even be here,” said Azazel, speaking through thinly veiled bitterness. “You should have kept on at school.”

Tesla leant across the desk, taking a handful of Azazel’s work. “And be worked by the Capitol until I can’t think anymore?” he scoffed. “Not likely. I’d much rather be here, having a laugh with you.”

“What would I do without you?” joked Azazel.

“Get your pay docked, apparently. Have you even been paying any attention to how you’ve been sorting this?”

“You’re the one distracting me!”

Tesla finished his handful, rolling his eyes at his desk-mate. He folded his arms and lay his head on them. He closed his eyes. Azazel went to throw a handful of wiring at him, but the overseer was watching him again. Instead, he swore and began trying to sort the handful that he was holding into their crates.

“Faraday,” called the overseer, prodding Tesla in the back. He sat up again and blinked as if the bright light was a surprise. “You can’t take a nap on factory time, kid.”

“I’m finished,” whined Tesla, in the sickly-sweet tone he always used when he wanted something. Azazel hated it – a grown boy of fifteen complaining like a toddler to get what he wanted. He thought it was embarrassing, and it worked on him every time Tesla tried it. “What else would you like me to do, sir?”

The overseer seemed to ignore Tesla’s question, hovering over Azazel as he continued to sort his wiring. Azazel felt the gaze and slipped, dropping a wire coated in red into a crate of wires coated in blue. “You’ve had three errors today, Deleon,” complained the overseer, immediately. “That’s three too many.”

Tesla interrupted before Azazel could defend himself. “It’s the reaping, sir,” he explained. “Zel hasn’t been able to focus since we got our reaping letters last week. He’s got himself all worked up that he’ll get called because he keeps getting penalties.”

Azazel glared. Tesla smirked. The overseer noticed neither. He made an unimpressed sound. “Didn’t imagine boys like you getting stressed. We’ve got no influence on that reaping, you know. You got family counting on you, Deleon?”

“Yes, sir,” relented Azazel. He lost his staring competition with Tesla to meet the overseer’s eye. “Sister’s fourteen, still in schooling, and my mam’s off on sickness until her headaches go away. She can’t handle the factory lights at the moment.”

The overseer considered Azazel’s world briefly. “I’ll excuse the penalties from today, so you’re still full pay. You clear off and catch some sleep before the reaping. You too, Faraday.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” called Tesla, grabbing Azazel by the arm, and pulling him away before the boy could argue about not wanting special treatment. They were out of the factory and into the narrow streets of District Three before Azazel realised Tesla had managed to get exactly what he wanted – again.

“You make me sound like a wounded animal every damn time, you asshole,” argued Azazel. He let Tesla pull him from streetlight to streetlight, noting that his touch had slipped from Azazel’s elbow to his hand. He did not pull away.

“Worked though, didn’t it?” Azazel could hear Tesla’s grin in the soft cloud of dawn. “What am I going to do with myself if you get yourself fired?”

“Sit with Violet Kennedy, apparently.”

“Is someone jealous?”

Azazel would have given anything to hear Tesla’s laugh echo uninterrupted through the empty street, just as it did then, He allowed it to wash over him for a moment as he committed the sound to memory. “I ain’t going to get fired,” he reassured, eventually. “They haven’t got enough people to be picky. I’d have to start stealing to get shoved out.”

“Stealing,” repeated Tesla. He let go of Azazel’s hand to reach deep into his pocket, pulling out three wires dressed in red, blue, and yellow. “Like this?”

“Tesla…” cautioned Azazel.

“Relax, Zel.” Tesla began twisting the three colours together, beginning at the uncovered, copper ends. It bent easily as they wound over and over each other in the dim glow of the streetlight. “They’re all defective anyway, even if the factory didn’t know it yet. Iris was showing me what they’re doing with old wires at school now, and I wanted to have a go.”

He held the finished piece up to show Azazel. “Congratulations,” applauded Azazel. “You’ve made a circle.”

Tesla rolled his eyes. “You’re an asshole, Zel. It ain’t a circle. It’s a bracelet, for you.”

Azazel took the bracelet from Tesla’s outstretched hand and stretched it over his wrist where it sat, snug. He thanked his boy for the bracelet with a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’ll treasure it for the rest of my life.”

***

District Three was a labyrinth of grey, each factory stretching to meet the harsh sun. The citizens lived below. There was not much sunlight left to reach them, but the dull, grey roofing of their housing reflected the light that made the journey. There was still smoke masquerading as cloud – if they did not have a child in the reaping that day, they were still expected to work.

Those attending the reaping made their way to The Trading Place in a sombre manner. The Trading Place was little more than a cobblestone space between factories, where weekly markets would house merchant stalls with bright bunting. On reaping day, the bunting was strung from streetlight to streetlight. There were no trinket tables holding wares to buy. Instead, Peacekeepers waited at their desks with piles of paperwork and their sharp needles.

“Come on,” called Tesla, grabbing his boy by the arm. The needle had barely been removed from Azazel’s skin before he was being dragged through the crowd. There was rope strung to indicate each pen, and Tesla was heading for the wrong one.

“You’re supposed to go stand with the fifteen crowd,” hissed Azazel. He pulled back until Tesla stopped, heart melting at the familiar wrinkled nose. “I’ll meet up with you after, when we’re safe.”

“I ain’t leaving you,” argued Tesla. The whining tone returned. “I know you’ve been worrying about this since you got your letter.”

Azazel shook his head. “Your letter, more like. I couldn’t live with myself if they took you.”

“Exactly. So, we’re going to stand together. I can pass for sixteen. I don’t think the ‘Keeper’s even care now that we’re here.”

At the Peacekeepers’ desks, the arrival of the Community Home had caused a delay. There were half of their crowd who needed to register and find their pen, whereas the other half had escaped the reaping for that year and were not supposed to enter the crowd. With one adult between them, bickering had begun.

“Come on,” hissed Kinnie, dragging Isabel to the thirteen-year-old pen. “We have to get a good space.”

“What about the others?” protested Isabel, but she followed without argument. She had been correct about her dress and was beginning to bake in the sun, leaving her without the energy to complain.

“We can meet up with them later. If we have to be here, I want to be able to see.”

District Three hated the reaping. They hated the crowd, they hated the needles, and they hated Neptune Flathorn. Luckily, it was a mutual feeling. Neptune had arrived on stage in his signature pink suit, although he had instructed a tailor to stitch white feathers along each hem. He was certain the smoke that filled the air had already left a lingering smell on his clothing, which would likely persist longer than his two tributes.

The crowd rustled along like mice who had been rudely awoken, and Neptune saw no one that would make an impression in the Capitol. His optimism was beginning to fade. “You should tell them to dress up a little,” commented Neptune, directing the criticism at the mayor. “Show a little something more, you know. I thought they were supposed to wear their best.”

“This is their best. We don’t all have a taste for feathers, Mr. Flathorn.”

Neptune huffed. “I’m just saying,” he complained, in his nasally tone. “You would do a lot better if you sent children who showed a little pride, a little colour. I can’t sell a little waif in his grey overalls to the Capitol.”

“As the waif who turned up in overalls, I suggest you keep yourself quiet.” District Three’s only victor, Cybus Darwin, had finally turned up on stage. His face was sunken, and he already smelled strongly of liquor, which Neptune thought would likely cling to fabric more than the smoke. He kept his distance from the victor.

“You were lucky, Mr. Darwin. The Capitol is unlikely to sponsor another long-shot orphan. You need someone with pride!”

“And yet, you might still call one without it,” said Cybus, as he took his seat. “You talk about the barbarism of the districts enough, Flathorn. Consider we have many families who cannot afford pride.”

Neptune pouted as he took his seat next to the victor. At the distant ringing of the clock in the Justice Building, the mayor stood and approached the podium.

It was convenient that Azazel could not care less about the speech, as Tesla did not allow him to focus. He held his boy’s hand and traced calming circles around his palm with his thumb, palms tight to their chest so as to hide it from the crowd around them. When Neptune stepped up to the podium accompanied by a weak applause, Tesla’s grip grew stronger. If they never let go, maybe it would all be alright.

Neptune cleared his throat, forcing a smile which showed too many teeth. “Welcome to the reaping for District Three,” he began, and the microphone sent a crackling sound to the nearby speaker. Neptune’s loud voice did not need a sound system and he demonstrated this each year, but he was always provided with one. With a chuckle, he continued. “The atmosphere here is absolutely electric.”

He addressed the Capitol. If he had tried addressing the citizens, someone would likely have pointed out that electricity belonged to District Five, and then the speech would have fallen even flatter. “We are all eagerly waiting to meet our newest tributes. I am delighted to tell you that it is now that time.”

Neptune did not believe in ladies first – that was a rule of high society that did not belong in the barbaric streets of District Three. He leant across the podium to delve a hand into each bowl, picked both names at once and held them above his head in celebration. There was a sharp intake of breath across The Trading Place as the crowd held on to hope for those that they loved.

“District Three’s tributes are,” he began slowly, as he unfolded each slip. He laid them flat across the podium and checked each name. “Isabel Alambre, and Azazel Deleon.”

Kinnie made a sound that Isabel never wished to hear again. It was a muffled scream that got caught in the back of her throat as she grasped for Isabel’s hand. There was another shout from a boy from the home, and a cry of grief that Isabel’s recognised as the House Mother’s voice. Distantly, Isabel was surprised that they would care for her so publicly. She moved without thinking, taking the big step across the rope and into the walkway. She shrunk against the stage, and she stood alone.

“There we are,” called Neptune through his microphone. “Don’t be shy. The Capitol want to see your pretty little face.”

Isabel did not feel pretty. She smoothed the creases in her dress and hoped Kinnie had been truthful when describing how it looked on her. The shock of needing to mount the stage was enough that she forgot to cry.

Azazel barely recognised his own name. He had flooded with relief at the joy of not hearing Tesla Faraday echo across The Trading Place, before realising that Tesla himself had gone pale and cold. Their hands trembled together. “No,” Tesla had whispered, a choked sound that Azazel recognised as his boy beginning to cry.

A Peacekeeper called his name, looking for him in the crowd. “You’re not going to the Capitol,” continued Tesla, getting louder. Azazel knew his boy’s thoughts, and impulsiveness, and he had sudden thoughts of whipping posts and gallows and insubordination.

“You volunteer for me, and I’ll kill you myself,” managed Azazel. His voice was louder than he anticipated, attracting the attention of the Peacekeeper who waved him to the stage with a gun. He had a moment at most, and he did not know what to do with it. The crowd was turned to watch him and although Azazel did not consider himself a coward, he was a coward for Tesla.

He settled for taking both of his boy’s hands in his own and meeting his tearful eyes. “Don’t,” he warned again, and Tesla nodded. “You stay here. Keep yourself out of trouble.

“Zel…” tried Tesla, but Azazel shook his head.

“You keep yourself safe. I’ll do the same, and I’ll see you when I get back.”

Azazel knew he would need to say a proper goodbye later, when they were away from prying eyes. Here, the camera would be catching every snippet of conversation, and the Capitol would be speculating, and the entire performance made Azazel feel unwell. He blamed it on nerves.

He dropped Tesla’s hands before the boy could object and turned to push through the crowd. They stepped back to let him pass, and he joined Isabel on the stage. He took a brief glance at his fellow tribute and noted her small stature and nervous tugging on her dress, before needing to focus all his energy on keeping his breakfast inside his stomach. Neptune took his hand and Isabel’s and raised them in the air as if they were already victorious.

“Isabel and Azazel,” repeated Neptune, and the microphone crackled again. “District Three, give a cheer for your tributes for the 95^th Hunger Games!”

***

Kinnie visited first, and she visited alone. “Miss Lumen is still arguing with the Peacekeepers,” she announced as she closed the door behind her, as if normal conversation would turn the situation into a horrible dream. “She wants the whole home to be able to come and see you, but they’re saying that it’s too many people.”

Through thick tears, Isabel found herself catching a laugh in her throat. She could imagine Miss Lumen shouting at the Peacekeepers in the same manner she used to shout at the children. “It’s supposed to be family only,” choked Isabel.

Kinnie ran over in her too-small shoes, falling into the seat beside Isabel and taking her friend in her arms. For a moment, they said nothing as Isabel sobbed into Kinnie’s pink, satin ruffles. “Issy,” tried Kinnie when her friend finally pulled herself from her dress. “We are your family. They’re all going to try to come and see you.”

Isabel sobbed once more, before managing to control her breathing. “Because you’ll miss me?” she asked, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her hand. Kinnie was crying too, now. The tears left silvery paths down her cheek, which Isabel reached forward to wipe away.

“No,” answered Kinnie, voice quivering. “We’re not going to miss you, because you’re going to come back.”

Despite herself, Isabel laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Kinnie. I ain’t coming back.”

“You will. I believe it.”

When Kinnie had a thought in her mind, Isabel knew better than to try and dissuade her. “Okay,” she answered softly, through her tears. She needed to hide her crying somehow; if she was to have any chance at being a victor, she could not be seen to be crying. “If you say so.”

***

Azazel waited at the door for his boy. He had already allowed himself to cry, saying goodbye to his mother and his younger sister. It had briefly crossed his mind that he needed to appear strong at the station but he knew he would cry for Tesla so there was no point in trying. He would take care of it in the car, he decided.

He had been correct. When Tesla came through the door like whirlwind, he fell straight into Azazel’s arms. The older boy sobbed.

“Oh, don’t you start,” warned Tesla, but Azazel could hear that he was crying too. His boy had buried his face in Azazel’s jacket to try and hide it. “This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. It was never supposed to be you.”

“Yeah, well…” Azazel trailed off, his voice thick. He pulled Tesla from his jacket and met his eyes, lifting a hand to trace the features of his face that he did not want to forget. “Don’t get yourself into trouble. Keep your head down and just get on with your work. I don’t ever want you in these Games too.”

Tesla rolled his eyes in the jokey manner he gained whenever Azazel tried to lecture him, but it did not carry the same tone when he was crying. Normally, he would argue. He took Azazel’s hand away from his face and held it in his own. “I’ll be safe,” he promised. “You promise me the same. You get yourself back here.”

“Tesla…” whispered Azazel, but Tesla shook his head.

“No, you need to listen. You can do it. You can work other people out, and you’re fast. You can fight. I need to see you again, Zel!”

Azazel allowed himself to agree. He nodded, clutching his boy so tightly that Tesla’s hand was beginning to turn white. Without the prying eyes of the Capitol, or the judgemental gaze of District Three, he said goodbye to his boy with a kiss.

Chapter Text

[4] Together

Sennen and Cove Alexander stood together on the small beach that waited for them beneath their cottage. It was only accessible at low tide, guarded by the old, winding path through the rocky outcrop, and the twins clambered down at every opportunity. They stood in the water with a sharp spear each as the tide lapped at their ankles. A camera drone flew above them.

“They just don’t leave us alone,” spat Sennen. She readjusted her feet so that she did not sink into the wet sand. The roving shadows were scaring the fish. “They’re only here to film the reaping. I don’t know why they’re insisting on taking footage of the whole village.”

“The Capitol thinks it looks pretty,” replied Cove. He looked at the old training centre that stood crumbling on the cliff opposite their home, rotting. A rock fall had sent most of the building tumbling onto the beach three years ago, where collapsed doorways and support beams waited to be claimed by the sea. “They’re not filming every part of the village.”

Sennen looked straight to the skeleton of the building, noting the drone flew carefully around it. River had taken her in there before it fell on a hunt for the spears that they now used to fish. Cove had decided it was too dangerous and waited outside. Since the rock fall, neither had been near it. “They don’t want to admit that’s there,” scowled Sennen. District Four rarely mentioned their brief training programme. Since it had been left to rot, volunteers were rare, and victors were even rarer.

Another drone flew overhead. The ocean was still clear, with all fish scattering as the black shadow floated amongst the sand. Sennen shouted and threw her spear in the direction of the intruder, but the weapon only succeeded in splashing back down into the water. “You’ll have to swim for that,” commented Cove, unhelpfully.

Sennen went to reply but bit her tongue. The spear began to sink beneath the cresting waves as a reminder of her short temper. As the next wave swelled further and began to soak the hem of her shorts, she sighed and began to wade forward. She held her hair out of the water with her left hand and grabbed the wooden handle with her right hand before it could sink too far. “There!” she cried in success, shaking her head at her brother. “Didn’t have to swim at all. Just had to be fast.”

Cove scrunched his nose. “Well done,” he managed. “Don’t throw it next time.”

As she waded back, Sennen moved past her brother and began to make her way onto the dry sand of the beach. She wringed all the water out of her clothes that she could manage, stretching them out across her body to dry in the summer sun. Leaving the spear on a nearby rock to keep it from the sand, she sat down next to it. “We should go back soon.”

Cove turned to look, sheltering his eyes from the sun with his hands. “Why? We have plenty of time.”

“Fish aren’t coming near us with all that commotion on the next beach up. It’s just like it was last time.”

The reaping seemed to visit Pasaden often. Sennen and Cove had been reassured by their mother that it was a sequence of random coincidence – a random drawing of the town to host, followed by the random drawing of a name – and that children very rarely stood in more than one of the sombre ceremonies. The twins had stood together in their first reaping at twelve and three years later, Pasaden had been pulled on the broadcast again. Sennen had disappeared to the beach alone and speared fish until the moon was her only companion. Cove had stayed in the cottage but had not slept through the night since. Sennen had stayed awake with him on the final night, playing cards to the accompaniment of construction across the clifftop.

Cove took a step back in the water, watching as the clouds danced on the horizon line. The fish were not gathering, but they could have collected seaweed to dry or looked for crabs they could cook if there had been time. Instead, they had to be ready to stand in the reaping crowd before it was even midday. “Papa isn’t going to be back today, is he?” he said, eventually.

Sennen had not mentioned that she was thinking of Papa, but Cove knew – they had known each other their whole lives. There was no sign of a vessel on the horizon. “Nope,” answered Sennen, leaning back and closing her eyes to bathe in the sun. “He’s safe, though. There’s been no reports of a wreckage for weeks.”

“I’m not worried about him wrecking.” Cove turned and took off up the beach. He tossed his spear down to join his sister’s. “I wanted him here for the reaping.”

Sennen opened one eye, raising her eyebrows at her brother. “You worried?”

Cove did not answer, finding a rock to sit on. He dangled a hand into a rockpool, scooping a pebble and dropping it back into the water to watch it ripple.

Sennen had heard her brother get out of bed each night since the announcement. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured. “We’ll both be fine.”

“Do you think Papa even knows they’re reaping from Pasaden again this year?”

Another drone flew overhead. “They’ll have told the crew if they can find them on radio. We’ll still see him when he gets back, and the odds have to be in our favour now that we’ve had two.”

Cove left the rockpool alone to brush the sand from his feet. He hated the sand and how it could cling to everything. He wore sandals where he could, although they were beginning to fall apart.

“Let’s move,” said Sennen, as soon as she had watched her brother fasten his shoes onto his feet. She moved barefoot even when the path was jagged. “River wants to make sure we’ve got a proper chance to get ready. He’s promised us a feast afterwards to celebrate his last reaping. He bought the ingredients yesterday with his first pay.”

Cove stepped back into the sand, wrinkling his nose at the feeling. “Can’t wait for overcooked fish stew again if he’s in charge of food.”

***

The house was filled with the scent of bubbling fish in a sweet tomato broth when the twins returned. Cove smirked at his sister in an announcement of I told you so whilst Sennen leant the spears by the door. “It’ll be done when we get back from the reaping,” announced their eldest brother, without so much of a greeting. “I even bought wine to add to it!”

“And I’m not leaving him in charge of spending his own pay again,” came the strained voice of their mother as she leaned across the doorway, cardigan across her shoulders. She smiled a soft smile at her eldest taking charge of the cooking, and a welcoming grin as her youngest walked through the door.

Sennen returned the smile; her features only softened for family. “We’ll be okay.”

“We will. When your father returns, we won’t have to worry. I get paid next week, too.”

Their mother was a teacher. She was careful in her corrections, stirring the stew when River left to find his bottle of wine to show so as to not undermine him. “Plus, it’s the reaping,” she added in her melodic voice. “We’re seeing too much of it these days. Let’s eat, drink and be thankful that River’s at least through it, and let’s pray to the odds that we don’t see another.”

The lit fire sent sand swirling across the floor. Cove would often sweep but it was fruitless in their two-story cottage where sand would leak through every crack. “We’ll take it off the fire and reheat it when we come back,” continued their mother, leaving the spoon so that River would not know of her intervention. “That way, it won’t be overcooked when we come to eat. We might be able to get some bread if the bakery opens once the reaping is done.”

“Will we have enough for Papa?” asked Cove, although he knew that no one else would have more information than him. Their father had been due back two days prior; voyages often overran depending on the conditions of the sea.

“Of course,” answered River, stirring his soup like his mother. She watched him with a warm grin. “Could probably feed the whole of Pasaden with this pot by the time we’re done but at least they’ll be enough for us to feast like victors.”

“And its always good luck to have an extra bowl. Panem knows we all need a little luck today,” added their mother.

Sennen stole a spoon from the table and took a mouthful of the broth, nodding her head in approval. “No such thing as luck, but we’ll all be fine.”

***

District Four alternated their host settlement each year, but those across Panem did not watch with enough care to notice. The reaping would be on a beach, with an attractive shot of sea and sand, and it would meet the expectation of the Capitol.

Pasaden’s beach in particular was a large, flat expanse of sand flanked by tall cliffs and bordered by rocks. There was plenty of space to gather amongst the pens built of driftwood and rough netting rope. The finishing pearl in the crown of the scene was the large, wooden stage built in front of the ocean where there was plenty of room for this construction when the tide was out. The reaping happened on schedule and paid no heed to the tide.

District Four had two active victors, both of which already sat on the stage with the mayor. He was a young man who had taken the position a previous year, and he listened to the sound of water against wood nervously as he waited for the crowd to assemble. They had each prepared for the mistake by ignoring the usual reaping formalities and wearing shorts, with sandals.

Their escort, Gaius Byzantine, had not prepared. He had already had a whispered warning from Ripple Morrow, the victor who sat beside him. He had carefully removed his leather shoes and placed them delicately on a spare chair behind him. Now, he was trying to tie up his trousers to sit above the knee like those in the crowd in front of him.

“They’ve built the stage below the high tide point again,” warned Ocean McMurray as she pulled her legs up to rest on the chair next to her. She was celebrating her tenth year as a victor by openly laughing at Gaius’ trousers as they sat half up and unsecured. “We’ll have water up to our ankles before we’re even done with the names. You’ll want them up higher.”

“Yes, thank you,” answered Gaius through gritted teeth. “The Capitol do not dress for such poor planning on a regular occasion.”

"I can get someone to fetch you a pair of scissors, if you'd like."

Gaius looked over his shoulder at the oncoming sea, and then back at the victor. "Please."

The Alexander family arrived at the reaping together, with River leading the way. Their mother was often stopped along the path by former students wanting a word of good luck, which she gave heartily and readily. She was careful to shower her own children with the same comments, which Sennen brushed off and Cove treasured.

“We won’t see another reaping in Pasaden,” celebrated Sennen. She put her finger to her mouth and sucked on the spot where the Peacekeeper had taken her sample of blood. Her optimism was not contagious, and Cove gnawed on the skin of his thumb. “They’ve got to have another village next time and we’ll only have three left after today. River doesn’t even have any.”

“What if they call River though?” asked Cove, before yelping as he accidentally pulled too hard and dragged the skin on his thumb into a bleeding wound. It would sting when it hit salt water, which would likely be soon as the waves were now rolling across the wooden stage and forging up the beach.

“They won’t.” Sennen sounded her most cheerful when she thought she was correct. That evening, she would likely tease Cove for not believing her before allowing him to come and spend the night in her bed when he had a nightmare about the two children who were taken.

Cove had moved from his hand to his lip, chewing until it was swollen. They allowed those of the same age to stand together in the pen, which he was grateful for as he was reassured by Sennen’s positivity. However, he was also infuriated by her refusal to plan for the worst. “What if he is?” he repeated, stressing the question. “What do we do then?”

“He won’t be,” answered Sennen with finality, and Cove did not push the issue any further.

The Peacekeepers waded through the water as the ocean soaked their uniforms. The crowd, built of worried families and citizens of Pasaden who were only there out of obligation, settled themselves on the base of the cliffs. They stood on rocks to see the stage; if the ceremony was quick, they might even remain dry.

Gaius Byzantine had been very grateful for the pair of scissors and had cut his cyan silk trousers at the knee, hoping they were even. There was a quiet warning as he shoved the offcuts of fabric into the pocket of his matching jacket. The mayor stood to speak, and the water already reached his ankles. Gaius’ socks were already beyond saving.

There was a brief panic below the stage, as those in charge of broadcasting the reaping desperately recruited children from the front of the pens to hold cables above the rolling sea water. A camera operator briefly suggested trying to stop the movement with sand, until Ripple jumped from his seat to help and reminded her that the tide would simply come in over anything.

“We continued to honour the Capitol and their support to our home with an annual sacrifice,” finished the mayor, a furrowed brow showing his concern at the display District Four were currently offering Panem. “Today, we volunteer two of our strong, resilient young people to represent District Four in the 95^th Annual Hunger Games. To choose them, Gaius Byzantine.”

Gaius stood and waded to the podium. The mayor rescued a chair from the push of a wave and sat down.

“How wonderful,” began Gaius, watching as the eighteen-year-olds beneath him stood in water already at their knees, “to be a guest in your lovely, coastal home. I love seeing your…brilliant traditional customs and…unique landscapes.”

There was a ripple of murmurs across the crowd as those in the furthest pens began to get wet feet. Gaius gave them a moment to compose themselves and then continued.

“I have travelled from our beloved Capitol to choose your tributes for this year’s Hunger Games, the children who will represent you in the fight of honour. I cannot wait to meet those that I choose.”

District Four used to field highly trained volunteers; Gaius emphasised his speech so that they would not feel shame if they could not do that. It did not matter; Gaius would try his hardest for a reaped tribute, no matter how deeply he wanted a volunteer to rival those in District One and District Two.

“As tradition dictates, we shall begin with our female tribute.”

Having predicted the predicament, the mayor had strongly suggested the glass reaping bowls be secured to the podium in case the ocean chose to show itself. This saved Gaius a potentially career-ruining moment, as a strong wave pushed the podium just as he placed a hand into the bowl of paper. As he pulled it back towards him against the current, he fished around for a slip that fell between his fingers and returned to the microphone. He stepped forward, unfolded the name, and read clearly, “Sennen Alexander.”

The sea crashed. There was no other sound beyond the ocean, although there was movement across a middle pen. The crowd parted as much as they could between their fences and rope. It allowed Gaius to lay his eyes on a tall girl, whose face remained tanned except for the flush of red from her nose to her ears. She held the hand of the boy next to her, which she dropped immediately when she realised she was being watched. A Peacekeeper went to collect her, but Sennen began to move on her own.

The boy tried to follow her with a rushed step but someone from his pen held him back by his shoulders. Sennen did not look back as she walked despite his shouting. She was quick in the water, a hand clutching her skirt to try and keep it from the waves. Her hair fell down her back and threatened to take on the water as well as it got deeper. She was rescued by the staircase to the stage and stood herself a distance away from her escort, hand dropping from her skirt and joining the other to twist nervously in front of her.

Sennen glared. She looked serene but like an ocean bird keeping its movement in a rough current, there was an anger kicking beneath the surface. The flush on her cheeks lead to a wild look in her eyes as her comments about luck and fate and odds dissolved. Gaius watched it boil and wondered if it would translate to ferocity on camera: you could sell ferocity.

“Any volunteers?”

Gaius called clearly through the microphone but there was no response. He took another glance at the fury in his newest charge and decided that there was something he could work with in her. “Your female tribute, District Four, is Miss Sennen Alexander.”

The applause was loud. There was even a distant cheer. Sennen was a known face that floated around Pasaden: the teacher’s daughter, the fisherman’s pride and joy, the sister of the aspiring chef. Alongside Cove, she was woven into the fabric of the town like seaweed in a trawling net. Sennen had fight, and fury, and ferocity. She would be missed.

Sennen risked a look down into the crowd and caught River – stood at the front, cable in hand – watching her with a look of horror. Sennen looked away. She would not cry.

“Continuing on, we must introduce our male tribute,” called Gaius. Sennen stepped back to let him pass across the stage, reaching the second bowl on the other side. He was quicker this time as the sea continued to roar as if it was displeased with his choice. He took a slip that had fallen to the bottom, bringing it up from the depths with a light grasp.

“Wade Delmar!”

Wade crashed from his pen through the sea. Gaius saw a competitor, a boy who could pass for a man. Pasaden knew they could call on him to carry large loads across the sand, but he could not swim and was often bullied mercilessly for it. He would be better in the arena than he had ever been in the ocean.

“I volunteer!”

The cry was strangled, but clear. Wade stopped and stood at the aisle between the pen and the staircase. He glanced at Gaius as if waiting for permission to run, which the escort granted with a quick wave of his hand. “How exciting,” he chirped, looking for his new tribute amongst the crowd.

There was a ripple across the fifteen-year-old pen, in the space that Sennen had just left. The dark-curled boy who had been held back pulled himself free with a newfound ferocity and stepped out into the pathway, where the ferocity fell and left him stranded, trembling.

“I volunteer,” repeated Cove, no longer as sure as he had been. His hand went back to his mouth. “As a tribute, I mean. Instead of Wade.”

“Come on up, come on up.”

Cove did not move. This was stupid and he knew it was stupid and his family would think he was stupid and District Four would think he was stupid  and Sennen-

Sennen.

He looked at the stage, where Sennen’s fire had erupted in his direction.

A Peacekeeper stepped forward. Cove considered trying to rescind his shout but knew it would never be accepted, so he continued to wade across the path and towards the stage with all the bravery he could muster. As he grew closer, Sennen’s face turned from anger to disgust.

“Before the tide takes us away, if you could,” spurred Gaius. Cove stepped onto the staircase, pulling himself up on the handrail, and went to stand beside Sennen. She took a notable step away from him. Cove went to grab her, but Gaius approached him with a microphone, and Cove wrapped his outstretched arms around his own chest instead.

“Go on,” prompted Gaius. “Introduce yourself! Panem would like to know absolutely everything about our newest tributes.”

Cove hesitated. “Uh,” he stuttered, waiting. Gaius raised an eyebrow in expectation. “Cove. Cove Alexander. I’m fifteen and, uh, I’m sorry?”

“There’s no need to apologise,” laughed the escort, but the apology was not for him. It was for Sennen, who drew herself even further away from her brother and focused on a rock in the distance that would keep her head steady. “Cove Alexander, and – oh! – Sennen Alexander. I’d bet my trousers that you two are related – not that there’s much of my trousers left to wager!”

Cove kept looking at Sennen. “Yes. Twins. We do everything together.”

“How wonderful! Your twin tributes of District Four, Sennen and Cove Alexander!

District Four applauded with stiff, uncomfortable clapping.

***

Cove begged to be allowed in the same room to say goodbye. It had been easy to convince the escorting Peacekeepers, who used the reasonable point as an opportunity to make their time easier. Sennen, however, had not been tricked. She did not want to give Cove even the satisfaction of her protest.

She ignored him. Sennen had perched herself on a windowsill on the far side of the room, looking over a distant cliff. They had been transported to the Justice Building by car, but their family would not be gifted the same luxury; it would be some time before there was someone she was willing to acknowledge in the room with her.

Cove had not sat. He moved continuously like the sea, pacing from corner to corner and anxiously twisting a lock of his hair around his finger. His lip had become a chewed mess, bleeding and battered. He was tearful. He did not look like a volunteer.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, over and over as the apology boiled over from his mouth. “I’m sorry, Sennen. I really am. I couldn’t stand you leaving. I didn’t think.”

“I can see that,” hissed Sennen. She continued to look through the window but focused on the reflection of her brother rather than the freedom beyond.

Cove grasped tightly to the brief recognition like a drowning man to a life raft. “Was I supposed to just let them take you?” he asked, approaching a shout. “I couldn’t let you go! We’ve always promised, Sen. We’ve always said we’d do everything together.”

“We weren’t supposed to do this together.” Sennen finally acknowledged her brother with a cold glare. “I stood a chance, Cove. You know I did. I was meant to do this by myself.”

“We’re always together, Sen-“

“Don’t.”

Cove was caught mid-movement by the bite in his sister’s voice, his fingers still holding his hair but no longer twisting. Sennen looked back to the window. “This is the Hunger Games,” she continued, resting her forehead on the glass. “There is one winner, and everyone else is dead. One of us is going to return to District Four in a box, and the other one is going to be alone for the rest of their life.”

“We could try and win together,” braved Cove. His hand moved to his mouth once more, chewing at the old wound from the reaping. There was a pain in his voice which befriended the taste of blood in his mouth. “They might make an exception for us, if the Capitol like us enough and-“

“They won’t do it again,” spat Sennen. “We’re either both dead, or one of us is on their own. I got picked, Cove. I had no choice. You had a choice.”

Sennen shouted at the top of her voice. Cove flinched.

Chapter Text

[5] Sweepstake

Fern Evander had been told that she looked like her sister many times. When she was a child, people would pull on their twin braids or comment on their bright, shared smiles. They would wear matching dresses and matching ribbons when they served on the shop’s counter. Then, Sunnie became a victor. She cut her hair and dyed it darker with black tea. She wore clothes given to her by the Capitol. She was stopped from working in the shop. She did not smile.

When Sunnie stormed into the shop’s kitchen unannounced, she had already been styled by someone else. Her darker hair had been curled, and her dress was constructed of impractical yellow silk. In place of a greeting, Fern took in the outfit with a critical eye. “Must have been a warm walk down from the Village in that silk,” she commented, continuing to stir sugar in their copper pot. “You look bright, though. I guess the Capitol might know what they’re doing with dresses after all.”

Fern’s hair was twisted out of her face, keeping it safe from the sugar. She had long mourned the loss of their shared braids, their old ribbons still tied together in her jewellery box. When Sunnie came forward, she pushed a fallen strand behind her sister’s ear. “I came to see if you needed help,” she offered, quietly.

The confectioner’s made a profit when people had something to celebrate – their special reaping candy was somewhat of a tradition in their small settlement of Tusco, as people turned to sugar in the relief of their children’s safety. Fern had risen early to begin, boiling the sugar and syrup with water on their old stove. “Don’t think you should be anywhere near sugar,” she answered. She lifted the spoon and let the thick liquid fall. “I’d rather not meet my end at the hands of your stylist.”

When Fern looked to her sister, she was scowling. “I don’t care,” she said.

“Well, I do.” Fern tapped the spoon on the side of the metal pot and pushed the mixture away from the heat. “Find me a pair of the scissors if you want to help, then get your silk away from the flame.”

Sunnie responded to the instruction. She dug through each drawer, no longer familiar with the kitchen. Fern wrapped her hands in a damp towel. She took the handle of the copper pot and poured the sugar syrup across the cool slab of marble which waited on the counter. As Sunnie finally handed the scissors to her, she began to coat them in oil.

“Remember that you can’t sell them until after the reaping,” said Sunnie, taking a step back. She bundled her skirt around her legs to keep it from the sugar. Fern’s sigh was small, and easily missed. “You know what happens if anyone eats candy before they call the names.”

“Nothing will happen,” reassured Fern. She took a small bottle full of dye extracted from beets, used to colour their sugar sweets red. It only took a drop, and she began to stretch the cooling syrup until the hint of colour became a splintered stained glass.

“It will,” stressed Sunnie. “The morning of my reaping when we were making the candy, we kept eating it. We’d never stolen any before. If you eat it…”

Fern shook her head. “Sunnie, it’s nothing to do with-“

“Promise me.” Sunnie’s voice was sharp with desperation; she let her skirt fall in favour of placing a hand firmly on her sister’s shoulder. The sudden pressure stopped Fern and she turned to look at her sister.

“Okay,” she lied. “I promise.”

Sunnie’s hand fell away. She dutifully rearranged her skirt and stepped away from the counter, the distant look reappearing in her eyes once more. “I’ll take some chocolate for the train. It doesn’t taste the same in the Capitol.”

Fern rolled the cooling sugar into a round shape and began to cut the final candies with her oiled scissors. “Well, I’d put that right down to the Capitol not knowing a thing about good chocolate. They make too much of the stuff. You have to put love and care into each chocolate you make.”

The shop’s bell sang the arrival of a customer. Fern brushed her hands against her apron before reaching to untie it. “Remember your promise,” warned Sunnie, turning as white as the cream they used to make caramel.

Ignoring the familiar demand, Fern handed the apron to her sister. “To protect your pretty little dress,” she explained. “If you want to help, you can coat the candies in icing sugar whilst I go and see what they want.”

“Fern-“ began Sunnie.

“Icing sugar,” repeated Fern, firmly. Before the argument could come to a boil, she swept into the shop that was adjacent to the kitchen.

The customer had crouched to admire the candied roses that they displayed beneath the counter, but he stood fully when he heard Fern enter the room. He was young, with a pencil balanced behind his ear and a smile whispering on his face at the bright colours.

Fern beamed as he saw her, trying to appear as sweet as the sugar they span into confectionary. “Happy Hunger Games,” she announced, although the sarcasm dripped from her tone like honey. “I hope you’re having a wonderful morning, and welcome to Evander Confectioners. What can we get for you today?”

The boy replied with a roll of his eyes. His hand reached for a small pouch tied to his belt, covering it protectively. “I need a gift for my brother’s birthday,” he said.

“Well, how old is he?” asked Fern, refusing to relent in her welcoming nature although she glanced over the boy. His loose shirt seemed more patch than cotton, and his hair was tussled – Evander Confectioners welcomed all manner of customer, but sugar was often an unaffordable luxury to those who carried their coins in old pouches.

As if he could sense Fern’s hesitation, the boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I can afford anything in here,” he argued. “I’ll buy anything for him. He’s turning twelve.”

“Rough day for it,” Fern managed, unsure if the usual topic of conversation felt appropriate. She glanced around the shop, trying to decide on something which would suit a young boy’s taste without costing every coin in his brother’s pouch. “He got many entries?”

The boy shook his head. “He didn’t take tesserae. I’m winning enough to make sure of that. Your sister kept us in bread for months.”

Fern had not had a customer refer to her as Sunnie’s sister in a long time. As usual, she ignored the strange feeling of longing in favour of chocolate. “I suppose that first Parcel Day was a nice surprise for everyone.”

“I placed a bet on her.” The boy dropped his voice, as if he were cautious of anyone listening. “I can pick a winner any year, but I always place one on Five too. Her odds were awful, and she made me a small fortune. I keep meaning to say thank you, but I never see her. Pass it on, will you?”

Fern found herself nodding for the sake of agreeing with the customer, although her smile faded. Sunnie often mentioned the people who placed wagers against her in the Capitol, spitting out their names as if they tasted of bitter lemon. There were few willing to sink that low in District Five, although the profit could tempt the desperate. Fern decided it would be better for the boy if she did not mention him, his betting, or his purchase at all.

“Does your brother like caramel?” she asked, returned to what she knew.

“He’ll like anything sweet.”

“Well, that is our specialty.” Fern chose a paper bag and took a tray of caramel chocolate from the display shelf behind the counter. She picked four, each chocolate making a delicate rustling noise as she dropped it inside. Then, she deftly twisted the bag in her practiced manner and held it out to the boy.

“How much do I owe you?”

Fern shook her head; she did not want his dirty money.

“I can pay,” reassured the boy. His hand went to his belt again, but Fern put her hand out to stop him.

“It’s his birthday, and it’s the reaping,” she said. “Take it as a gift and use the money you would have spent here to sponsor the tributes rather than betting on them.”

There were coins in his hand, but the boy considered Fern’s careful words. He dropped them back into the pouch. “Alright,” he said, slowly. “I’ll toss it in the sponsor fund.”

He quickly turned on his heel and pushed open the door, the shop’s bell ringing his goodbye. Fern decided to lie: she would tell Sunnie nothing about the betting, and nothing about the purchase.

***

Solar Dedisco walked through the front door of his family’s apartment and was swept into a hug before he could even take off his shoes. “Hey!” he called, pulling Raiden into his arms as his younger brother buried his face in Solar’s old shirt. “You’re getting too big for this, turning twelve and all.”

Raiden’s voice was muffled through the fabric. “Did you place your bets yet?”

“You don’t even want to know about your birthday present first?”

As Raiden pulled away, his eyes went wide at the sight of the paper bag with the name of the confectionery shop written elegantly on its side. His shouting was loud enough to bring their father from the kitchen to the hall. As he tried to reach up and grab his gift, Solar lifted the bag so that it was just out of Raiden’s reach. “You know the rules,” he said, with a grin. “Breakfast, and then you can have your gift.”

“That’s not fair!” pouted Raiden, but Solar did not relent. It sent the younger boy barrelling through the apartment to take a seat at the battered dining table, pushing their father aside as he waited in the doorway. He was staring pointedly at the empty pouch which hung from Solar’s belt, and Solar found himself covering it with his hand.

“There’s a lot of value in a coin,” his father warned, lowering his voice so as to keep the discussion hidden from Raiden. “You keep throwing them away like this.”

“I win each time,” argued Solar. He had learned to keep an eye on the pavement as he walked through the market, profiting from the lost fortunes of the careless. He threw his finds together for a wager and he knew how to pick a winner, but his father remained unconvinced.

The family’s cracked screen was showing the reaping, although Solar’s mother was lowering the volume as he entered the kitchen. It focused on a grey, unsmiling crowd in District Three.

“Who did you bet on?” whined Raiden from the table. “You have to tell me. It’s my birthday!”

Solar took the seat next to him. “District Five,” he answered, proudly. “Like I do every year.”

“You know I mean the one that’s actually going to win.”

Solar took the two betting slips from his pocket. “District Five can win,” he corrected. “But, if you must know, I also went for District One. The girl.”

Raiden grabbed the two pieces of hastily written paper, trying to make sense of the strange numbers that seemed to indicate who was likely to win. Solar continued, “she’s related to two other victors, and she’s not eighteen yet so they’ve picked her early. Guaranteed win.”

It was a reaping day tradition to sit together and eat, before watching Raiden open anything they had scraped together for his birthday. For his twelfth, Solar made a big fuss of bringing the bag to the table and draping an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Now, don’t you make yourself sick,” he warned, as Raiden dug into the bag and brought the chocolate to the light of the kitchen table.

“They’re all for me?”

Solar stared at his brother, taking in every inch of his bright-eyed expression of disbelief and holding on to it. “Yeah,” he answered, ruffling his hair. “They’re all for you.”

“You have to take one.” Raiden held out the bag, the chocolate slowly starting to melt from the warmth of his hands. Solar shook his head, but Raiden insisted. “You have to, Solar. They’re mine, and I want to share them with you.”

He pushed the bag further, forcing Solar’s hand into the opening. He tried to refuse again but Raiden’s expression told him that it was not an option. Reluctantly, Solar picked the smallest chocolate. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” answered Raiden, with a firm nod. “Eat it now.”

“I should have it later.”

Raiden shook his head. “No,” he said, just as firmly. “You need to eat it now. We need to leave for the reaping soon and…”

He trailed off, glancing at the screen and then back to the chocolate in Solar’s hands. It was growing sticky in his fingers. “Just in case?” he suggested, quietly.

“Just in case,” repeated Raiden. Solar took a bit of the chocolate and let the taste spread across his tongue.

***

District Five’s courtyard began to bake in the bright sunlight. It was an inconvenient place to hold the reaping, but it was the largest open area and could comfortably hold the District, with latecomers spilling out into the adjoining streets. The buildings, roofed in solar panels, glinted in the sun and made it difficult for the cameras. This was District Five’s small rebellion; they were required to attend, but they were not going to make it easy to film.

Alba Caecilius was beaming like the sun, excited for her first year as an official escort. She had escorted the Capitol’s tributes the previous year as a finishing project, but she had never stepped outside the city until she stepped into District Five. The wind turbines on a distant hill span to greet her.

She could see them now; the courtyard was in the middle of several large buildings, but the wind turbines sat out in the open. There was a distant chimney, leeching out smoke that met with the clouds. The air was a constant hum of electricity that ran through the cables strung from building to building.

“It gets warmer every year, the reaping day,” she commented, to no one in particular. Sunnie Evander, the District’s only serving victor, was sat on the chair beside Alba but she was watching the movement of the children in the pens. She sat on her hands, lips moving but saying nothing.

“Are you ready, Miss Caecilius?” asked the mayor with a cold look. She stood over Alba and glared disapprovingly at her bright white hair and her heels. “Our reaping always runs like clockwork. You will keep up the tradition, yes?”

“Of course,” answered Alba. She met the gaze of the mayor, but then she looked away into the crowd almost immediately. “It must be nearly time.”

The mayor checked her watch. “One minute. They’ll give you a countdown.”

“I know what they’ll…” Alba began to protest, but the mayor had already walked back to the podium.

She was ignored until it was her turn to speak, lost amongst the reading of treaties and the short list of past victors. The mayor introduced her with distaste, and another glance at her heels. The moment that Alba had trained for was there. She stepped up to the podium and looked over the crowd, wishing they would smile.

“Good afternoon,” she began, and then paused for applause. There was none. In the Capitol, it would have been impossible to be heard but Alba accepted that District Five was different. She continued, “it is an honour to meet you all today, on my first visit to your glorious home. I look forward to meeting your tributes and escorting them into the arena and – hopefully – beyond! Ladies first, shall we?”

District Five’s glass bowl was not filled to the top, but there were still a significant number of slips for Alba to choose from. She was determined to show her confidence as she moved across the stage towards the bowl, picking a slip quickly and returning back to the podium.

This was it. Her moment.

“Fern Evander!”

There was a ripple of noise across the crowd. It was not the reaction that Alba had accounted for, but she was pleased for a reaction, nonetheless. The children in front of her were turning around, craning to get a look at the group behind them where there was movement and shouting. Behind Alba, there was a choked sob; Sunnie left the stage, her chair scraping across the wood with a grating noise.

An unsettled ache growing in her stomach, Alba glanced back at the slip that she had chosen. Fern had begun to move, her pen clearing her path towards the stage. A stranger patted her on the back in brief apology as she ducked under the rope, steeling herself before she approached the stage. Alba caught her eye – her fists were clenched at her side, and her bottom lip was quivering.

“Oh,” said Alba, before she could stop herself. It was caught by the microphone and the crowd turned back to her. She recognised the name, and she recognised the girl who was slowly moving towards her.

Fern reached the stage, and, to her credit, she did not pause before taking on the staircase. Her breath was catching in her throat as she desperately tried to hold back any tears. Alba’s face softened at the sight of her and stepped away from the podium, taking Fern into an embrace as she reached the top of the stage. The moment of peace allowed Fern to take a deep breath, relax her hands and find a forced smile before facing Panem.

“Miss Fern Evander,” repeated Alba, bringing Fern to the podium. “Are there any volunteers?”

Alba hoped, but there was no one willing to step forward. The crowd simply looked on in sympathy, returning to silence. She placed her hand on the podium to stop herself from twisting them. She continued, “in that case, we shall choose our male tribute! Fern, dear – well, I’ll get someone to go and find Sunnie.”

Fern stepped back, allowing Alba safe passage to the bowl that contained the boys’ names. There seemed to be more, and the paper seemed to be heavier. As she stood there, Alba instructed a Peacekeeper to search for the missing victor. Reluctantly, he left the side of the stage.

The piece of paper that Alba chose had been folded under the weight of the slips above it. The corners were folded in, and the name was showing where it had grown uneven. Alba glanced at a few letters before deciding it was likely a safe name to read.

“Solar Dedisco!”

There was a guttural cry from the back of the crowd, a scream choked by a sob. It continued, a small boy pushing his way through the crowd and trying to climb over the ropes. Two Peacekeepers stepped in to stop him, but the boy continued pushing and continued the screaming that made Alba’s ears and heart hurt. The children did not react like this in the Capitol.

In the commotion, another boy had stepped forward from the edge of the fifteen-year-old pen. He climbed over the rope slowly, looking back at the boy who was still being held by the Peacekeepers. “You can’t go!” cried the boy, his voice hoarse. “You can’t! Not today. Solar, please!”

Solar turned his head back to the stage, before looking back at the boy. The Peacekeepers did not move as he walked towards them, but they let Solar reach through their arms and grab the boy’s hand. He said something to him, something that stopped him from screaming, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning away.

Like Fern, Solar took a moment. He relaxed his hands and his shoulders, turning his face blank other than the slightest hint of a smile. Then, he walked towards the stage and mounted it with almost a spring in his step. He managed a soft smile to Alba, which fell when he looked at Fern. The call for volunteers was not answered.

“It is so wonderful to meet your new tributes,” said Alba into the microphone, keeping her voice steady. Someone had told her that the first year would be the most difficult; the fluttering feeling in her stomach was probably just stage fright.

Solar reached for the handshake first. Fern was still trying her best to keep herself calm, a single tear running down her cheek showing that she was beginning to fail. She took Solar’s hand weakly, and he tightened his grip in response. “Raiden liked the chocolate,” he whispered, and she looked up. She could see tears forming in Solar’s eyes too. “Thank you. He was so happy.”

Fern managed a small smile. “I’m glad I could help.”

***

Fern remembered the room. She had entered it in a flurry as a sobbing fourteen-year-old girl, ignoring the décor in favour of remembering her sister’s face. “I can’t cry,” Sunnie had said, grabbing Fern and pulling her onto the chair. “If you cry, no one will take you seriously.”

The warning seemed to echo in the empty space and Fern attempted to listen to it. She used the back of her hand to wipe any trace of tears from her face, and then wiped her hand on the soft velvet of her chair. She knew that Sunnie would not be allowed to come and say goodbye, no matter how much Fern wanted her.

“Oh, Fern,” sobbed her mother as she pushed through the door, almost tripping in her anticipation to get to her daughter. She swept Fern up into a hug, collapsing on the sofa next to her. Her father followed, having taken off his glasses to wipe away his own tears on his own handkerchief. “Why would they take both of you? It’s not fair. It’s not just the odds anymore.”

“I’ll be alright,” reassured Fern, her voice thick. She did not dare to blink. Her father took the space on her other side and offered his handkerchief. “Sunnie did it. I’m sure I can as well.”

When Fern did not take the handkerchief, her father pushed it back into his sleeve and joined the embrace. “Sunnie,” he began, trying to find words. He eventually settled on, “she hasn’t been the same since. I don’t want to lose both my girls like this.”

“I’ll have sponsors,” said Fern, resolute. Her mind briefly flickered back to the boy’s promise to sponsor District Five that morning, glad that she was able to convince him. “And I’m as strong as Sunnie was. I’ll be okay.”

Fern did not enjoy how often she was beginning to lie.

***

Solar spent his goodbye with his younger brother on his lap, sobbing into his shirt. There were no cameras to capture them so Solar allowed himself to cry alongside Raiden. He apologised as much as he could through thick tears, until Raiden told him to stop and to focus on getting home. Solar promised they would celebrate his thirteenth birthday together. Raiden said that he was going to hold him to the promise.

When the Peacekeepers arrived to escort them out, Solar gave Raiden on last kiss on his cheek before letting him go. He grabbed his father by the sleeve as he went to sleeve, grabbing the slips of paper that still sat in his pocket. With Raiden out of earshot, Solar quickly choked out his instruction.

“I have a bet on the girl from One,” he explained, pushing the betting slips into his father’s hand. The man nodded slowly, looking at the paper before looking back to his son. “Keep these safe. When she wins, use this to claim the money from the man with the long beard who normally waits by the butcher. Use the money to make sure Raiden never has to take tesserae.”

“If she wins,” began Solar’s father, but he stopped himself. The remainder was left unsaid.

Solar laughed, a pained sound thick through his tears. “Yeah, well,” he managed. “I always place a bet on Five too, don’t I? The other slip is a bet for me.”

His father glanced at the paper again. He took the piece labelled with District One and shoved it in his own pocket. He gave the other, labelled District Five, back to Solar. “Take this,” he said, “as a reminder that you had faith in whoever came from here.”

Solar’s voice was small. “You really think I’m coming back?”

“You must.”

The Peacekeeper returned to the room, grabbing the arm of Solar’s father, and pulling him towards the door. “You must,” his father repeated, louder. “You have to, Solar.”

“Okay, I’ll-“ cried Solar, but he was interrupted by the heavy sound of a slamming door. He twisted the betting slip around in his hand. “I’ll try.”

Chapter Text

[6] Appearances

Dakota Ford, hand trembling, reached over and grabbed onto the jacket sleeve of the boy who was leaving her bed. “Don’t go,” she whispered, trying to keep a grasp on the material between her weak fist.

“I oughta,” replied Volvo in his gruff voice, still hoarse from sleep. There was a jacket draped across the bed’s threadbare cover and he took it, pulling it over his broad shoulders. “It ain’t going to look good for us to be hanging out together. You need to get yourself up, aight?”

Dakota shook her head, the simple movement sending her mind spinning. Her face must have changed as Volvo kicked an old, rusted bucket to the side of the bed. Dakota was certain that she would need it for a moment but then the nausea subsided, and the room stopped spinning.

District Six never seemed warm even in their midsummer. Dakota slept in her underwear and relied heavily on her blanket, which she pulled up to cover her chest. Volvo laughed at her hunt for modesty, the harsh sound settling into a protective smirk. “You’re such a great girl,” he whispered, before leaning over to kiss Dakota on her forehead. She leant into it, and Volvo pulled away. “Work so hard. Just one more, huh?”

He brushed a lock of black hair from Dakota’s face with his calloused hand before leaving her for a stool. He perched on the edge as it threatened to fall – one leg was shorter than the other two – and tucked his shoelaces into his socks. Dakota watched with doe-like eyes, the dewy glow of sweat settling on her forehead despite shivering.

“You coming today?” she asked, voice hopeful.

“With them ‘keepers crawling around like dogs?” spat Volvo. “Not a chance. We’re going to clear right off.

Volvo kicked a bottle on the floor, watching it roll into the corner. The remainder of the liquid seeped out from its open top as it joined a pile of its fallen brothers. Dakota watched it with beady eyes. Volvo distracted her by taking a dress from an old nail on the wall and tossing it towards her. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “Make yourself look presentable. Got a shipment coming in with the tribute train, so we’ll be hanging around at the old warehouse after the party.”

He turned to leave. “It ain’t a party,” called Dakota, her voice breaking as she forced it to speak at full volume. She cleared her throat as Volvo placed a hand on the broken door. He turned to look at her. “The reaping, I mean. It ain’t a party.”

Volvo’s voice was gruff. “I know, Koty. I did my time in it.”

“I don’t have to go.”

Dakota let the duvet fall, fingers searching for the rough fabric of the dress. She found it, slipping it over her head and meeting eyes with her boy when she emerged from the cotton. Volvo was shaking his head.

“You go,” he said, too firm for Dakota to argue. “Ain’t worth the risk - they count the ones that are in the draw. Least it’s your last one, I suppose but we like keeping you in it for your tesserae.”

She had lost track of the entries tied to her name, each one with an imagined family member to allow them to claim more. “What if it’s me?” she asked, as Volvo turned away again. Climbing from the bed on her shaking legs, she tried to steady her pounding head. The dress hung loosely on Dakota’s skeletal frame.

Volvo tilted his head as he watched Dakota. He moved away from the door to her side, taking her chin in her hand a lifting it so that she looked straight at him. Her hands clutched at his shirt to steady herself. “A grown girl like you worrying over that reaping, Koty?” he chuckled, dropping her head. “Nah, it ain’t gonna be you. It ain’t ever random. I reckon they’re going for some factory owner over the southern way, didn’t meet his quotas. It’ll be his girl, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Dakota’s breath steadied. “Trust you,” she managed, and she gave Volvo a weak smile.

“Good.” Volvo checked for his gun. “You turn up sober. Don’t be disrespecting the work we’re putting in to keep you safe.”

Dakota frowned. “How sober?”

Volvo chuckled again. It was a hearty, rumbling sound like the engine of an older tractor. “No morphling,” he clarified. “Those ‘keepers work out that you got a supply, they’ll kill us. If you turn up drunk, that’s on you. We ain’t getting involved if you get another night in the cells.”

“Got it,” she answered, weakly. “I’ll be alright. You clear off. You got places to be.”

“You know it,” said Volvo, and he headed back to the door. This time, he pulled it open and gave Dakota a brief grin before letting it fall shut behind him. His footsteps rumbled across the stone street outside for a moment and then, silence. There was no one heading out to work in the Eastern Quarter on a reaping day.

Dakota waited for a full minute before she felt steady enough to take a step. There was a crate with a bottle and a hunk of tesserae bread left on a chipped plate waiting for her, as if tempting a mouse in a trap. She stumbled in its direction and fell to the floor on her knees. The bottle was first, with the gulp of liquid burning her throat with a sweet pain that she enjoyed, Then, she started on the bread.

Her dress was soon blanketed in crumbs, the bread dry enough to crumble. There was not much else she could wear anyway. No one paid attention to Dakota unless she wanted them to, unless she was distracting someone for her boy, or helping him out for a favour. Her hair – Dakota ran her fingers through it and winced as she caught knots – could be tied out of her way. She would be respectable enough.

Volvo was right – it was her last one. Dakota gave a longing glance to a pile of glass vials filled with yellowing, bitty liquid before taking a deep breath and returning to the bottle.”

***

Saori Carlisle pushed himself to keep moving through the tight streets of the Northern Quarter. The sun had risen, although it was impossible to tell as the tall, concrete blocks that served as house reached towards the clouds above them. The breeze was funnelled between them, turning the summer air into a cold chill.

The ground was carpeted in smashed glass, with dandelions desperately trying to find through the tarmac. Saori felt as if he did not belong amongst the mess on the floor in his uniform, pulling his blazer tighter across his chest to try and keep from shivering. He was a weed dressed as a flower, shrinking under the gaze of two Peacekeepers as he strolled from cracked tarmac to paved streets.

Despite his uniform, he was out of place on the merchant street as well. The Peacekeepers did not question him - they knew he came this way every morning - but it was clear he did not belong. Saori could not fit in on either side of the barbed wire fence, separating the servants from the shopkeepers.

The school’s yard was home to several dandelions, but there was no broken glass or danger of violence. The children of merchants attacked with silence, ignoring Saori as he placed himself alongside them and knelt on the ground to root for a book in his satchel. His uniform was the same colour, but the blazer was a size too small, the trousers patched over on the knees. It had been second-hand when his brother was gifted it for his birthday, and now sat as a third-hand signpost that Saori was not like the other students.

They watched him through side-eyed expressions and muttered comments about the state of his too-short trousers. Saori heard and saw everything, although he pointedly ignored it. He had no desire to engage in the mindless chatter of the children of merchants and Peacekeepers and officials. His family sacrificed many different things to send Saori to school beyond the age of twelve, and he was not going to throw the opportunity away because Camden Zenelli insisted on loudly repeating how much he hated sharing his desk with a factory boy.

“They’d never have been able to afford to send two of them,” he hissed, fully aware that he was within earshot of Saori. “He’s lucky that his brother died, really. We’d never have been stuck with him otherwise.”

Saori tightened his fist on the strap of his threadbare satchel. He lifted it back onto his shoulder, stood back straight and bit his tongue. The door to the school opened before he could construct a suitable reply.

He waited. Saori liked to wait for the other students to move first, giving them as little opportunity to talk to him as possible. When the courtyard was empty, he finally headed to the door.

“Good morning, Saori,” called Miss Romeo as she waited at the door, in her usual soft voice. Saori approached cautiously; she only ever greeted them as she entered the classroom, rather than when they were coming closer.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice not betraying his concern. She gently placed her arm across the door, stopping him from entering. Her expression softened, like she had seen a stray dog.

She coughed. “I assume you know that the Capitol requires all education on a reaping day to be of a…historical nature, yes?”

Saori nodded.

“Well,” she continued, lowering her arm, and twisting her hands together. “Mayor Zenelli requested we focus on the recent successes from District Six. I did tell him that we had studied Allegra’s year very closely, but he argued quite firmly that District Six don’t have to win to be worth learning from.”

Connections were made quickly in Saori’s head, jumping through a chain reaction and diving to a conclusion. “He requested Xico’s year?”

Miss Romeo nodded, wearing a respectfully sad smile.

Saori glanced beyond his teacher, judging whether the remainder of the class were within earshot. He lowered his voice. “Do I have to be in today?”

“You don’t,” answered Miss Romeo. “Though, I think you’re smart enough to know that there are people who will make a note if you do.”

She followed Saori’s glance, looking at the desk where Camden Zenelli already sat tapping his pen. He leaned across the empty chair next to him to talk to a girl across the room. He had led the charge campaigning for Saori to lose his position in the school when he stopped attending to watch Xico in the arena. If Saori refused to attend again, it would reopen conversations about mental stability and logical thinking and suitability for further education.

He did not give an answer, gently pushing past his teacher to step into the room. Camden did not stop learning across Saori’s chair until Saori coughed, dumping his satchel on the desk. Camden finished his conversation before he allowed Saori to sit down. “Morning, Carlisle,” he greeted, in a voice that was too cheerful for the early morning. “Wonderful weather for a reaping, yes?”

“If you say so,” returned Saori, taking his seat. He could see the bait that was being offered to him and chose to ignore it, determined not to chase a carrot on a stick to his own demise. Camden did not take his refusal.

“You got many entries today, Carlisle?” he asked, with a grin plastered on his face. “You must have tons of tesserae to be here. Can you even count them?”

Saori pulled a battered notebook and pencil from his satchel, each page covered in tiny, scratched handwriting in neat columns. “I’ve only got five,” Camden continued. “The people around here, we don’t get many entries. They’re never going to take us.”

As Saori refused to respond, the conversation lost its’ appeal. Camden settled back in his chair to watch the Games that Miss Romeo had begun to show through the classroom’s projector.

Saori kept his eyes firmly on his notebook, until he heard his own voice. It was enough for him to jerk his head up briefly, watching his twelve-year-old self being pulled from the reaping pen by his father as he shouted Xico’s name. Camden nudged him hard in the ribs when the coverage cut to a scene showing him crying at the station.

There was a sustained focus on the girl from District Five who had eventually won, but Xico had been a firm favourite and won a significant amount of screen-time in the official broadcast. Saori watched the Opening Ceremony, some brief training footage, and the stilted interview. Then, he watched his brother – forever seventeen, trapped in the footage – leave him again.

***

District Six was a tangled mess of concrete. The high-rise buildings for their growing population were constructed quickly and they often fell down even quicker. The shadows were the perfect condition to grow moulding cultures of crime and desperation, and weaponry often snuck in through Peacekeepers who could be convinced to look the other way for a handful of coins.

Minnie Aurelia arrived on a train, took an armoured car to the mayor’s home, and conducted the reaping from his office. She did not meet any citizen of District Six unless they were an official, or a tribute. It was for her own safety, she was told.

The room had been cleared, leaving three chairs: a victor, an escort, and a mayor. Mayor Zenelli had been commanding over the scene with his demanding presence since the early morning, ensuring that four working screens had been provided and that there was ample communication between his home and the four gathered quarters of District Six. He wore a freshly pressed suit and a smile, glancing at his watch every minute.

The victor, Allegra Austin, arrived ten minutes later than expected with pupils so large that Minnie was convinced she could have used them as a mirror.

“Capitol put me on something t’ stop the morphling,” the victor had reassured when given a disapproving glance. Her voice was like a breeze whistling from her throat. Minnie was not convinced – Allegra still had the tell-tale yellowing skin, and the tremor in her hands.

“I hope it is effective,” answered Minnie curtly, before taking her seat before the camera. She had escorted Allegra and been a key witness to her downfall. The sharp, quick-witted girl who had won her Games was a hollow shell.

Mayor Zenelli took his seat next to her, rubbing his hands together with an emotion that almost felt like joy. “It takes a lot of thinking to organise a reaping in District Six,” he revelled, as if it was entirely his planning and not the design of the Capitol. “I do love it when it all comes together. The crowds are ready – and appropriately subdued, of course – in all four quarters so we are ready to ride.”

Minnie gave him a smile. There was celebration in the small room, even though she could not see it in the crowds that lived in the screens. She knew there were many Peacekeepers waiting beyond the cameras, their guns already loaded.

The reaping began. Mayor Zenelli stepped up to give his speech, and the crowd gave no reaction to his dramatic reading of the history of Panem. There was an anxious tension weighing down on each of them, although Minnie was certain the Capitol would cut together the footage from the four gatherings to be something far more exciting.

There was a rustle of relief across the recordings when Minnie was introduced – she was dreaded, but she was also a sign that the end was in sight. She shook Allegra’s hand as a sign of respect to the victor and then stepped forward to position herself between the two full glass balls.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she announced, toning her voice down to appeal to the single camera that flashed red in front of her. The Capitol would be watching her speech interspersed with long, swooping shots of the assembled crowds. “I am here in District Six and hoping that the odds are indeed in our favour. Today, I have the honour of choosing wonderful children for the opportunity of competition for the Capitol’s favour in a glorious pageant of honour.”

She gestured to the glass bowls on either side of her. They were filled with envelopes, the location of each child carefully written on the front. “Your entries are here with me, in the office of your mayor. Our tributes will say their goodbye in their own Justice Buildings, before being transported to meet me at the train station and begin our journey to the Capitol. It’s one of the wonderful quirks of being the largest district!”

Minnie leant over, ceremonial in the movement of her hand as she dug through the many envelopes. She relied on a feeling of anticipation that drove through her when she touched each name before picking an envelope. She glanced at the writing on the front as she ran a fingernail beneath it’s small, wax seal.

“Ladies first, from our Eastern Quarter” she announced with a smile. She opened the envelope. The screens in front of her changed their focus to the pens of the Eastern Quarter, and their awaiting children. “Dakota Ford.”

There was quiet celebration from those who were not picked, tainted with furtive glances around the crowd to see who was. There was no movement. A Peacekeeper shouted an order to a group nearby, pushing forward through the pen to find their tribute.

Minnie watched as the camera began to focus on a frail girl in an old dress, with a hollow face, wide eyes and a mind that was elsewhere. People were pointing to her although she did not seem to notice. There was the tell-tale yellow tint to her skin that Minnie hoped was simply bad lighting. “I hope that’s not her,” moaned Allegra, in her soft, distant voice. “Withdrawal’ll be a pain with her.”

It was her. When a Peacekeeper came near Dakota, she tried to back into the people behind her. She hit out, catching the soldier across his helmet, and snarling at him like an animal. The crowd scattered from the wild girl, and it gave her a path to turn and run. She tried to pull from the Peacekeeper’s grasp. She tried to jump a rope. Her flowing dress became tangled, and the Peacekeeper finally grabbed her by the arm, dragging the girl into the path.

Dakota refused to stand, kicking the Peacekeeper’s shins. Another Peacekeeper joined the battle and overpowered her, forcing her arms to her side. Dakota’s feet dragged as they marched her to the stairs, regimented like a well-oiled vehicle until her feet caught on the wood. They stayed beside her as she stood in front of Panem, shouting obscenities into microphones which had been turned off.

“She’s a fighter,” murmured Allegra, behind her. “Addicted as hell, but a fighter.”

Minnie hesitated, trying to build a positive frame. “A pleasant, resilient young woman,” she managed. “We love a tribute with energy. I hope our male tribute can match her.”

A late arrival of envelopes sat atop the bowl, not having been mixed into the rest of the slips. Minnie looked at them curiously. They each had a crimson wax seal, with ‘Northern Quarter’ written in meticulous handwriting on their front. Minnie did not trust those who could not keep to promised deadlines; she chose a late envelope.

“Northern Quarter,” she announced. The crowd on the screen seemed tenser that the Eastern Quarter had been, the children coming together in groups and grabbing each other’s hands as they waited. “District Six – your male tribute is Saori Carlisle.”

The murmur of the crowd was evident; Minnie could watch it ripple through the gathered children without the sound to hear it. There was a choked cough from behind her and Minnie finally turned to meet Allegra’s cold look. The victor shook her head gently. “I hope that was an accident,” she said, quiet enough so that the camera would not pick it up. Minnie tried to look for reassurance from Mayor Zenelli, but he had suddenly become very interested in wallpaper.

The slip began to burn her hand. Minnie glanced at it again, the name familiar but not immediately recognisable. On the screen, the camera had begun its search for the tribute, and it began to focus on a space in the crowd where the gathered children had taken a step back from the chosen boy. He wore a navy blazer. Minnie felt as if she recognised it.

“Don’t be shy,” she encouraged, and the boy looked into the sky as he heard it. The camera managed to catch a clear view of his face, and his watercolour eyes that seemed to reflect the grey of District Six. Minnie recognised those as well. A boy in the pen lifted the rope, and Saori forced himself to move forward and duck underneath it. A Peacekeeper hovered nearby.

Deep in the crowd, there was a guttural sob. The camera caught a woman with her face buried in her husband’s chest, body heaving. The husband was crying as well, and people around them offered them a comforting hand, a pat on the shoulder, an understanding nod. They were familiar too.

Saori reached the stage. He climbed the stairs with small, stiff movements, but he kept his head high and watched over the crowd with a knowing look. A rumble of discontent shuffled its way through the crowd, as the boy alone on the stage simply held his hands behind his back and waited for further instructions. He looked like his brother.

The memory arrived in Minnie’s head like a train pulling into a station. “Xico,” she murmured, thinking of her first year as an escort in District Six and the clever, personable boy she had travelled with. He was there again, stood on the stage. The microphone picked up her memory.

She watched Saori smile half-heartedly, the same lopsided grin his brother had worn at the ceremonies and the interviews. He made a comment but there were no microphones to pick him up. The crowd gave an attempt at applause. It was weak.

Allegra left her seat with a force she rarely displayed. Mayor Zenelli was still very interested in floral patterning. Minnie was alone, centre-stage, to remember her duty. She forced a smile, although it was half-hearted like that of her tribute. The screens split once more, to show both Dakota Ford and Saori Carlisle standing in front of their neighbours.

“Your tributes,” managed Minnie, weakly. There was no performance left in her. She hated remembering.

***

Dakota Ford waited for a visitor. Volvo Cessna had been hers for just over two years, although she often shared him, and he often shared her. It was not serious, he said. It was just business. He still loved her. She was useful.

No one came.

***

Saori tried to hide any trace of his crying by wiping away tear trails with the heel of his hand. He refused to let anyone know he had cried. He would be ridiculed.

His family had already visited, their allotted time over. They held each other close, and Saori had been painfully aware of every sound and smell and movement. His father had wished him luck. His mother had told him to do his best. They both told him that Xico would be proud of him, although Saori knew that Xico would be furious if he was capable of feeling anything.

When there was another knock at the door, Saori had no idea who his visitor would be. He ran a few names through his head – Miss Romeo seemed plausible – and then immediately let his brain fall into silence as Camden Zenelli entered the room.

There were no more tears, or hugs, or goodbyes. The room filled with Saori’s wide-eyed shock, and Camden's forceful demeanour. He coughed.

“I want to apologise,” he began, sounding confident although he did not look Saori in the eye. “I didn’t think this would happen. I’d never have said it if I thought there was a chance they would take you too. You don’t deserve this. Xico didn’t, either.”

Saori nodded, unsure of any other response to give. An apology to clear a conscience hardly made up for the torment.

Camden continued, “Xico was brilliant, and District Six were so proud of him. He could have won the whole thing if it wasn’t for that girl from Five. You’re so much smarter than he ever was. You can do this. We’re going to be proud of you too.”

Saori nodded again. There was nothing else to say. Any bravado had disappeared at the reaping, where he had attempted a quip about his reputation preceding him after being recognised. Camden gave him a soft pat on the back, before taking him by the shoulder. “Give them absolute hell, Carlisle,” he muttered, finally meeting Saori’s eyes. “The Capitol. The tributes. All of them. Give them hell.”

Camden left as quickly as he had entered.

Chapter Text

[7] Expectation

Ilara Grove wanted to dance, but she had not brought her ballet shoes with her. She went to the studio to return the sheet music that she had borrowed, needing it to be with its owner so that she could attend the reaping without worry. Her teacher, Mrs Amandine, accompanied her arrival on an old piano which sang stiff notes. She played a short scale.

“Every time I sit down to play, I expect this old thing to have given in,” she said, in place of a greeting. “It keeps going. It’s a lot like you, Ilara.”

Ilara greeted the compliment with a brief smile, but no comment. She had been raised on praise: her family practically spoon-fed her with it, and Mrs Amandine scattered it liberally during their dancing lessons. She no longer cared for it.

There was a small step between the entrance and the lower wooden floor. Ilara sat on it to unlace her sturdy walking shoes, leaving them in a neat pair on the old rug. She took the paper folder of sheet music from her cloth bag before entering the dance floor in socked feet.

Miss Amandine played the opening chord of the folk tune she had offered to her student from memory. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I needed to return this,” answered Ilara, promptly. She offered the folder to her teacher with both hands. The pages were copies that had been produced in the stationer’s shop – Mrs Amandine kept the original pieces locked away – but Ilara had taken the time to organise and protect the possession. The notes scattered across the page meant more to her than any casually given compliment.

“You could keep it, pet,” suggested Mrs Amandine. “I trust you to take care of it, and it will sound better on your family’s piano than on this old thing.”

She gestured to the yellowing keys of her instrument as she spoke, but Ilara shook her head. The piano in the studio had a unique tone; the piano in her living room sounded identical to every piano in the Capitol. “It sounds better when you play it,” she replied, and Mrs Amandine finally took the folder. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure it was with you before the reaping.”

“Oh, what a load of fallen leaves,” scoffed Mrs Amandine. She took the music from its folder and placed it beneath two heavy books on top of the piano to keep it flat. “They won’t take you. You’re practically their own kind.”

Ilara blushed - she was not Capitol and hated it when people referred to her as such. “I’m Seven, through and through,” she corrected. “I’m as eligible for that reaping as anyone else.”

“Still, they won’t be looking for you. The Capitol are looking to punish the rebels out in the woodlots. You’ll be travelling to the city for their district scholarship, and nothing else.”

The teacher played a few more notes which became lost in the room. She nodded toward the barre which rested on the wall, supported by two old, iron brackets. It was notched and stained from its years of use. “Did you want to dance? It might help to keep your mind busy. We could practice your plié combination.”

She took up the familiar tune on the piano, but Ilara shook her head. “I didn’t bring my shoes today,” she said, as the music faded away.

“You can practice barefoot.” Mrs Amandine let her hands fall from the keys. “You need to keep practicing, Ilara. I’ve submitted your name for the scholarship audition.”

Ilara’s polite smile faded, giving way to a concerned stare. She raised her voice. “I’m only sixteen,” she protested, forgetting her manners. It was too soon.

“I know,” pushed Mrs Amandine. “Ilara, you’re good. With correct tuition, you could rival even the Capitol’s own students. You need to be in the city, not learning simple combinations from the mayor’s wife.”

“They won’t accept anyone until they’re beyond the reaping!”

The piano made a series of hard notes as the teacher rested her elbows on the old keys. Ilara winced at the sound. “We both know that the reaping isn’t random, pet,” said Mrs Amandine in a hushed voice. “I’m not naïve, and neither are you. They’ll never pull your name, just as they won’t pull Yewan’s.”

The butterflies in Ilara’s stomach continued to dance, as they had been all morning. Reassurance whistled past her like wind, rarely taking root. She wanted people to entertain her pessimism. No one ever seemed to listen to her.

“I want to dance,” she answered, slowly. “If you’re submitting my name, I need to be perfect.”

“It’s not possible to be perfect, Ilara.”

“I need to try.”

The audition had been Ilara’s motivation since Mrs Amandine had first taken interest in the well-spoken, delicate child. There was little competition in the districts, where work was more important than play. Ilara was certain she was the only person in District Seven who wanted to be a dancer - she had heard of a ballet academy for merchant children in District Eleven and knew that it was a popular pastime in District One, but that was all. The Capitol, however, were perfectionists. They only granted a scholarship if they determined there was exceptional talent, and the District Scholarship had only been granted four times in its twenty-two years.

Ilara gave in to expectation. She slipped off her socks and left them with her boots, moving across the room to the barre. She floated her hands above it. Mrs Amandine began to play the combination’s accompaniment and Ilara lost herself in focus. There was no distraction of complacency or optimism – Ilara noted her faults and worked to fix them.

“Not bad, considering we didn’t warm up,” praised Mrs Amandine as the music came to an end. Ilara’s thoughts came flooding back in its absence. She turned back to her teacher, who’s reassurance still echoed like the final strain of the piano.

“Are you really not worried about your son?” she asked.

“Yewan is twelve,” responded Mrs Amandine, curious. “He has one entry. Why would I worry?”

“There have been tributes with one entry before. There was that little girl last year who-“

“Tributes are chosen to be an example,” interrupted Mrs Amandine. “The families in the woodlots and the orchards, they are one night away from becoming monsters. They are what they want. You are not a monster, Ilara. You are a dancer.”

***

Acacia Sasaki emerged from the engine, his young face splattered with oil. He used the back of his hand to wipe it away but only succeeded in smearing the black streak across his nose. He had been startled by the slamming of a door. His manager, Killen Hickory, had rested against the frame, laughing at the mess across Acacia’s face.

“I was just coming to warn you that you’ve got two hours till reaping,” he said through a smile. “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”

“Gee, thanks.” Acacia’s voice was dry. He scrubbed again at his face, unsuccessfully.

Killen walked to the vehicle and peered into the engine, although he did not know what he was supposed to see. Acacia was stood on an old, wooden stool to reach the vehicle’s engine and jumped down and landed with both feet. He picked a tattered towel from the floor and used it to scrub the worst of the grease from his hands. “Needs a new carburettor. Got one in stock?”

“I’ll put in an order to Six,” sighed Killen. “They’re too unreliable, these things. Always breaking down. I think Six is doing it deliberately, so we have to keep ordering new parts.

“Lucky you have me then.” Acacia kicked an old screw across the garage floor. He liked the sound that it made.

“If it were up to me, I’d go back to pulling our logs by horse. We could put in a large order to Ten to take some off their hands, and then we could pull our logs without worrying about carburettors or tyres or fuel.”

“Harder to get spare parts for a horse, I hear.”

Acacia smiled for himself, dropping the grin as soon as the man looked back in his direction. Instead of returning the glance, he tried to catch his own reflection in the logging truck’s side mirror. He realised how far the splutter of oil had stretched across his skin; it would need the usual tough mix of soap, sugar, and water to clean up enough to attend the reaping.

“Here.” The man approached behind him, digging in his denim pocket for a crumpled paper note. Acacia’s usual payment – a handful of coins, enough for bread and milk – never reached the point of paper. The man held it out to him.

He took it. Acacia was humble, but he was not stupid. He had the money in his hand and halfway to his pocket before he said, “I can’t take this. It’s too much.”

“You’re keeping us working. Might speak to someone and see if we can get you more pay for that second year of your training. Besides, it’s the reaping. Buy yourself something nice.”

The note was folded as small as it could go and shoved deep into Acacia’s own pocket, between an old key and a coin he kept for emergencies. It would not be spent on something nice.

The man looked Acacia from head to toe. “You got many entries?” he asked, lifting his hand to his mouth to lick his thumb. He used it to try and scrape the grease from the young boy’s face. It did not help.

“Nah,” lied Acacia. He did not have many entries for a fifteen-year-old boy. However, Acacia was not fifteen. The logging mill allowed him to be fifteen so that they could employ him. Acacia simply made himself scarce on inspection days and pretended to be Asa Sasaki to make it harder to follow him.

In actuality, he was thirteen. His name was on seven pieces of paper – twice as required, and five as tesserae. His meagre pay was additional relief, but it did not release Acacia from trading his safety to grain and oil. The mill knew this, as Killen looked at Acacia with doubt.

“If you say so,” he sighed. Acacia was grateful that he did not pry. “Your dad’ll kill me if I send you home like that. Use the sink in the office. We’ve got soap somewhere.”

Killen unlocked the door to the liaison’s office, leading Acacia inside. The soap was better than the bar Acacia kept near his bucket at home. It shifted the grease into the water with ease. He dried his face on the waiting towel and looked back at the man for approval.

There was a brief exchange of smiles. Then, the man’s face fell. “You don’t look fifteen, Asa,” he said.

“I wonder why that might be.”

“Don’t joke.” The man’s voice was hushed. “You’re just a kid.”

“You going to fire me?”

The man shook his head. “No,” he said, softly. “But don’t let them take you to the Capitol, will you?”

There was still grease in his hair. Acacia could feel it, but there would be no point trying to wash it out in the time he had left. “It’s not my choice now, is it?” he replied, eventually.

“I know it ain’t but, just don’t let them.”

Acacia waited. There was nothing left to listen to; it was his turn to speak. He settled on, “I’ll try.”

***

In District Seven, they gathered amongst the trees. The reaping was no exception – rope was strung around logs to create the pens, large screens were erected so that people could watch, and logging vehicles were provided to ferry people to where they needed to be. The sun fought against the thick canopy of leaves, but it often lost, and people kept to the shade.

It was only necessary to attend if you had a child of reaping age, but Clarus Corvinus still struggled to comprehend the number of children waiting in front of him. “We have many children in the Capitol, of course,” he said, chattering at length to Aspen Hollow, District Seven’s sole victor. “It’s a bit of an event, just making sure that everyone can attend. We use a video link for some. You might want to look into that for your own reaping.”

“I’m sure,” replied Aspen, visibly uninterested. He was familiar with Clarus’ constant conversation, having been steered through the unfamiliar world of victory by the silver-haired man. This did not mean he liked the escort. He stood from his chair, the sound of wood against wood interrupting Clarus’ commentary. The victor waved to someone he pretended to see, jumped from the stage to the dusty ground below, and disappeared.

Clarus was left scowling at District Seven’s rude welcoming, watching the crowd begin to grow together as the reaping grew nearer.

Ilara attended with her mother, hair pulled back in a white satin ribbon. She wanted to hold her mother’s hand but refrained – it was not acceptable beyond twelve. Instead, she occupied her hands by waving to the stage when Mrs Amandine acknowledged her, the dance teacher attending the reaping in her duty as the mayor’s wife. Clarus was speaking loud enough to be heard over the general mutter of the crowd, and Ilara caught his criticism as she walked beneath it.

“I much prefer the reaping here,” her mother added, quietly so that only Ilara would hear. “It’s so much prettier.”

Ilara agreed; she always agreed.

Acacia had not returned home. He reluctantly met his father at a large oak tree, the large man stumbling towards him. He shoved a hand outward, which Acacia filled with the paper note he had been given at the logging mill.

“Is this all?” his father scowled. He still took it, scrunching it into a ball and shoving it into his shirt pocket.

“It’s more than usual. You could be nicer about the whole thing.” Acacia matched his father’s expression, adding a roll of his eyes. He stepped out of his father’s reach.

Luckily, his father was constrained by time and crowd. He could not speak to his son as he wished. “Get in your pen,” he ordered, shoving past his son, and pushing him towards the gathering crowd of thirteen-year-olds. They both became lost in the mass of people finding their place, neither caring for the other.

Clarus was continuing to observe, his mouth providing a running commentary. “Your crowd is organised, at least,” he praised, but his compliment was not acknowledged.

“We need to stop talking now,” replied Mayor Amandine, whispering as the crowd fell silent. He stood to make his speech, and Clarus readjusted his face so that a soft smile sat upon it. He found a camera and looked into it, unsettlingly.

He forced his smile to be brighter when he was introduced, positioning himself in front of the microphone before the crowd finished applauding the mayor. They stopped as soon as their Capitol representative was centre stage. Clarus was certain he heard Aspen laughing behind him.

“Good afternoon, District Seven,” he began cheerily. They stared, stoney-faced, as they waited for him to complete his task and then leave them alone. They did not even wave in the wind like the trees did. Clarus readjusted his face, a seething hatred for District-folk masked beneath. “It is an honour to be here in District Seven again for the annual ceremony that we are all familiar with. The 95^th Annual Hunger Games are set to truly be a spectacular event, and I cannot express how important District Seven’s tributes will be to the overall pageant.”

Above them, a mockingjay repeated the Capitol-lilt in Clarus’ voice. There was no applause. His smile fell into a scowl, which he hoped would be mistaken as a serious expression, and Clarus moved towards the bowl filled with girl’s names. He took his time; there were not many slips, but the choice was the best torture he could think of for the rude audience of District Seven.

“Pick a good one,” called Aspen, and Clarus took even longer in response.

Eventually, his fingers clutched a slip into his fist, and he pulled it from the bowl. There was a sharp intake of breath as he moved towards the microphone, unfurled his fingers, and unfolded the paper. He took a deep breath himself, to keep the vengeful suspense.

“Ilara Grove.”

Clarus noted that the mayor’s wife seemed to gasp. He hoped, selfishly, that he had not chosen someone related to the mayor – he had made that mistake in District Ten and transferred soon after.

Ilara was easy to see. The crowd of children separated around her, as if her bad luck would rub off on them, and the colour had drained from her face. Her hand was reaching up to play with a tendril of hair, but the shock had stopped the movement.

Eventually, Ilara turned and looked across the crowd. She could not see her mother, but she could see Mrs Amandine on the stage. Her face was pale too, set in a grim resignation of anger with her pursed lips. Ilara could not feel anger. She could not feel anything at all.

Her legs moved. She lowered her arms and gripped them in fists at her side as she walked like a machine. The ground was soft underfoot and Ilara felt a spring being forced into her step even though she detested it. The stage was better: it was wood, and it was familiar. She was not sure how she managed to climb the stairs.

“Ilara,” beckoned Clarus, with a smile set back on his face. It was a costume; Ilara could see that as she grew closer. “Come here and let us see you. You’re a beauty, aren’t you?”

The tribute did not smile at the praise. Ilara was focused on trying to keep herself from crying, ignoring the buzz of Clarus’ meaningless commentary. Eventually, he stopped talking. Ilara waited but nothing filled his silence.

“How old are you?” he repeated, slowly.

Ilara blinked, unclenching her fists, and finding her voice. “Sixteen,” she answered.

“Stage fright?” asked Clarus, as if it were a joke. Ilara shook her head.

Clarus decided to leave her alone – Ilara’s natural beauty would be admired in the Capitol, but the girl was lost on the stage. He was certain she would be forgettable.

“Let’s continue,” he announced. He would be ridiculed if he pulled another tribute who cried, so he took a slip from the very middle of the ball, before Ilara’s tears had a chance to spill. He had barely reached the microphone when he loudly called, “Acacia Sasaki!”

The crowd relaxed, beginning to murmur amongst themselves. The noise was an indistinguishable buzz; Clarus could not make out any conversations. Eventually, he noticed a rustle in one of the furthest pens. A tall boy, towering over those around him, stepped to lift the rope of the pen. For a moment, Clarus hoped that he had pulled someone intimidating, who would win him favour. The tall boy did not leave the pen.

Acacia hated the rope. However, he decided at that moment that he hated leaving the safety of the pen even more. He stepped into the carpet of leaves. That movement, from pen to stage, was a moment between two separate worlds and people stared at him as he made the journey.

There was a man following him with a camera, and Acacia could see his own face reflecting back in the lens. He could not cry; it was considered bad luck to cry.

Clarus watched his tribute as he walked to the stage. In his head, he played the ridicule he would receive for pulling another twelve-year-old tribute. Cannon fodder, his friends would say.

Acacia’s hair fell across his face, and he made no attempt to clear it from his eyes. He managed to climb the steps without stumbling and positioned himself on the left side of Clarus. Ilara held in a sob, and Acacia held in a shout, and they both did their best to represent District Seven as strong contenders. They did not succeed. Clarus tried to find something to celebrate.

“Acacia Sasaki,” he repeated into the microphone, having to read the name from the slip of paper to remember it. Acacia rolled his eyes. It was the Capitol’s role to make their tributes someone to support, and Clarus was failing. Acacia always preferred to do a job himself, anyway.

Clarus did not go to hand the microphone over, but Acacia pulled it from his hand. “Asa Sasaki,” he corrected, and Clarus was almost sure he heard a murmur of recognition in the crowd. “No one calls me Acacia.”

“Twelve, I assume.”

Acacia looked at Clarus as if he had said something incredibly and obviously wrong, as if he had said chickens could grow on trees. “No,” he corrected. “Thirteen.”

“I’m sure it will make a difference.”

Clarus tried to take the microphone again. Acacia refused. “If you’re going to come all the way here just to pull two names, you could at least get the information right,” he criticised.

“My apologies.” Clarus’ voice was dry. It matched Acacia’s expression.

***

“You told me they wouldn’t take me.”

Ilara never argued with her teacher. She considered everything Mrs Amandine had said as the truth. As she sat on the sofa with her legs curled beneath her and her dance teacher paced behind in the light of a window, Ilara felt betrayed.

“I didn’t think you would,” answered Mrs Amandine, still pacing. Her voice was quiet. “They have no reason to take you.”

Ilara desperately wanted her mentor to sit beside her and speak of success, as she often did. Mrs Amandine, however, did not say anything of the sort. Ilara knew that there was nothing she could say. Ballet was one skill, and the Hunger Games were another.

Mrs Amandine stopped pacing. “I’ll never have another student like you,” she said.

The tears were threatening Ilara’s eyes again, but there was a newfound venom in them. Her teacher had believed in her through everything, until now. “I’d hope not,” replied Ilara. “I’ll be expecting coaching when I return. I hope to be dancing in the Capitol before the year is out.”

The teacher’s familiar tone, full of resilience and pride and belief, had disappeared. “Of course,” she replied.

***

Acacia was lying down on the sofa. He was tempted to try and snatch sleep in the short moment he had between the reaping and boarding the train. Unfortunately, his father crashed through the door to the room and disturbed the brief peace.

“Don’t you dare embarrass me,” his father ordered from the doorway. They normally operated at a distance: Acacia’s father had expected a strong, lumberjack son to join him in the woodlots and instead had been burdened with a whisper of a child who would pull apart machinery. “Get one of the strong tributes to kill you, and at least look as if you’re putting up a fight.”

At home, Acacia would have stood to talk to his father. He decided to retire the formality and remained at the sofa, scowling at the ceiling. “I’m glad you have such faith in me.”

“Oh, stop being such a smart arse.” His father finally fell into a chair. “I’m just being realistic.”

“Realistic?” argued Acacia.

His father did not elaborate. When Acacia forced himself to look, the large man was sat with his head in his hands. “What am I going to do without your money?” he complained, and Acacia decided not to respond.

Chapter Text

[8] Student

Satin Winchester walked into the old schoolroom, already wearing her reaping dress for the celebration that day. She detested the early morning start – there was no reason to rise with the sun on a holiday – but she had been asked to attend, even on a day when the school would not be holding a class. It was strange to hear silence, without the familiar shouts and laughs of the other students.

“Satin!” called Cotton, waving eagerly from across the room as Satin stood in the doorway. He was behind a desk where a screen gave his face a strange blue glow. At the sight of his student, Cotton left the chair with such force that it was left spinning. “I didn’t expect you to be here so early!”

Satin shrugged, unsure of the correct answer. “I couldn’t sleep,” she guessed, and it sent her into a yawn that she unsuccessfully tried to hide.

“Nervous?”

There was no reason to lie. She nodded and Cotton gifted her a look of sympathy. He had been forced into a navy suit which fitted him well but did not match him; Cotton had left the tie undone, his shirt was mostly unbuttoned, and his shoes were scuffed. As he met Satin at the door, he took her hand in his own. “You’d be prepared enough to give it a shot,” he tried, but it provided little comfort. “Many entries?”

“Enough,” said Satin. “It just keeps going up.”

Cotton kept her hand in his, beginning to drag Satin across the room and back towards the screen. It was difficult to tell that he was a victor from the hurried rush of words that spilled from his mouth – victory was supposed to come with poise and confidence, but Cotton Sterling did not have either. Words left his mouth in an unintelligible torrent.

“And Armure thinks it’s a good idea as well,” he continued, finally leaving Satin as he collapsed back into his chair. Satin had not caught the rushed conversation and was lost amongst the victor’s words. “We don’t have anyone else to take over, and I need to be in the Capitol to help with sponsors. I think we would have had a chance last year if we’d had the funds. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You work too hard to disappoint anyone,” tried Satin, in her own attempt to reassure. The comment barely landed before Cotton lost himself in speech again, hardly keeping to coherent topics. He was an incomplete thought of a person. Privately, Satin was surprised he held himself to a task long enough to win the Games.

“What do you think, then?” Finally, Cotton stopped busying himself with commentary. He rested on his desk with an expectant smile, looking to Satin for an answer she could not provide.

She waited for further information. When she realised that it was not coming, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I’m still trying to wake up. What did you say?”

If Cotton realised that she had not been listening, he hid his disappointment. “You being a trainer!” he exclaimed, with a wide grin. “There’d have to be a probation at first, but we can trial it during the Games. Then, the school can stay open whilst Armure and I are mentoring. You don’t have to touch combat, Satin. You can focus on strategy and survival, and that’s all they…”

Satin stopped listening. She could not see herself as a teacher. Armure and Cotton were not gifted at teaching, but they had the benefit of knowing what a tribute needed. District Eight did not produce volunteers from their small training school, but they did produce children who stood a chance when their name was pulled. Satin was only a student – their oldest student – and nothing more.

“I don’t know-“ she began, but Cotton did not let her continue.

“It’s the best way to learn, and you really are a great teacher. You’ve helped us with the younger ones for so long now. We’d pay you, of course. We can discuss a salary now if you want to.”

Pay was enough for Satin to reconsider. Hesitantly, she nodded her head in agreement. Cotton practically jumped on her to give her a hug. His energy never faded, and he threw himself into everything in the same way he threw himself at Satin – there were worse vices that a victor could fall into after their Games, and District Eight were proud that their victors buried themselves in something constructive. It kept them respectable on Panem’s stage.

Cotton began to speak again, powering through sentences about when he would grab Armure to tell her and the kind of instruction that Satin would be able give. She was to focus on strategy, survival, and image – she was an excellent student when it came to appealing to the Capitol. “And you can do it better than us,” admitted Cotton. “The Capitol never really liked me and Armure, not like they do with some tributes. They’d absolutely love you. Our tributes need that adoration. We need that advantage.”

Satin appeared to listen, but she had lost herself again. She spoke without thinking once there was a pause. “Is it hard?” she asked.

Cotton seemed surprised. “To be a teacher?”

“To be a victor.”

The energy that burst through the room burnt away in a final flourish. Cotton stopped talking and bit down on his lip. Satin noticed him refusing to look at her face, finding solace in the view from the classroom’s small window. Eventually, he answered. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he answered, slowly. “Winning the Games, you just need to be lucky. Afterwards, as a mentor…”

He faded into a silence. Satin regretted her question. Cotton would speak about anything, except his own Games and his own experience. She was on the edge of asking him to forget she had ever asked when he began to speak again.

“I can handle it,” he said, as if he was trying to convince himself rather than his student. He smiled again as if he was turning on a light, but it did not meet his eyes. “I have the school, and our students here. At the Games though, there are always two tributes and one victor.”

***

Lucet Buckram was doubtful.

“Can you believe it?” his cousin shouted, pointing to the screen on the crate beside the fireplace. Lucet struggled to believe anything that Tartan said. “There’s been five volunteers already! It’s going to be so difficult for them this year.”

Tartan seemed to shout at the strangest moments, and at the strangest things. He had slept on the sofa, although had woken up as soon as the sun rose in the sky. Lucet had heard the younger boy’s nightmares from his own bedroom, having already been awoken by his own. Tartan no longer seemed to fear the reaping, as he excitedly watched the broadcast showing on their small screen.

Lucet did not complain; it was rare that his apartment had electricity, and the buzz of the screen was comforting as they got ready.

Tartan was wearing an old shirt of Lucet’s: a white shirt washed to grey with a lace collar that had been starched with old potatoes. Lucet himself had received a new shirt for his twelfth birthday the previous year and it still fit him, so he had squeezed himself into the ill-fitting green cotton. The sleeves were short, but Lucet turned them up and willed them to stay in place.

“Mam says that she’ll get me a shirt on her next pay,” stated Tartan, straightening his collar. “Then, I’ll look proper smart at my first reaping. I’m going to look so much better than you did.”

Lucet noted the comment in his mental list of Things Tartan Says That Probably Aren’t True, and nodded to act as if he was listening. Tartan’s mam was working at the factory on reaping morning for the overtime pay that they offered – reaping shirts were probably the last thing on her list, behind rent, food, and oil. At least when Tartan turned twelve, the small family could apply for tesserae. Lucet had already paid for his oil and grain through his eight entries in that day’s reaping.

“We should turn the screen off soon,” murmured Lucet, trying take back the conversation. He had borrowed his mother’s old compact to use the mirror, pulling a comb through his hair. “They’re showing old clips from the Games between the reapings, and I don’t want to watch ‘em.”

Tartan scoffed. His bright red hair – longer than Lucet’s, although both boys were overdue a haircut – had already been scraped back out of his face. “You might learn something from them,” he stressed. “Then if your name gets called, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going to get called, am I?

Lucet gave up on his hair; it would not sit properly when it was too long, and his fringe had fallen across his eyes. Tartan seemed infuriated by his indifference, but eight entries in a selection of thousands kept him calm except for a quickening heartbeat whenever he glanced at the screen.

“If you did get reaped,” continued Tartan, in his usual sudden manner. The boy had moved on from getting ready, lying across the sofa, and watching Lucet over the top of the pillow. “What would you take as a token?”

“It ain’t going to happen, so I haven’t thought about it,” answered Lucet. He also gave up on trying to straighten out his collar and began to hope that the reaping cameras would just ignore him.

Tartan glared at him. “You’ve got to have a token,” he judged, leaning over to reach an old flour sack. He had used it to hold his clothes for his brief stay with his cousin. He rustled around in his meagre belongings until he found what he was searching for. “Here. You can have this.”

Tartan held out a wooden ball, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was rough and not perfectly spherical, leaning on a little flat patch of its wood. “My dad made it,” he continued. “Before he went away.”

Lucet shook his head. “I ain’t taking something your dad made, Tartan.”

Not accepting the answer, Tartan forced the ball into Lucet’s hand and made him form a fist. “Just take it for now. For the reaping. Then, when you don’t get reaped, I want it back.”

***

District Eight had many factories, and many children to work in them. They had outgrown a factory courtyard for their reaping and were working with a large field on their outskirts, using old wooden platforms and tarpaulin paths to protect the ground. There was an attempt at a forest, although it was sparse, and the sun had decided it would not be attending the celebration. It was impossible to tell if the sky was grey with cloud or with smoke.

Julian Cascade could not believe the crowd that stretched out before him. The hastily built pens seemed to go beyond what he could see. “If I reap a little one, the kid is going to have to hike to the stage,” he commented to Mayor Damask, who was explaining the layout to him.

“Oh, I know,” answered the mayor. He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and patted at his forehead. “If our population continues to grow, we’re going to have to consider a split reaping like Six, or preliminaries like Eleven. It’s a shame we’re trampling this field to mud.”

The eligible children were not allowed an adult, unless they were twelve and attending for the first time. The citizens of District Eight were gathering to watch on screens with the rest of Panem, most still hidden away in the factories. “They’re all eligible?” asked Julian, as he viewed the crowd assembling in front of them.

“Indeed,” said the mayor.

The escort shook his head gently. “They’re going to start sinking.”

Julian’s dinner jacket was made of no less than twelve different fabrics which had all been assembled in District Eight. He meant it as a celebration of his new district, but it did not come across to the crowd as anything but boastful. Cotton and Armure, their victors, arrived together and shared a pained glance at the man’s choice of clothing.

“Good morning, Mayor Damask!” called Cotton from the floor, and Julian began to wonder if the victors had more decorum than he expected. Then, Cotton gave a wild wave that destroyed any illusion of high society and Armure laughed at him in a very unladylike fashion. “And welcome to Eight, Mr…”

“Cascade,” answered Julian. “Although, you may call me Julian if you wish.”

“Oh, I will.” Cotton mounted the stage and offered a sturdy hand for Julian to shake. He did, reluctantly. “I was looking forward to seeing Diana again. What’s happened? She hasn’t retired, has she?”

“She was transferred to Thirteen. She sends her regards and wishes you luck.”

Diana had spent their brief handover meeting speaking about her beloved victors. Julian had been expecting more from the manner in which she gushed, and he was left disappointed.

“Best find your seats,” announced Mayor Damask, checking the leather watchstrap on his wrist. “The ‘Keepers are just bringing in the last few. Cotton, Armure, lovely to see you. Good luck this year. Hopefully, the tributes will be yours and we can bring one of them home.”

Cotton quickly shook the mayor’s hand, whispering something that Julian did not catch. Armure glared at him with her infamous cat-like eyes and did not offer him a hand to shake. Julian took his seat with a disapproving scowl. Cotton collapsed into the seat beside him. “You’ll do great,” he offered, patting Julian on his leg. The escort pulled away.

Julian spent the mayor’s speech astounded by the colour that stretched across the crowd in front of him. The children had dressed in offcuts of all sorts of expensive fabric and built a rainbow across the muddying field. He started to wonder if his own jacket was slightly garish in comparison and made a note to contact his stylist.

When he was introduced, he made the decision to shrug the jacket from his shoulders, leave it on his chair and conduct the remainder of the ceremony in his frilled dress shirt. “I do love the warm weather in Eight,” he commented as he reached the microphone, although it fooled no one – the sun was missing, and the wind brought a chill as its guest. “I have the honour of selecting a female and a male tribute to represent you in the Hunger Games, and I do not think I’ve ever had a choice this large!”

The glass bowls beside the podium were both overfilled, carefully placed so that the breeze could not steal anyone’s name. He approached the first bowl cautiously, unsure how to navigate the pile. Deciding to plunge his hand into the bowl and hope for the best, Julian picked his tribute as the slips of paper fell like snowflakes on the crowd. A few grabbed for them, trying to find their own name and confirm their own safety.

“District Eight,” announced Julian, having returned to the microphone with his choice. He unfolded the slip and flattened it against the podium. The handwriting had been rushed in the hurry to prepare for the ceremony, and the ink was smudged. “Your female tribute is Satin Winchester.”

Julian was surprised when District Eight applauded, the roar punctuated by shouts. They always sent their own with cheering and chants of good luck – Cotton and Armure had both cited the faith of District Eight as what kept them sane in the arena. The victors joined in with the tradition, with Cotton shouting an uncertain sounding, “good choice!”

Satin stepped from the crush of her pen. Julian gave her a nod of approval: her blouse was pressed and white, her skirt was a vibrant tartan, and her hair fell across her shoulders. She looked up at Julian from the aisle and smiled.

A camera rushed over to capture her, and Satin spotted it immediately. She grinned as soon as she saw it, pushing her hair behind her ear in a calculated, coy move. There was a bounce in her step as she walked to the stage, and she waved at the people she passed in the crowd. District Eight cheered for her, with people reaching out of their pens to try and grab her hand.

Julian could hear the mentors behind the cheering. “That’s my girl!” shouted Armure, but Cotton left his chair in a flurry to greet Satin. He pulled her into an embrace at the top of the staircase.

“Panem above,” he muttered, letting Satin bury her face in his suit. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The embrace gave Satin a rare, private moment to compose herself away from the camera. Julian thought he heard his tribute sob but when Cotton released her, there was no trace of tears in her eyes. She offered a confident handshake to Julian, and he took it.

“I’ve never seen a tribute like you before,” he slipped, before realising his off-hand comment had echoed across the field. He had to commit. “Not in my reaping, anyway. The Capitol, perhaps, or District One.”

“Well, there’s nowhere quite like District Eight!” answered Satin. Her voice was too high-pitched; she mentally scolded herself and readjusted her tone. “We’re a very unique bunch, and we’re all very capable. I can’t wait to show the Capitol what we can do here, Mr. Cascade.”

“We shall watch eagerly,” replied Julian. He turned to face the bowl of male names and prepared himself to choose again before hesitating. He had a tribute with a glowing personality, which was rare in the outlying districts. He needed to exploit it, whilst it was still his. Julian turned back to Satin. “Would you like to read our male name?”

Satin’s face fell, but only in a flash long enough for Julian to believe he had imagined it. She glanced over her shoulder to her mentor, who offered a shrug. “I don’t think it’s been done before,” added Cotton, and Satin understood. When Julian picked a name and held it to her, Satin took the paper and positioned herself in front of the microphone.

“Our male tribute is,” she introduced, and her voice wavered. Julian sympathised – public speaking was difficult for everyone. Then, Satin closed her eyes and whispered the name into the crowd. “Lucet Buckram.”

District Eight kept their enthusiasm, loudly letting Panem know that they had faith in every tribute they sent. The crowd jostled around a figure at the back of the crowd. Satin dropped the slip to the stage as Cotton pulled her into a quick, one-armed hug. “You didn’t pull the name,” he reassured, quietly. “It was not your choice, okay? People will remember you. That’s what we want.”

Julian could see his tribute approaching. Lucet did not move like Satin but, to his credit, he kept his head up and his gaze straight ahead. It was a long walk for the thirteen-year-old and whilst people did not grab for him, they clapped him solidly as he moved. He was small against the crowd, and even smaller when he stood on the stage in his old green shirt. He was a head shorter than Satin and looked up at her as she mouthed an apology. He shook his head.

“Lucet!” called Julian, taking the young boy by the arm, and dragging him to the podium. Satin’s confidence had thrown him, but the escort returned to his role of making reluctant tributes shine and those like the small, mousey-brown boy was his specialty. “Come here. You too, Satin. Let’s show the Capitol the wonderful tributes of District Eight!”

***

Satin was sat on the room’s cerulean sofa when her younger sister burst through the door. Nina moved with a ferocious energy, throwing herself into an embrace that her older sister offered.

“You can do this,” determined Nina, voice thick through the fabric of her sister’s blouse. She spoke with optimism although it sounded fearful. Satin could feel her trembling. “If anyone can do it, you can. Cotton has taught you everything he knows, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Satin, burying her face into Nina’s hair. Without the camera to taunt her, she found it difficult to feign confidence. “I suppose he has.”

Nina pulled away from the embrace, despite Satin trying to hold her tighter. They kept their hands locked together, but she took the opportunity to memorise her older sister’s face. Satin tried to smile. It was half-hearted.

“Don’t cry,” warned Nina. “Don’t let them see you cry.”

Satin took a deep breath before nodding, heeding her sister’s advice. “You’re being so brave.”

A single tear rolled down Satin’s cheek. Nina reached up and wiped it away. “You be brave too,” she demanded, and Satin managed a promise.

***

“You should have it back,” insisted Lucet, trying to keep his voice steady as he forced the wooden ball into his cousin’s hands.

Tartan pulled his hand away, placing both of his arms behind his back. “No way,” he replied, quietly. “I said it was your token. You need to keep it.”

Lucet had not heard his cousin speak slowly or quietly in a very long time. Tartan’s energy from the morning had completely melted away, revealing a downcast face that had tearstained cheeks. “Besides,” he continued. “You’re gonna need the luck, and the ball is lucky. My dad said it was.”

The wood was smooth, and Lucet found himself absent-mindedly running his thumb across the grain. “Are you sure?”

Tartan nodded. “You need to bring it back, though.”

Chapter Text

[9] Pawprint

Amity Barrett never deprived herself of a sunrise. She sat on the house’s front step with a mug of steaming tea and watched the sun begin to peek its head over the distant wheat fields. She would set the cup on a corner of her porch and join the crowd as they trekked their way to work, but there was no work on reaping day. It was strange to hear silent streets.

She scowled softly. There would be plenty of people walking through the streets later in the day on their way to the market, but those crowds would be solemn and without chatter. She did not want to walk with them.

“You’re out there already?” called her mother from an open window. Amity nearly knocked her mug over as she turned to listen, catching it before it spilled. Her mother waved at her from the kitchen’s glass.

“You know I’m always out early,” called Amity.

“How long you been out?”

“Watched the sun come up. Couldn’t sleep.”

Amity’s mother nodded sympathetically, her attention falling to the whistling kettle on the stove behind her. “Come grab breakfast.”

Reluctantly, Amity left her step. The door on the house never fully shut, the wood not fitting within the frame after a particularly wet autumn. It was warm enough in the summer but there was always a loud noise when it closed. Alongside the sound of the whistling kettle and the scraping of a knife on toasted bread, it created a morning lullaby throughout the three-roomed cottage.

“I’ve toasted yesterday’s bread,” called her mother from the kitchen, unnecessarily. Amity followed the noise and the scent of breakfast. “I’ve got barley for a stew later, so we can finish the butter.”

As always, Amity’s mother gave the first plate to her daughter. Amity accepted it gratefully and took it with her as she perched on the old wooden stool. Toasted bread with fresh butter was a simple pleasure that she always enjoyed on a slower morning and it was something she had enjoyed every reaping morning since she had turned twelve.

“I have a gift for you,” her mother continued. “For your last reaping. You’re a young lady now.”

She turned away to pour boiling water, but Amity still caught sight of her mother’s sad smile. “Some young lady,” she answered, trying to cheer her mother up with her mocking tone. “Can’t even sleep through a reaping night just yet. I’m supposed to be eighteen, ma.”

“We’ve all had those nights. Barely slept myself, worrying sick about you.” Amity’s mother planted a kiss on the top of her daughter’s head. “We’ve made it, Ammie.”

She sat at the table with her own plate, a mug set beside her daughter’s. When she took a bite, the crumbs settled themselves upon her dress. Amity followed her lead. When she finished her bread, she brushed the crumbs from her plate and licked them from her finger.

Finished, they sat with their hands cupped around their warm tea, Amity’s colder than her mother’s. “You’ve been sat out there for a while,” said her mother, blowing on her drink. “Did you see anyone pass by?”

It took a moment for her to recall. “I did see Uncle Dagan on his way to the market very early,” replied Amity. “He wished me luck.”

Amity’s mother pulled a face. “That life of drink has been no benefit to my brother whatsoever,” she commented. “Did I ever tell you why he’d be going so early? Dagan says that fate does not shine upon him, so he goes to the market each year and places a bet on Gwendolyn, for Panem’s sake. Says that if there’s money to win, the odds will never let his daughter be called.”

“Sounds reasonable,” smirked Amity, to a disapproving look from her mother. “Gwendolyn though, she’s a great hand in the fields. I reckon she could hold her own against the others if she ever does get called.”

“Well, my brother is doing his absolute best to ensure it never happens. He’ll be a rich man in coins if they call Gwennie today, but I cannot imagine the life will be worth living.”

Amity finished her drink in a moment of finality, leaving her stool to place her mug in the shallow sink. She rubbed at it with a rag to remove the beige ring where the tea had sat but became lost in the motion, repeating her cleaning as she watched the movement of the wheat in the wind from her window.

“You’re really overthinking it, huh,” said her mother quietly, watching her daughter silhouetted against the early morning sun. Her mother left her mug on the table as she stood from the stool and turned towards the bedroom that they shared. “Well, no point in wondering on what might happen. I’ve laid a dress for you.”

Amity followed her mother with a slower stride, waiting in the doorway to the bedroom. Her mother straightened a sage green dress, laid across the bed. It was a fine fabric even if it was old, with only one missing button on the chest.

“I wore it for my final reaping,” explained Amity’s mother as her daughter rushed forward to feel the soft fabric between her fingertips. “My mother bought it as a gift for my eighteenth birthday, so that I had something special to wear. I think it’s only fair that you get to wear it. You can have it for after the reaping as well.”

The dress smelled softly of baked bread and had a pattern of leaves across the skirt. Amity traced one vine in particular. “I can’t wait,” she replied in a gasp. “Just need to get through one last one.”

***

Vixen Axwell carried a saucer to its home on the wooden floor, right beside the unlit fire. A cat followed the young boy with his loud meow. He darted for the plate before it had even placed on the floorboards, knocking it from his owner’s hands and immediately burying his face into the leftover cuts of meat.

The boy laughed. It was a melodic sound and barely loud enough to be heard over the hustle of Axwell Mill in the morning, but the cat heard it. He offered Vixen a soft mew before going back to his breakfast. Vixen sat himself down on the floor with crossed legs, settling to watch his friend eat until every last morsal of the breakfast had disappeared. He needed to eat; Panko was the runt of an early-spring litter.

Vixen’s fingers wandered aimlessly to play with the loose fabric of the rag rug they used to protect the hearth. He yawned, unable to hide his sleepless night, and rubbed at his eyes when they began to ache. He only stirred when he felt a familiar light hand on his shoulder, jumping at the sudden touch.

“Sorry,” apologised his sister, taking her hand away immediately. They had their differences – Kit’s longer hair curled at her chin, and her eyes showed a bright curiosity that Vixen’s lacked – but otherwise their resemblance was impossible to ignore.

“It’s fine,” answered Vixen in his small voice. He would speak to his twin and to his grandmother and to his cat - no one else.

“Nana’s been calling you to breakfast,” she continued. “Can’t you hear her from the kitchen?”

“Oh.” Panko finished eating, and Vixen held out his hand. The cat turned and knocked it gently with his head, rubbing against his fingers. “No. I didn’t hear.”

Kit took her brother by the shoulder, grabbing the material of his shirt and pulling him to his feet. Vixen did not resist. “You need to eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s a long walk to the market. Nana brought the leftover rolls from the bakery yesterday and-“

Vixen stopped moving. Kit dropped his sleeve, turning to catch his eye with a tilt of her head. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I don’t want to go to the market.”

Kit sighed before taking her brother’s hand and forcing him into the kitchen. She knew – she had barely slept herself, very aware of her brother’s tossing and turning through the night. She had called out to him once or twice, but he had not answered. He rarely answered. “Come on,” she urged. He did not fight her as she pulled him. “It’s the same as any other day, and you need to eat breakfast.”

The kitchen was bright, with sun streaming through the small window and an older lady whistling as she stood over the stove. Her hair sat in rags to curl atop her head. “Nice of you to come and join me,” she commented as the twins swept into the room, taking the kettle from the flame just as it began to boil. “I’m setting breakfast on the table.”

“Thank you, nana, ” chorused the twins, although Vixen only joined in with the final few notes after Kit had elbowed him in the side. They sat themselves as their grandmother poured herself a chipped mug of steaming water before joining them. Despite the breakfast set out before them, the two children waited for their guardian to sit at the table and set down her mug.

“Let’s give thanks,” she instructed, and the twins obediently took her hands in their own around the table. “We thank the fields for their harvests of grain, and we thank the stars for the good luck that they send to our family, and we thank the Capitol for the bounty they continue to provide for us.”

As soon as her grandmother finished her familiar gratitude, Kit dropped her hand and reached for the thick slices of bread and small pat of butter that decorated the table. Her hand was slapped away, and the twins waited reluctantly for their grandmother to take the first helping. Kit eventually helped herself to a generous serving of bread and butter so thick that her teeth left dents as she bit into it. Vixen took a small piece, nibbling around the crust.

“The Capitol have given us good reason to celebrate today,” said their grandmother, speaking around her bread. “We’ve had a good year, and no tesserae on the either of you. It’s a milestone, this first reaping.”

“It’s not a very good one,” argued Kit, and Vixen risked a small nod to agree with her. Surreptitiously, he swiped his finger across the butter on his bread and held his hand down from his chair. Panko appeared and began to lick his fingers.

Their grandmother scoffed. “Nonsense. This reaping, it celebrates a triumph of good over evil. We’d be nothing without order. Besides, you hardly have anything to concern yourselves over. Panem would not allow itself to punish a hardworking family.”

Over her bread, Kit caught her brother. He saw what their grandmother missed: a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head, mocking their grandmother’s praise of the city that kept them safe. He hid an amused grin under crumbs, briefly forgetting the holiday.

***

In the early summer heat, District Nine was carpeted in golden fields of wheat. They stretched towards the rugged forest beyond their electrified fence, occasionally punctuated by a small village. Between the fields, the paths were built of gravel, mud, and convenience. They travelled along fast running streams which meandered across the landscape, growing into rivers where they were used to turn aging waterwheels.

The town was the only large collection of buildings. The paved courtyard was home to a fountain, an excessive display often abandoned in times of drought but always on when a camera arrived. It was bordered by a handful of merchant shops forcibly decorated with limp yellow bunting, and always in shadow due to the imposing presence of the Justice Building.

Indigo Quirinus believed the whole celebration to be practically pathetic. “Gold is far more attractive than yellow,” she told the mayor, handing out unprompted advice as if feeding corn to starving birds. “There are plenty of different gold fabrics. You’ll have to place an order with District Eight for next year.”

“I’m sure,” replied the mayor dryly, before discreetly shuffling her chair away from the escort.

The population was scattered, but small. They knew each other despite the distance between each home, taking opportunities like the reaping to catch up with lost friends. The town was big enough for everyone to gather together, with some having travelled overnight to make the journey, and the crowd hummed with low conversation as they moved amongst the pens.

“You will be fine,” reassured Amity’s mother, giving her daughter a gentle squeeze of the hand before turning her to the entrance of the eighteen-year-old pen. They had caught up with her uncle on the journey to the town and he gave her a reassuring clap across the back. Her cousin, Gwendolyn, had run off to her pen with hastily shouted messages of good luck.

“I will,” nodded Amity. It was easier to believe it in the midday sun, with her cotton dress held tightly at her waist with a leather belt. She entered the pen and positioned herself by the rough rope, where she could see her mother waiting on the butcher’s steps.

“Boys to the left, and girls to the right,” barked a rough-voiced Peacekeeper, giving a cruel look to Kit and Vixen as they stood between their two choices. Kit stared the man down through his helmet, her brother’s grasp weak in her own tight hold. She tried to pull Vixen with her, but he did not go.

“Are you simple?” called the Peacekeeper. “You, go that way. Boy, you’re to the left.”

“Can’t we stay together?” Kit begged, but she was ignored. Vixen did not want to let go of her hand, but he did, if only to avoid confrontation.

The Peacekeeper mocked them. “You’re twelve, and still scared of the reaping? Get it together. Boy, left. Girl, right.”

“I’ll be fine,” choked out Vixen, and Kit scrambled to find his hand for one final, reassuring squeeze before they separated.

Indigo had noted the mayor’s movement, rolling her eyes at the blatant display of barbaric manners that she always seemed to encounter in the districts. She was there to help - whether that was a tribute or a political official – and she was going to do her job, gratefully received or otherwise. She still had plenty of criticism to give if the mayor had been willing to listen. The stage was built too low beneath the Justice Building and had been swallowed by shadow. The crowd had seemed to coordinate its outfits into a beige that resembled oatmeal. The reaping bowls – woven baskets, really – were overflowing with names and it looked unprofessional. Indigo huffed; she told them every year, and nothing ever changed.

The crowd stopped shuffling. A distant bell tolled the hour. The mayor stood from her chair and gave such a rushed, condensed version of the required speech that Indigo decided she should make a formal complaint. It ended with an apology: the mayor thanked her citizens for their continued support of the Games and said that she was sorry that many of them had to make a long journey.

Indigo corrected it as she stepped to the podium, and to the microphone. “You should be honoured about making a long journey,” she announced, trying to hide her patronising tone but failing. The wind blew her lilac hair into her face, where it got caught on her thick lip gloss. She added it to her list of complaints. “It is wonderful to be in the crowd and celebrating. Not every district is able to gather together like this, so you should consider yourselves lucky and make the journey with a bright smile.”

She demonstrated, plastering her widest smile across her face as the camera operator in front of her began to count. When he reached zero and the light on the camera flashed red, Indigo switched her demeanour and gave a perky, “ladies first!”

It was almost impossible to choose a single slip. They were piled high like sacks of flour in warehouses, each silently begging for Indigo to ignore them. As she reached a gloved hand into the wicker basket, they tumbled out as if trying to escape her. Eventually, she found a slip that had become caught on the decaying weave of the basket and chose that one with great ceremony, waving it in the air as she crossed back to the microphone.

“This is very exciting,” she began, unfurling the paper. It was a reminder to the audience of her earlier suggestion of smiling, but it was not heeded. “District Nine, your female tribute is Amity Barrett.”

The crowd began to crane their necks, seeking their tribute amongst the group of eighteen-year-old girls at the base of the stage. They were glances of sympathy rather than curiosity; those that knew Amity wanted to give her encouragement if they could meet her eye. There was a scuffle on the butcher’s steps, as Amity’s mother was steered away.

When Amity looked for her mother, she was no longer there. Instead, she clung to the closest thing she had to: the dress. She took care in straightening the skirt and readjusting the belt as the crowd around her took a step away, clearing her route to the edge of the pen.

Indigo noticed the movement. “Come here, sweetheart,” she beckoned, noting Amity by her pale face and cautious movement. Amity’s bottom lip was quivering so she bit it to keep it steady. She was eighteen – she could not cry, or all of Panem would note her as weak and the game would be over for her before it began.

The impatient tapping of Indigo’s nails on the podium, amplified by the microphone, spurred Amity to move faster. She climbed the step to the stage in a stiff movement hidden by the full fabric of her skirt. Indigo grabbed her by the arm as soon as she was close enough, dragging her to the space behind the podium and turning her to face the crowd.

Indigo went to speak, but Amity was quicker. “Good afternoon,” she greeted politely, holding out a hand for the escort to shake. Wide-eyed, she did. Amity felt it was too little for the solemn occasion but in the rush of her racing mind, she decided she did not want Panem to think she had been raised without manners – that would be a disservice to her mother.

“Well, aren’t you a polite, little thing!” exclaimed Indigo. Amity was not little – she was taller than Indigo despite the high heels – but she did not argue. “You are also wearing a rather lovely dress.”

“Thank you,” nodded Amity. “My mother picked it for me, as a gift.”

“She has a very keen eye for fashion!”

Amity hoped her mother heard the compliment, as it was rare for the escort to state anything kind. There was still a space in the crowd where she should have been. As Indigo gave a brief announcement and walked over to pull a male name, someone stepped forward into it for a better view.

She scanned the crowd, taking advantage of Indigo’s indecisiveness to search but the only face that meant anything to her was Gwendolyn’s sorrowful scowl. Her mother was somewhere else. Amity straightened her shoulders, bit her lip harder and furthered her resolve not to cry; she would simply have to say goodbye in the Justice Building.

Indigo returned with a smile and a slip. She waved it in the air as if she had won it as a prize. “Your second tribute,” she called, her tone clashing against the straight-faced girl already standing beside her. “Oh, it’s so exciting. I love the moment that we meet our new tributes. I hope our boy will be just as polite and as wonderful as Amity.”

Amity craned her head to try and catch the name before it was announced. She wanted to prepare herself for the camera if it was someone she knew. It was not.

“Vixen Axwell!”

The crowd whispered, like stalks of wheat in a summer breeze. They knew the name from the old mill who stamped it on their sacks of flour. The children who lived there were small, twelve at most if they were even reaping age.

Vixen did not move. He knew; he had heard his name echoing clearly through the shadowed bricks and the distant fields. There was something holding him to the floor as he forgot how to breathe with a steady rhythm, every shallow inhale catching in his throat.

“Vixen?” repeated Indigo, although the voice echoed in Vixen’s head as if she stood in a large, empty silo. Around him, people had started to turn and watch. They stepped out of his way, leaving the small boy alone and exposed. His whole body shook.

Indigo shouted a third time. The Peacekeeper who had directed him to his pen noted the movement, finding Vixen on his own and staring at the floor. He stepped over, pointing at the boy with his gun.

“Move,” he commanded. When Vixen seemed to ignore him, he grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him across the paved floor. Vixen stumbled, catching himself before hitting the floor. His breathing turned into a quiet sob.

“Please,” he begged, barely audible. Vixen finally closed his eyes, sending tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please don’t make me go.”

Vixen grew louder, his panicked shouting easily heard above the unhappy murmuring of the crowd. The Peacekeeper holstered his gun and wrapped his arms around the struggling boy’s waist, pulling him off his feet. Vixen kicked out, desperately struggling against the tight grasp. The crowd kept their distance, except for one lone voice that joined in against the cries.

“Don’t take him!” screamed Kit, voice breaking. She had rushed from her own pen to her brother’s side and when the Peacekeeper grabbed him, she took to hitting the guard as hard as she could in his back. He barely felt it, and another stepped in to drag Kit away from her brother.

Indigo watched with a concerned glare that even she could not twist into a smile. The display that District Nine was putting forward was not what was expected, with their crying tribute being hefted to the stage like a sack of flour. Vixen did stop screaming, breaking into pained sobs as his fight grew weaker.

The Peacekeeper finally put the small boy down at the staircase, giving him a push to stumble up to the stage. Indigo reluctantly greeted him by grabbing Vixen by the wrist, pulling him up to stand beside Amity. He sobbed silently, covering his face with his arms.

“Any volunteers?” called Indigo weakly, and the crowd made noise, but no one rushed forward. They disagreed with Amity’s reaping, and they were angry at Vixen’s, but their emotions only pushed to a certain point. “Right, well, let’s see some smiles and hear some cheers for your newest tributes, Amity and Vixen!”

She did not see a smile, and there were no cheers.

***

Amity’s mother arrived to say goodbye with red-ringed eyes. She entered the room with a flurry of apologies for not being there, but Amity ignored them. She grabbed her mother into a hug before the escorting Peacekeeper had closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” continued her mother, the torrent of words muffled in the soft fabric of Amity’s dress. “I’m sorry, Ammie. I shouldn’t have said we were safe. I shouldn’t have cursed it. I shouldn’t have-“

“Stop.” Amity’s command was gentle, but her mother followed it. Her daughter was taller than her and when they broke from the hug, she looked up to memorise her face. Amity shook her head. “It wasn’t you. It’s just…what it is, isn’t it? It’s the odds.”

“Your name – it was only in there seven times, Ammie-“

“It has to be someone.” Amity’s voice was firm. She left her mother’s grasp to take a seat, her mother following shortly to sit beside her. “It has to be. It could have been Gwennie, or anyone…”

She trailed off. Her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling Amity into her chest as if she was a small child again. “You’re going to have to try,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what it will take, but you need to try and come back to me, Ammie.”

Amity used her mother’s cardigan to wipe her face, trying to hide the tears that had made their home on her cheeks before she was back in front of a camera. “I’ll try,” she promised, half-heartedly. “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try.”

***

Vixen was curled into a ball in the corner of the room when his sister and his grandmother arrived. Kit ran forward as soon as the Peacekeeper allowed her through the door, stumbling in her desperation to find her brother. He was still sobbing, cheeks red, when she fell beside him.

“I’ll kill them,” she vowed, unable to find any word of comfort. She was still filled with anger, a red mark having appeared on her own face from the fist at the reaping. “I’ll kill all of them. They can’t take you from me.”

Their grandmother edged her way to the floor, wrapping an arm around Vixen from the side that Kit had not commandeered. “Watch yourself,” she warned in a hiss. “We don’t want our family in any more trouble. You’ve caused enough.”

Vixen could not stop his crying, but he tried; he used the heel of his hand to try and wipe the ongoing tears from his eyes, uncurling himself to move closer into his grandmother’s chest.

“They can’t take him!” argued Kit.

“The Games are necessary for peace, Kit. The odds-“

“I don’t care about the odds.” Kit was shouting, until she noticed Vixen flinching at her volume. She pulled herself back together and added herself to the pile on the floor, holding her brother closely. Her tone changed, becoming quiet and hurried. “You can do it, Vixen. You have to try-“

Vixen interrupted his sister with a shake of his head. He could not find his voice in between the sobbing, but Kit understood him without his words. “You can’t give up,” she whispered, exasperated. Their grandmother silenced her granddaughter with a stern look, and the goodbye became focused on the small family holding each other closely until a Peacekeeper ripped them apart.

Chapter Text

[10] Blood

Iumenta Blanchard knelt over a tin bath of water, rubbing at her brother’s shirt with a rock and desperately trying to rid the garment from the blood that had splattered across the front. She had even sacrificed a pinch of cooking salt to the cause, hoping it would loosen the stain. “I don’t know why you would even wear your reaping shirt so early,” she complained, clamping her teeth down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood like that which tainted the shirt.

“Ma told me to get changed,” replied Kasabian. He rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t let me eat until I was dressed and ready to go, just in case we were running late.”

“What were you even doing out in the yard?”

Iumenta scrubbed harder. The bright red had washed away in the water and now, there was just a brown stain across the sleeve of the grey shirt. It would likely remain on the old fabric, as blood often did, and the thought made Iumenta’s heart beat even faster than it did with the exertion of washing. Kasabian shrugged. “Pa wanted help with the pig. I didn’t expect-“

“You know it’s bad luck to see blood on reaping day.” Iumenta dropped the rock; it sank to the bottom of the bath. She pulled the shirt from the water and tried to wring it with just her hands. It stayed wet. “We’re never going to get this dry in time. You’ll have to wear Artem’s old reaping clothes and we can take it in with a belt.”

Kasabian scowled. Iumenta took the shirt and laid it over the dining table - they had eaten breakfast earlier that morning and the chipped plates and cutlery had already been cleared. “We need to turn up looking our best,” she warned, but Kasabian he was already moving through the door. She could hear him heading to the front door.

She cursed him, before apologising under her breath for the language. Her father would scold her for speaking like a farm hand, when he had done so much to try and push the family amongst the merchants rather than the butchering cottages.

Iumenta had not meant to snap. She closed her eyes, tightly squeezing them until they ached, and she could feel the pain creeping up through her head. Then, she released the tension and shook her head with a deep breath. Kasabian was eleven – he did not yet understand the underlying current of anxiety that ran through each eligible citizen’s body like intermittent electricity. It was a known fact that seeing blood on the day of the reaping – not uncommon in the district of livestock – was bad luck. Artem, now nineteen, had escaped unscathed.

He had heard the noise. Artem appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a pristine shirt that was half-tucked into his trousers. “He just wanted to help,” he tried, but Iumenta’s anger had already faded, and she nodded in agreement.

“I know,” she answered. “You know what people will say if he turns up in a stained shirt, though. We’re supposed-“

“They’ll say it anyway.” Artem placed an arm around her shoulder and planted a gentle kiss on her curls. “You know what they think of us. Kasabian has too much energy for reaping day, and he’s nervous for you.”

Iumenta leaned into her brother’s kind touch. She did not want to consider the reaping, feeling as if the blood was on her hands having washed from the shirt. “If he’s butchered the pig, we’ll at least have a feast for tonight.”

“Yeah.” Artem gave a reassuring squeeze. “And we’ll all be celebrating. I ain’t letting the Capitol take you today.”

“Course not,” replied Iumenta.

***

Chanté Senner hated blood. He closed his eyes when the young man from the abattoir was dragged in and dumped unceremoniously on the table. Now, he stood in the doorway and tried to keep his meagre breakfast in his stomach as he watched his father work. He needed to be available: occasionally, there would be a call for water or alcohol or a tool, and Chanté would be expected to fetch. He could not leave without being dismissed. However, he stood back until the majority of his view was blocked by the door.

“He’ll lose his hand,” said his father, in a gruff voice. There was a young woman pleading at the man’s side, her desperation bleeding like a wound. Chanté’s father continued working as if she was not there, wrapping the man’s affected limb in a boiled, alcohol-soaked cloth that was staining red. “Even if we keep it on him, there’ll be no use to it.”

“You’re just going to hack it off with a saw?” The woman’s loud shout trembled, breaking through her thick layer of shock. Chanté could envision exactly which tool his father was holding and could see the shadow of the woman trying to hold him back. His father paid her no heed.

“No, actually. Thought I might use my teeth.” There was a scrape of metal against metal. “You into morphling?”

“No!”

“Right. No anaesthetic, then. We’ll make it quick. Chanté?”

Chanté stepped forward. He took after his mother: she fainted at the sight of blood. Whilst he wanted to work in healing rather than herbs, his mother’s calm role as an apothecary tempted him. At the knock on the door that morning, she set off out of the house with a leather messenger bag in her reaping dress.

“Hold him down,” ordered his father. Chanté’s stomach turned but he was obedient, keeping his gaze fixed on the table of sharp tools rather than the bleeding man. He placed his weight on the man’s good arm, and his chest. Then, Chanté’s father looked to the woman. “You take his legs.”

She was reluctant, but followed the instructions given in the authoritative tone. Chanté’s father continued. “Neither of you let go. I don’t care what he does. If he’s still, we can be quick.”

The healer took an old, leather belt from his counter and tightened it across the man’s upper arm. He had adapted it for this purpose years ago, creating extra holes for the buckle until it could be tightened enough. He had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide which he had purchased from the district’s sole chemist, and he placed the bottle nearby. Finally, he fastened the injured arm to the table with a strap.

“Don’t let go,” he repeated, and he lifted his saw.

The sound of pain was persistent, and loud. Chanté squeezed his eyes tightly shut so as not to watch, but his stomach churned at the gurgling screams which filled the small shed. The woman broke into sobbing as the noise reached her, but she followed her instructions; neither let go.

His father was skilled, and quick. Chanté was not. As soon as the procedure was finished, Chanté turned his back on the room and the sickening sight and smell of blood. He stormed into the kitchen and used the carbolic soap and a wooden bucket of cold water to scrub his hands. There was no blood on them, but it felt as if they were stained.

There was still hushed conversation in the shed. He was not a stranger to amputations: the man would likely need time to recover, and they would allow him to stay. He would need to miss the reaping, and the Peacekeepers would come to see if he was truly incapacitated. They would question Chanté and his father as they always did – they disliked the Senner family, and their tendency to undermine Capitol-appointed doctors.

When Chanté’s father finally entered the kitchen, his reaping shirt was ruined by blood. He looked like the butchers who would sell their wares straight after slaughter, although his sharp tools had been placed aside before entering the house. There was a pause as he took a deep breath of the clean air.

“He’ll live,” he announced with a shrug. When he walked forward in his heavy boots, the water in the bucket rippled outward. He began to unbutton his shirt. “He’ll be in pain, and he’ll likely never work in an abattoir again, but he’ll live.”

When the shirt was off his chest, he handed it to Chanté who immediately placed it into the bucket of cold water. He began to scrub at the white cotton with his hands, trying not to look at the blood itself. “And the reaping?” he asked, over the splashing.

His father shook his head. “No chance. I’ll inform the ‘keepers, and the woman has money to pay for an exception for him. She gave me a coin too.”

Chanté knew his father did not do it for money, but District Ten ran on the exchange of goods and services, and not good will. Still shirtless, his father dragged a heavy dining chair from their small table and collapsed into the wooden seat. He tapped, absent-mindedly, on the tabletop. “Another one of those Capitol machines,” he continued, his voice becoming thick. There were not many things that upset him: watching tributes return home in wooden boxes, having a child dumped on his table, and stray dogs were among the list. “Malfunctioned when he was cleaning it. Switched itself on. Took his hand half off.”

He wanted a listening ear, and Chanté provided one as the water turned red. Occasionally, he responded so that his father knew he was being heard. “They keep doing that,” he said, simply.

“I know.” Chanté’s father sighed deeply before sitting straight up. “I hate amputations. I truly and utterly do. They always cause so much harm.”

He was obsessed with harm, looking for where it came from and how to reduce it. Chanté had grown into the fascination by extension. It was part of working in medicine. “Do no harm,” his father told him, whenever he taught Chanté how to stitch a wound or set a bone. “That’s what the old doctors had to promise. The Capitol, they don’t make that promise. They do harm. We make it, Chanté. The Senner family does not do harm.”

They helped people without payment. They offered food to those that were hungry. They refused to taste the meat of slaughtered animals. They had tried, briefly, to avoid watching the Hunger Games but it had granted them a swift knock on the door and compulsory attendance at mandatory viewings. They were still hated, and they were still othered. District Ten was built of harm.

“You said it yourself,” said Chanté, taking the shirt from the water. The cotton still showed blood. “The amputation was the best chance he had.”

“Without morphling, too. He’ll remember that pain for the rest of his life. It’ll haunt him.”

Chanté’s father talked himself into a spiral. It was a familiar routine. Standing, he reached upwards for an old, glass bottle on the shelf. There was a chipped cup left on the table from breakfast. Despite the early morning, he poured himself a generous glug of the amber liquid. “I hate pain,” he said, and the conversation came to an end.

***

District Ten had too many animals – their fields took priority in the rolling open space, whilst the citizens were tightly packed into the shadowed courtyard of the Justice Building. They watched the speckled colouring of cows roaming on the hills and heard their low sounds on the wind, envious of the freedom prior to the slaughterhouse.  There was the smell too, which hung over the District no matter the weather. The locals told Kaeso Mauricius that he would get used to it, but Kaeso did not agree.

Each year, he was meticulous in demanding a floral decoration to pin on the lapel of his brightly coloured jacket. This year, it was made of lavender; the scent would float and offer a reprieve from the stench of District Ten as he did his duty of pulling two names from their two glass balls. The sooner he pulled a victor, the sooner he could be promoted somewhere else. Unfortunately, District Ten were not known for producing victors.

He watched them. Kaeso found the simple nature of District Ten interesting and was intrigued by how it managed to permeate into even their reaping ceremony. The children were herded like cattle into their pens, with a stamp on the back of their hand to indicate where they should be standing.

Chanté was branded blue with a scowl, the Peacekeeper noting his name with an offhand comment. “Pay it no attention,” his father warned, shepherding his son around with an arm on his shoulders. “They don’t trust people who can look after themselves.”

Chanté was able to move through the crowd with no resistance, as people watched him through side glances and hushed comments. District Ten did not like difference, and the Senner family seemed to wear their difference as a badge of honour. They avoided Chanté in the pen, leaving him space to breath. He ignored them with his head high – they would accept him as soon as they needed help.

Iumenta was ignored as she forced her way through, evading notice as she was alone. Her mother was watching Kasabian and Artem had been separated to watch on a screen in a nearby bar. She did not ask for space; she pushed her way through the gathering guests in the fifteen-year-old pen and forced herself to a good view. Her stamp began to run down her wrist in the rain.

It was an uncharacteristically wet summer. Kaeso could even see that the two glass reaping bowls were beginning to pool with water. “Hurry it up,” he warned the new mayor, gesturing to the Treaty of Treason cue cards he had hidden in his sleeve. “If you don’t, the ink will become too smudged to read.”

Kaeso was not sure the mayor had listened. However, as the Justice Building clock struck the time and signalled the beginning of the reaping, the mayor stood forward and began to rattle off his speech with the speed of the tribute train itself. It was quick and nervous enough that Kaeso even began to notice laughter on the faces of the eligible children, even in the face of death.

He was fine. He had remembered to bring a rain guard, and he now wore the clear plastic sheet as he stood up to the microphone. The mayor had introduced him with the wrong name, a nervous cough, and a conspicuous wipe of his brow. Kaeso curled his lip and presented himself to District Ten with the same annoyance that he felt. “How delightful,” he began, and then he held a hand out to the sky. “Even the weather has come to us here in District Ten to celebrate the reaping with us all.”

Kaeso was not popular in District Ten, but they did appreciate his dry tone and his refusal to treat his role as if it were fun.

“As your mayor so eloquently said,” he continued. “I join you here today from the Capitol to choose your male and female tribute for the upcoming 95^th Hunger Games. I pledge to you, District Ten, that I will do my best to serve your children as they move through the Capitol, into the arena and hopefully beyond into the celebration of their victory. The children you send with me are always polite, dear little things and I hope to see the odds be in the favour of District Ten sometime soon. Now, as tradition says, we shall begin with ladies first.”

The paper slips floated, which was a slight mercy as the water pooling at the bottom of the glass bowls had begun to cause a concern. There were ripples of red ink beginning to form across the surface. As Kaeso approached and plucked a name very carefully from the floating raft at the top, he shook the water from it before moving back to the podium. As he straightened it out and opened it, however, he realised his concern.

“Ah,” he said softly, but still into the microphone. “The rain appears to have smudged the ink.”

There was a name, Kaeso could make out that much. With a raised eyebrow, Kaeso waved over the hectic mayor. Together, they could make out only a surname, to which Kaeso sighed and turned back to the audience. They were growing very impatient.

“My apologies,” he said, although his tone did not demonstrate any true feeling of sorry. “We only have a last name. Miss Blanchard, if you will approach the stage and we can introduce you formally when you arrive.”

The name spurred smiles onto the families of District Ten. They recognised the surname, knowing the butcher who considered himself above the other merchants. He was followed around by three children: a strapping, young man, a whining scamp, and a heft of a girl with ideas above her station.

Iumenta Blanchard, still trying to justify in her head that there must be another Blanchard girl, stepped from her pen. Her legs moved before she did. With her mind still reeling, she found herself quietly thanking another girl who had lifted the rope for her to enter the walkway. She wanted to stop, to scream and to shout but she did not; she continued on in silence, hands clenched into fists at her side. Kasabian had shown her blood.

“Oh, joy,” commented Kaeso. District Ten never seemed to produce attractive tributes, and he was tired of it, and his monotone gave it away. “Well, come on up then sweetheart, and we can figure out who you are.”

She was not an unattractive girl.. However, her curled hair was hanging in wet rat’s tails across her face due to the rain and her face was sullen, broken. She did not feel like playing to the camera and so she did not, standing on the stage with her arms crossed across her chest.

Kaeso raised an eyebrow. “Name?”

“Iumenta.”

“Quite.” Kaeso visibly looked over his tribute from head to toe, stopping briefly at her face to gauge her reaction. “Well, it seems reasonable that this could be the name on the slip of paper. We will, of course, submit it for an independent review whilst you say your goodbye. Now, let’s pick a male tribute before the rain melts the remaining slips into pig food.”

The crowd were cautious. watched as Kaeso scowled, took a slip from the pool, shook the water from it and returned to the podium, holding their breath, and hoping for another tribute they could all brush off as that’s a shame, best of luck and all that.

“Oh, for Panem’s sake,” spat Kaeso, forgetting to hide his thinly veiled disgust behind carefully crafted neutrality. “I’m requesting the use of waterproof ink next year if you will insist on having such awful weather.”

The mayor stepped forward, very aware of the display that District Ten was currently presenting to Panem. “Senner,” he read quietly, over Kaeso’s shoulder. The ink was smudged but he recognised the curve of each letter. “The healer’s boy. That’ll be Chanté.”

“Chanté Senner,” repeated Kaeso, loudly.

With the shout, the crowd looked to the pen with a cautious gratitude. The name belonged to the healer: the strange man who thought the rest of District Ten beneath him. His son was no better. District Ten were having a good reaping that year.

Chanté was not good at hiding. His posture fell to avoid the stares of District Ten, fixing his gaze on the paved floor. There was no pride left to hold on to. He helped himself under the rope. The rain ran over his face, and he considered a useful bonus as it would hide his tears, but tears refused to come. His movement was stiff and unnatural as he made his way to the stage and climbed the staircase that would take him to his place behind Iumenta, as a tribute, in the Hunger Games.

Kaeso gave Chanté an approving nod: the boy was more like what they wanted to see in the Capitol, and his narrowed eyes gave him a more mature look than poor Iumenta’s angry-deer-in-headlights expression. The pair were passable.

“Any volunteers?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the two tributes that stood a step behind him. There never were any volunteers, but it was protocol and Kaeso was nothing if he was not thorough. “No, I thought not. Thank you, District Ten, for your tributes: Miss-“

Kaeso tried to read the slips. He failed, glancing back at the boy and the girl who both seemed unable to pay him any attention. He looked back at the microphone. “Your tributes,” he repeated, and left it at that. “May the odds be ever in your favour, and all that.”

***

“It’s my fault!” cried Kasabian, forcing himself through the door like a raging bull. Artem was barely able to keep up with him, trying to grab the younger boy’s hand before he pulled Iumenta to the floor in his desperation. “It was the blood. ‘Menta, I’m so sorry. I’m so-“

“Shut it,” answered Iumenta, through a thick barricade of tears. She had forgotten to hide them as soon as she was alone, and they ran freely on her face. She gave her youngest brother a gentle shove. “Shut it. It’s not your fault.”

“The blood-“

“Kasabian,” warned Artem in a low voice, his attention focused on his crying sister. He did not hug her; he looked at her as if she were an animal sent to slaughter, unsure of how to comfort her. “The blood, that’s not real. It’s just who’s chosen.”

Kasabian’s energy continued to roam. He was practically jumping from foot to foot, holding Iumenta’s hand to his chest although not daring to pull her into a hug. Artem was slower, memorising his sister’s face. He took her other hand. “You got this,” he said, quietly. “You can do this.”

“I know,” answered Iumenta, as if the answer was easy.

***

Chanté’s father visited him with an urgency that his son had only seen for a patient. The man wasted no time in sweeping his son into a tight hug, before taking him by his shoulders and giving him a gentle shake. “Chanté,” he said, in a whisper. Then, he shook his head and raised his voice. “Forget absolutely everything I’ve ever taught you.”

“What-“ tried Chanté, but his father interrupted.

“Anything I’ve ever said, about being a healer and trying to make everything better. Forget it. Forget harm. You need to go in there and kill as many as you need to get back to me.”

Chanté had lived by those ideas since he understood what they meant. “I don’t think I can hurt anyone,” he managed, choking on his sentence. His father’s disappointed glance was enough to force him to reconsider. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I’ll do the best I can. Maybe it’ll feel different in the arena.”

His father closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

[11] Limelight

Alder Tarragon sat at the kitchen table and watched her mother cook. The oil that was heating in the pan had begun to smoke and Alder could see the wisps dancing in the early morning sun which streamed in through the window. Her mother was mixing salted water and ground maize in their wooden bowl, forming a familiar paste.

Her mother was singing. Alder could see it in the gentle nodding of her head to a silent rhythm, and in the movement of her mouth. She often sang as she stirred. When Alder looked across the room, she watched Thatch’s young face light up in laughter at their mother’s voice. He was still clutching the remnants of his baby blanket, the threadbare thing barely a handkerchief although her brother was only six.

However, there was concern beneath the morning’s hidden music. Alder’s mother glared at the pan as she tipped in the mixture, the expression of a yelp appearing on her face as some hot oil splashed back and caught her hand. The tight creases of worry had seemed to appear on her forehead overnight. As she continued to stir, Alder’s mother glanced over to the table where the letter from the mayor waited.

The reaping was hanging over the kitchen like a heavy fog. The compulsory programming – announced with flashing red letting – had turned on as they awoke, and the broadcast had continued throughout the sunrise. Alder sat with her back to the screen. Hoping her mother would smile again, she reached out and caught the letter between two fingers. She dragged it across the table towards her, folded it neatly, and hid it in the sleeve of the cardigan she was going to wear for the ceremony.

Her mother caught her. She shook her head with a sad smile.

Alder was served first. When breakfast was ready, her mother filled a chipped plate and handed it to her firstborn daughter with a fork. Eat, she signed. Alder did not need to be told twice: she dug into the meal with the ferocity of a wild animal, using the back of her hand to wipe away any of the food that missed her mouth. Her mother glared disapprovingly, and Alder felt tamed, slowing down.

When there was nothing left to catch with a fork, Alder left her seat in the hunt for bread. She found a stale stash of tesserae bread in a basket beside the stove and tore it carefully into three. She placed the biggest portion on her mother’s plate, put the smallest portion in Thatch’s waiting hands, and took the rest for herself. It was perfect for wiping across the plate and collecting every last part of her breakfast for her to savour.

After Thatch was given a small bowl, Alder’s mother finally sat across the table from her daughter. Her father was in the orchard for an early shift before the reaping, and his portion of breakfast still lay simmering on the stove. Her mother signed a thank you for the bread, and Alder smiled.

Reaping, her mother continued in their improvised language. Scared?

Alder shook her head, lying. She shrunk further into the cardigan, which had been crocheted of soft yarn as a gift when she turned twelve. She was only allowed to wear it on special occasions as the fibres may have become caught on the tree branches during orchard work, and special occasions in District Eleven always seemed to come back to the Games. It was her own comfort blanket, compared to Thatch’s rags.

Her mother continued to sign, not convinced by her daughter’s performance. Hair after, then reaping.

Having finished, Alder left the conversation by indicating her needed to wash her plate. She took it to the sink where they kept an old glass bottle of water, dampening a rag to clean the plate which had already been cleared. She could not hear her mother if she could not see her, although keeping her back to her meant she was able to clearly see the screen showing a reaping in another district.

Thatch spilled his food across his reaping shirt. Alder picked him up too, sitting him in the sink and attacking the shirt with the same rag. He did not protest. His older sister even fastened the few buttons he had managed to pull undone in the short time he had been wearing the uncomfortable outfit. He chattered away as she worked, with Alder matching the friendly grin he wore as his mouth moved.

This time, the buttons held. Alder stood Thatch on the counter and helped him tuck the shirt into his patched brown trousers. He caught her hand and held it tight, wrapping it in the remains of his blanket. Alder returned the comforting grasp.

She stood him on the floor when he let go, clapping her hands at how smart her younger brother looked. Her mother watched them both with a proud smile as bright as the sun, having leant back in her chair to observe her own children rather than the children on the screen. When Thatch stumbled away, her mother took her own plate to the sink and left it in the few splashes of water that remained from Alder’s cleaning.

She went back to the table, pulling her own chair out and carefully positioning it away from the screen. She gestured to it with a flourish for Alder, who took the seat with a smile as she curtseyed and kept up the pantomime. Her reaping dress was almost fit for a princess – the mismatch of different beige linens made the pattern unique, and her mother had hemmed it in an old roll of lace scavenged from behind the tailors. She arranged the fabric across her legs as she waited, her mother stepping behind her with a comb.

She worked with practice. She was familiar with styling Alder’s hair, and the two often sat together braiding as they watched whatever the screen would show them following their shift in the orchard. Alder liked the feel of her mother’s hands on her head, knowing that she would be beautiful. She stood Alder in front of the kitchen window to look at her reflection when she was finished.

Despite everything – the letter, the reaping, the Games – Alder found herself grinning at the sight of her own face. She turned back to her mother and signed, thank you.

***

Inari Hollenbeck stood in the centre of the circus ring alone. It was welcoming when there was a crowd cheering his name, but he kicked a hole into the sand to busy his mind as he waited in the uncomfortable silence. He did not know why Koru had asked to meet him there that morning: there was no rehearsal on the day of the reaping, and Inari had not attended a rehearsal since his accident the previous month.

He was familiar with applause: he drank it up, revelled in it and replayed it in his head as he fell asleep at night. It made Inari feel as if he truly belonged somewhere. However, the only sound in the ring was the sarcastic, solitary clapping of a lone man.

“I see you’ve decided you deserve the spotlight,” called Koru, gesturing at Inari’s choice to wait in the centre of the ring. His voice was rough with overuse and early morning. He carried a cracked mug as he stumbled over the low barrier into the sand. Inari was certain it would be filled with liquor, but the alcohol did not show in Koru’s speech or movement yet.

“Have you decided I can perform now?” glared Inari, trying to hide his cautious optimism under a blanket of demand.

Koru chuckled before taking a large gulp of whatever liquid he had chosen for his breakfast. He smacked his lips together with a loud sigh. “Absolutely not,” he answered. “I don’t give stage time to liabilities.”

The ringmaster was a mismatch of old fabric. His patched trousers were long enough to graze the sand, leaving a path along with his footsteps. Inari tried to earn the spotlight rather than shrink under the man’s harsh gaze, but it was difficult when the man observed him as if he was trying to solve a difficult problem.

Still encased in its rudimentary plaster, Inari’s arm began to ache. He gritted his teeth and lifted it to show there was no weakness, hiding the wince in his face as the pain seemed to eat at the bone. “See,” he answered, although it was strained. “It ain’t hurting no more. I can still tumble even if you won’t let me-“

“It ain’t the arm.” Koru placed his mug into the sand, before stretching out his back with his hands above his head. Then, he reached into his pocket and revealed a yellowing paper that had been folded many times over. He waved it in the air like a trophy. “You were just going to keep this from us? Let it affect our show?”

Inari lowered his head, like a child who had been caught stealing an apple from a market stall. He tried to feign ignorance with a stuttered excuse, but Koru shook his head to silence him.

The ringmaster’s projected voice flew around the tent, as if announcing Inari’s shortcomings to a watching audience. He read from the letter: “Inari Hollenbeck - it is with great pleasure that I write to inform you over your drawing in District Eleven’s pre-reaping selection. You, and the other children chosen to attend, are to be present at the reaping ceremony in your nearest settlement. Attendance is mandatory.”

He finished with a flourish, throwing the letter into the air where it fell like confetti. He looked back to his charge, who was scowling at the sound.

“When were you planning to tell us?” asked Koru.

His tone did not leave room for lies. Inari’s face flushed red in guilt. “I was going to tell you after,” he tried. “I was going to sneak off this afternoon, then come back when the evening show starts. I’m not performing anyway so it’s not like you’d miss me.”

“Don’t,” ordered Koru, in a quiet voice that held more venom. Inari bit his tongue. “You are expected at every single show even if you are not performing. You are a part of our team – you’re expected to help backstage and be ready to cover and get the applause at the end. You’d have been late. What would we have done if they took you?”

Tasting blood, Inari gave up on silence. “They won’t take me.”

“Capitol’s ruthless. They’d take you.”

Koru walked towards his performer as if approaching a scared animal, reaching into the pocket of his tattered coat. He offered Inari a handful of dried, brown roots, some of which were still caked in dirt. Inari turned his nose up at the gift. “I ain’t chewing any more of those roots. They don’t taste like Winnow said they were gonna.”

“They ain’t meant for eating.” Koru forced the plant into Inari’s good hand. “They dull that pain in your arm, which you are doing a real bad job at hiding.”

Inari clenched the roots into his fist. He did not want any more scavenged remedies that tasted like the earth. He would rather have broken his other arm than eat them.

Koru continued. “Come on, Nari. You have to get better before we can stick you up on hoop or silks again. You made the stupid mistake and fell-“

“I don’t fall.”

The word tasted worse than the remedy. Inari’s knuckles turned white with the force in his fist, his flush of guilt turning to a reddening anger as he glared at his ringmaster. “I never fall,” he continued, his voice rising louder and louder until he was shouting. Koru took the attack. “It wasn’t a fall. I just didn’t set it correctly.”

“Sounds like a fall to me.” The alcohol was beginning to creep into Koru’s voice. Inari could smell it on his breath as he grew closer. “If you’d landed wrong, you’d be dead.”

“But I didn’t.”

Inari waved his arm like a prize, failing to hide the effort it took to lift. The plaster had begun to flake from the improvised bandages, but it had been the best the camp could do. The audience had been generous with their donations on the evening of his accident – they said it was to pay for that poor boy’s treatment, but there were never enough coins for a doctor.

“You could have done,” repeated Koru. His brow had become furrowed and there was a defeated look in his eyes. Inari watched with suspicion: Koru was often cautious, or angry, or reluctant, but he rarely worried. The ringmaster who would chase Inari with a whip when he turned up late to final call or did something wrong in rehearsal had disappeared and Koru stood in his place. “If something happens, Nari-“

“I ain’t letting you worry about me,” spat Inari.

“You’re family.” Koru pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been worried you’re going to do some damage since you started throwing yourself around without a net. I’d rather we get less people in seats and know that you ain’t going to break your neck the next time this happens. We can lower it, or put a net in.”

Koru tried to put an arm around Inari’s shoulders. Inari stepped away, still glaring. Koru rarely showed comfort or affection, and Inari had not been the target of it since he first joined the camp after being spotted climbing drainpipes at the Community Home. He was the risk that encouraged Peacekeepers, Capitol liaisons and visiting political officials to come and see a District Eleven show. He made money for them; Inari could not see himself as family.

“And then, on top of that, we get this reaping,” continued Koru. “What are we going to do if they call you, huh?”

Inari was cold. “Stick my face on the programme and beg for sponsor donations.”

The ringmaster relented. He turned in the dust, sweeping down to pick his mug from the sand. “I’m taking you down to the settlement myself,” he ordered, ignoring as Inari began to protest loudly. “I’ll hold the evening show ‘til we get back. Wear something nice.”

***

District Eleven’s landscape was a water-coloured stretch of fields and orchards, rarely punctuated with their quaint little settlements. They each had their own small square which became home to spreading crowds and many different cameras as the reaping drew closer: some had attempted to decorate, but most simply hoped to get through the day without a casualty.

The large gatherings were considered a risk to the Capitol. Luna Ceris had been greeted with the beautiful view as she stepped from the train before promptly being ushered into the Justice Building. She was disappointed to be told that the reaping for District Eleven took place inside.

“You choose a slip, as normal,” the mayor explained, aware that Luna had originally been used to the far smaller ceremony of District Twelve. “Each slip, it has a location written on the front. You need to read that first, so that the camera people know who is filming.

“I understand,” replied Luna politely. She had worn a light, cotton dress emblazoned with real greenery in order to celebrate her debut in District Eleven, but it was dark inside the Justice Building. She shivered.

“After that, you read the name. Please give them some time, Miss Ceris. It is often a long walk from the crowd to the stage, especially if they are younger.” The mayor’s voice seemed to grow pained. “On the stage, we have chosen an honoured citizen from each settlement to speak to the new tributes. That’ll be the Capitol’s chance to get a proper look at them, so make sure you wait for the signal before choosing a second name.

“Will I get to meet my tributes before the train?” Luna said everything with a smile; in fact, it was the result of a surgery designed to enhance her natural dimples and now smiling was the only expression she could manage. It was difficult to deliver commentary and news with the correct decorum in the later stages of the Games.

“After they say goodbye,” confirmed the mayor. He was also a cheerful soul, but despondent on this reaping day. Luna could see the smile lines beside his eyes and decided to recommend him her own surgeon as a thank you for his support. “We have cars on standby for the nearest settlements, and even a Peacekeeper hovercraft available if they come from further away. Your tributes will be right on schedule, Miss Ceris.”

The screens in the Justice Building began to flicker to life, showing the gatherings of many children who all had a name in her reaping bowls. Luna compared it to the paltry crowd of District Twelve, although the clothing and calibre of the contestants seemed to be about equal.

Koru kept his word, escorting Inari to the settlement’s square for the reaping. They were both held at the Peacekeeper’s desk when Inari could not be found on Fourth Eastern’s extensive records, but Koru stepped in with the authoritative rasp to his voice and explained, “the kid moves around with us – take his blood and let us get this over with.”

The Peacekeeper took the sample from Inari’s left hand, avoiding the plaster, and hurriedly waved them through the growing line. “Go find your kids,” instructed Koru. “I’ll stick to the left, near the bakery. You come find me when you’re done.”

Inari was surprised that the ringmaster had kept the promise. He had been treated to a long lecture on the walk to the square, with Koru mentioning the chance of his name being called and the letter being kept a secret many times. “What if I do get chosen?” asked Inari, in a lilting, jesting tone.

Koru shrugged. “I guess I start looking around all these new kids for a new aerialist.”

He slapped Inari across the back, brought him in for a brief embrace, and then left Inari to look for the seventeen-year-old pen.

Alder arrived with her mother, quickly funnelled into the queueing crowd of the Fourth Eastern settlement. The Peacekeeper began to bark at her mother, and Alder realised from the pointing of his gun that he was objecting to Thatch being carried. The crowd was too large for non-reaping candidates; reluctantly, her mother passed Thatch back to their father and he disappeared to a side street to watch on a screen.

At the desk, the Peacekeeper asked many questions. Alder’s mother answered for her. She was not warned as her hand was pulled forward and pierced sharply with a needle. She was still nursing the puncture wound when her mother grabbed her arm and began dragging her towards the gathered crowds beside the pen. Alder tried to fight to find her own pen, but her mother did not relent.

They pushed through the people. Eventually, they reached the rope. Alder ducked under and into her fourteen-year-old pen rather than entering from the central walkway, holding hands with her mother who stood in the watching crowd.

In the Justice Building, Luna situated herself behind the mayor. Someone had attached a microphone to a leaf on her dress and directed her on where to stand. She positioned herself exactly on the small scuff on the floor and waited for her moment.

The mayor spoke with passion: it was a practiced speech, which reminded Luna more of her home than the dreary, repetitive speech of District Twelve ever did. “It is an honour,” finished the mayor to the screen. Luna could see the still, steady crowds of hundreds of children waiting for her. “To choose our tributes, I introduce Miss Luna Ceris.”

Luna stepped forward. “It is an honour,” she said, echoing the mayor, “to be here in District Eleven to choose you delightful tributes. Panem cannot wait to get to know them, to cheer for them and to support them. With the odds in your favour, shall we begin with our ladies?”

The bowl waited beside her, filled with countless yellowing slips. Luna chose not to hesitate or be dramatic in her first year, making a bold impression with her swift choice. Her hand dived into the bowl and set slips flying across the room as she brought her tribute from the crowd with a flourish.

She went to open it before remembering the mayor’s specific instructions. Then, Luna glanced at the front of the slip. “Eastern Fourth,” she read, and waited. There was a moment of delay as the message was communicated to the camera. The screens settled on a large crowd in a particularly sunny settlement with rolling hills behind the scattered buildings. She unfolded the slip.

“Alder Tarragon!”

In District Eleven, tributes were often reluctant, and Peacekeepers moved quickly. They began with a step towards each pen to locate movement and murmuring, finding the tribute in the sudden shock. In the Eastern Fourth’s pens, there was no movement.

There was a woman clutching a girl’s hand. She stood in the crowd beside the children, shaking her head furiously and whispering hurried messages to her child. The girl did not hear them, tilting her head in concern for her mother’s sudden change in demeanour. She did not understand.

“Alder Tarragon,” repeated a Peacekeeper, in their trained, authoritative tone. He was loud, but he wore a helmet, and his face was covered.

Alder’s breathing began to quicken as she noticed the tears on her mother’s cheeks. Her mother never cried, even when they hurried past the sleeping children in the street who had not been given enough food. She could feel the racing pulse in their joined hands. From behind, someone pushed her forward and their hands fell apart.

The Peacekeeper grabbed her, mistaking Alder’s confusion for non-compliance. She was dragged through the pen by her shoulder, and pushed onto the waiting red carpet where a camera was capturing each movement. There, the situation fell into place. Alder began to shake. Her breath caught in her throat. The camera watched as her eyes widened, filling with sudden, panicked tears at the realisation.

“Come on then, sweetheart!” Luna’s voice echoed through the speakers and into the silent crowd of Eastern Fourth, but Alder did not hear it. The Peacekeeper threatened to come near her again; Alder forced herself to take a step so that she would not be grabbed, moving to the stage in stiff, scared movements. The camera followed her journey. Against the carpet on the screen, she looked forlorn and lost.

Eastern Fourth had selected the baker as their honoured citizen. He was a well-respected man and waited on the stage to greet any tributes called from their crowd. When Alder reached the staircase, his neutral face had fallen to a scowl. He greeted her and took her hand, sweeping her into a hug as she reached him. Alder broke. She sobbed into his shirt.

“You monsters,” he hissed, staring straight into the camera’s lens. It was unclear if he was addressing the camera operator, the crowd, or the Capitol itself – there was no option that would be well-received. “You monsters. She can’t hear. She’s a child. And you’re just going to set people after her, as if she stands a chance?”

The camera’s microphone was switched off. They cut to a wider shot of the crowd. Luna misinterpreted this as her cue. “Alder Tarragon,” she repeated, tasting the words. “Well, that was exciting. Let’s complete the pairing!”

She swirled her hand in the male bowl, stirring the paper around as if it were a cruel soup. It took a cough from the mayor for her to finally take a slip, bringing it to the microphone. She went to open it again before remembering. “Oh, silly me,” she giggled. “I need to tell you where we’re looking! Well, it’s- oh! Eastern Fourth!”

In the settlement, the crowd murmured unhappily. It was rare to lose one child to the Games, and it was unheard of to lose two. The baker had been forced off the stage by a Peacekeeper, who hurriedly had to rush him back on with hushed warnings about insubordination and a threatening wave of the gun. The atmosphere did not reflect the bright smile on Luna’s face as she addressed the coincidence before loudly announcing, “Inari Hollenbeck!”

The crowd relaxed. They did not recognise that name.

Inari heard his name echo across the ring each night, to the cheers of those who were watching. He found it strange to hear it accompanied by the rustle of relief that spilled out across the pens. It was repeated by a nearby Peacekeeper, who pronounced it incorrectly as he tried to find the owner.

In instinct, Inari looked for Koru. He had grown comforted by the newfound reassurance and wanted to sink into it, but he could not find him in the packed crowd around the bakery. He needed the gruff nod of pride that he received every night before stepping into the ring, but it was nowhere to be found.

He raised his arm in acknowledgement of his name. The people around him noticed and built him a path to the red carpet. They stared at the sling that he wore and the plaster which encased his right arm, before glancing at the resignation in his own face.

“Oh my,” interjected Luna, as the newest tribute appeared on her screen. Inari realised that, as he expected, he was being written off as a contender immediately. It made him angry, and he performed at his best when he was angry.

He forced a smile, ensuring that it reached his eyes and became convincing. “Oh my,” he repeated, the camera catching his comment. “You ain’t making a great start to your time here, Miss Ceris. Well, never mind.”

Across the crowd, Luna’s voice echoed from a speaker. “It is down to the odds…”

“Let’s hope they’re in our favour,” grinned Inari. He was used to running out in front of an audience and picked up his pace, managing to bound up the stage’s stairs two at a time. He offered his good hand to the baker for him to shake, which he did with his mouth tightly shut. Beside him, Alder continued to sob.

***

Alder’s mother joined her daughter in her tears, bundling her into an embrace as they collapsed together on the sofa. Alder reached up and tried to wipe the tears from her mother’s cheeks, but she shook her head and caught Alder’s hand in her own to hold it instead. There was no conversation between them, but they found different ways to say goodbye, good luck and I love you.

On her arm, Alder felt the familiar sensation of her mother tracing a pattern of hearts. Whenever they were together, her mother would absent-mindedly draw the shapes on her daughter’s palm as a reminder of all the love which went unsent. This time, Alder traced them back.

***

Inari stood at the window, wondering if the window would open and if he would survive the fall into the awaiting garden. He had survived worse, although not unscathed, but the Peacekeepers would probably find him immediately.

“I told you so,” said Koru, his voice thick as he pushed open the door.

The tribute boy turned, seeing his ringmaster arrive with unfamiliar tears in his eyes. It was still a performance. He forced another smile. “Well, you always said I was one of a kind,” he joked, almost falling for his own faked confidence. “Let’s see if I’m a victor.”

Chapter Text

[12] Lost

Flicker Ashbourne woke to the cruel surprise of cold water. She spluttered, shooting up underneath the threadbare blanket that covered her bed.

“Get your ass up!” ordered her mother, gesturing with the empty glass that now sat in her hand. The woman was already dressed, hair hidden beneath an old bandana. “You’ve got orders to get out before that reaping.”

It was summer, but there was a biting wind working its way through the many cracks in the bedroom wall. It created both a chill and a howling whistle which had kept Flicker awake for most of the night. There was nothing to be awake for. There was nothing in the broken kitchen cupboard except old coal dust. There was no fuel left for the fireplace. Flicker took her blanket and pulled it over her head with a grunt.

“It’ll be a pitcher next,” said her mother, slamming the dirty glass down on an old crate.

“It’s a holiday,” complained Flicker. She cursed as her mother pulled the blanket from her and dumped it in a heap beside the bed.

“It’s a waste of everyone’s time,” replied her mother. “Up, Flick. What’s the use in feeding you if you won’t get my deliveries out? You fancy the mines?”

Flicker scowled. The expression suited her, and she wore it often, with a downturned mouth and a furrowed brow. Her mother paid it no attention and stormed out into the family’s shared room, where she kept her pile of mending. Her father would still be sleeping. He was a miner: he did not need to work on a holiday.

Reluctantly, Flicker pulled herself from her sagging mattress. She owned a single dress which she dragged from the bottom of her chest each reaping, hoping that a morning’s wear would help the creases drop from the skirt. It was a faded lavender and fell too short on her legs, but there was so little opportunity to dress up in the Seam that it never seemed worth the coins to replace it. It still fitted, although there was a moment of concern when the tight bodice struggled to fit against her chest. She could probably get one final year from it.

“Flicker!” called her mother, the voice growing shrill. “Get your ass in here!”

Finally, she obliged. Her mother was still bending over a pile of old clothes, trying desperately to patch and hem before the reaping. The candle beside her chair had burnt down to a stump and her fingers were poked and bleeding. “Most of it’s for the Silton house,” she explained, nodding to a sack by the door. “You know how many outfits they have to throw together every year for all their spawn. The dress on the top, that’s for Lizbeth’s babe.”

Flicker hefted the sack over her shoulder with muttered curse words aimed at her mother. Lizbeth was her sole friend, occasionally. They would either spend every waking minute with each other or detest the sight of each other, and Flicker could not currently stand the girl’s cheery nature.

She pushed the door open with her shoulder and kicked it closed with her foot. Her mother’s yell about looking after the house fell on deaf ears as Flicker began the walk down the Seam’s narrow lanes. They should have been full of miners on a usual morning. On reaping morning, Flicker only had to ignore a handful of people completing chores or revelling in their brief freedom.

At the Periman household, the children too young for the reaping had been sent outside. They used an old washing line as a skipping rope, kicking up coal dust as they jumped and sung:

The first victor was Lucy Gray,

until she decided to run away.

Haymitch’s win was much quicker,

until he died of too much liquor.

Katniss and Peeta were victors as well,

until they died in the Quarter Quell.

All the names called on Reaping Day

are destined to die in a gruesome way.

Flicker moved quickly past the children and the macabre rhyme, heading to the dilapidated cottage that sat at the end of her own lane.

Lizbeth was in the garden, wringing dripping clothing out into a wooden wash basin. Misty was laid on a rug in the sparse grass. She was a cheerful baby, but Flicker did not see the appeal in a chubby, noisy mouth to feed.

“Got your mending,” answered Flicker, too tired for pretend formalities. She pulled the sack open and rescued the dress, handing it to Lizbeth over her low garden fence.

“Your mother got you working reaping day, I suppose,” said Lizbeth. She took the dress and inspected the stitching. “Keeping your mind off it?”

“Not too worried. Yourself?”

Lizbeth looked down at her daughter and smiled. “More scared since having this one,” she answered. “Don’t want to get taken from her.

“You won’t.” Flicker swung the sack back across her back. Lizbeth’s mournful tone was grating. The friendship had been more tumultuous since Misty’s arrival. “You’re eighteen. You’re basically done.”

Lizbeth seemed to take note of Flicker’s cool conversation, sighing at the young woman’s usual hostile nature. “Bet you’ve got more deliveries, so I won’t keep you. Good luck!”

Flicker turned her back and began the walk to the Silton’s home. Lizbeth called after her. “Aren’t you going to wish me good luck too?”

She did not turn back to her friend. “You’ll be fine.”

***

Raven Kohler had a golden locket hidden in the lining of his jacket. It did not belong to him, and neither did the coins. The Hob was a haven for drunkards on reaping morning, and they were all too lost in liquor to notice the boy accidentally walking into them and slipping his hand into their pocket. It was too easy – they belonged to him now.

Etta rolled his eyes at his arrival. “I ain’t buying anything that comes from someone still in the building,” she complained, as Raven began to fish around in his jacket’s lining. He found the locket and unceremoniously dumped it onto the selling table.

“Nah,” he grinned. “The woman left already.”

The locket made a hollow sound as it landed on the tarnished wood. Etta picked it up by its chain and examined it closely, holding it up to her strained eyes. “It ain’t real gold,” she commented, clicking the locket open with her coal-stained hands. She laughed at the picture inside. “It ain’t got any value but sentimental.”

“Come on, Etta,” pushed Raven. “It’s reaping day. I need fuel.”

“You’ve got coins. The hardware store will be selling.”

Raven scoffed. “I ain’t paying their prices. You know I’ll come to you with anything else I find.”

Etta threw the locket back on her table where it became tangled amongst her other wares. “Half a bottle of paraffin,” she relented. “I won’t get that much back for the damned thing so you’re lucky I’m feeling generous.”

It was a good deal – Raven would normally push beyond the first offer, but it was difficult when the trade was reasonable. It was why he went to Etta: she knew him, and she knew his brother, and she had a soft streak that was easy to exploit. “Fine,” he replied, trying to make it seem as if he was letting her win.

Etta dug under her table to find a half-empty brown bottle of paraffin. She had been the one to gift him the old stove he used, which she claimed was deliberate so he kept her in jewellery to fuel it. Raven took the fuel and hid it in the same rip of his jacket where the locket had sat.

He left Etta to her tray of wares, and the other sellers to their own stalls. There was a solid crowd on reaping morning, but it was beginning to thin as the event grew nearer. It was not difficult for Raven to sneak into the back of the old coal warehouse and begin the quick climb up broken beams which served as the entrance to his home. He could hear Jackdaw’s laboured breathing as he neared the top of the loft, even though the younger boy was trying to stifle it.

“It’s me,” reassured Raven as he grew closer. He scrambled onto the delicate flooring of the old coal loft.

“I know,” replied Jackdaw, weakly. “I can tell from your footsteps.”

Raven humoured his brother with a quiet laugh, checking the temperature of his forehead under a carefully disguised rustle of his hair. He was still burning but seemed cooler than the previous day, which Raven took as a positive sign.

They did not have many belongings: the old paraffin stove sat alongside a copper pot near the small window, there was a collection of old jars on a broken shelf, and they had carpeted in thin blankets. Raven dropped the coins – which were not his – into a jar and fished the paraffin and a pouch of foraged pine needles – which were his – from his jacket. The copper pot had already been filled with the remainder of their rainwater.

“We’ve got fuel,” he told his brother, waving the bottle of paraffin. He dragged the stove closer and refilled it with half of what he had been given. Then, he lit a flame on the spirit cup before waiting for it to grow. He took the pouch of pine needles and added them to the waiting water. “We’re going to be alright. Here, come closer.”

Jackdaw was not given much of a choice; Raven wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and pulled the boy to the stove. The flame was big enough, so he began to pump the fuel vapours through the valve. He placed the copper pot onto the stove, stirred the pine needles around with his hand before the water got too hot, and waited for it to boil. “You know the steam helps when the coughing is bad.”

His brother nodded obediently, leaning over the pot obediently even though the water was not yet boiling. “How’d you get the fuel?”

“Lifted a locket.”

“That’s all?”

“Etta’s feeing generous, I guess.”

As steam began to swirl above the pot, Raven rubbed comforting circles on his brother’s back. Jackdaw was trying to stifle his coughing, but Raven could hear it rattling in the younger boy’s chest. “It’s the reaping,” answered Jackdaw once he found his voice again. “She must be feeling generous.”

The sudden influx of steam seemed to catch Jackdaw’s throat, sending him into a deeper coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. It seemed worse than usual, and Raven could do nothing but wait.

“We ain’t going,” decided Raven, resolute over the sound of his struggling brother.

“We need to go,” choked Jackdaw, between hacking coughs that clawed at his small chest. “They make you go. We’ll get in trouble.”

“You don’t have to go if you’re sick,” answered Raven, quietly. Jackdaw managed to bring himself back to his laboured breathing. The coal dust in the loft was aggravating his lungs, and it pained Raven more to know this and be unable to fix it.

Jackdaw moved away from the steam, his face shiny with sweat and red with heat. Raven could not tell if it was the stove or the fever. “What if they call you?” his brother asked, in the small voice he always used after a fit.

Raven hesitated. “They won’t” he answered once he had caught his composure. He focused on the boiling water in the stove creating a weak, pine needle tea. He took one of the empty jars, filled it from the pot, and handed it to his brother. “Anyway, if we’re not there, then they can’t take me anyway.”

***

District Twelve acknowledged the reaping, and nothing more. The grey square was prepared the evening before with wooden stakes and rough ropes to create the feared pens, but there was no decoration or joy across the open space. The screens erected beside the wooden stage showed the glowing emblem of the Capitol until the reaping began its broadcast.

Isaac Cornelius arrived early, before those in charge of filming had even dragged themselves from the train. If District Twelve were not going to try and make their tributes appealing, he was going to do his best in their place. He greeted the few who scampered through the square on early morning errands, but they refused his greeting and avoided his wave.

It did not matter – Isaac would not let District Twelve forget that he was working with them, rather than against. He stood himself beside the Peacekeeper’s welcoming desk and scattered cheerful reminders through the arriving crowd. “Chin up!” he instructed, gesturing the arrivals into the walkway that took them to the crowd or to their pen. “Remember to smile! I know it’s difficult – it’s been so long since you’ve had a victor! The odds have not forgotten District Twelve, but we need to give them a little bit of help and your tributes will be far more popular if they smile! It’s why we have teeth, after all.”

Mostly, he was ignored. The occasional black haired, grey eyed figure would spit at his feet or make an unsavoury comment about his canary-yellow outfit. Isaac brushed them off with a smile and reminded them to show the Capitol their very best.

Flicker arrived with her mother and father, although she did not cling to them. The wailing, weeping role was to be fulfilled by the babies at their first and second reaping. Standing in the seventeen-year-old pen, she was supposed to shrug the whole event away as if it meant nothing to her.

She had a sullen expression drawn across her face, which attracted the attention of the perky escort. “Smile!” he reminded her, and Flicker told him to go away in less than ladylike language. It was the first reaction that made him stumble across his words, and this gave Flicker her first smile of the morning.

The crowds were slow. Isaac found himself having to clamber back up to the stage before everyone had arrived. The mayor greeted him like an old friend; he appreciated an escort that tried, even if the attempt was weak.

“I feel it this year, Mayor Annis,” grinned Isaac, taking his seat. “I really do feel it. It’s been far too long. I’ll try and choose an star, because your victors have always been tributes that cause a splash in the Capitol.”

“You do your best,” replied Mayor Annis, trying not to sound as unconvinced as he felt.

He stood himself by the microphone, prepared for when the final dregs of crowd forced themselves into the tightly packed square. The clock struck the time and indicated the start, but he did not begin his speech. A Peacekeeper from the desk pushed his way through to the base of the stage.

“Two missing,” he informed the mayor. “One reaping age. We can’t proceed.”

“The schedule…” protested Isaac weakly, but he was ignored. Instead, the mayor turned his back to the escort and announced the slight delay into the microphone. The people in charge of the camera shared a glance with each other and tried to keep the Capitol amused with architecture and views across the often-ignored District Twelve.

Isaac counted in his head, tapping his foot on the wooden stage to keep himself to the second. A minute passed first, followed by another, and another. “The Capitol will be waiting,” he reminded the mayor.

“We can’t proceed,” repeated Mayor Annis. “We need everyone of reaping age to be here, just in case.”

“Well, maybe they’re unwell!”

“No one has applied for an exception this year.”

Isaac continued to count. The Peacekeepers were beginning to gather together, some leaving in pairs to find the latecomers. The clock on the Justice Building continued to move. The people waiting to film began to shout instructions and complaints: the Capitol did not like waiting.

“We’ll be fine,” announced Isaac as he stood from his chair. They had gone beyond the time of his normal introduction and were running much later than expected. He went to the podium and nudged the mayor out of the way.

“Good afternoon,” he introduced. “You join us in the wonderful District Twelve, where we are unfortunately running a little behind due to some…technical issues. Yes, it can be quite difficult to find a signal when we are so far away from our glorious city.”

“Isaac,” warned Mayor Annis, but the escort was fulfilling his role of making his district shine and there was no authority that could stop him.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” he said, seeming more alert and cheerful than even he usually was. There was no time to waste: he grabbed the first slip he found in the first reaping bowl and pulled it back to the podium with a quick run. He unfolded it. “Your female tribute for District Twelve is: Flicker Ashbourne!”

Lost and confused by the sudden start, the crowd found themselves clapping half-heartedly at the announced name. They glanced around, trying to work out why the mayor had retreated to the back of the stage to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. They stared across the pens, trying to find the owner of the name.

Flicker’s anger was like a roaring fire beneath a boiling pot, waiting to produce enough steam to blow. She scowled, glaring at anyone who caught her eye but especially at the bright smile of the escort who had dared to call her. For a moment, she considered shrinking into the crowd and daring them to come and find her, but that was not her usual way. Her arrival needed to be loud, and brash, and memorable.

She laughed, a harsh mocking sound that echoed across the anxiously silent square. Instead of waiting for people to make a path for her, she shoved them back with her shoulder as she made her way to the stage. The camera followed her, and she made a rude gesture that forced it to turn away.

“…come on then, Flicker,” tried Isaac, although his enthusiasm for the new tribute was falling. Flicker rolled her eyes at his tone as she stamped her way across the stone floor and up the wooden staircase. She pulled her hand away from the escort when he tried to grab it. She stepped away from him when he tried to pull her closer. He took the microphone from the podium and offered it to her with an outstretched arm.

Flicker stared at it. She only had one thing she wished to tell the escort, and the Capitol, and the crowd of District Twelve. She said it loudly. “Kiss my ass.”

Isaac pulled the microphone away and took the attention for himself. “Let’s leave that – someone is clearly having a very big day – and pick our other tribute. Let’s…let’s hope it’s someone as amazing as Flicker here.”

Again, he was short on time. He picked a slip from the top of the pile and rushed it back to the microphone as if it were an emergency. “Raven Kohler!”

There was silence. The crowd did not even manage to applaud, bemused and amused by the happenings in front of them. There was no movement which indicated the realisation of the name’s owner, except for a woman in a grey dress sneaking away from the crowd at the back of the square.

“Raven Kohler?” called Isaac again, his voice fading into a question. At the desk at the back of the square, a Peacekeeper urgently waved his hands at the escort.

***

Flicker’s anger did not fade as she waited in the room designated for a goodbye. Her mother and father visited her in a rather tearful affair, although she could not make tears appear even if she wanted to. She simply wanted to scream.

There was a brief respite from the fury when Lizbeth arrived, poking her head cautiously around the door. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to come,” she murmured, quietly.

When she realised her friend had not brought her child, Flicker allowed herself to relax for a moment. She still shook in anger, but softened as she noticed Lizbeth’s eyes were red – she had been crying and made no attempt to hide it. Flicker held her arms open and waited.

Lizbeth did not hesitate to break into a run and throw herself into the embrace. “Oh, Flick,” she whispered, as her old friend began to pat reassuring circles onto her back. “I should be the one comforting you.”

Flicker agreed, but she did not voice it. “Some good luck you wished me,” she muttered into her friend’s hair, but she regretted it when she felt Lizbeth tense in her arms.

***

Raven did not mean to fall asleep. The Hob had emptied as the reaping began, and it was rare for the coal loft to be left in complete silence apart from the whistling of the wind through the walls. He told Jackdaw to lie down and try to take a nap, only to lie beside him and realise that his eyes were falling closed too.

He awoke when someone hissed his name.

“Raven!” came the sound again, and Raven immediately bolted upright. The voice was close, and he crawled to the edge of the loft to find Etta halfway up their improvised ladder of broken beams. She was wide-eyed, staring up at him. “They called your name, you stupid boy. Why weren’t you there?”

At first, her quick, hushed words made no sense. Raven focused on her final question. “I…Jackdaw…” he tried, stuttering out an answer before the pieces of her warning fell into place. “What did you say?”

Jackdaw stirred in his hay bed behind him. “Raven? Is everything okay?”

“You still need to be there even if Jack can’t be,” hissed Etta. She jumped back down the ladder, gesturing to Raven to do the same. “They called you. You need to run, otherwise they’re going to either put a bullet through your skull or drag you off to the Capitol. Come on, now!”

Spurred into action by the panicked warning, Raven listened. He grabbed Jackdaw’s hand, helping his younger brother to his feet and letting him move down the ladder first. It was cautious, but Jackdaw held his breath and his cough until his feet were back on solid ground. Raven joined him, scampering as easily as he had that morning.

Etta pulled Jackdaw over to her as soon as he was near, leaving her arm in a comforting rest on his shoulders. “You can’t take him, he won’t make it two miles,” she warned, leaving Raven with no opportunity to protest. “You need to run. Go through the meadow – a tree fell in the winter, took down a section of the fence. You go through there, head north. There’s a cabin, two hours walk. Hide there.”

“How long for?” asked Raven, lowering his own voice to match Etta’s. He could hear the Peacekeepers storming through the front entrance of the Hob, and he watch Jackdaw’s eyes widen as he heard the same noise.

“I don’t know,” answered Etta. She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. “They’re going to want you. Now, or in a year’s time, whenever. Go, Raven.”

Raven hesitated, staring at Jackdaw’s worried face. His younger brother had begun to cry, clinging to Etta’s grey apron. When the Peacekeeper’s shadow appeared on the wall beside their ladder, Raven finally turned on his heel and ran.

He took off through a back entrance to the market, tearing across the road to the meadow. It seemed as if every Peacekeeper in District Twelve had been sent to find him, and the guards crowded every single street. The path to the meadow was long and winding, and Raven found himself ducking behind an old dustbin to hide out of sight.

He caught his breath. He felt his hammering heartbeat. He tried desperately to push the cries and the expression of his younger brother from his face. The shadows that seemed to surround him were growing closer. They stamped their feet in an organised rhythm. He could not stay there.

He ran out into the street, trying to reach the meadow through a garden that he knew looked out on to it. It did not matter: there were two Peacekeeper’s waiting silently in the coaldust, their hands already on their weapons as they pointed them at Raven. He stopped.

“On your knees!” barked the first Peacekeeper, and Raven complied immediately. He knew it was easier to listen and argue your way out of an interrogation later, although he was not sure if he was going to have the privilege of later. “Hands above your head!”

Again, Raven listened. His hands trembled. He closed his eyes. “My brother was sick,” he shouted back, hearing the pair approach and the footsteps of many others following them. “I didn’t mean to miss it. I’m sorry! I didn’t think he’d make it if I dragged him to the square!”

As the Peacekeeper got closer, he holstered his gun. Instead, he took out the machine used at the reaping’s entrance. He grabbed Raven’s hand in his own and used the needle to prick his finger.

“This is the kid,” he stated, reading the display on the machine. Still holding Raven’s hand, he pulled him to his feet. “Don’t shoot him. Capitol want him on the train before it’s due to leave.”

Determining Raven to be a threat, the Peacekeeper swiped a washing line from the porch of a nearby cottage. He tied the rough rope across Raven’s wrists, knotting them together and holding them so their tribute could not run. Raven was guided by the strong arm of the guard.

“I get to say goodbye, right?” he cried, breath quickening. He hoped Etta would be able to get Jackdaw to the Justice Building, even if it was just enough for a quick kiss on his head and a moment of begging for Etta to look after him. “They always let tributes say goodbye! Every year!”

Raven was taken straight to the train station.

Chapter Text

[13] Forgiven

Mercy Severen wore her reaping best. It was the outfit she wore every day - a navy jumpsuit, with a white undershirt and highly polished boots over rough, woollen socks – but she had painstakingly stitched her achievement patches to her left sleeve. They were the beginnings of a military career similar to the one that adorned her father’s jacket.

“There’s always a chance that he’ll tell us something,” muttered her father. He paced, limping on his left leg as he moved. Mercy remained sat on the black chair and watched him. “It’s too late to convince us that he’s still useful, but we’re hoping he’ll panic and start throwing names.”

Mercy could see into the white room despite battling her reflection in the glass. The window was one-way, and she was confident that the boy did not know that she was behind his mirror.

The boy, with his overgrown hair and wild eyes, had been left alone in the interrogation room. He had already flipped a table onto the tile. He was screaming - at least, it looked like he was. The glass was soundproof.

“He’s slipped up twice before,” continued her father. He nodded at the black notebook that Mercy had abandoned beside her, and she quickly reclaimed it, pulling a pen from her front pocket. “When he was eleven, he accidentally gave us two names of two citizens we did not know were involved with any of the rebel groupings. They were both shot.”

Mercy enjoyed hearing her father speak and wanted to make copious notes as he did, but the information was not new to her. She chewed on the end of her pen instead.

“He’s nearly given us three more names since then, but he realised and stopped himself. He did give us the location of an old out-raider camp, though it was abandoned by the time we arrived.”

Her father glared at her, and she removed the pen from her mouth, a red flush growing across her cheeks. “He’s never given you any information willingly,” she offered, distracting her father from her indiscretion. “If his crime is considered rebellious, there are methods-“

“Torture is expensive, Mercy. He’s loyal, but he’s not completely resistant to our interrogations.”

Mercy glanced up from her scrawled notes to the subject of their conversation, now on his feet and pulling his chair around the room with the chains that tied him to it. He still shouted.

“We have to escort him to the reaping, and then this is finished,” continued her father, almost seeming to reminisce. He took the notebook from Mercy’s hands and flicked through the notes that she had made over the last week, sighing deeply at her handwriting. “I’m personally going to be pulling the trigger myself.”

Throwing the notebook back on to the chair, her father turned on his heel and approached the window. He waved for Mercy to join him, and she was quick to obey. The boy in the room had broken the chains from his chair and had stood in the centre of the room, watching the mirror.

“Is that what you’re wearing to the reaping?” asked her father.

She nodded. “We’re expected in uniform, as cadets,” she added, in a soft voice.

“Good.” He looked down, focusing on her feet. “Polish your boots again before you go.”

The boy left the remnants of his table and the tossed chair, satisfied with his work. Sweat glued his hair to his face. He grinned at the mirror.

“If you do go to the Capitol,” her father continued. “You will be a fine representative of District Thirteen. When you try, you can be precise, calm, even under pressure.”

Mercy ignored the speech; she heard it every year. The boy was taking calm, measured steps towards them and had moved so close to the mirror that Mercy felt as if she could reach out and touch him.

“Mercy?”

He knew her name. He had used it when he met her.

“Mercy.”

When she had shadowed a shift in the interrogation room, the boy had spent a lot of the time describing all the different ways he could kill her. She had asked to leave and her father had failed her for the work assignment.

“Mercy!”

Mercy jumped. Instinctively, she looked to her father.

“I said, we expect to see you again if your name is called this afternoon.”

“You will,” she answered, voice steady, in the same way that she always did. She added, “if I go, of course, which is not very likely.”

Her father paused at her answer. “No,” he said. “I suppose it’s not.”

When the boy slammed his fist against the glass, Mercy could not stop herself from taking a sharp, sudden step back. He only hit once. Then, the boy grinned with wild eyes and shouted something that she could not hear.

Her father watched her, with the same disappointment in his eyes as when he saw her handwriting, or when she had asked to leave the interrogation room, or when she had shown reluctance to attend the reaping. It was as plain on his face as the wrinkles which had begun to crowd his eyes. He cleared his throat. “You know the boy is a jay, don’t you?” he asked.

Mercy had heard the term before, in passing. It was a rebel term and so she had never become too acquainted with it. Her father spat the word as if it tasted bitter. “I do,” she answered, half-truthfully.

“Good,” he said. “For a moment there, I thought he had scared you, but the Severen family are not scared of a little jay, are we?”

The boy moved from the window. Mercy forced herself to step back to the window. “No,” she said. “I suppose we’re not.”

***

Eden St. James sat on the floor of his room, his legs stretched across the cold tile. He bounced a small, rubber ball between his feet and the furthest wall. He caught it as it came back to him and repeated the action again, and again, and again.

The ball lived on the small shelf of his personal possessions, waiting each day above his cot with a folded rough blanket and a dented metal cup. A sympathetic Peacekeeper had slipped it into his hand when Eden had been younger and bored in his cell. He tended not to flaunt it in case someone took it from him but when he was thinking, he liked to catch.

There was blood on his hands. He had re-opened the wounds on his wrists that always seemed to accompany his handcuffs. There were red marks on his legs from kicking the table, bruises across his back from when he was dragged out, and a swollen eye from when he said something that he probably should not have said. They had not interrogated him, deeming him a danger, and returning him to his cell.

Eden preferred to be a danger when the alternative was holding up against another of their relentless interrogations. The ball bounced again.

A loud, violent knock rattled through the closed window of his door. “Knock it off!” called a gruff voice, forcing a scowl from Eden. In response, he threw the ball at his window. He hit it, hard.

The sliding metal pane scraped across the door, exposing the glare of the Peacekeeper left in charge of him. “Shut it,” he commanded.

Eden caught the ball and threw it again, making the glass rattle. The quiet alarm sounded, indicating that someone else had been called for. Eden rolled the ball underneath his cot and rolled his eyes at the door.

He counted. He reached seventy-four before the Head Peacekeeper, Commander Severen, forced his door open and waved two other Peacekeepers towards him. Eden’s wounds were bandaged in handcuffs again, the guards ignoring Eden’s wincing. They chained him to the frame of his cot.

“You could be less rough about the whole thing,” he complained. They replied with a swift kick to his stomach.

When Eden was secure, Commander Severen was left alone with him. He wore a smug smirk. “You’re disturbing the peace.”

“Good morning to you too,” spat Eden. He went to kick at the man but stopped himself when the Peacekeeper raised his hand.

“You best keep your mouth shut unless you’re willing to start giving us information,” he warned. Eden leant his head back against the rough blanket of his cot. “You going to give us anything today?”

“Did you really need two sidekicks to tie me to the bed?”

Commander Severen went red, as he often did whenever he was forced to spend time with his prisoner. “You should watch yourself,” he warned, in a low voice. “People like you get hung for murder.”

“Didn’t actually kill anyone,” corrected Eden. He sighed; he was being interrogated today, even though he had broken everything in sight.

“We execute for rebellion too.”

Eden pulled his cot, scraping the metal legs across the stone floor with a noise that made Commander Severen wince. When he lifted his hands above his head, he realised he could lift the cot with them. He slammed it back down onto the floor. “Your daughter was with you when they put me in the interrogation room this morning?” he asked. “She’s shadowing you a lot. Obsessed with me, I’d reckon.”

“This is your final opportunity to voluntarily provide us with information or confession.”

Commander Severen kicked at Eden’s ankles. It ached. Eden hit his head back on the metal post he was tied to. It did not hurt as much as the sound suggested. “Or what?” he hissed, eyes on the floor rather than the man in his doorway. “You going to pull me back into that little room and beat me up again? Going to stop giving me food again?”

“We’ll kill you.” Commander Severen spat on the floor by Eden’s feet. The boy pulled away. “No better than you deserve. You’ve been given too many chances. You’ve already been sentenced to death by firing squad to be carried out on the 5^th of July-“

Eden had seen the date on the Peacekeeper’s watch as he was dragged from the interrogation. “That’s tomorrow!” he screamed. He pulled at his handcuffs; they rattled. There was no longer pettiness in his noise and his thrashing, but there was fury. “On what grounds? For holding a gun?”

“Conspiracy to rebel,” replied Commander Severen when Eden paused for breath. “It was fairly easy to convince the mayor you were guilty, seeing as you were found with the gun used in an attempted murder and you have that damned bird on your shoulder.”

Eden was trying to wrestle his hands free them from his chain. He had never shown anger or despair since arriving at the Centre of Justice four years ago but now, the colour had drained from the young boy’s face. Commander Severen was thoroughly enjoying the display.

“You only had your four years here because you were giving us names,” he continued, with a smirk. “You’re no longer useful to us.”

“I’ll give you more names.”

Eden regretted the comment as soon as he said it. He swore he would never be a traitor; he could not look at the Peacekeeper as he offered it. He still tried to free himself, but the fight shrunk inside him as he heard the mocking grin in Commander Severen’s voice.

“We’re past that, I’m afraid.”

Commander Severen relished the opportunity to break this news to the boy who had kept the Centre of Justice in an unbreakable cycle of interrogation since his arrest four years prior. When the final echo had finished bouncing around the grey cell, he turned on his heel and went to leave.

“Wait.” Eden bit his tongue. He could taste blood. “The reaping. That’s today.”

Commander Severen stopped. “It is.”

There was a gun in the Peacekeeper’s belt. If Eden could free himself from the chain, he was sure he could grab it. “You’re going to shoot me tomorrow, but I bet you’re still going to all that effort of dragging me to the reaping, aren’t you?”

“Reaping attendance is mandatory for all citizens of District Thirteen,” replied Commander Severen. “It will be your last.”

***

District Thirteen was grey, regimented and prepared for every eventuality. Diana Vitrum considered herself prepared as she always carried a small sewing kit and a handkerchief with her, and that was where the similarities ended.

She was loudly grateful that District Thirteen had accepted her as their escort, and she hated every single minute of it. The blankets that they provided on the bed were rough and smelled of medical soap she had only experienced in hospitals. There was food, but it was functional rather than indulgent. She missed her beloved District Eight.

Diana yawned. The mayor – a stern woman who wore several medals on the navy lapel – gave her a disgusted look. “You may do better to remember where you are, ma’am,” she instructed. “Panem is watching.”

Flooding red, Diana answered, “I do apologise. I never sleep well on my first night in a new place.”

“Very well.” The mayor was tight-lipped, as if she carried a small creature in her mouth that she did not want to escape. “It’s a simple procedure. The children will be assembled on the lowest floor of the meeting place, in their age-related groupings. If called, they will mount the stairs. The bowls will be placed either side of your microphone. You will call a female tribute. Then, you will call a male tribute. You will allow them to shake hands if they wish. Are we clear, ma’am?”

“Crystal,” nodded Diana. She did not ask about volunteering, as it had never presented itself. The citizens began their military service at fourteen. There was nothing to gain from being a victor aside from a slightly nicer room. The tributes from District Thirteen were the same each year: skilled, tactically minded, and completely and utterly boring.

It was a valley of navy across the metal flooring, as military uniform after military uniform registered themselves filing neatly into the provided pens. There were no dresses, or feathers. Diana knew she stood out at the centre in the bright red skirt even though she had dressed it down for them with a simple blouse.

Mercy Severen had ensured each aspect of her uniform met regulation, including shining her patent boots that morning. She always found it difficult to keep her curling hair in one of the few regulation styles. As she held her hand out at the registration desk, the Peacekeeper made a comment about the condition of her two braids. She felt her cheeks burning.

The navy was broken up by a flank of Peacekeeper white, like the foam on top of a crashing wave. Eden stood in the middle with a scowl, and a new cut on his face that kept trying to bleed. It spread across his cheek and occasionally filled his mouth with the taste of metal, running against his swollen lips.

“You’re not even going to let me leave a pretty corpse,” he had quipped, but the Peacekeepers were beyond joking. There was likely to be a bruise forming across his face overnight as well.

The Peacekeepers surrounding him took charge of answering his registration questions. They took the blood from his finger from behind his back, not chancing to release the handcuffs he had worn since that morning. Eden was dragged – he never went willingly – to a far corner where his bound wrists were tied through chains on a thin, metal pillar.

“Seems overkill,” answered Eden, testing to see if he could sit on the floor. He could not.

Diana observed from the overhanding balcony, until she was distracted by the arrival of District Thirteen’s sole victor. Hadrian Beckett made a display of greeting the new escort. He held out his hand for her to shake, which she did.

“May your choosing be true this year, Miss Vitrum,” he wished. “I believe we are very overdue a victor in our small home. It’s getting quite lonely in those larger rooms over by the Centre of Justice.”

Hadrian took his seat as the one-minute countdown began in Diana’s ear. She sat beside him, carefully crossing her legs so that the short skirt did not humiliate her in front of Panem as it had the previous year.

The reading of the Treaty of Treason took a different tone in the previously-free District Thirteen. The Capitol had been careful to overrun the population with loyalists, training them into the military and treating any rebellious individuals as less than human. As the mayor preached loyalty, patriotism, and old-fashioned hard work from her pulpit, children in the meeting place below placed their hands on their chests and listened to each word as if it was law. There were no adults – they watched from screens in the canteen – and yet, there was order.

“The Capitol has been benevolent to us,” finished the mayor. “After the many years of treachery from our own ancestors, they continue to support us, to rule us, and to forgive us. In return, we provide munitions. We provide granite. We provide two annual tributes to represent us in winning back the Capitol’s favour although, Panem knows, it will never be enough to return their kindness after our betrayal. Panem, we offer our finest young people to you. To choose them, we introduce Diana Vitrum.”

The applause was regimented: short, sharp, and stopped by a single wave. Diana smiled and stood, taking her step forward to the microphone. “Thank you,” she began, as although she strongly disliked the woman there was always an opportunity for poise and manners. “And thank you, District Thirteen. Welcome to the 95^th Annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

The crowd remained silent.

Diana waved her hands towards the two large, glass bowls that sat upon wooden tables beside her. Each held several hundred small paper slips. “Today, we will choose your resilient warriors who will accompany me to the Capitol. Please join me in a round of applause for your competitors.”

Diana clapped. District Thirteen joined in.

At the bowl, she swirled her hands in the paper as if it were water, settling on a slip that seemed to fall directly into her hand. She clasped it between her thumb and her finger, brought it to the microphone and unfolded it.

“Mercy Severen.”

On the floor of the meeting place, there was movement across the section reserved for the sixteen-year-old girls. Mercy hesitated for a moment, and then reliably turned towards the open walkway and made her way towards the staircase that led to the balcony.

“Mercy Severen,” repeated Hadrian, a soft, low voice in Diana’s ear. She had been warned that he did this by the previous escort, but Diana was grateful: District Thirteen was quaint, and she did not want to offend anyone. “Daughter of the Head Peacekeeper. She’s still a cadet, but one of high honours. Don’t patronise her.”

Mercy reached the top of the staircase without needing support from anyone around her. She held Diana’s curious gaze with steely eyes that showed no sign of weakness except for seeming unfocused. Her posture was straight, as if she carried a stack of books on her head. Before Diana could, Mercy reached out her hand.

“Miss Severen,” said Diana, both as a greeting and as an introduction to the audience. “The Capitol looks forward to meeting you.”

“Miss Vitrum,” replied Mercy. There was no further response.

Mercy took a step back from Diana, turning to face the crowd. They looked at her without an applause but rather a respectful silence. Diana allowed her new tribute to settle back in the balcony and reflect. She had done well so far but there was no indication she would be able to hold the straight face for an extended time. Diana was not cruel. As soon as she picked the male tribute, they could retreat inside the Centre of Justice, without cameras.

She stood on her tiptoes, reaching for a slip at the very bottom of the bowl and pulling it out from amongst its comrades. “Lance Jason.”

She was certain that she saw Lance Jason, a tall boy from the very front of the crowd who suddenly became very stiff. “Lance Jason,” repeated Hadrian, still behind her. “He’s a well-known student, very intelligent. He-“

“I volunteer!”

The shout was loud, bouncing across metal pillars and across the meeting place. Lance Jason suddenly lost the tension in his shoulders and retreated back into his pen.

“I volunteer,” came the voice again. It was difficult to trace across the echo, but Diana found the boy who shouted. He did it with a smirk, his hands tied to the pillar behind him as he tried to pull away. “Just in case you didn’t hear me the first time.”

Glancing towards the mayor, Diana was hoping for further instruction. She had a speech for this occasion – “come on up, sweetheart, and let’s introduce you to Panem!” – but it did not seem as if the boy could move of his own accord. A Peacekeeper aimed a gun at him.

“No!” he called. “He’s not allowed.”

Diana heard Hadrian behind her. “He’s fifteen, and a citizen of District Thirteen, just like the others. He’s allowed to volunteer.”

The mayor shook her head.

“How old are you?” called Diana, loudly.

The volunteer looked surprised. “Fifteen, ma’am.”

“Citizen of District Thirteen?”

“That’s what they tell me now.”

Diana looked at the Peacekeepers that surrounded him. “Untie him.”

At first, they refused. They looked to the mayor for orders. She was reluctant but knew the law and gave the final instruction to release the boy from the pillar. She ordered to leave his handcuffs. They did. One Peacekeeper gave the boy a sharp but strong kick in the back, watching him fall to the ground on his side.

There was no one to help him to his feet. The boy struggled with his hands still held behind his back and he stumbled, but he managed. His nose was bleeding and the red smeared across his face.

As with Mercy, no one helped him begin the journey up the stairs to the balcony. It took the boy longer without the handrail. District Thirteen did not clap. Diana stole a glance back at her female tribute. Mercy’s straight face of resignation was on fire with glints of anger: a tense jaw, raised shoulders, and a look of pure vitriol as her male counterpart finally reached the top of the balcony.

The boy stepped alongside Diana. “Pleased to meet you,” she greeted.

“Thought you might have to let me volunteer,” smirked the boy. “Eden St. James. I’d shake your hand but, uh…”

The boy trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. The metal handcuffs rattled.

“I understand.” Diana turned back to the citizens of District Thirteen. The illusion of routine had shattered. The crowd was mumbling, glancing around, and trying to make sense of what they had seen.

***

“Kill him,” ordered Commander Hugo Severen, still pacing circles around his daughter as he attempted to say goodbye. Mercy was too scared to blink in case he saw tears and reprimanded her for it. “If I can’t do it, it should be you. Do not let him come back alive.”

“I can try,” relented Mercy. She covered her eyes with her hands, trying to find darkness to relieve the headache which was brewing. “There will be so many of us. I might not be able to.”

Her father considered her words, before agreeing with a nod. “Two could do it,” he thought aloud. “They’re loyal to the Capitol. If they knew what he was capable of, they would make sure he got what he deserved.”

Finally, Commander Severen let himself drop into a chair. He ran a hand through his hair, destroying the style that he had carefully created with a stiff gel that morning. “It’s not fair,” he muttered, and Mercy found herself agreeing strongly. “You have a chance to bring such glory to District Thirteen, and it’s tainted by that…that…traitor.”

Mercy needed him to tell her that it was going to be alright. She needed a comforting hand on her shoulder, or a brief embrace. She knew her father would not give her that, so she simply hoped he would finally stop talking about the boy. “Panem will see that he’s a monster,” she suggested. “That’s a small advantage.”

Commander Severen took a long, final look at his daughter: messy hair, scuffed shoes, and tear stains on her cheek. “I suppose,” he answered, and he stood to leave.

***

Eden had been pushed into a room to say goodbye, although the Peacekeepers knew that he had no one to say goodbye to. His shoulders ached from being wrenched behind his back. The blood was drying across his face. Still, he could not stop himself from smiling. He was a tribute. He was free.

He jumped at the knock on his door, instinctively pushing himself as far away from the sound as he could. Diana opened it slowly and peered around, only stepping into the room when she determined her tribute was alone. “I didn’t want to disrupt if you had a visitor,” she explained, closing the door behind her. “Although, I did assume you would be alone.”

Eden was silent. There was still a faint smile dancing on his mouth, but he viewed Diana with caution. She came closer.

“The mayor has been begging me to check if your volunteering was valid,” she continued.

“And?” Eden tried very hard to disguise the sudden onslaught of uncertainty. He relaxed when Diana shook her head.

“You fulfil every requirement. She would not tell me why, though.”

There was no need to volunteer information, so Eden did not explain. Diana kept taking small, deliberate steps across the room and towards him. As she moved, she fished a clean handkerchief from her pocket. There was a jug of water on the table in the centre, and she stopped to soak the fabric. “You’ve made a startling first impression,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she stood within an arm’s length of Eden. He was ready to run. “At the station, we can give them something else.”

Diana reached out with her dampened handkerchief, gently cleaning the blood from the tribute’s face. Eden put everything he had left into not running away.

Chapter Text

[14] Reputation

Serenity Pergale silently traced her fingertips across the white desk. She did not normally revel in the breaking of rules, but the luxury of an unimpeded tour of the Control Centre had been too much to resist. She arrived early, let herself inside, and wandered cautiously between each of the empty chairs. Her eyes roved across the temptation of the empty screens.

When she heard the door open, she snatched her hand back to the pocket of her red tunic and stood to attention. Her brother laughed. “You’re not supposed to be here alone,” he called, the door whispering as it closed behind him. He watched her as she stared at him, folding her arms across her chest.

“The purple suits you,” she replied, taking in the ceremonial robe that Cassius already wore. Then, Serenity turned and continued her exploration. She reached the apprentice desk, where the seats watched over a large, live hologram of the arena. It was not turned on, leaving a white pit in the centre of the table. “There’s nothing for me to find, anyway.”

Cassius stepped down from the Head Gamemaker’s overlook, having to hitch his robe up from his feet so that he did not trip. The illusion of authority that he carefully crafted often fell apart when he was alone with his sister. “Try it out,” he suggested, reaching the lower level of the staircase.

Following the white stitching of an apprentice chair with her hand, Serenity turned to look back at her brother, confused. He waved her to a particular seat, where the evening’s anthem would be projected on to the arena’s electrical forcefield. “Try it,” he repeated. “Take a seat. You’ll be there eventually.”

Serenity needed no convincing. She perched herself on the edge of the chair, arranging her tunic across the cushioned seat. The academy uniform looked muddied against the white leather. She settled into the position as her brother chuckled.

“You suit it,” he complimented as he took the seat beside her. “I promise, they’ll take you as an apprentice as soon as you’re finished at the reaping next year. I’ll vouch for you.”

“Once they see what I can do, I’ll be a Gamemaker before the Quell,” replied Serenity. She could see herself in the pristine white uniform quite clearly, taking her rightful position as a cog in the turning machine of the arena. They would be impressed with her knowledge and commitment, she was certain.

Cassius tried a key on his desk, sighing in relief when neither the hologram nor the screens flickered on. “I’m glad they keep it locked until the morning of the Games,” he murmured, taking his hand from the controls. “I saw your touching. I’d have been fired on my first year if I let a potential tribute see the map of the arena before the reaping.”

The chair was comfortable. Serenity crossed her right leg across her left, leaning back in the chair as if it were a throne. Her academy uniform did not hold up against the revered robe of a Gamemaker, but her authority held against Cassius. “I’m surprised that you were allowed to give me a tour.”

“It was easy to convince them. They agreed once I told them that you were interested in following in my footsteps.”

“It’s a perk of being the best student, I suppose,” answered Serenity, with a sly grin. “Like knowing I’m not going to be called later.”

Cassius laughed, and Serenity joined in. “You need to be careful,” he scolded, although it was half-hearted. “The reaping is completely random. You know that.”

“Oh, and it’s just a coincidence that it always chooses someone who deserves to be in the arena.”

“The reaping ball always knows.” Cassius stood from his chair, holding out his hand to help his sister stand with him. “If there is someone in mind this year, they haven’t informed me. You need to remember to hide your surprise if they do call your name.”

“They won’t.” Serenity was certain she had a single entry. Her brother was the youngest Gamemaker. She was the academy’s current favourite for the Snow Prize. The Capitol would gain nothing from her as a tribute – they would only lose her greater potential. “Can you see me as a victor, Cassius? I’d be bored to death with the social life.”

“I can definitely see you as a victor,” replied Cassius. His sister was a quick thinker, athletic, and vicious with her tongue. “You’d be a good mentor as well, but you know that’s not their plan for you. You’ll be Head Gamemaker before you’re thirty.”

“I’ll be Head Gamemaker before you.” Serenity gazed longingly at the place where the hologram would sit. “Do you know what the arena will be this year?”

“I do.”

At her brother’s admission, Serenity moved from her staring to following him around the Control Centre. “Tell me,” she demanded. She rarely whined, but she did not shy away from exploiting her position as the youngest sibling when it benefitted her. She pulled on Cassius’ sleeve. “You can at least give me a hint. I can’t bet or sponsor anyway.”

Cassius shook his head, steadfast. “They’ve been building it since the 90^th Games. It’s going to be fun, so I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you.”

“Is it another garden?” asked Serenity, relentless. She went through each of the previous editions of the Games that she had studied in depth. “You had a tundra recently, so you’re not going to try that again. There hasn’t been any water arena for a while. They’re always easy for District Four, but they haven’t had a victor recently. Or are you going back to the old zoo?”

“We’ve never had this arena before,” interrupted Cassius, putting an end to Serenity’s desperate guessing.

“What is the point of having a Gamemaker as a brother if you won’t even tell me what the arena is going to be?”

She headed to the door, holding her presence as leverage over her brother. It did not mean much to Cassius. “I can’t give you everything,” he scolded, with a smile. “After all, it wouldn’t be fair if you ended up as a tribute.”

***

Azure Sorrenhill was the face of the 95th Annual Hunger Games.

He hid in the shadow of the stage door, taking in the cool, outside air before he was needed back at the rehearsal. The morning’s crowd were too distracted by the celebration to notice him. He had become fixated by a billboard that glowed through the morning’s haze.

Attending the reaping is duty, it screamed, but winning the Games is honour.

His face sat alongside the comment, grinning with mud smeared across it in artistic streaks. He had been given a sword to hold for the photograph, which had been too heavy for him to swing realistically. On the advertisement, it almost looked convincing.

“I’m so glad they finally saw your potential,” said his mother, appearing behind him as an unwelcome surprise. Immediately, her hand was draped across his shoulder and pulling him further into the doorway. “They should have had you model for it as soon as you turned twelve. I don’t understand why they decided you looked too young. A tribute is supposed to look young.”

She turned her son to look at her, tilting his head for a final look at the glitter which had been applied around his eyes. It had smudged so she wiped the imperfection away with her thumb. With a final passing glance, she also tucked a lock of his blue hair behind his ear before dropping his face. “You’re a better role model that any of those recent victors,” she continued. “It wouldn’t do for someone from the districts to be advertising the Games. Did you hear what they said about you at the end of that photoshoot? They called you an absolute gem of Panem.”

Azure detested his mother’s way of talking about nothing for a very long time. “I know,” he replied, quietly. “I was there.”

She did not hear him. “They said that your endorsement would even have people taking out tesserae if they could! I imagine they’ll keep you on until you’re eighteen. They might take you to train as an escort, then. Or you could be a stylist, like me!  You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You have such an eye for it.”

As she spoke, she carefully steered her son away from the street and back into the corridors of the stadium’s backstage. It was a hive of activity as it prepared for the Capitol’s reaping, and the arriving crowd was already audible through the thick walls. Azure’s heart began to flutter.

He was dragged into the green room, where his mother instructed him to stay sat on a chair until he was called for his final soundcheck. Azure had his own rebellion by choosing to sit on the floor, beginning to untie and retie his shoelaces so as to seem busy. His mother’s voice filled the room with empty chatter.

Azure noticed Orion immediately. He was trying to stifle a smile at how Azure’s mother had dragged him into the room like an animal, hiding his mouth behind his hand. The avox boy was often forced to performances with them and had been trained to stitch costumes, fetch water, and watch Azure if his mother happened to be pulled away. Azure glared at Orion’s grin, able to follow the intricate pattern necessary to build the shape of a star in his shoelaces without watching. Then, he noticed that Orion had hastily hidden a book behind his back.

Orion, as an avox, was forbidden from reading. Azure, as a singer, had never learned. He was often gifted new novels by their authors, in the hope he would be seen reading them. Instead, he came to a silent gifting agreement with Orion and built a friendship from it. Azure gestured at the book and held out a hand. Orion gratefully handed it over.

“I think it’s really showing a different side to you,” said Azure’s mother, turning to her son and expecting an answer. Azure clasped the book behind his back. He paused, unsure what answer to give. “Don’t you, Azure?”

He waited, but his mother waited alongside him. He bit his tongue and built a lie. “I was thinking about the note I missed earlier,” he replied. “What did you say?”

His mother was easy to convince. “The song,” she repeated, and Azure relaxed. “I’ve heard they even recorded a piano version, to play over the saddest moments. I’m glad they gave it to you. It’s different to anything you’ve ever sung before, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Azure. He agreed, but he did not smile about it like his mother did. The song was said to be the anthem of the Games, played as an accompaniment to the highlight reel they showed each evening. He was debuting it as the opening to the reaping, and he hated every note and every lyric. The theme of victory and honour was a strange addition to Azure’s discography of teenage crushes and first love.

His mother shook her head at Azure’s obvious reluctance. “After this performance, you are going to be known over Panem,” she stressed, her face glowing with the familiar pride that shone whenever Azure took another step in his career. She wanted it for herself, but her son was a firm second choice. “It won’t just be the Capitol screaming for you anymore. You will have the entire country in the palm of your hand, and you know what President Dux said.”

Azure stared at his shoelace. His mother mentioned the president whenever he showed any sign of wanting to stop. She held it over him, as if dangling a treat to a dog.

When he was ten, President Dux had asked him if he wanted to be a singer. His mother made him agree.

“Do you know the job of a singer?” the president had asked. Azure had not known the answer he was supposed to give to such an important person. “They make people happy, Azure. People need a distraction, so that they can ignore everything that worries them. Can you be that distraction?"

Azure had done it ever since.

***

The Capitol traded in entertainment. The reaping was a highlight of the social calendar, planned meticulously throughout the year with hundreds of celebrations happening concurrently. There were specialty drinks themed around each victor, banquets that were capable of feeding starving settlements, and quiet, sombre gatherings in the outer circle of the city where children were in real danger of hearing their name.

The stadium was reserved for the eligible. They swarmed on the large venue like vultures as soon as the sun rose, being escorted to their ticketed seats after registration. The logistical triumph took almost the entire day, but it became part of the tradition, with large screens showing the ongoing reaping ceremonies across Panem.

There was music. There was cheering. There was celebration. Infinity Cardew did not know how she would lead it.

The audience had been entertained by Goldie Flickerman for the morning, with the presenter’s commentary on the reapings being given live from the stage. District Thirteen had finished the run with an exciting flourish and now, the host of the Hunger Games was rushing backstage to her next engagement. She placed a quick arm across Infinity’s shoulders, giving her a friendly pat on the back. “You’ll do great,” she reassured, before disappearing.

There was a brief lull as a musical performance began the Capitol’s ceremony. Infinity walked to the edge of the stage, trying desperately to keep her trembling hands still as she was handed a shining microphone. It was her turn.

“Go,” instructed someone backstage, wearing all black and an earpiece that demonstrated they were qualified to instruct her. Infinity moved automatically, taking the short walk to the centre of the stage as the deafening roar of applause accompanied her. She caught herself shaking Azure’s hand and congratulating him before finally turning to the audience, hoping she was able to force a gleaming smile.

“Are we having fun?” she asked, unused to hearing her own voice fly across the stadium. In response, the audience cheered louder in an unrecognisable blur of language. The response eased Infinity’s growing anxiety, and she was able to continue. “It is exciting, isn’t it? We already have twenty-six brand new tributes, and now we get to choose our own contenders to add to the mix!”

Goldie had briefly introduced the Capitol’s new escort before her time came to an end, and the awaiting children shouted Infinity’s name in a rhythmic pattern. The wide smile that she gave was natural, and the bounce returned to her step. She deserved this. She had earned it.

“Behind me,” she introduced as two apprentice Gamemakers appeared on stage to remove the curtain, “is every entry to our own reaping. Our girls, you are on the left. Boys, your names are on the right. In just a short moment, we will have our two tributes for the 95^th Annual Hunger Games!”

The elaborate reaping had been designed when it became clear there were too many names to write into a reaping. Instead, Infinity was instructed to pull large, ceremonial levers that released entries inside a reinforced glass ball. She moved to the back of the stage, taking her position on the left. “People of the Capitol,” she shouted. “Are we ready?”

Infinity believed she could even hear the cheering from outside the stadium, where people were being relegated to watch on screens. She placed a hand on the girl’s lever and pulled it with her full weight.

The cheers faded to an excited, anticipating silence. The chosen ball rolling through the tubing was audible, and it landed with a soft clunk near Infinity’s hand. She grabbed it, walked forward, and placed her microphone on the provided stand.

She was not alone on the stage. The apprentices remained on hand to address any technical concerns, and Azure had remained with them as he needed to be present for the reaping himself. However, Infinity was centre stage: every eye was trained on her, and every ear listened for her voice.

She twisted open the ball. The paper slip concealed inside fell between her fingers. The stadium shared a deep intake of breath.

“Serenity Pergale!”

The roar was immediate. The city screamed for their newest tribute, shouting the name they had only just heard. There was a spotlight roaming above the audience which fell on the tribute as soon as the operator was given the seat number. It illuminated Serenity’s confusion for the camera to catch.

When she saw herself on the screen, Serenity smiled. There was no other acceptable reaction.

She glanced at the cheering crowd with a wave, beginning the long walk from her seat to the staircase provided for the stage. Her academy uniform was recognised. She was an educated citizen, with a strong background. The murmurs followed her journey: the reaping was known for only choosing undesirable outer circle citizens as tributes, but the odds had fallen otherwise.

There was a short walk alongside the Gamemakers, who sat as guests of honour on the front row. A young man, who barely seemed old enough to wear the honoured robe, grabbed the sleeve of Serenity’s tunic as she walked by. His face was a picture of panic, with frantic conversation rather than dignified applause. Serenity listened to what he needed to say, before pulling herself away and climbing to the stage.

Infinity greeted her with a long hug, which Serenity willingly returned. Then, the tribute was offered the microphone. She thanked her escort for the opportunity.

“This is a surprise,” she began, beginning slowly so as to build a complete speech before she gave it, The comment seemed more serious than her smile suggested. “Where do I begin? My name is Serenity, and I’m seventeen. As you can see, I’m a student at the academy and I’m training to become a Gamemaker. My brother, Cassius – actually, he’s already a Gamemaker so I’m not entirely sure…”

She trailed off, as the watching camera caught the people dressed in purple robes glancing worryingly at their youngest member. They dissolved into an urgent, hushed conversation that seemed focused on pushing Cassius Pergale from his seat.

When the camera turned back to the tribute, the crowd applauded. Infinity joined in and Serenity stepped away from the microphone with a courteous nod. There was no opportunity to hide. She lowered her shoulders and raised her head, demonstrating that she was calm, quick, and capable despite the hammering heartbeat threatening to burst through her chest.

“It is not a true Hunger Games without a few surprises,” tried Infinity, and the audience laughed along with her. It distracted from the heated discussion continuing below the stage. “Serenity is a fantastic contribution to our tributes this year, but she will not be going into the arena by herself. We still need to choose our male tribute!”

The second lever made a strange noise as she pulled it, louder than the cheering that accompanied the choosing. As the ball fell, the familiar hush returned to the Capitol’s stadium. Infinity took the glass ball to the microphone.

She read the name. She stuttered. “Az-“ she began, before her eyes skipped ahead and completed the tribute’s identity before her mouth had chance to catch up. She took a moment to read again as the name swam across the page, checking once, twice, three times to be certain. Then, Infinity turned from her audience to face the blue-haired boy sharing the stage with her. His face was a picture of curiosity and concern.

Infinity held the slip of paper to show him. “Azure Sorrenhill,” she read.

The volume of the stadium’s crowd rivalled Azure’s own concerts, with his name being chanted as they had with the escort. They screamed in adoration, and some tried to push to the stage for a better view.

Azure did not hear it. The cheering became a buzz in his ear, as his mind tried desperately to catch thoughts which flew by like hovercraft. His mouth opened, but there was nothing to say so he closed it again.

He was waved forward, and he followed, taking stiff, hesitant steps. He had practice in creating a calm, smiling mask for a camera but Infinity could see a mounting tremor in his hands. He hid them by placing them behind his back, forcing his shoulders lower. Azure declined the microphone.

Infinity went to speak, but the crowd did not let her. They were deafening, and her own ears began to ring. She settled on a brief comment on the promising nature of the tributes which no one heard as her first reaping descended into chaos.

***

The Capitol did not give the opportunity to say goodbye to its own tributes. They were not leaving the city until the hovercraft took them to the arena. Instead, they were traditionally greeted by President Dux as they were taken backstage by escorting Peacekeepers. She was waiting for them, a model of calm.

She shook Serenity’s hand first, taking in her academy uniform with an acknowledging nod. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the academy students,” she began, with a knowing smile that Serenity managed to mimic. “I admire your aspiration to become a Gamemaker, Miss Pergale. I have to admit, I have already heard many promising things about you. I expect you’ll be quite the expert in the arena.”

“I expect so too, Madame President,” answered Serenity, with trained decorum and tone. “I imagine it will be quite an advantage.”

President Dux gifted her a wink. “The Capitol may have their first victor after all,” she encouraged, and she dropped Serenity’s hand. “I am sorry for your brother. We cannot properly ensure that he will be impartial as a Gamemaker when your life is on the line. I believe the decision has been made to offer him a year of absence.”

“He will be sorely disappointed,” replied Serenity, giving a small curtsey as President Dux moved on.

Azure was finding it difficult to hold his façade together when there was no audience to demand it. President Dux felt him tremble as she took his hand, and his handshake was limp and cold. The glitter applied around his eyes had become smudged and streaked with tears that threatened to fall. “Representing the Capitol is an honour, Azure,” murmured President Dux, with a volume that only Azure would hear.

“I know, Madame President,” he managed.

The president knew him well: she liked the distraction her provided when there were no Games for the Capitol to cheer for. “I cannot think of a better example for the citizens of the Capitol than you,” she explained, softly. “You have always been a fantastic role model for our children.”

A sob seemed to catch in his throat, and the president noticed his attempt to hide it. “Thank you, Madame President,” he replied, barely above a whisper. There was another comment that seemed to rest on his lips, too shy to escape.

“Is everything alright, Azure?” asked President Dux.

He looked to his feet. He hesitated, before committing to his question. “What did I do wrong?” he asked. “I did everything you told me to. Did I forget something?”

The president placed a hand on his shoulder. “What in Panem’s name do you mean?”

Azure broke. His tears fell, and his voice grew loud and frantic. “It’s only people who do something wrong that get called in the reaping,” he said, a torrent of words spilling from his mouth. “I did everything right. I did everything you said, and I-“

“You know that is not the case,” interrupted President Dux. She removed her hand and her comforting demeanour. It silenced Azure, and he bit his lip to prevent anything else from spilling out. “We do not choose who gets called. Do you understand that, Azure?”

Serenity was watching the boy curiously, her own hand having travelled to her mouth where she could anxiously chew on the skin around her thumb.

He sniffed, wiping his face with his hand. “Yes, Madame President.”

“Good.” The president looked across her two tributes. “You must both remember that. We have no say in these Games. As in every reaping, the process is entirely fair.”

Chapter Text

[15] Journey

Azazel hoped for a glimpse of his boy at the train station before he was forced to depart for the Capitol. However, the small platform was tightly packed with loud, brightly coloured reporters bordering the red carpet. They shouted a cacophony of questions, which Azazel could not decipher as they all overlapped with each other.

There was no mentor to advise them. Neptune Flathorn greeted them with a smile that was too wide, positioning his two chosen tributes beside him for a quick photograph. Instinctively, Azazel wrapped an arm around his partner’s shoulders. He did not remember her name but could see the small girl being swept away in an onslaught of flashing cameras. She leaned into his hold and gave him a grateful smile before Neptune instructed her to look back at the reporters.

Azazel still saw the flashing lights as they were unceremoniously shoved into the carriage. The door closed behind them, and the train began to move before he was able to fully take in the opulent interior that was in front of him. He realised his arm was still wrapped around his partner; she was holding his hand to steady herself.

“You good?” he asked, softly. She looked strangely grey.

“I think so,” she answered. Azazel could tell that she had been crying from the thick, hoarse quality to her voice, but there was no trace of it on her face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Azazel, and he finally took his arm from her shoulders. Her hand lingered on his for a second before allowing him to pull away. “I didn’t get chance to introduce myself. Azazel.”

He held his hand out to shake, and the girl looked at it as if it was a strange creature for a moment. Finally, she took it. “Issy.”

They were interrupted by a slow clap which echoed from the doorway. It was accompanied by a strong smell, which wafted across the carriage like a poisonous perfume. Cybus Dawin smelled of alcohol, smoke, and engine oil. “Well done,” he slurred, grabbing hold of a nearby table as the train lurched him from his already unsteady stance. “I get two that know what they’re doing for once. Putting your arm around her? Beautiful.”

Azazel felt Isabel move closer to him as she stepped away from the approaching mentor. When he looked, he could see that the smell had sent a flush running across her cheeks. She looked up at him as if she expected him to say something first.

“You’re making my job real easy,” continued Cybus, collapsing into a chair at the dining table. He waved to a serving girl, who went to get him another drink. “Once we’ve thought about how to present you to those Capitol folk, we’ll be laughing.”

Azazel cleared his throat. Cybus was a drunkard, but he was also a mentor, and he was not sure which side he was supposed to appeal to. Eventually, he settled on, “don’t think you can think of anything with that much liquor in your head.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, boy. I ain’t got no ideas when I’m sober.”

He waved an enthusiastic hand, gesturing both Azazel and Isabel to the chairs opposite him. Reluctantly, they followed the instruction. “You’re already perfect,” he continued, pointing straight at Isabel as she perched on the edge of her seat. “You’re still young enough to be sweet and optimistic, and you’re a Home kid so everyone is going to be saying you’re as good as me.”

Isabel’s flush of disgust became replaced with pride, and she sat straighter. Cybus moved his hand, pointing to Azazel. Then, he lifted both hands to his face and made a square as if watching the boy through a screen. “You’ve got a good face,” he started, before trailing off. It took him a minute to find something else appealing through Azazel’s cold scowl. “You an academy kid?”

Azazel shook his head. “I ain’t. I’m in the factories.”

“’Course you are. They never reap from the academy. You got a girl?”

There was a beat of silence as Azazel hesitated. “No.”

“Good.” Cybus nodded. “You’re heartbreakers, both of you. You stick with me in the Capitol. I’ll be sober. Maybe. Isabel, we’ll make you look younger. You need to simper and smile to the right people. Azazel, you should smile too. Flirt with the ladies. We can make you seem stronger later, but we need to make you look desirable. You’re already doing a good job of it.”

“We are?” asked Isabel. She glowed with the compliment, feeding on the praise that Cybus had been serving to her.

“You are,” answered Cybus. He sounded as surprised as his tributes looked. “At the station, you looked like brother and sister. Azazel, they love a big brother type. And Isabel, it made you look extra sweet. It works. “

He twisted in his chair, settling his eyes on the carriage’s well-stocked bar. The serving girl had not returned so Cybus stumbled up from his chair to fetch himself another drink. With the promise of alcohol, his tributes no longer meant anything to him.

Isabel turned to Azazel. “It’s going to be alright, isn’t it?”

Her voice sounded so desperate for reassurance that Azazel did not know how to respond. He was familiar with the Hunger Games. The train was a snapshot of luxury before the finale. Isabel, for all her wide eyes and handholding, was a competitor rather than a partner. In the carriage with the small girl still blushing from Cybus’ praise, it was difficult to remember. “Yeah,” he answered, hesitantly. “It’ll be alright, Issy.”

***

Hadrian Beckett met his tributes at District Thirteen’s rarely used train station, waiting at the end of a red carpet which he thought was utterly unnecessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he greeted in a low voice, turning the pair for a moment of flashing photography before steering them onto the train. “How terrible that you’re here.”

They were followed by a Peacekeeper. He grabbed Eden to jam a key into the lock of his handcuffs. They fell from his wrists and clattered to the stone below. As the Peacekeeper bent to pick them up, Eden ran as far into the carriage as he could. He pulled his wrists to his chest, rubbing at the open wounds. The Peacekeeper spat on the ground where the boy had been stood. “Watch that one,” he hissed, addressing his comment to the mentor. “He’s better dead.”

Hadrian looked into the train, surveying his new charges. Eden was biting at his lip so hard that it was beginning to bleed again, and Mercy seemed interested in a collection of leather-bound books on a shelf. Restrained, he answered, “with Thirteen’s current record, he probably will be.”

When he stepped aboard, Diana Vitrum followed him with a final wave to the gathered reporters. The doors closed behind them, and she applauded. “I love a successful reaping,” she stated, to no one in particular.

“It hardly seems successful,” said Hadrian, as the train began to pull away. “I need to clean up the mess that someone has left the reporters by volunteering in handcuffs.”

Mercy was quick, understanding Hadrian before he explained himself. “You’re supposed to mentor both of us,” she argued with a scowl. “We need to know what we’re doing. At the cornucopia-“

“There will be plenty of time for that later,” interrupted Hadrian. He waved Mercy away, ignoring the indignant shock that grew on her face. “If you want to do something beneficial, you can go with Diana and take some time to learn how to make the Capitol love you.”

Diana waltzed over with a bright smile, wrapping an arm around the stiff girl. “I’m sure they will love you,” she reassured, stroking Mercy’s hair. “But they could love you more, especially if we can switch that military stomp to a far more ladylike walk before your debut at the station tomorrow!”

Mercy begrudgingly understood the importance of appealing to those in the Capitol, and she allowed the chattering woman to lead her towards the back of the carriage. As they reached the door, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What are you going to do with that?” she spat, nodding her head to the boy who still stood in the corner.

He scowled, baring his teeth like an animal towards his partner. He went to pounce, but Hadrian grabbed on to the scruff of his prisoner uniform and held him still.

“I am going to do my best to prepare him, the same as I will with you,” answered Hadrian, keeping Eden at an arm’s length.

“He’s a traitor,” argued Mercy.

“He’s a tribute,” corrected Hadrian, in a tone that ordered Mercy to remain silent. She obeyed. “My job is to train and support both of you, in the hope that we will finally have another victor. Do you have any objection?”

Mercy did. There were a thousand objections dancing on her tongue, but she knew when to bite it and allow herself to be escorted away by Diana for a lesson in decorum.

Hadrian dropped Eden, and the boy pulled himself out of his mentor’s reach. The centrepiece of the train’s carriage was a mahogany table. It had not yet been set for a meal – which Hadrian was grateful for, as he had already caught Eden’s eyes roving for something sharp – but Hadrian pulled a seat away from the table and sat himself down.

“Come and join me,” he instructed the tribute, gesturing to a seat opposite. “There will be a meal later, but I can ask for some food now if you’re hungry.”

Curious, Eden pulled a seat away from the table and lowered himself into it cautiously, keeping his hands in his lap. Hadrian watched as he twisted his fingers, dug his nails into his palms and picked at the skin around his wrists. He did not want to ask for help, but there was a burning in his throat that was difficult to ignore. “Water?”

Hadrian nodded, gesturing to a silent serving boy who immediately left his position to fulfil the request. “For the record,” muttered Eden, as he waited. “I didn’t make no mess. I volunteered. I’m allowed.”

He made himself bleed, rubbing the skin around his wrists and fingers raw with a repetitive motion. Hadrian watched him closely. Eden never seemed to meet his eye. “The cameras caught the Peacekeepers throwing you to the ground,” he explained, quietly. “The president is furious. They’re not supposed to mistreat the people in their care. It’s a surprising turn of events but the Capitol is on your side, and I want to exploit that to get you sponsors.”

Before he could catch himself, Eden laughed. It was a quiet, hoarse sound that caught in his throat as if he had forgotten how to make it. The serving boy returned with a glass of water, served with ice and a pure white straw that Eden immediately stained red when he picked it up to see what it was. “What’s sponsors?” he asked.

Hadrian tried to see if there was deliberate ignorance in Eden’s question, but he seemed genuinely confused. “Have you seen the Games before?” he asked, gently.

The boy nodded. “A little,” he continued. “The ‘keepers didn’t show me too much, but I watched ‘em before I got myself arrested.”

“Good. The sponsors are the people who pay for the parachutes.”

Eden left the straw on the table and drank from the glass, wincing when the ice caught his teeth. He emptied it before placing it back on the table. “Okay. Sponsors are good, then.”

The serving boy returned, bringing a full basket of bread which he placed on the end of the table. Eden risked a look towards it. It had been a long time since he had been offered any food beyond hard, dry nutrition biscuits, but he had already asked for water.

“I need you to agree not to lie to me, Eden,” said Hadrian, suddenly.

Eden’s eyes snapped straight to him. Instead of looking away, he stared at his mentor with a knowing expression. “That depends on what you ask me.”

“I need to know what you did. The Capitol, they’re overindulgent but they’re not stupid. If they decide you’ve done something unforgivable, it’ll be a challenge just to keep you alive. You can forget sponsors. I need that information.”

Eden traded in information as if it were currency. He returned to picking at his wrists, feeling the invisible weight of handcuffs across the wounds although they no longer sat there. The light on the train was softer than in the Centre of Justice, and Hadrian’s bare face was easier to read than a Peacekeeper hiding behind a helmet, but it was still an interrogation. He had done this before.

“’Keepers found me with a gun,” he answered, half-truthfully. Then, his mouth began to drip fluent, practiced lies. “It misfired when I held it. Hit the Head Peacekeeper. Upset him, and he’s had it out for me ever since.”

“Liar,” accused Hadrian.

Eden narrowed his eyes. “I ain’t a liar.”

“I spoke to Commander Severen himself, after he said goodbye to his daughter. You shot him on purpose. You just happened to miss and hit his leg instead. Part of a rebel plot, he told me.”

“I ain’t do nothing like that,” answered Eden, quick as a gunshot. “It misfired.”

As a mentor, Hadrian had experience with liars: tributes saying they were okay, tributes telling him what they could do, and tributes saying they were going to listen to him and avoid the Cornucopia. He could tell when they were lying. With Eden, he knew that the boy was being dishonest, and Hadrian still began to doubt himself.

He held Eden’s cold gaze. “I am trying to keep you alive,” he said, slowly. “If the Capitol find out you are anything to do with a rebel group, they will kill you before the countdown is over.”

“They were going to kill me anyway,” snapped Eden. His cheeks flushed with frustration and his hands trembled, clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned a stark white. “How much did he pay you to talk to me?”

“He did not offer me a coin.” Hadrian’s voice was measured and collected, as the liar opposite him finally broke. “I know I’m right, Eden.”

“You win,” muttered the boy, pushing his chair from the table, and bringing his knees to his chest. Then, in a small voice, he added, “do the Capitol know?”

“At the moment, no.”

The movement of the train became indiscernible as the speed increased. Eden could only just hear the friction on the tracks beneath him. The carriage was cold too; Eden was shivering, and his head was beginning to ache with the quickening beat of his heart. It was easy in the interrogation room, where everyone detested him and voiced it openly. He was still watching Hadrian’s face closely for the familiar flash of disgust, but it never came.

“I’m not your enemy,” tried Hadrian. He watched his tribute very closely, seeing him shiver. He nearly sent him to go and fetch a blanket. “District Thirteen won’t want to tell the Capitol that they’ve sent a rebel into the city, so they’re not going to say anything. They’re hoping that I’ll just let you die.”

“You can, if you want to.”

The movement of the train was more vicious than it seemed, and his stomach was turning. His eyes watered. With the arrogance and untruthfulness eaten away, Hadrian could see a very scared young boy, with a bruised face, who sat shivering, and who did not want to ask for help.

“I don’t want you to die,” he answered, honestly. “You’re a brilliant liar, Eden. We’re going to play their game right back to them. We’ll tell them that you were arrested for something petty, and that you volunteered to make up for your actions. You need to convince the Capitol that you love them.”

Eden wiped his face with the heel of his hand. With Hadrian on his side, the arrogance returned. “It’s a good thing I’m a good liar,” he muttered.

Hadrian allowed himself to laugh at the comment, and Eden seemed to calm. “You’re capable of fooling them,” said the mentor. “If you’re well trained for the survival-“

“I am,” interrupted Eden. Then, he realised what he had admitted to, and the façade fell for a moment before he rebuilt it. He stared at the floor. “I mean, I think I know more than you guess I do. I’ll be fine.”

Hadrian raised an eyebrow, but decided not to interrogate again whilst the boy was on his side. He was still shivering and aching and bleeding, but a smile danced on Eden’s mouth. He watched his mentor carefully and asked in a small voice, “do you really believe I can win?”

***

By the time Dakota reached the station, her escort needed to take her arm and hold her steady for the cameras. She was dragged into the carriage and allowed to collapse on the nearest chair, groaning as the train began to move. It took all her effort to keep her meagre breakfast in her churning stomach.

The train seemed cold. Dakota shivered violently in the plush seat, absent-mindedly grabbing for a cushion to try and cover her. Her face was still beaded in a layer of sweat, and her forehead was burning.

When she heard a voice, it seemed too distant to be coming from inside the carriage. “I have no idea what we’re going to do with her,” it whispered. Dakota wanted to search for its owner, but her legs buckled beneath her when she tried to stand.

“Don’t try and move,” instructed another, gruffer than the fairy-light voice of the first speaker. The sound swam in Dakota’s head, echoing and overlapping. The person put the back of their hand on her forehead, snatching it away when they felt the heat. “She’s burning up, for Panem’s sake.”

Dakota tried to lick her lips, but her tongue was sandpaper. She was certain she could hear dry skin dragging against dry skin as she tried to take a deep breath. When she spoke, her own voice sounded as far away as everyone else. The words caught in her throat. “I’m too cold.”

“You’ve got a fever,” explained the voice, as if it were throwing words at the tribute rather than speaking them. Dakota allowed her eyes to fall open, trying to decipher the brightly coloured shapes into the carriage and its inhabitants. “How long has it been?”

“Since what?” It was difficult to connect thought with memory in her head, but Dakota forced them together like jigsaw pieces with a hammer. The train fell into sharp clarity, with every colour too bright and every sound too loud. She could trace the edge of each individual piece of carpet, and of each piece of fringe on the curtains.

The woman who was speaking to her was knelt beside the chair, face aged despite a youthful glow in her eyes. Dakota recognised her from the screen at the reaping, although could not drag a name from her aching head. She watched Dakota with anger rather than concern, and sounded as if she was mocking her tribute as she added, “since you last took morphling.”

“I don’t do that stuff,” spat Dakota, although her mind filled with the little glass vials that carpeted the floor of her apartment. She wanted one. She wanted one now.

“I know morphling when I see it, Dakota,” she scolded, standing up beside the chair. Dakota tried to follow her, ending up still in the chair but sat up straight and alert. She glanced around the carriage, settling on the red-haired woman who was watching her in disgust.

“And you turned up to the reaping drunk,” she said, when she noticed Dakota was watching her.

Dakota knocked it away, as if it were dust on her boots. “Reaping don’t mean nothing anyway.”

Her eyes found a third person, watching her with curiosity and some amusement. He had sat himself on the edge of a table with his arms folded across his chest, but he wore the uniform of a merchant. Dakota glared at him.

“It’s a small matter of decorum,” continued the whining voice, who Dakota recognised as the piercing escort who had called her name. “You are not supposed to turn up to our reaping under the influence of…of…substances!”

If the loud woman was the escort, Dakota’s shaking memory decided that the other woman must be her mentor. “Didn’t ever stop me,” the mentor muttered, taking hold of Dakota’s arm, and pulling her to her feet. She held her steady. “You need to sleep the worst of it off. You better start hoping that this doesn’t last until the arena, otherwise you can kiss your ass goodbye.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Dakota tried to argue, but her words got lost alone the way. The people in the train carriage with her paid her no attention. She could not fight her mentor’s tight grasp.

The escort caught them as they walked past. “You’re doing a very good job,” she commented, quietly. Dakota knew it was not aimed at her, but instead at the woman currently dragging her as she failed to escape. “Whatever the Capitol have put you on, it is working. You should try and stay away from morphling yourself.”

Allegra looked behind her, glaring at the boy with cold eyes. His amusement had dropped from his face, and he shared her vitriol. Dakota could feel the temperature in the carriage drop before hearing her mentor say, “not likely,” and slamming the door behind them.

***

“The guard told me it stowed itself when we were stopped in Nine,” explained Indigo, having already collapsed onto a chair with a drink in hand.

The cat had appeared after the train had started moving, poking its nose out from under a sofa before deciding to emerge. It settled on a rug in the centre of the carriage, tucking its paws beneath it. Amity watched it with a quiet curiosity – with everything else that had happened that day, Amity accepted the new passenger easily.

She let her arm fall from the chair where she sat, leaving her hand near the floor. The creature gave a chirping meow, falling for her plan and coming to sniff her fingers. It decided she was a friend, and she was granted the opportunity to scratch behind its ears. “I think it must be a pet,” she decided, as the cat began to purr. “I didn’t think anyone in Nine had the time for a pet.”

The carriage door opened with a soft whisper, and District Nine’s mentor came stumbling in against the movement of the train. Jonah caught the tail end of Amity’s comment. “Course we do,” he slurred, collapsing into the chair beside her. “Good mousers, them cats. Not that one, though. That’s a runt.”

He eyed Indigo’s drink with a look of longing, before reaching into his inside pocket and bringing out a silver hipflask. Amity could smell its contents before he opened the lid and was surprised when he knocked it back as if it were water. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Kid’s a runt too,” he continued. “Won’t talk to me. Still crying. I ain’t much hopeful for him.”

He offered Amity a sip from his hipflask. She tried to shake her head politely but could not hide her look of disgust. He chuckled. “You’re alright, I ‘spose. Pretty. Good manners. I ain’t going to get attached to the lad but I could bring you back, I think.”

Indigo finished her drink. “I plan to do my best for both tributes,” she said, indignant. “That is our job, Jonah.”

As Amity ran her hand across the cat’s back, her fingers caught on something tied around its neck. The material was rough, but she grabbed hold of it, pulling it from the fur. The collar was pulled and matted but housed a small silver charm, on which someone had inscribed Panko.

“It has a name,” she said, surprised.

Jonah bent down, taking the cat by the scruff of its neck to have a look at the collar for himself. Panko yowled, scampering back to the rug when he was released. “Panko,” he read, watching the creature try to lick its back clean. “Might belong to the lad, you know.”

Amity tried to lead the cat back to her, rubbing her fingers together to make a soft noise that attracted Panko’s attention. “You think so?”

“It ain’t mine, and it followed someone on at the station. They’d probably have a cat at that old mill to keep the mice out their flour.”

Panko trusted Amity, approaching her with a wide berth around Jonah’s chair. When it came close enough, she scooped the cat under its back legs and cradled him in her arms. Panko mewled but did not struggle. “I’m going to go and see,” she said, standing from the chair and letting Panko settle in her chest.

“Room’s the first one on the right,” called Jonah, as she headed to the door. “Doubt he’ll speak to you, though. See if you can get him out for dinner.”

The sleeping carriage was crimson, with a deep red carpet travelling through the corridor like a river. There were no windows and dark wood which gave an imposing feel around the two bedroom doors. They each held a plaque: on the left, the small gold sign read Amity Barrett. Opposite, she found the expected Vixen Axwell.

She attempted to knock. There was no answer, and she could hear no movement in the bedroom. “Vixen?” she tried, gently. There was a distant sound which sounded like sobbing, and it came to a sudden stop as her voice travelled. In a last attempt, she tried the handle. It turned. Amity slowly pushed the door open.

Panko forced himself from Amity’s arms, mewling. He tore across the carpet and bounded on to the bed. Vixen was lying on his bed with his back to the door. As the cat landed beside him, he turned and pushed himself to his knees.

“Panko,” he whispered, in awe. He sat and Panko went straight to his lap, purring loud enough for Amity to hear him from the door. He pressed his head up against the boy’s hand, and Vixen responded by scratching him rhythmically behind the ears.

“Guard says he snuck on in Nine,” said Amity, from the doorway. She leant against the frame. “Figured he had to belong to someone, because of the collar. He’s very sweet.”

Vixen nodded, but he was not listening. He was completely absorbed in his cat and did not take his eyes from the mewling creature. He moved to scratching him under the chin, as Panko began to knead the soft duvet with his two front paws. He fell over, stretching out to expose his stomach which Vixen stroked carefully.

Amity watched the scene. The boy’s face was still tearstained, but he had stopped crying. “Jonah says it’s dinner soon, and you need to come eat,” she instructed. “Bring Panko. We can feed him under the table.”

At this, the small boy laughed. It was quiet and short, but the sound had Amity joining in with his soft smile. She turned to leave, moving to close the door behind her.

“Thank you,” said Vixen, in a small voice.

***

Aspen sat with an empty plate in front of him. The Capitol’s food faded into the familiar décor of the train when it became an annual delicacy. Instead, he focused solely on his two new charges who sat at the table with him. They ate heartily, fixated on the food, as their mentor fixated on how he was going to present them to the Capitol.

His glass was empty too. There was something about the two tributes that made him think he might be needed at full capacity, to persuade gamblers and Gamemakers alike.

“Right,” he began, pushing his own clean plate away from him. “We’re all fed, watered. The mayor grabbed me whilst you were saying your goodbyes. What’s this I hear about one of you being Capitol?”

It was clear that it was Ilara: she spoke politely, greeted everyone with a handshake and, most importantly, used a knife and fork. She sat at the table as if there was a log pressed against her back and ate in small, bird-like bites. Ilara finished her mouthful, swallowing and wiping her fingers on a napkin before she began to talk. “I’m not from the Capitol,” she explained, plainly. “My mother was a liaison. She met my father and chose to stay.”

“And are you good at anything?”

Ilara hesitated before answering. “I’m a dancer.”

“Dancer,” repeated Aspen, with a slow nod. “You good?”

“I’m training to dance in the Capitol. Or rather, I suppose I was.”

Her fallen expression, mourning opportunity rather than herself, helped grow the familiar tight feeling in Aspen’s chest. “Well, they’ll take you in a heartbeat if you win,” he reassured, but it hardly provided any comfort. “The sponsors always prefer a tribute with poise, and manners.”

“They do,” added Clarus, their escort. He had spent the first course of the meal complimenting Ilara on her polite conversation, and for being able to choose the correct cutlery. He still stared disapprovingly at her black-haired counterpart. Acacia felt the stare and held it, dragging his hands across the tablecloth to clean them. Clarus shuddered. “In the Capitol, people are far more likely to sponsor a tribute who can use a knife and fork.”

Acacia moved food into his mouth with his fists. Clarus had tried to remind him about cutlery with deliberate coughs throughout the meal, but the boy had only shovelled faster. Aspen was certain it was on purpose. He glared at Clarus, taking another handful. “You can shove your knife and fork up your a-“

“What about you, then?” hurried Aspen, before the comment could reach its conclusion. The boy became caught in the distraction and turned to look at his mentor. “What can you do?”

The small boy was a freckled long-shot with no visible qualities that would endear him to the people in the Capitol. However, he had made himself stand out at the reaping by demanding Clarus correct his name and age. Aspen did not know if the newly famous short temper was enough to overcome the myriad of other shortcomings, but he refused to give up on Acacia. After all, he reminded Aspen of himself.

Acacia had an unattractive scowl, which he demonstrated. “I’m a mechanic.”

“A mechanic?”

“Yes.” Acacia rolled his eyes. “You know, a person who fixes cars.”

“I know what a mechanic is. I just don’t believe you.”

The boy scrunched his nose, narrowing his eyes. Aspen decided that it made Acacia look like a rabbit chewing on a dandelion leaf, and that there may be hope for a sponsorship after all. He did not voice this, as it would likely have resulted in something being thrown.

“I’m an apprentice,” continued Acacia.

“You need to be fifteen to be an apprentice.”

He shrugged. “Funny, isn’t it?”

***

Flicker spat at her escort, causing him to take a hurried step away from her. She was still holding the high heeled shoes that she had been given by their straps. She tossed them onto the table, scattering the used plates from their evening meal.

“No,” tried Issac, holding his hands out as if calming a wild animal. “We don’t put our shoes on the table. I know it’s different in District-“

She grabbed the stilettos from their rest place on the table. This time, she threw them in the direction of her escort. Flicker had a bad aim. “You can shove your shoes up your ass,” she shouted, as they clattered to the floor beside Isaac. “I’m not wearing them!”

Isacc glanced to his male tribute to help, and Raven offered him nothing more than an amused shrug. He had positioned himself on a chair away from the table. His partner was loud, vulgar, and shrieked with a shrill tone like a bird, but she was very entertaining. He watched with a smile, leaning back, and refusing to become involved.

Reluctantly, Isacc turned back to the stiletto heels that lay on the floor. He bent to pick them up. “It’s very simple…” he tried, but Flicker was not going to listen.

“Leave me alone!” she yelled. “I ain’t eating with the stupid silver stuff, I ain’t saying please and thank you, and I definitely ain’t wearing those!”

She stormed to the back of the dining carriage, finding the door, and pulling at it with an unmatched fury. It was locked. Flicker turned back with her fury matching her wild hair. “You locked it? Do you think we’re prisoners?”

Isacc twisted a curl around his finger, tugging at it as his female charge hurled abuse at him from the rear of the carriage. “You need etiquette training-“ he began, but his explanation was cut off in a whirlwind of foul language, insults, and comments about his mother that should never have been uttered in polite company.

He relented. He waved a serving boy to the door with a flippant flick of his hand, waiting until the loud swearing disappeared and became muffled by the carriage’s door. Isacc held the stiletto heeled shoes to the chandelier, sighing at the scratches that had been done to their glittered surface in the brief war.

“You need sponsors,” he stated plainly, seeming to speak to the shoes before turning to his male tribute. “You both need them. It’s the only way to guarantee you food and water.”

“Twelve doesn’t tend to attract sponsors,” answered Raven, bitterly. He was as cautious around the escort as Flicker, but he preferred to keep his distrust to himself.

Isacc collapsed into a dining chair, breaking his own instruction, and letting the heels fall onto the table in front of him. He held his head in his hands, defeated. “There would be plenty of sponsors if you tried. You could do alright, if you just listened to me.”

The offer was tempting. Raven considered it. District Twelve did not hold much trust in people that came from the Capitol, but Raven had never held much trust in Twelve either. “Alright,” he agreed, as Isacc took the shoes and placed them on the floor. “But I’m not wearing the heels.”

***

Chanté found a brief reprieve in the silence of the observation car. They were likely soaring through the wilderness between Ten and Two, but he had no solid idea how far he was from home. Instead, he focused on the sunlight that danced between the dense trees and tried to commit the beautiful image to his memory.

The evening meal had been an interrogation, and his mentor had been underwhelmed with his honest responses. She had instructed him to return to watch the official broadcast of each reaping ceremony, which he was dreading. In between, Chanté hid between glass windows and lost himself in the forest.

When it opened, the door sounded like the wind rustling through thick leaves. Chanté glanced over his shoulder at the noise to see who had joined him. He returned to his view when he realised it was only Iumenta.

“You have ten minutes,” she reported, quietly. It was a contrast to the loud, pushing tone she had used to explain her skill with an axe at the dining table. “Birdie wants you back for the reapings. We need to know our competition.”

“That’s fine,” replied Chanté.

Iumenta did not leave. He heard her solid boots across the floor of the carriage, and the soft noise of a chair as she took a seat. The sun was nearly beyond the horizon, streaking across the sky in a vibrant orange.

“You barely ate anything,” she said. Chanté tried to hide his disappointment at her insistence on conversation. “You missed out. It tasted real good.”

“The bread was fine,” he answered, monotone. The bread was safe. In the collection of stews and soups, he was not able to tell if they contained meat. That was a line he would not cross until it was necessary.

Iumenta did not speak like a butcher’s daughter. Chanté noticed the slow, deliberate pronunciation of every word although she did occasionally lapse into a drawl. “My father told me about your family,” she continued. “He asked for help when Kasabian was born, and your father wouldn’t even take a cut of meat for payment.”

When Chanté turned, Iumenta was watching him as if he was an animal that had escaped from his pen. He matched her expression. “The animals don’t want you to kill them,” he explained, tired. “So, we don’t eat them.”

“I know. I just think it’s strange.”

The sun disappeared behind the moving horizon, leaving a final stretch of sunlight across the darkening sky. Iumenta craned in her chair to watch it, her eyes flickering at the movement of the train. “You’re going to have to make a decision eventually, you know,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The other tributes don’t want you to kill them either,” she explained, still looking through the window. “They’re not animals, though. They’ll fight back. They’ll kill you if you give them the opportunity.”

Chanté swallowed. The movement caught in his throat, making it sore. “I know,” he answered, voice wavering. “I can still decide to minimise the harm before the Games, can’t I?”

“It’s a fight to the death. There’s going to be lots of harm. You need to decide if it’s going to be them, or you.”

Iumenta’s blunt statement was not a new thought. Chanté had been considering the arena since his father’s plea during their goodbye, and he had not found a solution that did not end in him dying painfully and alone. He was still deciding whether that was preferable to breaking his oath. “I don’t want to hurt people, Iumenta,” he said, pained.

She laughed. It was a harsh sound. It hurt. “People deserve it, sometimes,” she replied, pushing herself from the chair and turning back to the door. “The reapings are on in five.”

Iumenta left Chanté to his sunset.

Chapter Text

[16] Others

Sparkle’s melodic laughed filled the silent carriage, as Ferro threw another sugar cube across the coffee table. She caught it in her mouth, crunching it between her teeth. The discussion that built to the replay of the reapings was still buzzing from the screen, but they ignored it.

“We need to stop,” she whined. “Dazzle will come back and complain that we’re not taking this seriously enough.”

Ferro threw one final sugar cube into the air, catching it between his own teeth. “Forget Dazzle,” he replied, biting down, and savouring the sweetness. “She’s all work and no play.”

“She didn’t used to be.” Sparkle climbed back to her feet, nudging Ferro out of her way as she collapsed beside him on the sofa. “Before the Games, I mean. She used to be more of a laugh.”

“She has a job to do. Gem, too.”

Ferro opened an arm, allowing Sparkle to fall against him and rest her head on his chest. He was a constant comfort throughout training, and he fell into the familiar role as they waited on the train, alone. Gem had been pulled away for an important meeting, and Dazzle had hidden herself in her own room to field sponsor calls. District One’s tributes had been left with instructions to pay close attention to their competition.

The reaping broadcast begun. The familiar commentary of Goldie Flickerman and Feste Cyrillus accompanied it. Ferro pulled Sparkle closer. “You know, you volunteered for my sister,” he murmured, as the screen showed her climbing to the stage. “You look so determined.”

“I am,” she replied, with a matching smile to the figure on the screen. “I trained hard for this, Ferro.”

Goldie and Feste laughed at Ferro’s quick shout, making crude jokes that he did not find as entertaining. Sparkle poked him in the chest. “They’re bound to make things up,” she reassured. “I don’t think anyone really believes them. Anyway, Dazzle wants us to start thinking about allies.”

“Are we allies?” asked Ferro. He spoke with a joking tone, but the question was genuine.

“’Course we are,” answered Sparkle, with another nudge. Ferro smiled again and settled into the plush cushions of the chair as the footage moved to District Two.

There was a long, distant shot of the red-rock plateau. It dragged with a special feature on their recent victor. Ferro began to absent-mindedly twirl Sparkle’s hair around his fingers as he waited, growing bored. Eventually, the escort stepped forward and began to draw a name which was swiftly replaced by a volunteer.

Sparkle grew restless. Ferro let her sit up straight, still holding on to his arm. He glanced from the screen to catch the slight upturn of her mouth – she was impressed. “What?” she asked, and Ferro pointed back to the screen. The volunteer was stern and stared at them through the screen’s glass. “They’re always good from Two, aren’t they? She’ll be fine.”

“She doesn’t seem too friendly,” he murmured, as the girl’s silence on stage was aired. She was accompanied by a white banner across the footage, introducing the name and age of each tribute as they were called. “What’s her name? Epona?”

“I hope she isn’t friendly. If she’s quiet, she’ll be easier to kill.”

The camera changed its focus to a gloating boy in the front of the crowd. Sparkle went to tease Ferro for their similar appearance before the volunteering shout came from another person. Goldie and Feste gasped, alongside Sparkle and Ferro.

The boy’s name appeared alongside his age as he mounted the stage. The crowd in District Two were eerily silent. “Leon,” read Sparkle, leaning forward to see the screen. “He’s fifteen. Do District Two field volunteers that young?”

“Look at the audience. They don’t want him.”

Sparkle leant back into her partner with a deep sigh. “That’s the girl then,” she shrugged. “I don’t want the boy. We’ll need to recruit someone from Four. Both, if we can.”

Briefly, the pair discussed District Three as a viable addition to their alliance. When the small girl and the scowling boy stepped forward, the thought fell from their minds.

The camera panned across a large expanse of a glittering beach. “I’ve always wanted to visit Four,” said Sparkle wistfully. “They do offer volunteers sometimes. We might be lucky.”

“Don’t rely on it,” warned Ferro, as the reaping began. The girl stepped forward with no volunteer to replace her. He felt Sparkle tense against him.

“She looks determined enough,” she tried, but there was no further praise to be scavenged.

A volunteering shout burst out across the crowd at the boy’s name. Sparkle perked up, leaning closer to the screen to examine any potential ally. She groaned at the announcement they were siblings.

***

Saori liked the solitude but detested the reasoning. He had stormed to his own room after an evening meal with only his escort for company. He was not stupid: he knew his mentor was using his drug-addled partner as a reason to avoid him. Minnie had offered him reassurance and alcohol, both which Saori accepted. However, she had the compassion of the Capitol. He decided to consider his competition by himself.

There was a bookshelf in his room, filled with Capitol-approved literature that Saori had no intention of reading. Instead, he pulled blank pages from their covers and scattered them around his bed. He was grateful he had left an old pencil in the pocket of his blazer after his morning class, which seemed so long ago.

He liked a challenge. The replay of the day’s reapings was an opportunity to use his head and begin to carve out a strategy. The process was a distraction hidden in finding answers: who was a threat to him, who could be ignored, and who needed to be a target?

District Five flickered into view on the stage. Feste made a disparaging comment about the power plants ruining the view behind the reaping stage, and Goldie tried to placate it by focusing on the rolling wind farms that could be seen from certain angles. They stopped talking as the escort stepped forward. She took a slip. She shouted.

Saori went cold at the name before he glanced at the screen. He recognised it. He tried to swallow deeply, but there was a lump in his front that caught as he attempted a deep breath. Finally, as Goldie and Feste began their infernal chatter about District Five’s history in the Games, Saori managed to glance at the screen in his room.

Fern was the picture of her sister, with her mouth set in a thin line of resignation.

There was a sudden knock on the door, which was forced open before Saori could leave his bed to respond to it. Minnie Aurelia moved in like a storm, with a flurry of words spilling from her mouth. “I didn’t know,” she cried, rushing to Saori’s side. She pulled him into a hug which he could not fight. “I didn’t know, Saori. I’d have warned you if I’d known.”

“I know,” he managed. He edged himself away from his escort, but Minnie kept a hand on his shoulder. He allowed her; he had enough compassion to placate her. “Is it really her?”

There was a beat before Minnie nodded. “It must be,” she continued, taking a seat on the edge of Saori’s bed without being offered. “We’ll know for sure tomorrow but, it must be.”

Saori’s resolve to be a victor increased.

***

Lucet watched the screen unblinking, biting down on his lip until he tasted blood. His own unconfident, unsure face stared back from the reaping stage as if it were mocking him. “I didn’t do it right, did I?” he said, nervously twisting together the loose tassel of a cushion which he held.

“What do you mean?” asked Cotton. The mentor was sat on the floor to be closer to the screen, whilst his two charges sat together on a sofa. Armure was alone at the dining table, nursing a drink. They watched the reapings together in silence, until the sight of himself spurred Lucet from his daze.

“The reaping.” He gestured vaguely to the scene in front of them. The broadcast showed a short clip of himself and Satin boarding the train before cutting to District Nine. “I didn’t make myself look strong, like Satin did.”

“You weren’t expecting it-” tried Satin.

Lucet interrupted her. “And you were?”

She remained silent; she could not lie to him.

Cotton made a display of turning around to face the young boy, ignoring the screen. He waited until Lucet was looking directly at him to speak. “There is no right way to do a reaping,” he explained calmly. Lucet went to argue with the response, but Cotton continued. “There are some tributes who can appear confident or who can appear strong, and there are others who can’t. It wouldn’t have made sense for you, Lucet. You did wonderfully. You gave us a blank slate to work with.”

“I look weak,” argued Lucet.

Cotton shook his head. “You looked intriguing. People are going to speculate. Anyway, Ammie cried at her reaping, and I still managed to squeeze a victory out of her.”

Behind Lucet’s head, Armure made a rude gesture towards her former mentor.

“The point is,” continued Cotton, with a smirk. “You did exactly what you needed to do. You held it together very well, and you didn’t-“

The screen gave a horrible cry. The heart-wrenching sound crackled through the speaker and distorted itself into something ghost-like. Satin’s gasp accompanied it, as the camera showed the male tribute of District Nine being picked up and lifted onto the stage by a Peacekeeper.

The noise turned Cotton’s head back to the screen, where his calm façade disappeared in favour of disapproval.

“They can just pick him up,” gasped Satin. The boy was practically thrown on to the stage, still sobbing. “He can’t be twelve, Cotton. Look at him.”

“He must be,” answered Cotton, grimly. A shade paler, he turned back to Lucet. “You made a better impression than he did.”

“Less competition for the two of you,” added Armure. No one found the sentiment reassuring.

***

Alder tried her hardest. She watched the screen closely, taking in the appearance and the confidence of her competitors. She mouthed each name to herself as it appeared on the screen and attempted to recall each age. Her mentor, Sage, offered seedlings of advice to her partner but she could not understand him. She tried to remember everything. She could not.

The silence became overwhelming. Alder could no longer hold in her tears, although she did attempt to hide them. She feigned exhaustion and rested her head on a nearby cushion, rubbing at her eyes until they grew red and sore. The screen swam in front of her, and the bright colours became unintelligible.

At the feeling of a hand on her shoulder, Alder jumped back to sitting stock straight in the chair. Sage had edged closer and offered her a comforting pat, but she pulled away. His lips moved, but they said nothing to her. She nodded an answer that she hoped was correct and turned back to the screen, trying to focus on the reaping from District Ten. She was next.

Sage tapped her on the shoulder again. Reluctantly, Alder turned back to him and did not try to hide the tear which escaped as she blinked. He ignored it. Sage held his two hands together, before slowly pulling them apart at one side. He repeated the action and tilted his head as if expecting an answer.

Alder watched in confusion, as her mentor continued repeating the motion. She used it with her mother as a sign for book, but there was no book that Sage would ask for. Then, he held his hands open for a longer stretch of time and scanned across his palms with his eyes. He gestured to Alder.

Can you read?

There was a brief relief in her understanding before Alder felt the familiar burn of offence. She nodded a quick response – she was deaf, not simple. Sage broke into a wide smile before leaving her alone, disappearing through the back door of the carriage.

She returned to the screen, where the pair from Ten had disappeared into their Justice Building and the camera enjoyed the spawling orchards and fields of Eleven. It only needed to focus on one mournful crowd. Alder expected to cry again but found herself remarkably dry-eyed; watching herself on the screen felt as if she was watching a stranger elsewhere in Panem. She glanced at her partner. He was fixated on the image, watching himself climb to the stage with a curious glint in his eye.

Sage returned. He clutched a gift: a notebook, and a pen tied to it with a ribbon. The front cover was a burgundy leather with an embossed map of Panem, and the paper inside was printed with a fading Capitol seal on each page. He wrote as he walked, taking his seat beside his tribute, and holding the first page to her.

Are you alright?

Alder read it twice. She nodded her head, failing to disguise her lie. Sage stared at her in suspicion, his mouth a thin line of distrust. He began to hastily write again, holding the notebook up once he had finished.

It’s okay if you’re not alright.

She placed her hands together and held them to her ear. Tired, she signed.

Sage nodded in understanding. He spoke again, but not to her: his voice travelled over her head to her waiting partner. The boy was no longer glued to the broadcast as it did not show him. Instead, he was watching closely. Sage held the notebook to him, but he shook his hands in a hurried no. His lips moved too quickly in explanation, and Alder could not catch his speech.

The pen flew across the paper. Inari, Sage wrote, before pointing to the boy. Alder nodded in understanding as he continued. Circus boy. Arms broken. Will do my best to help you both.

Thank you, signed Alder. Sage gave her a brief pat on the shoulder, attempting reassurance. Alder glanced back to Inari, who was trying to decipher the strange shapes scrawled on the page.

***

Serenity’s pencil traced mindless shapes in the margin of her notebook page as the reaping broadcast continued. She associated watching the Games with making detailed notes on tribute strategy and had requested a notebook to complete her task. Infinity had obliged with a gift from her own personal set of sponsorship stationary.

However, watching the broadcast from beginning to end was a commitment that her mind had backed away from. It grew repetitive by Six, tedious by Ten, and it was practically unbearable as they finished the reaping in Twelve. Serenity absent-mindedly tapped against the page as she waited for the footage from the dimly lit District Thirteen.

Azure was slowly falling asleep on the sofa, his eyes fluttering shut for longer and longer moments. The blue-haired boy clasped a cushion tightly to his chest and barely seemed to focus on the screen. Serenity had decided to ignore his indifference – if the younger boy wanted to be ignorant, she was willing to let him.

She slowly copied the name of Thirteen’s female tribute into her list as it was announced, resting her head on her hand when she finished. Then, the screen echoed with a loud volunteering call and Serenity swore loudly.

It woke Azure. He went wide-eyed immediately, turning to look at his partner. She bit her tongue for a moment but did not apologise. She pointed at the screen. “Look at him,” she justified. Azure blinked, dazed, and turned back to the broadcast.

The footage showed on a smirking boy, dragging himself up from the floor. He seemed to taunt the Peacekeepers with each movement, the camera focusing on his handcuffs.

“The Games shouldn’t be open to criminals,” spat Serenity. The commentary had ceased, with neither Goldie nor Feste able to make light of the unfolding situation. The boy made it to his feet. “It’s not a chance to redeem yourself.”

“We don’t know what he’s done…” began Azure. Serenity shook her head, and Azure fell into silence.

“There’s no honour in any crime,” she answered. “An enemy of Panem should not be allowed to compete for honour.

The boy made it to the stage, where his district partner ignored him, and the crowd rejected him. Serenity approved.

Azure’s voice was weak as he continued. “The reaping ball always knows,” he parroted. “We’ve had criminals as tributes, Serenity.”

Serenity did not write the boy’s name. “That is why we don’t have any victors.”

***

Sennen expected nothing from her escort; she had grown used to Gaius Byzantine’s eccentric performance at the annual reaping and believed fully that his dyed-green head contained no original thought. When he gasped loudly, she jumped.

The man’s hand had gone straight to his mouth. Sennen did not believe the people from the Capitol were even capable of anything genuine, but there it was: fear, shock, or surprise. Sennen could not tell which.

“Azure,” he said, quietly. His hand moved from his face to the screen, gesturing to the Capitol reaping that was still showing. The programming had been silent, with Sennen focusing on learning her competition to distract herself from her brother’s attempts to catch her attention.

“Who’s Azure?” asked Cove, in his quiet voice. He glanced at Sennen as if looking for permission to speak, but she neither granted nor denied his request. She continued to ignore him, and that hurt more.

Ocean McMurray had not offered much mentoring, but she sat to watch the reaping with her tributes. She was as surprised by Gaius’ reaction as her charges had been. She watched the theatre play out on the screen, as the blue-haired boy hesitantly stepped forward. “Azure,” she repeated, as if trying the name to see if it would fit. When it did, she nodded slowly. “I’ve met him.”

Sennen turned to her mentor. “Go on, then,” she urged. “Who is he?”

“You don’t know?” Gaius was aghast. “Azure is a big name in the Capitol. He’s a singer, a model. He’s acted in practically everything.”

On the screen, the crowd roared. They repeated Azure’s name in a rhythmic pattern as he left the stage, the sound rippling across the audience like when Sennen would throw a stone into the sea.

Ocean tapped along with the rhythm on the wooden table. “Why would they pick him?” she asked.

Ripping himself from the screen, Gaius glanced to Ocean in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked. “They pulled his name, just like Sennen’s. It’s the odds.”

“Mostly.” Ocean continued to tap, trying to think. “He’s a little more complicated than the other tributes, then. He’ll have sponsors.

“If I could sponsor someone, I’d probably take a punt myself,” added Gaius.

Sennen tried not to feel offended. To hide her scowl, she turned back to the screen. Cove stared at her, his eyes begging her to acknowledge him. She refused and watched as the Capitol’s reaping brought the day’s events to an end.

“Slight complication, though” announced Ocean. The screen turned to a panel discussion with Goldie and Feste, which she immediately turned off. “Isn’t he Brianha’s son? She spoke about him endlessly to poor Saylor last year. I’m sure it’s him.”

Gaius gasped again. Sennen tensed, biting her tongue. She did not like shock when she did not understand what was shocking: it was unpredictable. She instinctively looked to her brother, but remembered to glance away as soon as she met his eye. “Who’s Brianha?” she managed, forcing a distraction.

Placing her head in her hands, Ocean gave herself time to think. “Your stylist,” she answered, muffled. “Or Cove’s, I suppose.”

“The odds are a cruel mistress,” sighed Gaius.

Ocean shook her head. “Cruelly manipulated, maybe,” she argued, and offered no further explanation.

***

Raven left the dining carriage before the screen began showing the outer districts. He could not focus on the other children being forced to the stage or listen to the incessant commentary. He mind was solely on Jackdaw.

The observation car offered a reprieve. It was built almost entirely of glass, meaning Raven could watch his home grow further away. He did not turn on a light. He sat in the darkness with his knees pulled up to his chest, trying to guess if the cluster of lamps he could see on a distant hill were District Three, or District Eight.

Raven’s anger did not roar in a blaze of colourful language and throwing anything that sat near, unlike his tribute partner. Instead, it glowed like the dying embers of a fire with a white-hot heat. He let it simmer like an unwatched pot until his chest began to check, and his head swam with too many thoughts. When the door to the carriage opened, he jumped, and the pot boiled over.

“Leave me alone,” he snapped, not caring to see who had found him. He sunk further into the seat as if trying to hide.

“You’re not supposed to be alone,” countered a Capitol-afflicted voice. Isaac took a seat opposite Raven, allowing silence to overcome the carriage for a long minute. He stared out the window, watching the same lights as his tribute. “It’s beautiful out there, isn’t it?”

Raven did not answer. He turned from the window and began to pick at the dry skin from his hands, pulling until it hurt.

“I know how you’re feeling,” continued Isaac. “It’s never easy to-“

“You have no idea what it’s like,” hissed Raven. His attention was pulled from his hand to his escort, glaring at him as if he was a fly on a rotting piece of fruit. He planted his feet on the floor so hard he half expected the train to give way beneath him.

Isaac’s eyes betrayed disappointment, but only for a moment. He kept his voice steady. “I have more of an idea than you would think.”

Raven laughed. It was a cruel, echoing cackle of disbelief. “You have no idea,” he repeated, as his voice grew in volume and reverberated on the glass windows. “You can’t have any idea! You take part in-“

“Would you rather have someone who didn’t care at all?” Isaac stormed to his feet, turning his back on his tribute in favour of a window.

Raven had expected the meek escort who tried to placate Flicker, and paused when he was met with a fight. With a shake of his head, Raven’s anger continued to boil. “I’d rather have no one!” he shouted. “I don’t want to be here. The Capitol want to watch me die.”

“They want to help you live,” answered Isaac, matching his volume. He ran a hand through his hair, almost pulling out the handful he grasped. “Yes, they want to bet on you. They also want to know everything about you. They want to donate their life savings to send you gifts in the arena.”

“I wasn’t even there. It made me-“

“It made you memorable.”

The train turned a steep corner. The sudden movement seemed stronger in the final carriage, sending Raven collapsing back into his chair as Isaac watched him in the window’s reflection. Their eyes shared a fire, but Raven’s was beginning to burn out.

“They remember you, Raven,” continued Isaac, exasperated. He turned to face his tribute again. “Flicker’s a lost cause. I can’t help her, so she can scream and shout and swear at me if it makes her feel better. I can help you, so you need to start listening.”

His words were not kind. They were tainted with frustration, spilling a thick fog of disappointment that hung in the air. Raven hated it and hung his head to try and avoid it. “We both know I’m not going to make it,” he tried, but Isaac shook his head.

“I’m not letting you give up that easily. It’s not hopeless.”

“It is!” Raven kicked the panel beneath the chair, hard. The wood dented beneath his boot but did not splinter. The noise echoed through the carriage. “And whilst I’m here, getting my guts spilled by some pretty face from One, what’s happening to Jack? Who’s looking after him?”

Isaac’s hand reached the bridge of his nose, where it pinched hard enough to leave an indent. “Listen,” he commanded. Raven did, albeit reluctantly. “I don’t just turn up to Twelve to read two names. When you’re saying your goodbyes, I’m speaking to the mayor and working out my best chance of getting you home. And if I don’t have a chance, I’m working out the best way to make it easier when you come back in a box. I know Twelve. I know there’s hundreds of families who don’t need another corpse on their doorstep.”

“But-“ began Raven. Isaac put a hand out to silence him, and Raven obeyed.

“I can’t do much for Flicker. If I throw too much money around Twelve, the Capitol will cut out my tongue. Still, the mayor told me about Jack. Said they found him when they found you. Miner’s cough.”

Raven pushed. “He needs a doctor.”

“I paid for one,” reassured Isaac, and he was met by a surprised silence. Raven hated help. He hated gifts, and handouts, and anything free which needed paying back like a debt. He glared and was ignored. Isaac continued. “He has a guardian at the moment, a woman. She took the money. And if he needs it, there’s a place at the Home for him. There’s a bed there, and food.”

It was impossible to light a proper fire in the rafters of the Hob in case the whole place went up in smoke. Raven had no spare coins to throw at the soup seller, or anything spare to barter for meat. They had been sleeping on old straw since they found the spare platform. The promise of food and a bed was an easy temptation, but the Home was not an escape.

“That’s the worst place for him,” argued Raven, cooly. “The entire time I’ve been in charge of him, I’ve been fighting to keep him out.”

“Then keep fighting,” replied Isaac. He had control of the conversation and turned the heat off. Raven’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment rather than anger as he counted the scuffs across his boots. “If you give up, that’s the best I can do. But, if you fight – if you win, Raven – you can give Jack everything he has ever wanted.”

It sounded simple. Raven began to consider it as viable, before the movement of the train reminded him of his final destination.

***

“This is strange,” began Ayanna. The escort gestured at her two tributes as they sat apart at the dining table. “There’s no sense of camaraderie here. Where’s your competitive spirit? Where’s your loyalty to your district?”

“I am very loyal to my district,” spat Epona. She glowered, refusing to glance at the partner who followed her like a dog. Icarus had been irritating and overly competitive, but he was a good partner. Leon was an unknown entity who seemed ready to deceive and destroy years of training.

They had watched the reaping broadcast in a tense silence commanded by Epona. She had been disgusted by the display District Two offered to Panem, and it largely overshadowed her consideration of the competition. The boy remained a stain on the honour she held.

Leon was not deterred by her vitriol. “We’re supposed to be allies,” he claimed, pitifully.

Epona detested his peculiar way of speaking, as if he carefully rehearsed each word first. She finally looked at him, the glance tainted with disgust. “Allies,” she scoffed, as if the road tasted rotten. She took a breath, exhaling any bite her voice held. She lowered her shoulders. She would speak in fact, and not be led by anger. “There is a longstanding tradition of alliance between honourable fighters. You are not honourable. You have never used a weapon in your life. You will not be working alongside me.”

Frustration was the enemy of resolve. Leon failed to bite his lip, his strategy of hiding any strength being repeatedly chipped away by Epona’s refusal. “You don’t know what I’ve used,” he snapped, but he was ignored.

He could shout about his history. He could scream about his experience on his father’s boat. He could show any talent he held and yell as loud as he wanted about everything he could do, but it would only serve to carve him into a bigger target. On the train, he was not any sort of hunter; he was a little, lost boy from a backwards district with ideas above his station.

And if that is what she would like to think, thought Leon, then I will let her believe it.

***

“I want you to train me.”

Mercy was familiar with obedience, but she was not familiar with demand. Her mentor had instructed her to sleep following the reaping broadcast, and she had tried. However, she could only lay seething under her silk cover as she thought about how little he had offered her. Instead, he had spent his time with the criminal, trying to teach a traitor of Panem to smile and simper his way to sponsors.

Hadrian lay in a comfortable armchair, nursing a crystal glass of amber liquid as he mindlessly watched a late-night drama on the screen. At Mercy’s determined voice, he turned to meet her. He considered her for a moment, before shrugging. “Alright,” he agreed, turning the screen to black, and finishing his drink. He placed the empty glass on the coffee table.

His agreement fuelled Mercy’s anger. She had built herself for an argument, and he did not offer one. “Aren’t you-“ she stuttered, trying to find the correct wording as her hands clenched into tight fists at her side. “Aren’t you going to tell me to go and sleep, or make me wait until the morning, or…or…”

The mentor stood slowly, making his way to the empty dining table. He pulled a chair out for Mercy before taking one himself. “You want to train,” he answered, simply. “I can see you’re in no position to sleep.”

“You spent the entire afternoon with Eden,” stated Mercy. She spat the name at him.

“I did. District Thirteen wasn’t shown in a very good light on this evening’s broadcast, was it? I needed to make sure he was steadfast in what he needed to say to honour our reputation. We wouldn’t want to bring our home into disrepute now, would we?”

Begrudgingly, Mercy finally took the seat that he offered. She was opposite her mentor, and the demand melted back to obedience. She folded her hands on the wooden tabletop and waited silently for an instruction or question.

“What did you want to learn?” asked Hadrian, eventually.

Mercy fell into combat immediately. “In the first fight-“ she began, but Hadrian shook his head.

“The Games,” he explained, exasperated. “They are not won in the arena. They are won on the train, and in the parade, and in the interviews. We need people to like you so much they cannot see a world in which you are not a victor.”

This was not a strength. Mercy betrayed that in the flush on her cheek, stumbling across opening syllables without succeeding in forming a sentence. She averted her eyes. “I’m not normally concerned with making people like me,” she muttered, eventually.

“I see.” Hadrian took his opportunity to observe Mercy, taking in her rod-straight back and the confident hold in her shoulders. He waited for her blush to fade before continuing. “You’re an ideal, Mercy. You’re Thirteen, through and through. You’re capable, precise – loyal to the Capitol, of course, and that always goes down well.”

Mercy took the compliment that Hadrian said and scowled at the tone in which he said it. The qualities that her father praised were seen as weaknesses by her mentor. “Is being capable and precise not enough?”

The mentor shook his head. Mercy felt an unfamiliar stab in her chest.

In a small voice, she decided the topic of her late-night lesson. “I don’t want to be boring,” she admitted. “Teach me that.”

***

Azure never slept at night. Instead, he slept when he could, snatching rest between rehearsal and performance. His escort’s recommendation of an early night to recover from the busy day was pointless: he lay on top of the bed covers, eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to listen.

The city was celebrating. The Capitol’s tributes were placed in the penthouse of the Tribute Centre, but Azure could hear his home screaming even through the thick glass. They sang his lyrics in support of him, convincing themselves he would win. In retaliation, Azure had switched on a screen and turned up the volume of Goldie Flickerman’s endless commentary. It was too loud – he was certain that Serenity would hear the buzzing in her own room – but he did not care.

He missed the knock on his door. Infinity let herself in, carefully leaning around the door and raising her voice so that she could be heard. “I hope you’re dressed,” she called, shielding her eyes until she was certain.

Azure scrambled to sit up on his bed, grabbing the remote abandoned on his pillow to mute the sound. “I am, miss,” he answered, hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I-“

“Call me Infinity. I’m not that much older than you.” The escort waved formalities away as she entered the room. She took a chair from beneath the vanity, turning it to face her tribute’s bed before she took a seat. “I’m guessing you weren’t feeling too tired after all.”

The blush burnt across Azure’s face before he could stop it. He twisted the bed cover between his fingers, staring at the grey fabric rather than his escort. “I never sleep this early normally,” he replied, as an explanation rather than an argument. “Is it too loud?”

Infinity shook her head. She looked as uncomfortable in the room as Azure felt. “Serenity is sleeping through it, somehow,” she answered. “I quite liked the chatter. You have so many sponsor calls, Azure. It’s been nice to have Goldie’s voice in between hearing how rich everyone is.”

Azure defaulted to an apology once more, although he did not know what he felt sorry for. Infinity accepted it without question. “You don’t have to worry about it,” she continued. “It’s better to have too many sponsors than too few, I think. It must be nice to know that people like you.”

It was impossible to escape the heavy weight of expectation, even in the Tribute Centre. Azure’s mind began racing with the thought of sponsors. He did not know what they wanted, and he no longer had anyone to tell him. Infinity continued to speak but Azure could no longer feign interest.

“Sweetheart?” she prompted, realising his mind was elsewhere.  Azure immediately went wide-eyed, starting to stutter another apology. She tilted her head in concern. “Is everything alright? It has been a very big day…”

She left a space in the conversation for an answer and did not move on until it was filled. Azure carefully phrased his concern as a question. “What do the sponsors want me to do?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“We don’t need to worry about that,” replied Infinity, relaxing into a smile at the ease of her charge’s worry. “They know who you are, and they want to help. You just need to be yourself, that’s all. We can start with the opening ceremony tomorrow night.”

Azure was certain that they did not know who he was. There were not many people who did. They knew the boy who rehearsed every conversation and was fed every line by his mother. “Well,” he pushed, still focusing on his duvet cover. “What do you want me to do tomorrow, miss?”

“Infinity,” corrected the escort. Azure apologised again. She did not acknowledge it. “You really don’t need to worry about it, sweetheart. You’ve been doing this sort of thing for far longer than me!”

Automatically, Azure nodded. “Of course,” he replied, giving the answer that he felt was expected. He withdrew his hands from the duvet cover and hid them in his lap, twisting them together and bending his fingers backwards just enough to make them ache.

The escort accepted his answer. She stood from her chair, brushing past his bed to give him a brief pat on the back. “You’ll do great,” she reassured, confidently enough that Azure almost believed her. “Try and get some sleep now. You’ll be in prep for a long time tomorrow, so you’ll need to be well-rested.”

She left him to crumble under the expectation of the party below.

***

Panko was growing impatient. Vixen forced himself to leave the safety of his plush duvet, as his friend pawed at the bedroom door with a loud mewling sound. He knew what the cat wanted: it was past his dinner time, and there had been no food placed down for him on a saucer.

Vixen looked at the bedroom door as if it would bite him. As Panko tapped on the wood again, he relented and opened the barricade. Panko dashed out into the waiting corridor, and Vixen was left with no choice but to make sure that his token was safe. He sniffed at the carpet, set off for the dining car, and mewed for his owner to follow.

It was late. The moon was high in the sky, and the occasional settlement flickered on a hillside as Panem rushed by through the window. Vixen did not expect anyone else to be awake and entered the dining carriage with a confidence forged by his cat. He stopped still when he noticed that the screen was casting a blue light across the space, and that there was a figure huddled on the sofa.

Indigo was curled up in a purple robe, her hair braided and pinned to the top of her head. There was an empty mug sat on the coffee table in front of her. She heard the door slip open despite the sound from the screen, and she turned to see who had joined her. Her face lit up at the sight of her tribute.

“Vixen,” she greeted softly, reaching for a remote and muting the sound from the screen. She pulled herself upright and tightened the robe around her waist. “Finding it difficult to sleep?”

The escort enjoyed her sound of her own voice, but she was persistent in pausing when she demanded an answer. Her knowing eyes remained fixed on the boy, who looked everywhere in the carriage except at her. He shrugged.

“Me too,” she admitted, with a light chuckle. “It is difficult to sleep on a train. I find that a mug of warm milk helps. Here, I’ll pour you some.”

Indigo stood and walked to a round, black machine that sat on a side table. There was a wooden contraption built next to it, where a collection of white mugs was waiting. She took one and placed it beneath the machine’s spout, pressing a button that Vixen could not read from the safety of the doorway.

Panko was braver. He left the safety of his owner, running across the carriage’s carpet and stretching up to paw at the escort’s leg. Indigo glanced at the cat and reached down to scratch behind his ear. “What does he want?” she asked, turning back to her tribute.

She paused. She wanted an answer. Vixen did not know how to give one with only a shrug. After a minute filled with Panko’s loud purring and protest, Vixen found his voice. “Food,” he managed, and Indigo nodded slowly.

“That makes sense,” she answered, as if she was thinking aloud rather than making conversation. “He didn’t get much at dinner, did her? I’ll send word to the kitchen, and they can throw something together for him.”

The strange machine gave a call, drawing Indigo’s attention back to it. She took the mug and placed it on the empty dining table. “This’ll calm you down,” she explained. She waved Vixen into the carriage. “Come, have a sip. I don’t bite.”

Vixen did not move. Instead, Panko jumped on to the table with a swift, steady leap. He began to sniff around the mug before poking his head in the milk. This spurred the boy forward, and Vixen ran to the table to pick up his complaining cat and place him back on the floor. He mumbled, “thank you.”

Indigo waited for him to take a seat. Vixen felt forced to oblige. Her perched on the edge of a dining chair, wrapping his hands around the mug and feeling the warmth leach into his skin. He had not noticed he was trembling.

“Panko is very polite,” complimented Indigo as she took a seat opposite her tribute. Panko was not being polite: he was sulking on the floor, screaming for milk. “Will he be missed at home?”

The milk was sweetened with honey. Vixen savoured the taste, finding the drink far creamier than anything he had tasted at home. He went for a quick, second sip. “No,” he said, into the mug. “He’s mine.”

As the drink lowered Vixen’s guard, Indigo continued to question. “And that girl at the reaping – was that your sister?”

He nodded.

“Older, right?”

The milk burned Vixen’s tongue as he took too big of a mouthful. He swallowed before answering. “Twins.”

Panko began to climb again, settling himself into Vixen’s lap in an attempt to bargain for milk. The boy obliged, wiping his finger around the rim of the mug, and letting Panko lick his hand. Together, they felt strangely calmer.

***

Fern decided that social etiquette only mattered in the daylight when people could see you. She wanted to sit with her face pressed against the glass and watch the silhouetted trees run alongside the moving train, so she perched cross-legged on a table.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” asked Solar from the doorway, in a gruff voice.

She tore herself from the window and took in his figure, a grey blanket draped across his shoulders like a cape. His eyes were ringed with red; she could not tell if it was from sleep or from crying. She decided not to ask.

As an invitation, she moved along the table to give him space. Solar accepted it and sat beside her, resting his feet on one of the dining chairs. “I can feel Alba shuddering,” he muttered, which dragged a smile out of Fern.

Once they were close enough, Solar positioned his blanket across the both of them. The train was not cold, but Fern did not push him away. “I couldn’t stop thinking when I was lying in bed,” she admitted.

“Neither,” replied Solar. “I don’t want to think about home, but I don’t want to think about the Games either…”

His voice trailed off. Fern took over for him. “Sunnie isn’t on the train,” she stated, as if it were fact.

Solar considered this. “Guess we’re on our own then,” he said, eventually. His head fell to one side as it attempted to rest on his shoulder. In the shop that morning, Solar had carried an older air of confidence that seemed to have melted completely on the train. Fern edged closer and let his head rest on her shoulder instead.

“Not completely,” she said. “You seem to know what you’re doing. Who’d you pick to win this morning?”

He watched Fern through their reflection in the window. Solar still had the betting slip his father had given him; it was resting underneath his pillow to keep it safe, where he would need to remember it in the morning. “Girl from One,” he answered, when he realised Fern was genuine in her asking. “I’d still bet for her after watching the reapings. She has everything that you need to win.”

“Do we have everything?” asked Fern.

Solar laughed, the tired sound catching in his throat. “I suppose,” he said. “You do, anyway. You need to be skilled, or another tribute will kill you. Then, you need to be likeable, or the Capitol will kill you. You’re likeable. I don’t know if you’re skilled yet.”

“I’m very skilled at making chocolate.” For a moment, Fern wondered if the stars that she could count in the sky were the same stars that she wished upon back in District Five. “That’s not helpful though, and I’m not likeable.”

“You are,” insisted Solar. “The Capitol will like you because of Sunnie. It’s the same for the girl from One, and the boy-”

Fern filled Solar’s sudden silence for herself. “We don’t know how skilled the boy from Six is yet, even if they do like him.”

Solar’s face twisted into a scowl. “I don’t like guessing,” he complained. “If I get it wrong on a bet, I lose a few coins. If I get it wrong now, I die.”

“Then, we’ll make the guess together,” Fern suggested. “We can stick together in training and try and work out what everyone else can do. You want to do that?”

There was a pause. In the window, Solar nodded.

***

Inari detested the continual, dull ache that plagued his arm. He had been able to ignore it in District Eleven, where the camp offered distraction and Koru offered him earthy-tasting roots that could numb the bite. On the train, there did not seem anything to help.

His bed was as soft as a bird’s feather, with crisp, clean sheets that were large enough to wrap around him. There had been a hearty meal, with a fresh mint tea that reminded Inari of the long evenings on his camp. He had even been allowed to sample alcohol, which he did not think he would ever drink again. Despite these comforts, Inari roamed through the corridor of the moving train to find something away from his crying arm.

The dining carriage was empty, illuminated only by the occasional passing light on the side of the track. The table had been cleared, and the cushions had been tidied neatly back on to the plush chairs. Inari collapsed onto a sofa, scattering the throw pillows back across the floor.

He tried easing the biting ache by flexing his fingers, but this worsened the pain as it ran through his forearm and into his elbow. He rested the cast on the arm of the sofa to keep it elevated but there seemed to be no difference. The limb felt heavy, as if it no longer belonged to him.

The movement of the train was far more noticable in the dark carriage than it had been in his bedroom. Inari did not know how far he was from District Eleven, and from his family and the tent and the stage. He had prided himself on his performance during the day but in the long stretch of the night, there was nobody to perform to. The wonderful food and the soft bed were the opening act to a much longer show. He could be dead – flat-out dead – by the end of the week.

Inari leaned back. He hit his head against the firm arm rest of the sofa, letting out a soft groan that emcompassed everything he had pushed away during the daylight. He was too exhausted to cry.

Suddenly, a lamp flickered on in the corner of the carriage. Inari sat up, blinking in the sudden illumination until a white-faced girl in a red uniform swam into focus. His mentor, Sage, had explained the silent servants during the evening meal: the girl was an avox.

They stared each other down for a long stretch of time. Inari did not know what to say to her – there was etiquette with avoxes which he had not learned. Eventually, the girl stepped closer and gestured to his arm.

Inari glanced down at it. “Uh,” he muttered, trying to decipher what she meant. He had mumbled through improvised sign language with Alder throughout the evening, and the vague gestures were beginning to make sense. “Yes. It’s broken.”

The avox shook her head. She pointed again, and mimed a pained expression before returning to an inquisitive glare.

“Yes,” answered Inari, eventually. “It hurts.”

She pointed to her mouth and waited for an answer, but Inari did not understand the question. He replied to her with a shrug, settling back into the soft cushions of the sofa when the avox turned and left the carriage with the soft whisper of the door.

The train was silent. Inari did not like silence. There had always been others around him, lulling him to sleep with soft snoring or distant chatter. There was no rustle of a branch or whistling wind above his head, and no distant sound of rain. The absence of noise seemed to stretch onward, becoming all-consuming until Inari found himself tapping his cast against the chair to disrupt the room with a noise.

The door opened again. The avox returned, coming nearer. She approached Inari with the coffee table as a shield, moving close enough to slide him a gift across the wooden surface. He turned to look: a tall glass of water with ice, and a tiny, white disc.

“What are they?” he asked, forgetting there would be no answer. He sat up and went closer, squinting at the gift in the intermittent light of the carriage.

The avox girl brushed his arm, fixing his attention on her. Then, she pointed to her mouth, before pointing to his cast.

Cautiously, Inari picked up the tablet. It was chalky, and left a white powder on his skin as he rolled it around in his finger. “It won’t hurt me?” he asked, and the avox shook her head.

He placed the tablet on his tongue, before reaching for the glass of water to help swallow it. He barely felt it in his mouth, and it had no taste – it was far preferable to Koru’s roots.

The avox smiled as she watched him take the medicine, before bowing her head and retreating from the carriage as quickly as she had appeared.

It seemed as if nothing had changed: Inari went back to lying on the sofa, thinking about what he was missing at home and trying to ignore the solid silence that filled the carriage. Eventually, as the pain in his arm melted in to a pleasant warmth, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

[17] Sunrise

Acacia was familiar with dawn. He rose before the sun, clawing himself into the waking world to make his way to work on time. He would splash his face with cold water to wake himself up. On the train, he greeted the morning like an old friend after a sleepless night.

There was no one to tell him what to do. It was a strange feeling. Acacia moved through the plush carpet barefooted so as not to make any noise, in case someone appeared to shout at him and order him to get out of the way. The young boy grew braver when no one did, and left the safe confine of his room.

Ilara’s door was still tightly closed. He placed a practiced ear to his mentor’s door, calming himself at the sound of Aspen’s gentle snoring through the wood. Acacia was convinced he was alone and free on the train, until he entered the dining carriage and found Clarus sitting alone with a small mirror in front of him.

It was difficult to identify the figure as Clarus, as the escort’s wig sat like a sleeping animal on the table. He rubbed a strange, sweet-smelling gel across his hands before running them through the black, curling hair that he kept hidden.

“You know,” he said, watching the tribute boy in the reflection of his mirror. “If you’re to stand a chance in the arena, you’re going to need to learn how to sneak up on people.”

Acacia scowled, hiding his embarrassment. He was good at sneaking around, but it was unfamiliar to him on a moving train. It earned him an eye roll from his escort, who relented and waved him in. “You may as well come and join me. The natural light is far better for getting ready in a morning, but I have a feeling that you’re not here to learn how to apply eyeliner.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” justified Acacia. He expected a rebuttal for his weak explanation, but Clarus nodded as if he heard it every year. He watched as the boy took a handful of hesitant steps further into the carriage and perched on a seat at the table.

“It’s never too early for a strong breakfast,” sighed Clarus, waving over a silent serving girl who wore a white robe. She was attentive, approaching the table with her eyes to the floor. “We will both need fuel for today, I think.”

He rattled through a list of foods that Acacia did not recognise, finishing the order with a carafe of coffee to wake them up. When he finished, he returned to applying the product to his hair. Acacia watched him, gnawing on a piece of dry skin on his thumb as he curled up in the wooden dining chair.

“Your hair is like mine,” he commented, before he could bite his tongue.

Clarus smiled in the mirror wistfully. “Yes,” he nodded. “I used to have a splattering of freckles as well, until I had them lasered off. I suppose they’ll come back into fashion if you win, and then I’d have to get them all inked back on.”

He carefully lifted the vibrant, purple wig with two splayed hands. He took care in alligning it correctly with his head, placing and securing it over his natural hair. There was a long minute of readjusting until the hair sat naturally. “There we go,” he murmured, turning his head in the mirror. “My illusion is finally complete.”

Acacia did not try to hide his disgust. “I liked it before,” he complained.

“Really?” Clarus’ tone seemed genuinely surprised, but his eyebrows did not move. “Well, it may benefit you if we can turn the more natural look into a fashion for this cycle. I might listen to you, you know. It has been a while since I’ve graced the screens in my natural hair.”

The serving girl returned, with another who helped her carry heaping plates of cured meats, cheeses and fruit. Acacia could not name everything that he saw but he wanted to sample a plate of everything, his hand reaching out to take a cube of strange fruit before it even made it to the table.

Clarus pushed his mirror away from the food before picking up a set of cutlery neatly wrapped in a napkin. He gestured for Acacia to do the same. “There aren’t many problems which cannot be solved with a good meal,” he announced, and used his fork to spear a bright red meat.

Acacia liked food. In District Seven, it seemed as if there was never enough but the Capitol provided it in abundance. The breakfast was a world away from his usual meal of pine needle soup and mint tea, improvised from scavenged foliage. In the arena, he would likely need to resort to boiling leaves again – if he could even start a fire.

“Can sponsors send me food?” he asked, suddenly.

“They can, if they give enough money,” answered Clarus, between mouthfuls. He pecked at his plate like a bird. Acacia understood birds: they laughed in the treetops of District Seven, taunting those confined to the ground. He favoured crows, who spent their lives hunting and taking shining trinkets. There were stories of people feeding them stale breadcrumbs, only to be rewarded by a piece of jewlery stolen by the bird on their behalf.

The people in the Capitol were holding on to their glinting coins, waiting for Acacia to throw them breadcrumbs. He lowered his eyes to the grain of the wooden table. “Truce,” he offered. Clarus raised a confused eyebrow. “I’ll use the knife and fork or whatever, and I’ll do whatever you tell me in the Capitol, but only because I want you to get me sponsors.”

When he understood Acacia’s strange off, Clarus grinned. “That is my job,” he replied. “I believe there will be enquiries. You did show some ferocity at the reaping for such a small creature.”

Acacia’s voice was small. “People like me?”

“They do, so let’s try out hardest to make sure we don’t scare them away.”

***

Alder slept in the cardigan she wore to the reaping. It wrapped around her like a comforting blanket as she fell into a light sleep above the covers, the screen on the wall bathing the room in a cool glow. When she woke, the screen had been turned off. Instead, the room was illuminated by a dawn light from the window.

It was as if she had not slept. Alder sat up but the room span, and the small girl curled back against the plush pillows beneath her. Her eyes were sore, her chest was tight and sleep still clawed at the thoughts she tried to form. There was a glass of water left on her bedside table. Hands shaking, she took it and lifted it to her lips.

Her door opened. Panicked, Alder slammed the glass back onto the table and pulled her cardigan around to cover the t-shirt she had found to sleep in. A hand appeared around the door and waved a warning, before her tribute partner opened the door fully. He mimed knocking, and then shrugged.

Alder relaxed, comforted by the fact that he had at least tried. Inari seemed amused by the fact that she was still sat in bed, and grinned as he nodded his head towards the dining carriage. He lifted his hand to his mouth as if he was taking a bite of something. Food.

She nodded, and then gestured to her dress on the floor. I should change first.

Inari shook his head, and tapped his wrist as if he was wearing a watch. Then, he mimed taking another bite. He waved her towards the door. It’s time to eat, come on!

The crocheted cardigan offered enough shelter, and Alder had no real concern about being seen in a loose t-shirt that fell like a dress on her. Inari was wearing the same shirt that he had worn to the reaping, and it was creased from likely spending a night on the floor. She did insist on taking advantage of a provided hairbrush and styling her hair into two separate braids. She tied each with a length of ribbon which she found in a fully-stocked jewelry box.

When they entered the dining carriage, their mentor’s face seemed to light up. Sage waved them in, gesturing to two empty plates amongst the steaming serving dishes and stacks of sweet pastries. Inari did not even sit down before he took a pastry tart filled with bright red jam, nibbling at it like a squirrel. He offered one to Alder, but she declined.

She sat between two large, metal dishes. She did not bother with her own plate: she took a spoon, and dug right in to the serving portion. There was no escort to grab her hand and tell her otherwise.

Sage still carried his notebook, a pencil tucked behind his ear and tangled in his tussled hair. He had clearly been busy, as he handed a page torn from the book to her as soon as she sat down. It was covered in his scrawl, with detailed instructions carefully laid out. His mouth began to move as Alder read, likely explaining the same thing to the circus boy.

There will be a crowd at the station. They will be cheering for you. You need to smile and wave at them. There’s a car for the Remake Centre. Your prep team and your stylist know you can’t hear – they can write too. It’s the Opening Ceremony tonight. You will be fine. I’ll give you more instructions in the stable.

Alder folded the note and placed it in the pocket of her cardigan. Sage turned to her when he was done with her partner, questioning her with his familiar raised eyebrows. Alder nodded.

***

Satin held her glass up to a bright window, using the light to watch the bubbles rise and burst when they reached the surface of her drink. The taste did not appeal to her, but she followed the instruction: she tipped it gently into a glass of orange juice. Together, the drink was far tastier, and it gave her the light, floating feeling that disguised her worry.

“I shouldn’t be letting you drink at breakfast,” muttered Armure, although she had an identical collection of empty glasses and a pounding headache from the previous evening. The train had been stationed in the Capitol since their overnight arrival, but there was no command to disembark yet. They passed the time with breakfast, and drinking. Armure put her drink to her lips and drained it, sitting it next to three other empty glasses.

“Do you want me happy and smiling at the station?” asked Satin. Armure nodded. “Then you need to let me drink.”

“It’s not much of a first impression if you’re slurring your words by the Remake Centre,” argued Armure. “It’ll put you on par with that girl from Six, and you’re better than that.”

There was a scarlet flush appearing across Satin’s cheek, from both alcohol and praise. “Go on, then,” she prompted, reluctantly. “If these Games begin at the station, who do I need to beat today?”

The pre-arena ceremonies were fought with personality and appearance rather than a sword, and Satin was armed. There was a gentle sound of glass against wood, as Armure used her arm to push her empty glasses away from her. “It’s tough,” she admitted, resting her elbows on the mahogany table. “Cotton and I were talking about it late last night before he was called in to help. You can’t tell much from a reaping.”

“You can tell enough,” prompted Satin. She finished her drink.

Armure sighed, strained. She rested her head in her hands and hid from the bright light. “I’ve heard that the boy from Three has gained himself a bit of a following, and I’ve met the Capitol’s boy before. He’s popular – really popular. He’s an ideal first victor for them, but he’s far too young…”

She trailed off, thinking as she spoke. “Just a reaping, then?” asked Satin, prodding her mentor gently into a deeper conversation. They had discussed it often during the brief training: sometimes, the Capitol had an idea of the victor before the Games even began.

“I think so,” answered Armure. “Although, there are so many legacies this year and I’m not sure they were all called at random. There’s Sunnie’s sister, and the boy too. And then, Dazzle’s sister from One. They’ll be tricky to steal sponsors from. You need to make yourself so likeable that the Capitol will riot if you die.”

The strict comment confirmed Satin’s concerned thoughts. It would be a difficult fight and she felt underprepared, despite her mentor’s continued reassurance and compliments.

“You’re off to a good start with your reaping,” reassured Armure, seeing the panic flash in her tribute’s eyes.

“I know.” Satin focused on staring into her empty glass, ignoring her mentor in favour of admiring a distorted wood grain. “And Lucet? What are we asking from him?”

“Lucet is going to die,” Armure stated simply, as if it were fact. Satin hated the tone. “There’s nothing we can do for a kid like that, other than hope it’s quick.”

“We should still try. There’s been younger victors before-“

“He’s not strong, Satin. He’s not smart. He’s not sociable. He’s just a kid. He’s too stupid to know to avoid the cornucopia, and he’s too stupid to survive without its spoils.”

The pessimism flooded the carriage and hung heavy in the hair. Satin found herself reaching for another bubbling glass to try and breathe through the fog, trying not to listen to the wording. “He might surprise you,” she tried.

Armure reached a drink before Satin, taking the glass from her reach. She emptied it in one swallow. “When it comes to the Games, I don’t like surprises.”

***

Solar stared through the train’s window, gazing wide-eyed at the Capitol buildings which seem to scrape the sky. However, there were cheering, dazzling crowds on the pavement beneath them who laughed, smiled, and called each other to look. He felt sick – probably the movement of the train, he reasoned – and stepped away into the hidden corridor.

He had barely slept, although he hid under the duvet after the sudden realisation that he wanted to be alone. His reaping outfit carpeted the floor and they seemed servicable enough to wear again, although the shirt held several creases. His hand automatically went to his pocket, feeling the gentle rustle of his betting slip waiting for him.

There were a selection of people who may have been waiting in the dining carriage. Solar expected the overly-alert escort, or his sweet tribute partner, or even a silent servant nursing a table heaving with breakfast. There was food, in portions that seemed larger than the evening meal the previous night. However, it was guarded by a strange man who pulled apart a bread roll and dunked it heartily into his mug.

“Ah,” he said, muffled through a mouthful of food. There was no where for Solar to hide. “I was wondering when you would finally wake up. Good morning, Solar.”

“Good morning,” answered Solar, politeness beating curiousity in a tight race. With more bite, he added, “who in Panem’s name are you?”

With a sigh, the man finished his bread. He wiped his fingers on his denim trousers. Solar decided immediately that he was not from the Capitol. “One day, your name is on everyone’s lips,” lamented the man. “The next, the newest tributes can’t even name a victor when they see one.”

“I know who you are,” announced Fern, startling Solar. Her approach was silent and he jumped at her voice, finding his partner standing straight beside him. The faintest smile of amusement danced across her face at Solar’s shock, before disappearing for the man. “You’re Cotton Sterling. Fern talked about you a lot.”

He nodded. Fern turned to her partner, and added, “he mentored Sunnie, and she told me he runs a training camp in Eight.”

Solar redirected his cold scowl. “So, you’re no better than those inner district brutes after all.”

“It’s not a camp,” corrected Cotton, firmly. “It is a finishing school, and we teach manners and etiquette. And, of course, survival skills and basic weaponry.”

He gestured vaguely at the two tributes, waving a wild arm at the two chairs opposite him. It was laid with empty plates and cutlery that Solar did not even recognise. He stayed in the doorway, as Fern took a reluctant seat with a polite nod of her head. “Where’s Sunnie?” she asked, and Solar was impressed that her voice did not betray her anxiety.

“Help youself,” suggested Cotton, unnecessarily. He took another bread roll and tossed it on to Fern’s plate. “You pair look like ours over in Eight, so a bit of extra food won’t harm you. Sunnie will be on the next train to the Capitol. They’ve been very clear that they want her to mentor, but she’s absent until then so I offered to take over until she’s here.”

Solar’s voice was venom, breezing across the carriage and poisoning the conversation. “So you can give all our strategies to your kids in Eight?” he spat from the doorway.

“I’m doing this as a favour for Sunnie,” fought Cotton. “My priority is the tributes in my care, whether they are from home or not.”

The food on the table was loud, calling Solar from the doorway to sample the overheaped plates. He deliberately grabbed the chair that Cotton had prepared for him and moved it as far away as possible, dragging the wooden legs across the polished floor with a horrible, scratching noise. He took a seat and a cake, crumbling it into its paper packet and eating it by the handful. “What do you even do before the Games?” he asked, coldly and through a mouthful of crumbs.

Fern was silent as she ate, cautiously nibbling on the end of a bread roll which she had spread with cheese. She finished her small bite, and quietly answered, “he makes sure that the Capitol likes us, so that we have sponsors.”

“Exactly!” Cotton pointed to Fern with a bright, proud smile. “They all want to see you, but we need to decide which you we are going to let them see.”

There was a large, metal jug sitting on the table, and Cotton grabbed it with both hands. He poured the coffee into his mug, forgoing sugar and cream in favour of finishing the whole portion black. Solar watched the shake in the man’s hand, and decided it was likely not his first cup that morning.

“Fern, you’re golden because of your sister,” announced Cotton, addressing his comment directly to his charge. Then, he turned to Solar. The silence was long and uncomfortable, which did not improve Solar’s cold expression. Eventually, Cotton relented with, “you’re attractive enough, and people saw that cute goodbye with your little brother.”

“I’m not using my brother to get sponsors,” growled Solar.

Cotton nodded. “That’s a good choice. What else are you good at?”

Brushing crumbs from his hands, Solar looked at his mentor but did not give him what he wanted.

“He’s a gambler,” said Fern, suddenly. His attention whipped to her, and offered her the same cold glare he had given Cotton with the addition of panicked, wide eyes. “What? You said it yourself yesterday. You’re good at picking the winner.”

Solar shook his head. “You’re not supposed to tell him! He’s just going to run and tell his kids in Eight!”

“No, he isn’t,” replied Fern, steadfast. She trusted the company her sister kept. She turned back to her mentor. “He bets before the reaping. He always picks a winner. He even bet on Sunnie!”

If Cotton needed to know, Solar wanted it to be useful. He looked back to Cotton cautiously, certain that his one skill would be branded as useless and thrown out by the mentor. Instead, Cotton seemed intrigued. “You bet on these Games?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Solar nodded.

“Who did you pick?”

He coughed. “District One. The girl.”

“Why?”

At first, Solar shrugged. Then, he realised that it did not convince Cotton, so he began to elaborate. “She’ll be trained, because they always are in One. And she’s not eighteen, so she’ll be talented. She’s smart, and then there’s her family-“

“Who else?” interrupted Cotton.

Solar blinked, unable to find a reply. He stuttered out a careful, “I didn’t bet on-“

“Who else do you think is a threat, Solar? We’re trying to win the Games now, not a bet.”

He had not considered that. It was rare that betting on someone outside of One or Two yeilded a result, so Solar did not even wait for the reapings to happen before he placed a bet. However, he had been forced to consider each tribute carefully during the broadcast yesterday. They had been forgettable, with the exception of a notable handful. There needed to be a reason for Cotton to ask him.

Slowly, he answered. It took a moment for him to remember the name. “Satin.”

Cotton watched the tribute carefully, as Solar regarded him with an almost desperate expression. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he pushed.

“You might be.” Cotton began to pour another mug of coffee. “Why?”

“Because I think you trained her.”

***

There was a full, piping hot breakfast spread across the table, but Raven was the only person there to eat it. It could have fed himself and Jackdaw for the rest of the year if they were careful, and Raven briefly wondered if there was a way to save some of the food for Jackdaw. He quickly realised it was pointless: if he saw Jackdaw again, he would be a victor. Victors did not need to eat scraps from the Capitol’s table.

His stomach growled like a mutt, but he ate slowly. Everything tasted like coal.

Flicker was locked in her bedroom, by choice. Isaac was tried to coax her out. Raven did not miss either of them as he pulled apart bread with his hands and used it to shovel every meat stew he could find into his mouth. The train was no longer moving but he kept his back to the window, ignoring the Capitol.

“You’ll do better if you use a knife and fork,” announced an unfamiliar voice. Raven hesitated before turning around, dreading a further etiquette lecture from somebody who had time to consider the food they were eating. However, it was not a Capitol creature waiting for him in the doorway. Instead, the tall woman wore a military black boot instead of glittering stilleto heels.

“Seriously,” she continued, nodding at the bread which was still in his hand. She waved to the door behind her as it pulled itself closed. “This sort of thing, it matters to the Capitol. You want to live, right?”

Raven shrugged a response, and grunted a sound of agreement.

“I thought that would be the case.” She moved, taking a chair and sitting opposite at the table. She observed Raven as if he was a pet she was about to purchase, but Raven’s self-conscious hesitancy did not last long. He returned to eating, and she ignored the lack of cutlery.

Eventually, he spoke through a mouthful of stew. “You gonna keep staring at me?”

“I’m trying to work out what to do with you,” she replied, immediately. As she leaned back in her chair, she folded her arms. She wore a frown as if it were the latest fashion. “They like the idea of you, at the moment. If we give them the reality, they are going to be sorely disappointed.”

The frown was contagious. Raven caught it, twisting it into a scowl that furrowed across his face as he pushed his plate away. “You a stylist?”

Unexpectedly, the woman laughed. The smile did not reach her eyes, but it lit up her face as she threw her head back. “You’re funny,” she said, as the laughter came to an end. Raven did not understand the joke. “I’m a victor, Raven. I’m your acting mentor. Clara. District Two.”

She held a hand out for him to shake. Raven stared at it, but did not take it. Eventually, Clara removed her hand from across the table. “I can work with someone who’s a little rebellious,” she continued, as if the quality was somehow desired. “The Capitol say they hate the district people, but they do enjoy when their victor is a little barbaric, and a little rough around the edges. You missing the reaping is one thing, but missing it to look after your brother is…”

Trying to find the word, Clara trailed off. Eventually, she let her vague gesturing speak for her.

Raven straightened himself at the comment, listening carefully to what she said. “So you’re going to help Flicker too?” he asked.

The laugh echoed again. “She’s a lost cause,” announced Clara, through her chuckling. “I might actually stand a chance with you.”

***

Iumenta ignored breakfast. She ignored her district partner. She ignored the Capitol looming in the train’s window. She entered the dining car in a determined hurry and walked straight to her mentor, standing beside Birdie and slamming two fists on the table.

“Tell me what to do,” she demanded. Birdie eyed her with suspicious, a stick held in her teeth which emitted foul-smelling smoke between sips of black coffee. After her brief judgemental glare, she laughed. Her voice was rough with sleep and smoke, grating like a metal spade on a concrete floor.

The tribute was taken aback. Iumenta took her hands from the wooden surface and twisted them back into the sleeves of her jumper. “I’m serious,” she tried, although her voice faltered. “I might have a partner who’s alright with dying, but I’m not. I’m sure I can make it back.”

Birdie coughed. “You, and twenty-seven others, sweetheart.”

The mentor took the stick from her mouth and pushed it into her empty saucer, extinguishing the flame. She went to lift her mug to her mouth again, but Iumenta swiped it from her hand. The mug fell on to the table with enough force to rattle the serving spoons in their dishes, spilling the hot, brown coffee across the white tablecloth. “Listen to me!” she cried, too loud and too shrill to be ignored. Birdie gave her the benefit of a raised eyebrow. “I will not lose. I’m more capable than everyone else.”

“You want advice?” Birdie matched her volume. Shocked, there was a pause before Iumenta nodded. “I’ll give you some advice. Stop thinking you can win. Show me you can win, and I might change my mind long enough to help you.”

Immediately, Iumenta straightened her posture. She pulled upwards, placing her hands behind her back to hold out her chest. “I can-“ she began, but she was silenced by Birdie’s shaking head.

“No. Show me, Iumenta. I don’t care if you can butcher a pig with a letter opener or strangle a chicken with your eyes closed. Play the game. Do everything your stylist says. Win the crowd over. Show me that the Capitol want you to win, then I’ll mentor your properly.”

Iumenta’s surprise turned to a furious scowl, staring down her mentor. Birdie was experienced in stubborn tributes; she stared back. “That goes for you too, doctor,” she added, keeping her cool gaze on her female tribute but pointing to Chanté across the table. “It’s a game. Make yourself a winner, and I’ll play it with you.”

***

Amity was not surprised when she was alone at breakfast. There were other people at the table with her – Jonah was talking in a hushed voice with Indigo, and there was a silent serving girl standing nearby – but Vixen’s chair remained empty.

She found comfort in familiarity, taking a slice of heavily-buttered toast and drinking the liquid the serving girl poured when she asked for tea. It did not taste like the herbal tea Amity used to ring in the dawn at home, but it tasted pleasant enough. Whilst eating her toast, she found herself taking two cold cuts of meat and placing them inside her napkin for later – if Vixen was not going to come to breakfast, someone needed to feed his cat.

When she looked up, Jonah and Indigo had stopped their whispered conversation. Her mentor looked at her instead. “It’s for the cat,” she tried to justify, but Jonah shook his head.

“You take what you like,” he answered. “I’m just trying to work out what to do with you.”

Amity found it difficult to eat when she was being viewed as a meal herself, so she left the remainder of the toast on her plate. Her stomach was swimming, making her nauseous. She tried to sip her tea to ease it.

“Indigo,” said Jonah, as if he was trying to tempt her to agree with him before she knew what she was agreeing to. “You used to be a stylist, didn’t you?”

Behind her mug, Amity watched as Indigo’s carefully made-up face seemed to blush. “Very briefly,” answered the flustered escort. “And I was only an apprentice, Jonah. You should know this.”

“I don’t want to waste Amity,” replied Jonah. He picked up his glass from the table and swirled the clear liquid inside before taking a mouthful. He swallowed with an audible gulp. “She’s polite enough, ain’t she? And she’s got such a district charm, with that beautiful hair. I want to make sure we turn up at that station with her looking like she’s worth a thousand coins.”

It was Amity’s turn to blush. She had slipped her reaping dress back on after a fitful sleep, wanting to feel close to her mother. It was a beautiful gift but it did not hold up to Jonah’s scrutiny, especially after a night on the floor. Amity put down her mug; she could not even stomach her tea.

Jonah continued. “Take her back to her room, Indigo. Make her up. Do something with her hair. Find a dress. Teach her to talk Capitol. Let’s get her some sponsors at the station.”

Indigo seemed to brighten like the sky after rain, jumping from her chair at the thought of a new doll to style. She practically grabbed Amity’s hand, words rushing from her mouth to ask if she had eaten enough and if she was happy with her hair being styled and if she was excited to find a new dress.

“Yes,” answered Amity, not entirely sure which part of her escort’s suggestion she was agreeing to.

***

“There’s only one winner, right?”

Cove tapped the handle of the spoon on the edge of his plate, his anxious energy being translated into the repetitive movement. There was still food in front of him but his breakfast sat heavy in his stomach, threatening to make an appearance. He sat by himself. Ocean standing over the bar armed with a glass of a bright, orange drink and advice that her tribute boy did not want to hear. She continued, “it’s true though, isn’t it? You can’t blame her.”

“She’ll be tired,” answered Cove, forcing the words to spill from his mouth. He did not even believe himself – Sennen was an early riser with a good appetite. She had not missed a breakfast for as long as Cove had known her, but she had failed to show in the dining carriage as the train moved through the final tunnels to the Capitol.

“Doubt it.” Ocean took a sip of her drink. There seemed to be a smile playing on her lips, which angered Cove even more. “That girl, she wants to win. She’d be here begging for advice if you weren’t hanging around. You’ve really made her angry.”

Her words were likely true, and Cove felt as if the older victor was stabbing him through the chest with each comment she made. He refused to believe them, but they stuck with him nonetheless. “You don’t know her,” he argued, trying to give the comment less weight.

“I suppose,” she shrugged. “I do want to push you as a pair, thought. You’ve given me the opportunity so I want to make it so the Capitol can never separate you in their minds. You’re going to be a team.”

She finished her drink, placing the glass back on the bar. She left the carriage by walking directly behind Cove’s chair and whispered as she walked past, “good luck with that.”

Chapter Text

[18] Stylist

Sparkle did not notice that her instinct was to grab Ferro’s hand. He allowed her to take it, responding with his own tight hold as they stood together and waited for the door of the train to open.

“Smile,” ordered Dazzle, incapable of leaving her tributes to make their first impression by themselves. She was anxiously patting down her own skirt, before reaching forward to take a strand of Sparkle’s hair from the collar of her new blouse. “They want to love you, but we need to give them someone they can love. Be bright. Be happy to be here.”

“That’s not hard,” answered Sparkle, as petulant as a child. Ferro took her hand tighter – he would never be bold enough to speak to his mentor in that tone, but he supposed that his partner had earned her special privilege. Despite the mocking, the two tributes followed the instruction closely.

Dazzle rested a hand gently against each of their shoulders. “They’re going to adore you,” she reassured in a whisper, and the train doors opened to the loud roar of a crowd.

***

Azazel tried to listen. His mentor’s instructions were fleeting, leaving his head as soon as he was greeted by the screaming crowd. They were allowed to wander amongst them whilst they waited for their car, although there was a red, velvet rope separating district from Capitol. There was also a large hoard of Peacekeepers, which did not help Azazel feel any safer.

He felt a smaller hand slip into his own. Issy grabbed it to avoid becoming lost in the chaos of the station. There were thirteen trains in a briefly staggered arrival, and a crowd waiting to greet them which yelled louder than any engine. When Azazel looked down to see his young partner, she was smiling vaguely through the dazed expression in her eyes.

“She’s so sweet!” screamed a Capitol woman, in a voice so shrill that Azazel could distinguish it above the underlying din. He found her, with her bright orange hair piled atop her head and adorned in countless black, sparkling bows. Her hands were clutched at her chest as she glanced down at Isabel, and she practically fell backwards in adoration when Isabel waved in her direction.

An elaborate mess of blue lace and silver thread stood beside her, helping her friend steady herself without ever taking an eye from the tributes. “The boy is pretty sweet too,” she crooned, in a tone that sounded unlike anything that the crowd were screaming at Isabel.

There was a sore lump in Azazel’s throat. He swallowed it, finally hearing his mentor’s advice ringing in his head as he tried to navigate the crowd. If he was lucky, this footage would be dull enough to be forgotten in District Three.

“’Course I am,” he called back, catching the eye of the woman who complimented him. He forced his accent stronger against the clipped, Capitol voices which surrounded him. She practically fell alongside her friend at his voice, and the two clasped hands and began jumping together in the station.

Isabel pulled at his hand. Cybus was stood by a guarded exit, waving them to the waiting car. Azazel went to move with her when another Capitol lady grabbed hold of his shirt sleeve from across the velvet rope. She tried to pull him to her, causing him to stumble.

“You’re just about the most gorgeous one I’ve seen in this whole station,” she exclaimed, practically shouting in Azazel’s face. She was close enough that he could smell her rose perfume. As she spoke, she gestured to the ocean of reflections from the metal of each tribute train.

Azazel fought back any thought he had of his boy from home, trying to picture the aging Capitol woman as a warm meal or a weapon on a time of need. “That’s a high compliment,” he replied, managing a grin. “After all, it’s coming from the most gorgeous one I’ve seen in this whole crowd.”

There was a cheer as he spoke, and a chorus of laughter as the crowd seemed to reach out and try to claim the compliment for themselves. Azazel left with a wink and a gnawing, nauseous feeling that he hoped would subside.

***

Inari was introduced to a doctor before he was introduced to his preparation team. He sat on the table as the strange woman pecked at his arm, her own skin dappled in a series of small, blue dots which began to resemble the scales of a snake as they travelled up her wrist. Her hand was as cold as the table, and she twisted and turned his arm with the force of a machine.

“It’s not a bad job, for a district attempt,” she crooned. Inari bit his tongue: Koru had done his best, but he was a ringmaster rather than a medic. The doctor took a contraption from the pocket on her chest. It had a small, circular saw at its top. “Hold still, now. We wouldn’t want to send you into that arena with half an arm.”

Inari was trying hard not to stare, despite finding the woman particularly grotesque and wanting to see each body modification she had subjected herself to. However, as she pressed a button and the saw began to spin, he found himself staring at her face to avoid looking at the spinning tool being pressed against his cast and skin. It made a painful high-pitched noise as it drilled, and Inari drew his shoulders to his ears at the sound.

It cut through the plaster with ease and seemed to avoid his flesh. The doctor worked quickly and pulled the remnants away from his arm as she worked. “Don’t move your arm now,” she warned, taking the final piece. The air bit at Inari’s newly exposed skin, but he dutifully kept his wrist and hand still. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a complicated break.”

She prodded at the arm again, her sharp nails leaving dents in his sore skin. She took his hand and tried to twist it. Inari focused his attention into not crying out as the sharp pain began, but she felt him wince and stopped. The pain became a dull, background roar as Inari allowed himself to flex his fingers.

“How did you do it?” she asked, turning to brush the dust from the plaster away from the bed. When it was clean, she called over an avox and murmured an instruction in his hear. “CGN are reporting you’re in the circus, of all things. Did you fall?”

Inari forgot to bite his tongue. “I don’t fall,” he spat, and the doctor was taken aback. Inari registered his tone and regretted it immediately, softening as he continued to explain. “We arrived late. I didn’t check the rigging on my hoop before the evening show. Came undone when I was halfway through.”

The avox returned, carrying a web of bending, black rubber. It released into two halves as the doctor took it, and she rested it on the table. “Arm up, now,” she instructed. Inari was given no choice, as she grabbed his hand and forced it to the right height. “How high was the fall?”

Inari shrugged, before wincing and regretting the action. The doctor ignored his pain and began to straighten his fingers, settling the upper part of the strange, mesh-like contraption against his arm. “Ten, fifteen feet?” he answered. “Not too high.”

“Not too high,” repeated the doctor with a chuckle. “You’re lucky it was just your wrist. It’s unfortunate for the reaping, of course, but it could have been far worse.”

As his body heat seeped into the plastic, the new cast moulded to his arm. It fit around his thumb and prevented the movement of his hand, just as his old cast had. However, this new device allowed air to circulate and offered a far wider range of motion in his lower arm. The doctor lined the second half up below the first and adjusted them until the seam was indistinguishable.

“Hold still,” she commanded. She reclaimed her initial saw and pressed a new button. The metal blade began to glow a hot red. Inari could feel the burn of the metal against his skin and he flinched when she pushed it to his arm. There was an acrid smell as she melted the two halves of the cast together around his arm. He tried not to inhale the smoke, leaning to the wall behind him to try and grasp at fresh air.

“This one will be just what you need,” she reassured as she worked. Inari did not understand how she did not try and escape the smell. “It’s waterproof and offers a wider range of motion. We’ll keep it in a sling for now, but I doubt it’ll be allowed in the arena, so you’ll need to be careful.”

“Will I be able to take it off?” asked Inari, breathing shallowly.

The doctor chuckled again. “Yes, if you live long enough.”

***

“You’ve gotta give me something,” begged Dakota, her shrill voice echoing in the metal room. Her preparation team glanced awkwardly at each other, silently taking in her brittle, unkempt nails, and the yellow tinge to her scarred skin. The work was slow: two men were holding the tribute in her chair by her arms, whilst a young woman tried to wax her legs. “I’ll even take rubbing alcohol if that’s all you’ve got. Allegra won’t let me have anything.”

“Well, it might be for the best,” replied the woman, applying another strip of wax to Dakota’s skin. The tribute kicked and thrashed to make the application difficult, and cursed loudly when it was pulled away.

“You’re torturing me!” she yelled. She tried to kick her captor in the face, but the woman edged to one side to be out of reach. “I need a drink. I haven’t had one since yesterday morning.”

Dakota kicked the container which held the wax, sending it spilling slowly across the floor. The woman watched it in defeat as it spread, before heaving with a deep sigh and climbing to her feet to fetch more. She signalled an avox to clean the mess.

“We could try an electrolyte drink,” suggested the man holding Dakota’s left arm. His own knuckles had grown white with the effort, and he narrowly avoided the tribute spitting in his direction as he spoke. “I just don’t think alcohol is a good idea, sweet. We need to enjoy everything in moderation.”

He emphasised his final word as if speaking to a toddler, and Dakota took offence. She pulled her right arm free and scratched the man across the wrist with her jagged nails. He flinched back and freed her.

She did not run. With freedom handed to her, Dakota did not know how to take it. She pulled her arms around her chest to try and find warmth in the cold, metal room. She lifted her legs to rest her feet on the same cushion where she sat, one leg feeling sore and naked. She shivered. “Please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Just give me a drink.”

***

Leon detested being stared at. It was a regular occurrence in District Two, but his neighbours at least tried to hide their curious glances. The Capitol did not understand subtlety, and his preparation team stood around him and glared at him as if he were a piece of meat. He shrunk under their multicoloured, confused gaze.

“I don’t know how we’re going to make him look menacing,” complained one woman, who had painted herself in elaborate flowers before squeezing herself into a tight, silver dress. They spoke of Leon as if he could not hear them, which he did not mind as it meant he did not need to reply – it was difficult to catch the conversation strung between their thick, Capitol accents. The woman irritatingly tapped her long nails on the metal table where she rested, tilting her head as if a different angle would help.

“That was Sanguine’s instruction,” replied a man. He had foregone flowers in favour of multicoloured freckles dotted across his bare skin. Reaching forward, he grabbed a handful of Leon’s hair. “He’ll look like a little cherub with these curls. Should we straighten it?”

Leon did not know what a cherub was, and he did not intend to find out. He pulled away, eyebrows knitting together into a tight scowl at the man who dared touch him. The expression was met with faint applause. “There we are!” cried the woman, grinning. “I knew that District Two was hiding in you somewhere.”

She stopped tapping. Instead, she took Leon’s chin in her hand and tilted his face to take in his expression. Leon tried to pull away again, but she was strong. “Don’t fight it,” she complained, laughing as if he was only a minor inconvenience. “You have beautiful eyes. We’ll make sure to bring that out with some eyeliner.”

They continued to shoot ideas between them as if they were arrows. Leon hardly understood them, and stopped paying the effort it took to decode their conversation. He pulled back and was finally free from the woman’s grasp, resting his head back on the chair.

“He won’t be any taller though,” he caught, eventually. The man sounded disappointed, which resurrected Leon’s scowl. “We can do many things, but he’s still going to be a head short than his friend in the chariot.”

“She’s not my friend,” argued Leon. He was ignored.

***

Eden’s jaw ached from biting his tongue. He had remained pleasant enough for his preparation team, just as Hadrian had instructed him, but he had not attempted to throw any compliments to them. There was nothing to praise: he was disgusted at their appearance, their tools, and their demands.

He still had a fist clenched in his t-shirt. They had demanded he remove it, but he had refused, leading to clipped criticisms about following instructions. Eden had simply ignored them. Eventually, they relented and left him alone to fetch his stylist.

Shivering, Eden paced the room. His legs were exposed and torn apart with something they had called wax. Slowly, he uncurled his fist from the soft fabric of his shirt and turned to scratching at the red marks which remained on his wrist.

“So,” introduced a deep voice from the door. “You’re the boy who was giving my preps some trouble.”

The stylist was light-footed like a fox, moving across the floor without a hint of a footstep. He caught Eden unaware, and the tribute scrambled to fix a smile to his face and return his hands to his side.

“Oh, don’t bother with your little façade,” waved the stylist. When he was close enough, he took Eden’s chin in his hand and lifted it to the bright light. The man hummed as he traced across the scarring and bruising with his gaze. “It will be hard to disguise, but everyone has already seen it, I suppose. It’ll add something vicious to the look. Peacekeepers are really responsible for it?”

Eden wanted to shout. He wanted to scream. He bit his tongue, found the sickly tone he used for the Capitol, and replied, “yes, sir.”

“Interesting,” replied the stylist, with a curious tone. He dropped Eden’s face. “You’ll both be dressed as Peacekeepers, so it will be a very interesting composition. Whip your shirt off for me.”

It was relentless, and Eden was growing tired of it. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “No.”

“No?” The stylist stepped back, and Eden was surprised to see a genuine flicker of concern against the otherwise neutral expression that he hid behind. “I do need to see you in full, to make sure my vision will suit you. Have you got lashes to hide?”

Reluctantly, Eden shook his head. The Peacekeepers had never whipped him, and it was one thing that he was genuinely grateful for.

“Then shirt off, Eden.”

The stylist grabbed the fabric himself, leaving Eden with no choice but to pull the t-shirt across his head in one swift, furious movement. He scowled and clutched the back fabric against his chest. His stylist circled him like a vulture. When he reached Eden’s back, he stopped.

“Is Hadrian aware of this mark on your back?”

Eden tensed. He turned, hiding his back from his stylist, and widening his eyes. “What mark?” he asked, feigning innocence. The act was transparent. The stylist stared through his tribute.

“You cannot show that to anyone outside of this room,” he instructed, with a strict finality in his voice. “You need to keep your shirt on, even in the arena.”

“I did try,” mumbled Eden. “You insisted.”

“I did not expect to be styling a tribute with a mockingjay on his shoulder blade, for Panem’s sake.”

The tension was briefly interrupted by Eden’s surprise that his inked mark was still recognisable as a mockingjay. It had been there since he was eleven, and he had assumed it had warped and faded as he grew. If it was clear, it would be difficult to explain.

The stylist reached out and placed a cold hand on the bird. Eden flinched, pulling away and raising his hands to cover his face. He tripped as he stagged on the tiles, taking a moment to steady himself. When he looked up, the stylist was watching him with his hand still hovering in the air. He flexed his fingers and returned it to his side. “I apologise,” he said, cooly.

Eden lowered his hands, stretching to rub at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he replied, investigating the tiles beneath his feet with great interest. “Tetchy.”

“I noticed.” Turning on his heel, the stylist picked up the shirt that his tribute had dropped and threw it back to him. Eden caught it by a sleeve. “Get this back on, and don’t take it off in front of anyone in the Capitol. Your chariot outfit is full-sleeved, so we have no problem there.”

“You’re really dressing me as a ‘keeper?” asked Eden.

The stylist raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Eden shrugged. “They don’t tend to like me.”

“Well, I have a feeling that we aren’t talking about some petty theft.”

“If anyone asks, we are.”

The stylist sighed, before gesturing for Eden to follow him as he walked out of the room. “Understood.”

***

“You remind me of someone,” praised Caeso, looking at his charge across their heavily laden lunch table. He twirled his fork in the air as if trying to conjure an image, before simply pointing it at Ilara. There was a comfortable silence between stylist and muse as he tried to finish the thought, before settling on, “I do not think it is anyone specific. You have a very familiar look, with a wonderful shape to your face. Tall, too.”

Ilara tried to brush the compliments away as she always did, but they sounded different in a Capitol accent. She was beginning to eat them up alongside her lunch, tasting the commentary like she did with the dressing on her salad. “My teacher told me that being tall is a disadvantage for ballet,” she replied, playing the praise down in the hope her stylist would continue to build it up.

“Not in fashion,” reassured her stylist. Caeso finished his meal, placing the fork neatly on the plate and pushing it away from him. “I asked for you, over your partner. You have the look that I’ve longed for in a tribute for many years.”

Although Ilara had not finished, she felt it was inappropriate to continue to eat when her host had. She copied the way he rested his cutlery. Delicately, she was careful to remove any trace of the meal with a soft napkin, before folding it neatly and leaving it on the table.

Caeso continued. “I’m hoping you win. You are wasted in the districts.”

“I was always going to come here as a dancer,” replied Ilara. She was careful not to rest on the table with her elbows, although sitting straight in the wooden chair was beginning to grow tiring after a restless night. Caeso was still staring at her, and she was trying to decide what to say to endear him. Eventually, she settled on, “my mother used to be a Capitol liaison, so I’ve never been fully from Seven.”

Caeso clicked his fingers, as if a sudden revelation had overcome him. “That’ll be it,” he replied. “That’s unfortunate. Imagine what you could have been if you were born here.”

The comment landed heavier than the praise, like a fall rather than a leap. “I believe that I can still be something special,” she tried.

Caeso laughed. The sound hit Ilara like a falling tree. “You’ll always be district, Ilara,” he reminded, ignoring the fallen expression on her face. “Don’t worry, though – I’ll make you look so wonderful tonight that no one will notice.”

It was harder for Ilara to stand tall as her stylist shepherded her to the dressing room.

***

Isabel’s blush was burnt on her face, having spent the morning being torn apart and put together by a preparation team with no concept of dignity. She had been naked when she was told she was going to meet her stylist. Out of sympathy, one of the brightly coloured people had offered her a blue robe. She pulled it tighter around her.

“Do you like blue?” asked a soft voice, as an older woman floated gently into the room. Her sudden arrival had Isabel twisting in her chair, but she was waved back to the table. “No, keep yourself comfortable.”

The stylist wore a dress sewn of feathers, arranged the skirt around her legs as she sat opposite her tribute. Her skin had been dusted with silver and reflected the light as easily as the metal flooring. When she smiled, Isabel noticed that each tooth had been accented with a small, glimmering diamond. “You can call me Julia,” introduced the woman, and she held out her hand for Isabel to shake.

She had a firm grip. Isabel tried to grin through it. “Are you my stylist?” she asked.

“I am,” replied Julia. “So, do you like blue?”

“No.” Isabel’s reply came faster than she expected. She nearly moved to cover her mouth but was too scared to take a hand from her chest in case her robe fell open. Instead, she looked away from Julia’s amused grin and attempted to justify herself. “I mean, I have to wear it every day. My uniform is blue.”

Julia gestured to a nearby serving boy and waved at the table. “You’re from a home, aren’t you? I’ll make sure to avoid blue, but the shade on that robe does suit your colouring. What is your favourite colour?”

There was silence as Isabel considered a complete spectrum of colour. There were very few colours in District Three and although grey reminded her of home, the reminder was not comforting. There was the dark, stained brown of her old school desk. There was the delicate blush pink of Kinnie’s reaping gown. There was the bright streak of orange painted across the sky on a summer evening. “Green,” she decided, eventually.

Julia nodded at the choice, approving. “Like grass?” she clarified.

“No,” explained Isabel. “Darker. In the yard, we have a pot with a mint plant. We each take a turn watering it. I like the dark green in its leaves.”

“That’s a wonderful image. I think a dark green would suit your colouring just as wonderfully as blue does, Isabel.”

The food arrived. It was accompanied by a fanfare of folded napkins and silver cutlery, but Isabel’s attention was on the soup placed in front of her. It seemed to be constructed of a pale-yellow cream, garnished with rose petals. She took a spoon and cautiously poked at the garnish. “You can eat flowers?”

Julia did not hold back her laugh. It was a quick, amused chuckle at her sheltered tribute, but it held no malice. “Yes,” she explained. “You can eat roses, but please don’t try to eat every plant in the arena. There are many flowers who are not as kind.”

Isabel sampled the dish. She was unimpressed. The bright bud she chose tasted as simple as she had imagined a flower would taste.

“Do you like flowers?” pressed Julia, trying to pull conversation from her tribute as if pulling a weed from the ground. “District Three is a quaint place. I find that the technology districts have such a lack of greenery, and yet flowers are important for the human mind to flourish. My aim as a stylist is to incorporate both technology and nature in my designs.”

“Dandelions grow in the meadows sometimes,” tried Isabel, but Julia did not consider this to be enough. She placed her spoon against her bowl before shaking the napkin from her lap to use on her face. She left a trail of lipstick on the white fabric.

“We need to change this,” she murmured, before settling her focus back on her tribute. “I cannot do much for the ceremony, as we must reflect the district. You’ll like your dress – it’s dark green, as if we knew. You do deserve flowers though, Isabel. I will find a way to gift them to you.”

***

Sennen did not understand her stylist. She detested her preparation team, who had compared the most attractive victors as they descaled her like a fish. However, Brianha had a bright, forceful personality that was difficult to dislike.

“I love designing for, because you have the ocean as inspiration,” Brianha continued, words falling from her mouth in a torrent. She barely ate, waving food around on the end of her fork. Sennen was content to taste the tiny, savoury pastries as she listened. “You and your brother – we have matching costumes for you, because we’ve never had a twin set to work with. You’re both so pretty, but then Four’s tributes always are. Now, are you a silver or a gold girl?”

Sennen registered the brief pause in conversation, hardly keeping up with her stylist but still trying to offer her an answer. Brianha took a breath and a sip of her drink in the brief lull, and continued just as her tribute opened her mouth. “Your complexion tells me that we’ll be working with gold jewellery, I think. Oh, and gold eyeliner would be the perfect touch to your look. We can style Cove the same, but I almost hope he has a different undertone so we can play with some contrasting shades. Are you identical?”

“I’d rather-“ began Sennen, hoping to explain that she wanted to be seen as an individual.

Brianha interrupted her. “That’s a silly question,” she laughed, but Sennen did not understand the joke. “I know you can’t really be identical when you’re a boy and a girl, but it is so much more fun so we’ll be matching you as much as we can. You will be radiant at the parade tonight if we can play it right. I doubt that anyone will gather as much attention as you.”

She continued, her speech becoming a comforting sound like the crashing of a wave. Sennen began to ignore her, but she could not look at her stylist without remembering her escort’s acknowledgement on the train. Brianha’s son was a tribute, like her. He would be dressed in an elaborate costume for the opening ceremony that evening. He would be at training, and he would be interviewed, and – if he was unlucky – he would be dead in less than a week.

The conversation continued to revolve around the impression that Sennen would make at the reaping. She interrupted it herself. “What about your son?” Sennen asked, taking an opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.

Brianha finally took a mouthful of food, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed. Her nails were longer than her fingers. When she swallowed, she laughed again. “He’ll make a splash too,” she responded with a bright grin. “You know, I’m so used to people talking about him that I’d completely forgotten he was doing something new. I won’t be styling him though. He might be competition for the camera, but you’re on the right side.”

***

Saori wanted her dead. His chariot sat beside District Five, and he used his imposed isolation to watch as their girl was swarmed by her entourage. Her preparation team were finishing her outfit, straightening and stiffening her skirt with a strange spay from a cannister. She had her back to him. She did not know he was there.

He watched. She was her sister. Her fair hair had been tied into two thick, complicated braids that incorporated white ribbon. It was the style her sister wore in the arena, and Saori knew it was deliberate. She deserved to die. The strange calm of solitude had faded, and he could only glare at the person who was responsible for the death of his brother. He knew it was irrational. He did not care.

Dakota had still not arrived. Allegra was likely with her, trying to drag a suitable female tribute from the drunk, drug-addled girl who had stepped on the train. Minnie had escorted him to the Remake Centre that morning but had not reappeared. It seemed as if everyone around him was scared to talk to him.

Good – maybe they would begin to consider him as a threat.

Sunnie had never arrived in the Capitol. Saori had felt a smug sense of satisfaction when his stylist informed him, knowing it was likely his fault. Instead, District Five were being accompanied by the fast-talking victor of Eight. He was the only member of the team who noticed Saori’s watching, meeting the cold glare with his own glance of curiosity.

He muttered something to the male tribute, who nodded at the instruction and passed it to the girl. She listened to him, and the tribute pair disappeared along the other side of their chariot. There was no opportunity for Saori to follow her, and his anger turned to frustration. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to know.

Instead, her substitute mentor made the brief journey to District Six’s chariot. He was still a distance away when he called, “left on your own?”

Saori was tired of being civil. “Allegra doesn’t like me,” he replied, monotone.

“Sunnie doesn’t seem too keen either,” replied the mentor. He reached the chariot and dropped the volume of his voice. “For what it’s worth, I don’t have an issue with you. It’ll be different if you keep staring at Fern.”

Fern was no longer visible, although Saori could hear her melodic laugh across the general chatter of the crowd. He detested the sound. “I’ll stare at who I like,” he replied, mocking the victor’s tone.

“What do you want with her?” asked the victor.

Saori took a moment to genuinely consider the question, finding his answer in an overwhelming onslaught of options. “I want her dead,” she answered, simply. He expected the honesty to shock, but there was no visible reaction from Fern’s mentor. He continued, “and I want to do it myself.”

The victor stepped closer, his voice falling to a frustrated whisper. “I met Xico, during those Games. He talked about you, you know. He told me that his younger brother used to pick dandelions in the school yard and leave them on the balcony, so the birds had something soft to build their nest with. You’re telling me that the same boy has already decided to kill?”

Saori’s anger roared like an engine, but he contained it in small, frustrating actions. He rolled his eyes, and he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what they want from me, isn’t it?” he spat. “She deserves it. I’ll take her as soon as the countdown finishes.”

“Fern did not do anything.” The statement was clear, and the victor made it loudly. He tried to place a hand on Saori’s shoulder, but the tribute pulled away with a cold scowl. Undeterred, the victor continued. “You can yell at me if that makes you feel better. Shout at Minnie for not doing enough. Scream at Allegra for letting your brother die. Revenge will not make the pain go away, Saori.”

The mentor spoke sense, frustrating Saori further. His anger was white hot and growing painful. “Screaming doesn’t bring him back,” he retorted.

“Nothing will.” The mentor took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “There are so many different outcomes in the arena, Saori. Rushing into the bloodbath to take her out is more likely to get you killed than anything else. There will be another way to get what you want. You have a brain – use it.”

Saori went to answer again, but it was pointless. The victor turned on his heel and stormed back to District Five’s chariot. It left a stiff, resentful silence, which Saori used to consider the victor’s recommendation.

If there was another way to get what he wanted, Saori would think of it.

***

Jonah accepted his new duty as a mentor: physically dragging his small boy around by his wrist to keep him in the correct place at the correct time. “He didn’t fight his stylist!” he praised, pulling Vixen forward to stand beside his partner at the chariot. Amity glanced at him in sympathy. “They’ve cleaned you both up quite nicely, actually. It’s amazing what you can do with some old wheat.”

Weakly, Vixen tried to pull his arm away from his mentor’s grasp. There were fresh tear trails on his cheeks, stained black with something the preparation team had applied to his eyelashes. Indigo tutted as she reached forward and tried to wipe the stains away with her sleeves.

“Honestly,” she muttered as she worked. “You’d think they would at least use something waterproof on our tributes.”

“I’d rather he stopped crying,” argued Jonah, as if Vixen was not standing right beside him. The walk to the chariot had been tainted by whispered instructions to appear threatening. Vixen did not even try – he did not want to go out on the chariot.

“It’s a big stage,” defended Indigo. She finished, stepping back to admire her work. Vixen’s cheeks stung from her vigorous scrubbing, and he found himself blinking rapidly to try and fight any further tears that were threatening to fall.

Jonah’s argument was spurred by alcohol. He grew louder and attracted the attention of the chariots around them. “He doesn’t have to actually do anything, Indie! I keep telling him this. He doesn’t need to actually speak. He just needs to stand there and wave, for Panem’s sake.”

Amity placed a comforting hand across her partner’s shoulder, pulling him away from the hand on his wrist. “I don’t think it will really be that bad,” she tried, quiet enough to go unnoticed by her mentor. Vixen managed a shrug. “He’s probably right. We just have to wave.”

There was little reassurance in the instruction. Vixen raised a hand to wipe the tears away from his eyes, but Indigo caught him and nudged him before he could smudge his make-up again. “I’m sure he’s just worried about his friend,” she suggested, optimistic. There was little response. It did not deter her. “Well, you can stop your worrying, Vixen. I personally ensured that Panko was delivered safely to our floor in the Tribute Centre, and I was able to supply everything that we need for him. He’ll be able to eat food from our kitchen every single night. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Jonah scoffed. “He likes that cat more than he likes people,” he complained, and Vixen did not correct him,

***

Epona was moulded in obedience. She found honour in the following of instructions, as if she were a well-trained dog. However, she stood beside her chariot with the order to remain there and seethed. Her partner – if she had to refer to him as such – was infuriatingly silent and wearing a similar outfit to her own, as if he deserved to stand in her footprints.

She was a tribute. She did not have the same military requirements that the academy necessitated. She had more freedom in the stable than she had ever been gifted, and she could break a single rule if she wanted to.

Leaving one expectation to fulfil another, Epona turned and marched to the glittering gold chariot of District One. There would be an alliance if the Games were to play out as they did each year, and an earlier meeting would be more beneficial than silence with the volunteering imposter.

“Hello,” she greeted, formal and unannounced. District One were locked in hushed conversation and quiet laughter which ceased when she arrived. They turned to her greeting with hostile eyes. “Epona. District Two.”

She held out a hand. There was a flash of recognition, and the vapid pairing returned to their natural chatter. They were dressed in matching fabric, with identical crowns pinned into their hair. They looked like victors, and Epona considered it presumptuous.

The girl took the offered handshake first. “Sparkle,” she introduced. Epona managed to hide any reaction to her ostentatious name. “Did you grow tired of your partner already?”

“He’s not worthy of much conversation,” answered Epona. The boy took her hand next. He was strong, and she could feel the confidence through his firm grip.

“Ferro,” he said. “You here to work out an alliance? We saw your reaping, but you didn’t give us much to work with.”

“Our actions speak louder than our words.” Epona watched Sparkle closely, seeing the judgement hidden behind the welcoming smile. The tribute was taking in every inch of her competition and visualising herself stood alongside it. Her eyes roved across Epona’s figure even though there was no indication of anything other than friendship in her expression.

“For what it’s worth,” said Sparkle, eventually. “I specialise in axe work and spear, and Ferro is amazing with a sword. You can take that as an offer or as a warning.”

Epona nodded, taking the information for herself. “I’ll offer my specialty if we decided to formally ally. I assume the annual alliance is not set in stone.”

“And you’d know a lot about stone,” joked Ferro. His smile fell when he realised his comment had not landed amongst an appreciative audience. “We’ve been wondering about your partner. We normally ally with Two, but he doesn’t seem as if he’d be much use.”

This was an opportunity. Epona recalled a Games where an unchosen volunteer had represented District Two. Notoriously, the famed alliance had torn him limb from limb during the opening minutes of the Games. “He was not the expected volunteer,” explained Epona, and Sparkle and Ferro both nodded as if they understood. “If we ally, there will be an important conversation about him.”

***

Chanté was bored. When he was bored, he found himself longing to learn something new. There was very little in the stable to capture his attention, and very little that the Capitol was willing to let him learn. Iumenta was perched on high ground, standing on the chariot to offer a commentary that he had very little interest in.

“Four are going to be freezing,” she called. “They’re barely wearing anything, Chanté.”

He did not offer a reply. Instead, he traced the carvings on the wooden exterior of the chariot with a light touch. They depicted different farm animals, alive and frolicking in a rolling meadow. Chanté did not believe it was a fair representation of their export.

His partner continued, becoming an irritating accompaniment to the long wait in the stable. “Eight’s girl is wearing even less. I don’t think she’s even wearing shoes! District Eleven are like trees, but they’re really – oh, the boy’s arm is better!”

Chanté snapped into listening, his attention captured. “What?”

“Wait, it’s not,” corrected Iumenta. “He’s not wearing the cast anymore, though. They’ve put something different on it.”

Poking his head around the side of the chariot, Chanté caught sight of the new contraption on the boy’s arm. It had been disguised beneath the foliage that adorned District Eleven’s outfit, but the boy was still showing it off to his district partner as if he was proud of the new accessory.

It was a rare learning opportunity. Chanté was beside District Eleven’s chariot before realising he had left his own. The tributes eyed him curiously as he made his way to them. When Chanté was within earshot, the boy spoke with a criticising bite. “Didn’t think we were supposed to leave our own station.”

Weakly, Chanté nodded to the cast. “I wanted to see your arm,” he explained, crossing his own arms across his chest. He was met with confusion, so elaborated, “I’m a medic – back in Ten, I mean.”

The explanation calmed the boy, who held out his left arm and pushed aside the foliage which adorned it. The elaborate pattern reminded Chanté of honeycomb, crossing across the boy’s skin and holding the broken wrist in place. He reached out and hesitated, asking permission to touch. The boy nodded. Chanté ran a finger across the raised plastic. “We set bones like you had at your reaping in Ten. I’ve never seen one like this.”

“Pretty neat, right?” grinned the boy. “It’s waterproof and everything.

He stretched his hand to demonstrate, showing Chanté how the broken bone continued to be set in place despite the movement.

“How’d you get it?” asked Chanté, almost jealous.

“Don’t know,” replied the boy. “The Capitol must’ve been feeling generous, or my mentor just called in a favour.”

He tucked his broken wrist back into the improvised sling that hung from his costume, hiding it back behind synthetic leaves. “You said you were a medic?” he asked, and Chanté nodded. “They got you dressed up as a butcher?”

Chanté glanced down at his own outfit, believing that the striped shirt and white apron were designed to represent a butcher but not having seen anyone wear anything similar in District Ten. “I think so,” he settled, with a shrug. “I guess no one would recognise me otherwise.”

The boy shook his head and gestured down at his own clothing. “You ain’t a butcher. I ain’t out in the orchards. They need to do some more research.”

“I think the girl from Five runs a sweet shot,” added Chanté. “When her sister won, they kept calling her Sunnie, sweet as sugar.”

“Doesn’t fit their story though, does it?” The boy tapped a knowing finger to the side of his head as he spoke. There was a gruff shout from around the side of his chariot, and his light-footed district partner returned to take him by the arm and begin to drag him. He laughed as he was taken by force, and offered Chanté a weak wave, adding, “I’ll see you around, doctor!”

***

With Flicker, neither her stylist nor her preparation team had left the Remake Centre unscathed – her nails were as sharp as her tongue. They had wrestled her into her outfit and done the bare minimum to prepare her for the camera. There was one major battle she had lost: Flicker was wearing knee-high black boots with a tall stiletto heel.

“You need to think about your behaviour,” scolded Isaac, but he remained a safe distance from his female tribute. “There are cameras, and your actions are going to reflect badly on Raven.”

“No, keep it up,” muttered Raven. He was perched on the step into their chariot as they waited, grateful that his own boots had flat soles. “You’re making me look like a model citizen by comparison.”

“I don’t give a-“ began Flicker, but she stopped as she met the cold, judgemental stare of a scowling woman. Clara Jacinth approached the chariot, arms folded across her chest. She gave Raven a brief nod, but kept her eyes fixed on the troublesome girl.

“Do you want to die, Flicker?” she asked, without introduction.

With a roll of her eyes, Flicker mimicked the mentor’s stance. “No,” she replied, voice dripping in sarcasm. “I can survive this without those stupid sponsors, if that’s what you’re going to say.”

“We’ve moved beyond sponsors,” explained Clara, with a small shake of her head. She spoke slowly and enunciated everything, as if speaking to a child. “If people don’t like you, they won’t care if you die and the Gamemakers will be free to use you as cannon fodder when the Games are getting boring. You’ll end up as mutt food.”

“I’m not going to prance around like some little performing-“

Clara interrupted. “I’m not asking you to prance around. I am asking you to get in that chariot, keep your mouth shut and stare straight ahead. It’s not my preferred strategy, but at least the Capitol won’t actively want you dead.”

There was a bright fire burning behind Flicker’s eyes, but she bit her tongue. She looked from her mentor to the chariot, to her partner and took each into consideration. When she spoke again, she pointed an accusatory finger at Clara. “I ain’t waving,” she warned. “I ain’t smiling, either. I’ll do it, but I’m not waving or simpering to any of them.”

She turned to the chariot, and Raven left the step to let her board. “Good,” praised Clara. “You do that. I’ll play it off to the crowd as something menacing. They all think you’ve got some fight in you, and I’m beginning to think they’re not too far from the truth.”

***

Mercy waited for her final call. The chariot was built of a shining metal that provided a sharp reflection, and she watched herself in her new uniform. She had grinned with pride at the first opportunity to see herself in a Peacekeeper’s uniform, even if it was only a Capitol facsimile. However, it had faded to a cold glare as her partner appeared in the same outfit.

He was spinning like a child on the floor beside the chariot, enjoying being dressed as his tormentors. “I told my stylist that Thirteen wouldn’t like it,” he called out, making it difficult for Mercy to ignore him. “I wish I could see their faces.”

They were each instructed to hold their helmet rather than wear it, and Eden’s bruised and swollen face was clearly on show. Mercy’s helmet was carefully tucked beneath her arm, but Eden had dropped his to the floor. He picked it up and tossed it haphazardly into the chariot before pulling himself up the step. Mercy edged away from him. “Come on,” he whined, almost begging for her attention. “It’s a costume, Mercy. It’s not like it’s anything serious.”

“It is incredibly serious,” she snapped, stepping as far from the boy as she could in the confines of the chariot. She was pushed against the metal wall, trying to avoid even looking at the boy’s reflection. “You need to work hard to earn this uniform. They can’t just stick it on a… a murderer!”

“Oh, give it up. You know I’ve never successfully killed anyone.” Eden’s laughing tone had faded. He was cold. “We’ll all be murderers in a week, anyway.”

“I’ll never be like you.”

Eden fell silent. Mercy did not trust it, sneaking a glance to catch his expression. He was very skilled at not giving anything away to her. “I get it,” he said, after a short pause. Then, he smirked. “You’re scared of me.”

Mercy gasped, aghast. “I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!” Eden laughed. “Mercy Severn, scared of me. I can’t wait till your father finds out.”

***

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Lucet, jumping up and down on his toes. The young boy could not stand still – he had paced around the chariot three times already and had taken to bouncing to burn off his nervous energy.

Armure was nursing a cruel hangover. Desperately trying to avoid the bright lighting and the constant motion of her young tribute, she hid her face in her hands with a groan. “You need to make yourself memorable,” she instructed, repeating the same answer as the previous five occasions when Lucet had asked. “You need to seem happy to be here.”

“We’re not,” argued Satin, who was not trying to hide her distain for her mentor. She knew Armure well, and trusted her, and felt betrayed that she had turned to the bottle enough to be impacting her mentoring.

The mentor pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “I know you’re not,” she replied, exasperated. “Satin, you know what you’re doing. Act like it.”

Satin made a point of turning her back to her mentor and helped Lucet to take the step into the chariot, pulling herself up after him. It took time for their styling team to carefully drape heavy, fabric capes across their shoulders. Then, they were finally left alone. Lucet mumbled, “this isn’t what I expected the Hunger Games to be.”

“What did you expect?” asked Satin,

He shrugged. “I didn’t think we’d be playing dress up. I thought we’d be sitting around and working out who we need to kill first.”

From her new vantage point, Satin glanced around the stable where the other tributes were being ferried into position. The late-arriving girl from Six was being pushed through gathering crowds to make it to her chariot on time. “That’s useful too,” replied Satin. “Let’s do that. Who do you think we need to kill first?”

Lucet looked to Satin as if she was playing with him, before realising that she was serious. Then, he urgently looked around to try and answer her question correctly. He mumbled, trying to stall for time as he searched. “One. Two?”

“That’s a good start.” Satin nodded in agreement. “Two, I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing.”

“Five?”

“Sunnie didn’t really win by attacking, so I’ll be surprised if that’s her sister’s strategy. Try again.”

Lucet gave in. In a huff, he rested his hands on the front of the chariot. “I don’t know! You’re better at this than I am. Who should we kill?

Satin answered immediately, having spent the evening contemplating her competition when she could not sleep. “Six – he’s smart, and his brother was an offensive player right from the start. Thirteen’s boy because any volunteer is a wildcard. Then, the Capitol because both of theirs will-“

“Even the boy?” interrupted Lucet.

“Yes,” answered Satin, certain. “He’ll have sponsors. We need to take them for ourselves.”

***

Serenity watched as District One’s chariot disappeared through the stable door, the cheering of the crowd outside becoming deafening. She rearranged the stiff, purple skirt of the dress she had been given to wear, privately concerned that the revealing outfit was an insult to the distinguished Gamemaker uniform. At least, she thought, they dressed the boy as an apprentice.

Her partner was stark white, having been styled in the white button-down shirt and pressed trousers of an apprentice. His hair was more vibrant than it had been at their reaping, and it had been curled. He jittered with unexpected nervous energy, and his hair bounced with him.

“Go on, then,” sighed Serenity, hoping that a distracting conversation would stop Azure’s irritating movement. “You have more experience than me. How do I perform in front of an audience like this?”

Azure stopped. He lifted a hand to his mouth, where he anxiously chewed on a polished fingernail. “I don’t know,” he admitted, hanging his head.

“You don’t know?” repeated Serenity, louder. If he had not seemed so pitiful, she would have laughed. “This is what you do, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Azure, but he sounded uncertain. “It’s not like performing on a stage. Anyway, I practice for those performances. No one has told me what to do for this.”

At this, Serenity hid a chuckle under a quick, deep breath. “The Capitol handed you your role on a silver platter and it doesn’t seem as if it as done any good at all,” she replied. Azure’s eyeline was fixed solidly on the floor of the chariot, but Serenity could still see the red blush burning across his cheeks. “You are useless, aren’t you, Azure?”

Chapter Text

[19] Masquerade

District One’s shining chariot began the parade. The awaiting crowd cheered with a deafening roar as it appeared, but mentors were relegated to watching the event on a series of large screens. Gem left his new charges from the Capitol to join his sister, placing an arm around Dazzle’s tense shoulders as they watched the broadcast.

“She’ll be alright,” he reassured, and he pulled his sister into a tight embrace. Sparkle lit up the screen in front of them in her white dress. A golden cape was secured to her wrists with shining thread and moved with her as she waved, like the sunset on a rolling cloud. The recreation of a victor’s crown sat comfortable on her head.

Dazzle was chewing on her painted nails. It was a habit that developed during her own Games, and she had not been able to shake it. Her usual confidence was a quiet anxiety, betrayed by a soft attempt at explaining, “I just want them to like her.”

On camera, Sparkle was waving to the audience with a practiced hand. She was radiant with a bright smile, dancing to the sound of her name in the echoing cheers. “She’s a victor,” stressed Gem, “just like you and me.”

***

There was a large, cheering crowd in the courtyard of District One’s Justice Building, but Alyssa Revere had the seat of honour. She was amongst the mayor, and the famed family of the female tribute. There was no private celebration; she kept one eye on the screen, and another on the flashing red light of a Capitol camera.

When Ferro appeared, she jumped from her chair. “That’s him!” she cried, pointing at the screen. “That’s him! That’s my brother!”

He stood tall in the chariot, with a golden cape leaving his muscular chest and arms on display to the city. A white loin cloth covered his modesty, barely. There was no opportunity for teasing, as Alyssa’s childlike cheer was met with applause and laughter across the gathered crowd.

The camera was beckoned closer by her excitement, so Alyssa welcomed it by taking her father’s hand and pulling him into the celebration. “It’s Ferro!” she cried again, and her father gave a short laugh and a long hug in response. Alyssa hid her sly grin in her father’s jacket. Her memorable performance was being broadcast across Panem.

***

Deliberately, Icarus Shale avoided the celebration at the plateau. Instead, he watched the opening ceremony alone. He scowled as he sorted his new uniform. It was not his destiny to be a Peacekeeper – he belonged in the chariot beside Epona.

At the sight of their elaborately carved chariot, bitterness rolled in his stomach without pause. Epona stood straight, with her head high and without the frivolous posing that District One had fallen for. Her dress was stiff like her movement, with a tulle skirt that fell from her waist and ended at her fingertips. The bodice was tight. The boots were high. Icarus knew how to decipher the neutral expression of his partner, and she was uncomfortable.

Icarus glared at the screen, jealousy beginning to eat through his attempt at acceptance. The crowd cheered her name, but Epona did not acknowledge them. She looked forward and across them, as if she had already won.

***

Pedro Marin-Cortez was unfamiliar with the opening ceremony. Previously, he allowed the mandatory broadcasts to be a part of the background noise that came with being confined to Panem. For his son, he sat in front of the flickering screen and hardly dared to blink.

His landlady, Beryl, placed a chipped mug of warm tea in front of him. “They’ll be in chariots,” she warned, taking a seat for herself on a separate chair. District Two were treating the Marin-Cortez family as if they were the dust on the bottom of their work boot, but she refused to follow. “They have a stylist, so he’ll look different to what he did here. You shouldn’t worry about it. They need to get those sponsors, you see.”

“There he is,” whispered Pedro softly, as the screen focused on District Two’s chariot. Leon was a head shorter than his partner, and his costume had been designed for someone who would fill it with muscle and potential. He wore the reflective mining jacket tied around his waist rather than across his small shoulders and it succeeded in giving him a boyish charm that the Capitol cheered for.

“He knows what to do,” praised Beryl, as she watched the boy grin and wave to the people that met him with delight rather than vitriol. He was glowing against his stone-faced partner.

***

It was a silent meal at the Community Home. The House Mother had moved their old, cracked screen into the tight dining room. It sat on an upturned crate as the group of children attempted to eat a meal together. The food tasted like cardboard, and Kinnie could not stomach it.

She ran her fork through her food, creating a pattern but never lifting it to her mouth. Her watering eyes were fixed on the screen, where District Three’s chariot had made its first impression.

“That’s our girl!” announced the House Mother, forcing pride through pain. Kinnie stared as her friend waved shyly into the crowd with a bemused grin. They waved back and welcomed her.

She wore her favourite colour. Isabel’s dress was constructed of shining, dark green pieces that were painted in gold like a circuit board. It moved like the soft material in the outfit she had envied on reaping morning and fell longer at her back, draping across the chariot’s floor. An antenna-like headpiece brushed Isabel’s hair from her face.

Isabel seemed enamoured with her dress, constantly running her fingers across the fabric in between excited waving. Kinnie dreamed of a different opportunity for her friend to have worn it.

***

Tesla was three penalty marks into a wire-sorting shift. His desk partner – Violet Kennedy – was infuriatingly silent, and the money from the overtime shift seemed far less important than it once had. He wanted to be grateful for the brief break they were offered. Instead, it was given to watch the mandatory viewing on the factory’s large screen. Tesla was not allowed to look away.

His boy was glowing. Azazel’s tight jacket was the same colour as the wiring, and his skin must have been dusted with metal as his face had the same shine. There was a strange antenna perched atop his head which bounced with the movement of the chariot. Tesla enjoyed a brief spark of happiness at seeing his boy, before the familiar boredom of the factory shift returned. Then, it was suddenly overshadowed by a gnawing, sick feeling that spread from his stomach.

Azazel played with the crowd as if they were a toy. He waved, and winked, and blew kisses to the ostentatiously dressed women who cheered his name. He flashed them a familiar smile as they shouted. He acted as he did with Tesla, for women who meant nothing to him.

***

“They must be cold,” murmured River, his voice trembling. Cove and Sennen – his baby brother and sister – stood together on the chariot draped in old fishing nets, with only their modesty concealed beneath opaque material.

Sennen wore a navy swimming suit, with a tight-fitting top and a short skirt. Around her neck, there was a fishnet cape that was artistically draped with seaweed. It fell across her should and was tied in a sailing knot. She suited her costume, with a body toned and tanned by a lifetime in the water. River was able to see the worry floating beneath the confident grin plastered on her face.

On the other hand, Cove was sinking in on himself like a wrecking ship. He tried his best with a wave but kept an arm crossed self-consciously across his chest as he wore netting in place of a shirt, with only tight-fitting underwear to protect his modesty. River watched him shiver but could not tell if it was fear or temperature.

“They’re fifteen, for Panem’s sake,” complained their mother. She shook her head in a violent disapproval that sent her shawl falling from her shoulder until River leaned over and twitched it back into place. On the screen, his younger brother and sister held hands, barely.

***

There was a carriage hastily coupled to the usual route of a coal train, provided so Sunnie could join her sister in the Capitol. For company, the mentor had a single avox and a large screen which sat on the wall opposite her bed. It was impossible to ignore, having turned itself on at the beginning of the mandatory broadcast. She had managed to silence the sound.

In the growing night, District Five’s chariot glowed. Fern was dressed in a short dress of light blue and grey satin, held together with a string of twinkling lights. They ran into a corseted top which emphasised her chest and exposed her arms. Her hair was in two braids alongside a familiar white ribbon.

The screen showed the crowd, and Fern’s name was clear on their lips despite the silence. She met their cheering with her polite demeanour as if they were customers: she grinned, she waved, and she offered everything they wanted from her. The outfit left little to the imagination. Sunnie knew why, and she ran from the carriage to be sick.

***

The Capitol demanded footage of celebration in District Five, to accompany the story of a victor mentoring her sister. Raiden tried to oblige, forcing himself to smile when the large, provided screen showed his brother in the chariot.

Solar taught him that the Games were predictable and often won on performance, and Raiden was determined to play at his best. His brother’s survival depended on sponsorships which could be earned from the broadcast. It was easy to draw attention to him, as Solar was dressed in a radiant suit that shone like his partner’s dress. The stylist had played with his age, making him seem older until he was the type of attractive that the Capitol liked to root for. He hardly looked like the crying boy who had said goodbye to Raiden in the Justice Building, but it did not matter.

Forcing a wide-eyed grin, Raiden pointed to the screen. “Look!” he cried, pulling on his mother’s hand as if she could have missed the glowing chariot. “It’s him, mama! It’s really him!”

***

It was raining, and Volvo should have already given up and returned to a dry bedroom. His delivery had failed to arrive at the station, but the platform had a distant view of the large screen, erected especially for the broadcast of the Games. He was so fixated on the opening ceremony that he did not notice his hair was dripping down his face.

Dakota was beautiful. He skin was still sallow with a yellow undertone that the camera enhanced. Her eyes were still too large. Her hands were trembling as she tried to hold on to the chariot. She did not seem to notice the crowd and stared straight ahead. Despite everything, Volvo adored her.

The Capitol understood her strength. She wore a floor length gown in a rough, black fabric painted with the road markings which barked instructions to vehicles. There was a high slit that exposed her upper-thigh, and the camera lingered on her pale skin. Her hair was washed and straightened but otherwise untouched, and the make-up was the dark, sultry colouring that Volva liked to see on his girl. He regretted letting her slip through his fingers.

***

Camden swore under his breath at the sight of District Six’s chariot. His father nudged him with a cruel elbow. “You’re on air,” he hissed, nodding to the small camera which had been sent to capture District Six’s reaction to the ceremony. The gathered crowd was limited to trusted merchant families, and the heavy rain had driven the majority of them indoors. Camden did not have a choice. As the mayor’s son, he needed to be there.

He tried to push the memory of the reaping away, like it had been a bad dream. The ceremony was a cruel reminder of what could not be forgotten. They did not speak about Saori in their classes, and there was no whisper of him in the school yard. However, he was there on the chariot and waving to the audience as if he had practiced.

It was a competition, and Saori was winning. He had a natural smile, but beamed when he noted people in the crowd roaring his or his brother’s name. Against his silent partner, he shone. There were familiar road markings physically inked on to his skin, leaving him dressed in a plain black t-shirt that he still managed to turn into a spectacular costume.

The commentating voices complimented him. The crowd roared for him. District Six clapped for their tributes on the screen, and Camden reluctantly joined in.

***

The studio was lit by the cool glow of a small screen, sitting in its new home atop the piano. Sylvia refused to join her husband for the ceremony, not wanting to face a crowd who longed for a strong, leading couple to shout in support. Instead, she needed to be alone and in the place which should have been filed with music and the sound of soft, dancing feet.

Ilara was wearing a tutu. Sylvia laughed when she saw it, choking on the sound as it echoed around the dark, empty studio. Her student stood with practiced poise, with a skirt sewn of stiff leaves and twigs. It barely fit within the confines of the chariot. Ilara was beautiful, with a crown of forgotten foliage and a soft smile to the crowd and cameras that welcomed her.

Sylvia rested on her piano, wincing at the mismatch of major and minor notes that drowned the cheering. She mourned what she had lost.

***

At his order, Killen’s logging mill stopped working during the broadcast of the opening ceremony. The rarely used screen from the canteen was moved and switched on, and the gathered workers spilled into the garage. A broken vehicle waited there for someone to fix it.

There was no longer a secret: the mill’s mechanic was thirteen, as the broadcast continued to remind them through incessant commentary during the parade. “Turn the damned voices off,” cried one loud worker. Killen obliged.

Acacia seemed small, with his wooden stool to reach the engine of each logging truck. On the chariot, he seemed smaller. He was dressed like the autumn ground, with a jacket of yellow, orange, and red leaves. He was not practiced in hiding his infamous sullen nature, but he did try. He waved at the crowd, he met the camera with his eyes, and he smiled, occasionally.

The mill cheered for him. They were led in their celebration by their owner, with Killen responsible for the loudest voice. Privately, no one believed he stood a chance.

***

Biting anxiously at his lip until he tasted blood, Cotton watched the screen. He was designated to the tribute pairing from District Five, but he rooted for District Eight. There was a car arriving to take each mentor to the Tribute Centre for the end of the parade, but he needed to know that Satin was safe before he made the journey.

Armure joined him when she noticed the broadcast was focusing on her tributes. She looked exhausted with dark shadows cast across her face, her own styling having taken second place. “I tried to make Cornelia put a proper outfit on her,” muttered Armure, bitterly. “They wouldn’t listen to me. They said she’d get more sponsors this way.”

“They’re right,” replied Cotton, through gritted teeth.

Satin was barely dressed. She wore a pair of white, lacy underwear that covered anything her stylist deemed important. The costume’s brightest feature was a patchwork robe made of every type of fabric that their stylist could source, bathing the tribute in colour. It filled the chariot with District Eight’s industry as the confident, waving girl from the reaping returned and played the audience like they were a game.

In a hushed voice, Armure added, “I had to fight them to make sure Lucet was covered.”

***

Tartan was surrounded by schoolwork, but he was not completing it. He sat on the floor with his legs growing numb, watching the flickering screen. His mother was at the factory, and he was no longer allowed to stay with his aunt. Instead, he was alone.

When Lucet appeared, Tartan stared at him. His cousin seemed nervous, standing with stiff legs, and clinging to the side of the vehicle. It was clear that he was meant to be nearly nude like his partner. His age or size – Tartan could not tell which – had resulted in a last-minute addition of an oversized, white t-shirt and shorts of stiff denim. His fabric robe drowned him.

As he watched, Tartan absent-mindedly chewed on the pen the school loaned him to finish his writing. He felt the brittle plastic cut into his lip and tongue as the pen shattered. He jumped from his fixation on the screen as blue ink exploded across his face and hand. When he looked back, the Capitol had already grown bored of Lucet, and he was no longer being shown.

***

There was a meagre meal set on the dining table, although no one was eating. Enya had no stomach for food as she waited for her daughter, and the hospitality of her brother and his family extended to waiting for her to begin.

“She doesn’t have to try too hard to stand out against the boy, at least,” commented Gwendolyn, in a tone that fell short of reassuring. Enya looked from the screen long enough to glare at her niece.

“She will be fine,” she replied in a shaking voice. She turned back as the screen began to show District Nine’s chariot rolling out of the stable. Enya reached for her brother’s hand. “If they have made her look beautiful, she will be fine.”

Amity’s formal gown was construct of wheat stalks, flowing as if they were waving in a field’s breeze when she moved. They looked softer than any fabric District Nine could offer. The jewellery was gold, and accented by a golden tiara which held her hair in a twisted braid. She did not scream, shout, or jump. Instead, she was regal: she acknowledged those that knew her name with a polite smile. Enya watched her daughter closely, and Amity seemed a different girl to the one who had worn her reaping dress.

***

“There,” announced Kit, although she did not point to the screen in excitement. Her comment was monotone and punctuated with a glare, as if the people on the screen were going to emerge and bite her. She was sat on the floor rather than on a chair beside her grandmother, tired of the snapping, scathing comments that had filled their conversations since the reaping. “He’s there, see?”

“I doubt he had much of a choice,” replied her grandmother, sharing the unimpressed tone. Vixen stood on the chariot: it was a small miracle, and both had doubted he would appear on camera at all. He did not perform to the audience. Instead, his face was covered by one hand as another fought to hold on.

Vixen was dressed to match his partner, although the outfit was far too big for him and the jacket swallowed him in wheat stalks. “He’s not going to win any sponsors dressed like that,” his grandmother complained. “They’ve let him down.”

Privately, Kit agreed with her. She recognised the heaving of her brother’s chest as he sobbed, with his tears being broadcast to the whole country. “He wasn’t going to win a sponsor anyway,” she complained, bitterly. There was no polite way to voice it: her brother did not cope with making people like him.

It did not matter to their grandmother. To her, the Games were a competition to win, and Vixen should have been trying his best. She had already scolded her granddaughter for the behaviour at the reaping. However, she shook her head at the screen and spoke softly, “he shouldn’t be having to do this.”

***

Kasabian was sat in the school auditorium, surrounded by people who had only offered him kindness and compassion since his sister left. It was not sincere, but he was grateful that the whispered comments made at his expense had stopped as he walked through the school’s corridors.

The screen was large, and impossible to hide from. He was forced to watch as hiding his face behind his hands would prove he was a coward. Kasabian was stiff and unmoving, like a corpse.

“You okay?” asked a mousey-looking girl in front of him.

“I’m just fine,” replied Kasabian through tightly gritted teeth. He almost convinced himself.

Iumenta was a butcher. The costume suited her, although the Capitol’s interpretation of the profession was far whiter than any clothing in District Ten. Kasabian did not complain, as he had seen enough blood for a lifetime. His sister’s dress and apron were shorter than expected, her hair was tied in two, thick braids, and she held an axe as if she knew what to do with it.

The auditorium cheered out of duty rather than support. Kasabian knew they received gifts if their tribute won. Otherwise, they would be happy to see the back of Iumenta.

***

“A butcher,” lamented Casco. The screen had been brought into his surgery, allowing him to watch the broadcast as he cleaned his table. His wife, Marietta, was stomaching the sight and scent of blood to be there with him. “They have him dressed up as a butcher!”

“They need to make him recognisable,” comforted Marietta. “It’s for the best. It’s what we’re known for."

Casco found more force to put into his scrubbing, attacking his worktable with a cloth and a strong mixture of bleach and water. The old blood was turning the rag brown. “A butcher, Mari. They want him to be a monster. They’ve dressed him like one!”

Marietta left her chair and, braving the blood, placed an arm over her husband’s shoulders. “He’s just going to do what he needs to do to win,” she reassured. “Then, he’ll never do it again."

***

Susette did not succeed in hiding her tears from her youngest child. Thatch stumbled to her, pulling on her skirt. Keeping her focus on the screen, she picked him up and settled him in her apron. Thatch did not want to settle. Instead, she reached upwards and tried to wipe at the tears which littered his mother’s face.

There was something boiling on the stove. It would be overcooked, but she did not care. “There,” she whispered, pointing her youngest to the screen sat on the kitchen counter. “There, Thatch. There’s your sister.”

Thatch was distracted, which allowed Susette to pull her sleeve over her hand and pat her face dry. Alder was waving, smiling to the crowd in the Capitol like she smiled at the orchard owner when she wanted to take home a bruised apple. She was styled as if she grew in the orchard where she worked: a bodice of green foliage, a skirt built of stiff bark, and both adorned with crisp, red apples which studded the costume like jewels. There were branches in her hair arranged like a crown. Susette found herself drying her eyes again, as her little girl was beautiful.

***

In the ring, the evening’s performance was delayed. The audience were greeted by a large sheet strung between rickety wooden poles, and a projector which had been donated by the mayor. It allowed the mandatory broadcast to be shown to everyone in the tent.

The circus performers were sat in the sand and transfixed on the broadcast. The audience each held a programme with a notice that the show would commence following the ceremony, and a hastily inserted appeal for sponsorship funds. “That’s our boy!” shouted Koru, to loud applause, when District Eleven’s chariot finally came into view.

Inari’s showmanship was on full display in the Capitol parade, as he waved and laughed and joked. There were people in the crowd who had taken the time to learn his name. He included his partner in the celebration, carefully pointing the young girl to the people who knew her name too.

Koru laughed at the outfit, which was themed on an orchard – he was certain the troublesome boy had never stepped foot in one. The fitted shirt was a collection of green leaves, with trousers resembling bark and a headpiece of branches and acorns. They even styled his sling: Inari’s broken arm was held by a hanging vine, which Koru was certain would never be found in a District Eleven tree.

The crowd in the tent cheered louder than the crowd in the Capitol. District Eleven found comradery in the Hunger Games, and those with spare coins were trying to make every show to donate their ticket’s cost to a meagre sponsorship collection. Koru would try anything – he wanted his aerialist back.

***

Lizbeth held her daughter gently, rocking her to sleep in the dim, flickering light. Her boy, Scuttle, placed an arm around her but it did not offer much comfort. “I can take Misty for a wander outside,” he offered, awkwardly. “You know, if you want to be by yourself for a little bit.”

Shaking her head, Lizbeth settled herself against her partner’s chest. “It’s alright,” she murmured, waiting impatiently for her friend to appear. “I just want her to try, is all. I know she doesn’t want people to know she cares about this sort of thing, but she can’t give up.”

“Well, you know what she’s like,” warned Scuttle, trailing off as the camera found Flicker. She was scowling. There was no interaction between herself and the audience, as her hands were firmly planted on the front of the chariot and her eyes were fixed straight ahead.

The outfit was scarce. Flicker wore a tight-fitting corset that pushed her chest up, and a short, black skirt over a pair of stockings that criss-crossed up her legs. There was a miner’s helmet perched on her head with the light turned on.

Scuttle burst out laughing. He tried to stop when Lizbeth sat up and glared at him, but he could not. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, through a breathy chuckle. “It’s just – well, look at her, Liz. Do they think we go down the mines dressed like that?”

Glancing back at the screen, Lizbeth took in the outfit and Flicker’s initial impression. A small smile spread across her face at the image of the miners heading to work in black, stiletto boots.

***

“Up,” whispered Etta, waking Jackdaw from his nap on the old sacks behind the stall. The Hob was emptier than usual, with mandatory viewing keeping people in their houses, but there were some regular customers littering the warehouse. Etta was hoping that someone would trade her liquor – they had found that tiny quantities of it helped ease Jackdaw’s chest so he could sleep.

The young boy pulled himself to his feet. His rattling breath shook his chest. “Is it him?” he asked, sleep scratching at the edge of his voice.

“Almost,” answered Etta. She handed Jackdaw a chipped mug of warm water and he drank it thirstily. The liquid nearly set him coughing, but she gave him a hard hit on the back. In her skirt, she hid a pouch of coins which had been thrown at her by the escort before the train pulled away. He told her to take the boy to a doctor. She was still too proud to follow the instruction.

Their screen was a gift from another seller, a one-eyed man called Derrick who decided he could afford sympathy. It was small and cracked, but Jackdaw gasped when his brother appeared on it.

Raven was dressed in a tight, all-black ensemble that left very little to the imagination. “He doesn’t dress like that,” scowled Jackdaw, trying to recognise the boy who raised him in the strange figure on the screen.

“The Capitol’ll like it though,” replied Etta. She was not impressed with the costume, but Raven was making the best of it through hesitant interaction with the crowd. “They like that sort of thing. He’s got to convince them, so they’ll sponsor him.”

“And if they sponsor him, he can come back?” asked Jackdaw.

He stared at the screen as Etta busied herself with rearranging her stock. “Yeah. Something like that, Jack.”

***

District Thirteen had a screen erected in their large central atrium, but it rarely gathered a crowd. Hugo stood alone as he watched it. He wore his uniform despite not being on duty, as he was granted a time of compassionate leave during the Hunger Games. He spent as much of his time buried in work as the mayor would allow.

His eyes widened when Mercy appeared, dressed in a similar uniform to his own. The Capitol did not recognise the specifics of Peacekeeper insignia, but their job was to create an illusion, and they did that effectively. He was glad of the opportunity to see his daughter in the clothing she had worked hard for.

The stylist had achieved what Mercy never could: her curling hair was tamed and forced into two neat braids. She wore make-up – not a usual feature of the uniform – which aged her, giving her a knowing look. She looked over the crowd as if they were beneath her, before turning back to staring straight ahead.

Then, the camera cut. The screen showed an overarching view of District Thirteen’s chariot, with both of their tributes dressed in the same outfit. Suddenly, his daughter was not Hugo’s concern. The traitor was making a mockery of his uniform.

***

The screen in the stable had gathered a large collection of watching mentors. Hadrian was on the edge of the group but fixated on the broadcast. He did not notice as Faustus, Eden’s stylist, positioned himself silently beside him.

“I know you’re concerned with your children,” he murmured, jolting Hadrian from his focus. The mentor glanced quickly at the stylist before returning to the screen, gesturing for him to continue. “I decided it would be better to talk in the stable, where people are distracted, and it is harder for…something to hear us.”

“Everything alright?” Hadrian asked, but he hardly paid attention. Eden – luckily – was following every instruction he had been given. He glanced at the crowd with the wide-eyed wonder of a child, waving wildly at anyone who cheered for him. He looked happy to be there. The kid was a fantastic actor,

“Not entirely, no,” continued Faustus. The camera focused on other chariots as it waited for the Capitol’s finale, allowing Hadrian time to look away from it. Eden had listened to him. He had not exploded. It was going to be alright.

Behind his make-up, Faustus was pale. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening to them before speaking. “The boy,” he murmured, lowering his voice further. “He has a bird inked on his right shoulder blade. A mockingjay, I believe.”

Hadrian cursed loudly, but no one turned to look at him. They were too distracted by the parade.

***

Cosmos watched the parade from the balcony of his apartment. It was difficult to see from the dizzying height, so he had moved a screen to the coffee table. He had a drink in his hand. It was his third of the evening.

He should have been there. Instead, he was wearing pyjamas and watching alone whilst his sister was given the celebration. He could hear the cheer from the watching crowds as the Capitol’s glittering chariot made its grand entrance. It was the loudest of the evening. Cosmos finished his drink in one large swallow.

They were dressed as Gamemakers. It was as if the stylists knew and wanted to pack Cosmos’ wounds with salt. It was far from the formal uniform – the robe was more of a dress, although it was made in the traditional thick, purple fabric. It only fell to Serenity’s mid-thigh, which was short enough to show off the ridiculous heels that they expected her to stand in as the chariot was moving.

There was some entertainment to it. Cosmos found himself chuckling into his empty glass when his screen focused on Serenity’s face. It was clear she detested the outfit as much as he did, and there was no attempt from her to hide it. His sister acted as if the whole event was beneath her – which, for all consideration, it was.

***

The car stopped beside the Tribute Centre, and Infinity climbed out with a hastily murmured comment of gratitude to the driver. She burst through a door, took the staircase rather than wait for an elevator to arrive, and clattered across the basement floor in her heels. She had not missed them. She let herself breath.

As an escort, she needed to greet her tributes after President Dux’s speech that formally opened the Games. However, her car had arrived at the same time as her tributes were rolled out in their chariot. She was able to catch the final half of their debut on the screen provided in the waiting room. The crowd was deafening, and she took each shout and cheer as a positive sign. The camera loved her charges as well. Serenity was choosing to not to wave, solidifying her reputation as a dignified young student. Azure, on the other hand, knew exactly how to capture attention.

He was a different person to the boy Infinity had left in the stable. In an all-white outfit of a formal shirt and shorts, he was dressed as an apprentice Gamemaker. He identified every single camera, every cheering person in the audience, and every potential sponsor. He waved, and smiled, and shouted to them, practically jumping up and down in the chariot to steal the attention in the glowing evening. He was a perfect representative for Panem’s centre of entertainment.

Chapter Text

[20] Compulsory

“Here you go, you gambler,” called Cotton, as Solar sleepily found his way to the breakfast table. He threw a thick bundle of paper to his tribute’s seat, and Solar investigated it as he sat. The bundle was tied together with a thick string.

“What is this?” he asked, scanning the pages as he reached across for a plate of sweet pastries. He took a bite without moving it to his plate first, trying to read the small font between the knot. “Is it important?”

“They published the first odds after the ceremony,” explained Cotton. He nudged Solar to untie the papers. “Now, most people are going to be seeing the daily odds on screens across the city. They might flutter a few coins here and there. But people who think themselves to be true gamblers buy all the papers and track everything and wager everything they’ve got on their victor. You’re a true gambler, aren’t you?”

Solar nodded, half-listening. The string fell from the paper, and he spread them out across the table, filling his breakfast with tables, charts and numbers that were beginning to make sense to him. He took another bite of his pastry before putting it on the tablecloth so that he could search with both hands. “How do they decide these?” he asked, in awe, as he ran his fingers across the busy pages.

Cotton shrugged. “They’ve never said. First impressions, I suppose. They’ll change throughout training, and then after the interviews and during the Games as well. What do you think of them?”

The main information was contained in a table on the first page of the collection. Solar muttered each number under his breath as he read, skipping across from tribute to tribute.

The sheet looked similar to the odds he had bet on in District Five, although each number now had a name. He took in his own with a scowl, wishing for it to be higher.

“I asked when I bought them this morning,” continued Cotton. “Azure’s odds will come out later. His father works in the betting department, so they’re keeping him out of it until they can guarantee it’s all been calculated fairly.”

Solar had no money to bet. There was no one who would take his wager. He already had a betting slip folded and placed in his pocket for safe keeping. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

Cotton raised an eyebrow. “Use it,” he explained. “The Capitol control these Games, so we can start using their own information to work out their narrative.”

***

Azazel detested many different things about the Capitol. However, he begrudgingly accepted that they could bake a good cake. At the breakfast table, he ate his way through three small muffins, each studded with fruit. It seemed to be the only food he could eat with his hands without the escort’s tense comments about acceptable table manners.

He slipped a muffin onto Isabel’s plate. The young girl gave him a genuine smile, searching for sweetness between the rashers of bacon and cuts of spiced sausage that Cybus was forcing her to eat. “To fatten you up,” he said, through a drunken haze which was almost impressive for the time of day. “Our boy has some muscle on him, at least. You’re lighter than the wind, Issy. Get that down you.”

“You don’t want to be sick during training through,” warned Azazel. Isabel nodded at every instruction she was given, agreeing with both sides. When Cybus turned to summon a silent servant for another drink, she slipped her sausage onto Azazel’s plate as quick as the moving air.

Cybus’ voice was thick with liquor. “Now, I want you at each other’s side for the whole day,” he instructed when he had a glass in hand. “Turns out, those Four twins hate each other’s guts, so the Capitol’ll eat up your little brother and sister act.”

Isabel relented. She picked a rasher of bacon up with her hands and nibbled it like a squirrel. “Do you want us to train with weapons?”

“Nah,” answered Cybus, lazily. He shook his head. “There’s no point to that. The others could kill you with a swift kick if they really want to. Azazel, we’ll work something out for you eventually, but I want you both at survival stations.”

The mentor swirled the liquid around in his glass, watching it crawl up the side before finishing it in one, final swallow. He slammed the empty glass back onto the table and belched loudly. “One more thing,” he added, pointing at Isabel, and ignoring how she shrunk in her chair. “You got to pay attention to them compulsory ones. They’re always tied into the arena. Work out how.”

***

Eden and Mercy were kept together as they exited the elevator into the training gymnasium. Hadrian escorted his tributes to the floor himself, keeping a tight hand on Eden’s shoulder but allowing Mercy to walk by herself. They were early, but they were not first: the steady, confident voice of the Capitol’s girl floated across the empty gym and through the wide corridor as they arrived.

Under his hand, Hadrian felt Eden grow tense. He followed the young boy’s steady glare. There was a Peacekeeper standing at the entrance, gun in hand and helmet obscuring any opportunity to read their face. “Head up,” he muttered, and his tribute followed the instruction immediately. “They’re like wolves, Eden. They smell fear. They feast on it.”

Eden forced himself to look away from the guard, and deliberately avoided staring at the legion of Peacekeepers guarding all entrances and exits within the gymnasium. Mercy, on the other hand, took a lingering look at each white uniform and determined the rank of each guard by the small differences. “They must think we’re dangerous,” she mentioned half-heartedly, as she caught sight of a particularly promoted soldier. Eden raised an eyebrow but did not rise to the deliberate comment.

The gymnasium was light and open, with a complicated rope course strung across the ceiling above them. Zenobia Maeve, the Head Trainer, stood on a podium in the centre of the floor. Her outfit was cut to show the tapestry of inked pictures running across her left arm. Mercy recognised a sword, an axe, a spear – all remnants of previous victors that Zenobia had trained.

“Zenobia,” interrupted Hadrian, stealing her conversation for himself from across the gym. The trainer was locked in a conversation with the Capitol’s girl as they waited, but she quickly turned to face the approaching tributes. “I have Mercy and Eden here. Look after them, won’t you?”

“Hadrian!” greeted Zenobia. Her serious scowl broke to a welcoming grin. “Glad to see you, and you’re on time this year! I can’t wait to see what these two are like.”

The black-haired girl from the Capitol made no attempt to hide her judgemental eye. Eden met her glare as she looked him over from head to toe, as if surveying a meal. In response, Eden gently nudged Mercy’s hand so they could stare her down as a partnership until their mentor patted them on the back and urged them forward to the trainer.

“Mercy, she’s a ‘keeper’s daughter,” he introduced, poking Mercy in the back until she managed a small smile. “She’s very well trained. You’ll absolutely love her, Zenobia. And then, Eden – well, he’s a little bit of a wildcard but he’s incredibly bright and-“

“Is he safe without handcuffs?” interrupted the Capitol’s girl. There was a bite in her tone rather than curiosity, and Hadrian tightened his grip on Eden’s shoulder. There was a fire growing behind the tribute’s steel eyes, but Eden listened to his mentor. He wore the personality that had been given to him.

“Perfectly safe,” he replied, with a laugh as if the girl had been joking. Her face betrayed that she had not. “They were just a precaution for the reaping, which I’m sure you understand. I have an almost fully trained Peacekeeper with me at all times, anyway.”

He gestured to Mercy, who managed to hide her own scowl in favour of playing along with Eden’s story. “You’re a Gamemaker, aren’t you?” she asked, holding out a hand to shake. “I didn’t catch your name on the broadcast.”

“Serenity,” introduced the girl. She reluctantly returned the handshake; her skin was as cold as old iron and seemed just as strong. “I’m still in training, like you. I do know the Games very well, though.”

Despite his forced politeness, Eden did not bother with the handshake. “You’ll have to teach me someday. I haven’t been able to catch them for a while, for obvious reasons.”

“Where’s your partner?” asked Mercy before Serenity could rile Eden further.

Serenity waved vaguely behind her. The blue-haired boy was sat on the floor, staring straight ahead with no focus in his eyes and absent-mindedly retying his shoelaces. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about him,” Serenity explained, lowering the volume of her voice so she would not be overheard. “I did wonder if he might be better at this. I mean, I understand the Games but playing them relies on an audience so heavily, I thought he had an advantage, but he’s spending the entire time being absolutely miserable.”

***

Chanté had not slept well. Judging by the purple shadows ringing her eyes, neither had Iumenta. Their mentor shoved them inside the elevator, and they had silently agreed to face the day together.

There was a soft chime as the elevator reached the basement. When the door opened, Iumenta did not step into the corridor. “Let’s go,” coaxed Chanté, gently. She followed his voice like a lost lamb following a shepherd.

It was a short walk to the larger gymnasium, which opened up from the narrow corridor as if it was the horizon. The gathering tributes were waiting in the centre of the space, sitting and standing around Zenobia Maeve on her podium. Iumenta mumbled something as they wandered closer, but her hand was tearing at the skin of her lip and stifling her sound.

“What did you say?” asked Chanté, and Iumenta took a deep breath before replying.

“It looks like the cornucopia.”

With a second look at the growing crowd, Chanté saw what his partner saw: Zenobia was the horn, and the gathered tributes were ready to run. “I’ll be fine,” reassured Iumenta, as Chanté’s quiet breath caught in his throat. She lowered her hand and although her lips were bleeding, she refused to seek comfort in her partner. “I know you don’t want to stand with me.”

“I don’t mind standing with you,” tried Chanté. Iumenta set off at a steady pace before she heard his comment, scouting a position on the edge of the growing circle. Chanté was left alone and scrambling to find his own position in the gymnasium. He sidled to the edge nearest the corridor.

There was a sallow-faced girl with wild black hair who strolled to stand next to him. She muttered curses underneath her breath, and Chanté winced at her language: it was not used in District Ten, except by the rough farm hands his mother had warned him to stay away from. When he snuck a glance, her arms were crossed so tightly across her chest they seemed to dig into her skin. She noticed his glancing.

“What are you looking at?” she hissed, eyebrows knitting together.

Chanté took a step away. “Nothing,” he mumbled, and this placated her.

He looked away, catching the eye of another tribute who was smirking at his predicament. When he noticed he had been seen, the boy’s grin fell. The scowl brought a sudden familiarity, as Chanté recognised the boy from Seven. “Good morning!” he greeted, forcing brightness into his voice despite the early start to the day.

There was silence between them, Then, eventually, the boy answered, “is it?” His feet were turned out like a bird, and purple shadowed his eyes in a way that rivalled Chanté’s own face.

“Well, no,” replied Chanté. “However, we seem to have an increasingly small number of mornings left, so it seemed a polite thing to say.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “You speak funny.”

“And you’re shorter than you seemed on the screen,” retorted Chanté, before realising the biting tone the comment had taken on.

The boy laughed. It was an unpleasant, nasally laugh of mockery rather than joy but it did return the smile that brightened the boy’s face. “Gee, thanks for the reminder.”

Zenobia turned as the circle filled. She tapped a small screen which was strapped to her wrist, the incessant sound breaking through the quiet, stilted conversation of the tributes. She glanced at it as if it would bite her, scowling, before stepping away from her podium. Chanté noted that she was also shorter than she appeared on the screen.

“District Nine,” she called, as she searched through the crowd. “I’ve seen District Nine’s girl, haven’t I? Where’s your partner?”

Chanté watched across the crowd as a taller girl raised her hand. It was high and it was straight, but there was a slight tremble to her arm that showed she was feigning confidence she did not feel. When Zenobia turned to her, she took a deep breath before lowering her hand. “He’s refused to come to training,” she explained, her hands twisting together in front of her. “Jonah is trying, and he’ll bring him down when he can.”

Zenobia scowled. “Training is compulsory.”

She turned and strode back to her podium. As she walked, Chanté heard the boy beside him stifle a mumble. He looked across and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s hardly going to help him, even if he does turn up,” repeated the boy, almost bitterly.

His memory failed Chanté again. The confusion was visible, as the boy from Seven gave a sigh. “The tiny one,” he elaborated. “You know, even smaller than me.”

Chanté remembered, and he agreed.

***

The training started in the sky.

“We want to see your climbing ability,” instructed Zenobia, talking her tributes through the high rope course that was strung through the ceiling. “Working at a height is severely underestimated in the arena. If you can climb, you are able to escape.”

Sparkle tilted her head back until she was glaring straight up. The course swam in her watering vision: five obstacles, ten metres in the air, and with only a single net to catch those who fell. She was glad that her sister had forced her up the rope on the morning of the reaping.

Zenobia continued. “You will be timed. The Gamemakers will use the information in their consideration of your tribute score, and your time will be publicised to those who want to bet or sponsor. We will run the course in order of district – ladies first, of course.”

Under her breath, Sparkle cursed. She pulled her staring from the course and glanced around, hoping that no one had heard her. Ferro noticed, and took hold of her hand for a quick, reassuring squeeze. Sparkle pulled away. The alliance was beginning to knit itself together: Epona was stood directly beside them, and the boy from Two was hovering on the edge with wistful, optimistic glances. Sparkle did not want them noting her weaknesses.

“You’ll be okay?” asked Ferro, nudging his partner when he noticed his dropped hand. Pale, Sparkle nodded,

Epona tilted her head curiously. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

Ferro turned and went to speak, but Sparkle elbowed him in the chest before he could form a sound. He closed his mouth. “It’s just a rope course,” she answered, through gritted teeth. Wiping her sweaty palms against the soft material of her training shirt, she stepped forward. “I’ll be fine.”

Sparkle stood at the base of the ladder, pulling the band around her hair tighter and ensuring it was out of her face. She could not delay the inevitable any longer. Placing both hands on a wooden rung of the ladder, she waited for Zenobia’s signal.

As she climbed, the ladder swung in the air. It seemed endless and although Sparkle was strong, she felt her grip weaken as she glanced down and realised how small everyone had become. The platform was high, but it was solid, and she was glad to reach the top of the ladder and clamber to it. No one would see her gasping for breath when she was ten metres above them.

She forced herself to her feet and hid the trembling of her knees with a step to the first obstacle. There were four platforms suspended from the ceiling with thick, metal poles: she needed to jump across them, but at least they did not move. She closed her eyes as she leaped like a cat, forcing her way across each platform without stopping.

The clock was ticking. There was a series of wooden rings to pull herself across. It was similar to the play equipment she had scrambled around on as a child, and Sparkle was comfortable tightly closing her eyes again and swinging herself across the gap in the course. However, she opened her eyes before she had her feet back on a solid platform.

She hesitated. Sparkle stumbled as she landed, twisting to force herself away from the net below. She landed heavily on her left shoulder. Then, she quickly forced herself to her feet before anyone realised that the painful landing was not intentional.

The watching crowd was waiting silently on the floor. She needed to be successful. She twisted the stiffness from her shoulder before continuing.

With a resolution to keep her head straight, Sparkle moved quickly across a suspended wooden beam. She hesitated when she realised it swung in the air, before pushing forward with small steps. Then, there was a net to clamber across. She closed her eyes again, forced herself to move through it, and landed on the platform to hit the button which stopped her timer. The noise made her jump.

“Thank you, Sparkle,” called Zenobia, waving the tribute to climb down a solid ladder. Sparkle clung to each rung, taking a deep breath when her feet were securely on solid ground. Ferro greeted her with a congratulatory pat on the back as he moved in for his turn, and Sparkle returned to the beginnings of her alliance. The colour was slowly returning to her cheeks.

“You’re scared of heights,” stated Epona, taking in the stillness of Sparkle’s figure.

Sparkle brushed her off. “No, I’m fine,” she argued. “I took a nasty fall, that’s all. I don’t want to be injured when I go into the arena.”

Epona remained unconvinced.

***

Satin did not rest. Instead, she watched. She had a keen eye. It was impossible to remember everything, but she was determined to keep as much as possible in her head until she could relay it to her mentor.

As District One’s boy began to climb, Satin placed a hand on Lucet’s shoulder and pulled him from the crowd. He followed without question before turning to look at his partner, demanding an explanation.

“Don’t let me forget,” murmured Satin, checking to ensure that no other tribute would hear her. “District One’s girl is afraid of heights.”

“Got it,” replied Lucet. Then, his eyebrows knitted together in a manner that made him seem far older. “Wait – why do we need to remember that?”

Satin gestured to the gathered group. “We need to know how to beat these people. We need to know their weaknesses. If she chases us in the arena, we know we’re able to climb a tree and she won’t follow us.”

Lucet nodded along, as if he understood. Then, he added, “if there are trees that we can climb.”

***

Isabel had each hand clasped across the wooden rung of the ladder, but she did not climb. She was fourth to race in a run of success: the tributes from One and Two had completed the course quickly, with Two’s young boy seeming particularly nimble. However, Isabel stared up at the course which was practically six times her height and could only envision herself tumbling painfully into the net. She did not care if people thought she was weak. She simply did not want to fall.

The colour drained from her face and tears threatened to fall from her roving eyes. She took her hands away from the ladder, keeping both feet firmly on the floor. “I can’t,” she murmured, addressing her concern to the waiting trainer.

Zenobia looked at Isabel, with a cold stare of disappointment. “It’s compulsory,” she stated simply, and the timer began.

In an attempt, Isabel placed her hand back on the ladder but found herself frozen in place. She gripped the wooden rung hard enough that her knuckles began to turn white, the rope trembling as a reflection of her fear.

“You can do it!” called a familiar voice, causing Isabel to glance back into the tributes behind her. Azazel, her partner, was waiting for his own turn. He watched her closely, and he showed no sign of lying. He called again. “Go on, Issy. Remember what Cybus said this morning. Anyway, it’s no higher than the gangways in the factories.”

“I’ve never climbed a gangway!” she replied, calling over her shoulder. The reminder was like being doused in cold water, but it spurred her to action. She began to climb, nimble enough to move like a lost squirrel.

“Don’t look down,” called Azazel, again. His voice sounded distant. “Issy, you’ve got this. Don’t look down, Issy. It’ll be fine. There’s a net.”

His consistent accompaniment of reassurance was enough. As Isabel finished crossing between the four steady platforms, there was a short cheer from a handful of watching tributes who admired the small girl’s attempt.

She fell on the hanging rings. Her own strength was not enough to support her bodyweight after a childhood of Community Home nourishment. The net caught her safely, and an instructor moved forward to help her back to the floor. She was as white as a sheet, but a smile danced across her face: she had managed to climb the ladder, and that was the first of many smaller battles.

Azazel began to prepare for his own climb, before being interrupted by an impatient tap on his shoulder. Her turned to find the Capitol’s black-haired girl watching him curiously, pointing at his partner being helped from the net. “I’m curious,” she began, in a tone that did not encourage Azazel to answer her. “What did your mentor say this morning?”

“What?” asked Azazel. He tried to be polite, in the same tone he used for the overseers in the factories. It was difficult when talking to someone from the Capitol.

Serenity explained as if talking to a child, slowly and deliberately. “She was terrified. What inspiring thing did your mentor say that made her climb the ladder?”

Briefly, Azazel glanced across the obstacle course – it did seem taller from the base of the ladder – before returning his scowl to the other tribute. “He told us to pay attention to the training,” he answered, eventually. “We all want to learn as much as we can, don’t we?”

The reaping had been memorable. Azazel knew the Capitol’s girl was a Gamemaker, who likely knew the training linked to the arena even with him keeping the information to himself. “That’s very wise,” she confirmed, watching as Azazel prepared for his timer to begin. Then, she added, “I didn’t think a boy like you would have such a soft spot for a little one like that. I imagine it will be very difficult for you when she dies.”

Azazel gritted his teeth and bit his tongue. Despite the effort of Serenity Pergale, he completed the course.

***

Ilara steadied her staggered breathing as the rope ladder swayed under her intervention. She was not concerned with either strength or balance, as she knew she was trained in both. Instead, she played to her audience. She wanted to put on a good show. She wanted to be certain that people would look at her and see a threat.

Gracefully, she pulled herself on to the padded surface of the first platform and caught a glance at the floor. It was far, and the net was practically invisible between herself and a hard, metal landing. She took a deep breath. She hid her shaking hands in a quick readjustment of her hair, before pulling herself from her knees to her feet.

It wanted her to leap. The trembling stopped. She could do that. Ilara calculated the distance between each step and found her height an advantage. She could practically step across without needing to take off, but she still propelled herself through the air. Below her, the crowd of tributes applauded when one of their own succeeded. Ilara allowed herself to smile.

Next, she eyed the hanging rings. Her arms were toned, but she rarely hung from them. She had hardly thrown herself through the air since she scrambled through the woodlots as a child, challenging her friends to see how high they could climb on sparse trees. Still, she could support herself. She used the strength in her legs to swing, bringing herself closer to the next before she made the jump. Her hands began to burn as she caught herself. She stared down, forcing herself through; the other tributes were indistinguishable ants beneath her.

Ilara was a fascinating climber. Willowy and quick, she instinctively knew her own sense of balance and worked with it. The crowd below were fixated on her quick performance – they could all climb to some extent, but even the volunteer tributes had climbed solidly without an ounce of grace in their muscled bodies. On the cargo net, Ilara moved with the light-footedness of a bird moving through a tree. She reached the platform, pressed the button, ended her timer, and still had the energy to fly down the ladder.

Acacia was waiting on the floor, watching her rather than surveying the course for his own attempt. He tended to scowl as he concentrated, but he managed a rare smirk as Ilara approached. “You were alright, I suppose,” he joked, and he placed his hands on the ladder for his own turn.

***

Alder was at home in the sky. She had worked in the orchards as a flyer since she was eight, stripping the thinnest, tallest branches in the orchards of their fruit. By comparison, the rope course posed little threat to her. She moved across each obstacle as if she belonged ten metres in the air.

When she was back on the ground, Zenobia offered a pat on the back as praise for her time. Then, she glanced at the screen on her wrist to summon the next tribute to the ladder. “Inari,” she called, and looked up to find the grinning boy stepping forward. His wrist was dressed in the black honeycomb, held to his chest with a strong sling of waterproof material. Zenobia shook her head. “You step aside, and I’ll tick you off without a time.”

“No,” argued Inari. “I’m doing the course.”

“That is not a good idea-“

“I’m doing it.” Inari slipped the sling from around his neck and untied the knot with his teeth. He used it to strap his broken arm tight to his chest, and Alder scampered over to help him tie the knot behind his back. “There. I won’t hurt it again now.”

As he stepped to the ladder, Zenobia shook her head. “This is not something to take lightly, Inari,” she scolded. “This course is not for amateurs.”

“Good thing I’m an expert then,” he retorted, and he launched himself on to the ladder.

He climbed slower than he wanted to. Inari needed two feet securely settled on a rung before he could balance himself to move his left arm. Luckily, he had been clambering around the circus tent with one arm since the incident and had quickly learned to pull himself up rigging and ropes. Once at the top, he laughed.

Inari did not need an arm to jump across solid, steady platforms. At the hanging rings, he sized up the distance he needed to swing. There had been many who had fallen, as they had no strength to support them. Inari was familiar with holding himself aloft – he took the first ring with his left hand and used his legs to generate a swing. He dropped and caught the next ring in one continuous movement. The pattern continued, until he landed on a platform with both feet.

The wooden beam posed no threat. Inari simply scampered across it as if it were the floor. Finally, there was the stretch of cargo netting strung between two platforms. It was difficult to cross with only three working points of contact, but Inari carefully tangled his legs between each rope to keep himself safe.

As he reached the end, he began to gloat. Inari let go with his left arm and hung upside-down from the netting by his legs, reaching out and waving to the trainer with a laugh that was audible even from his height. Then, he expertly pulled himself back up and on to the platform and pressed the button.

Inari could not stop his grin as he slid down the ladder: he had been banned from anything remotely dangerous since his accident, and the course had gifted him the opportunity to burn off several weeks of frustration. When he reached the floor, he gave a sarcastic bow. “Told you I’d be fine.”

Zenobia offered an approving nod. “It’s a respectable time,” she praised. “You should be proud of yourself, Inari.”

As he walked, Inari pulled the sling from around his chest and fixed it back around his neck. He did not look where he was walking and accidentally brushed past a scowling girl from One. She pushed back into his broken arm and made him yelp. “No one likes a show off,” she hissed.

Pain still jolted through his arm. Inari glared, eyes cold. “At least I have something to show off about,” he retorted, quickly.

***

Iumenta tried to hide her shudder at the tension between Eleven and One. They stared silently at each other as the watching tributes waited for someone to make the first move. Then, without warning, Eleven broke his gaze and walked away to stand beside his partner.

There was a collective relief from the crowd, and Zenobia called the next climber to the ladder. Iumenta had already climbed: she had fallen on the cargo net and her face was still tinged pink, but she was far from the worst. Chanté had fallen on the rings and was sulking at the edge of the group. Iumenta, however, was in the thick of the crowd and slowly edging closer to the forming alliance.

“I want him in the arena,” One’s girl muttered, loud enough to be audible to the people around her. “He can’t leap around in trees forever. I’ll get him.”

“If you can climb that high,” added the girl from Two, with the slightest smirk dancing across her face.

“’Course I can,” replied the blonde girl, and the conversation ended with her cold tone.

Iumenta took another step to her right, sidling closer to the group. They did not notice her, as they were all fixated on the performance of the tribute currently trying to swing themselves across the hanging rings.

“We might be underestimating them,” offered the boy from One, as the boy from Twelve successfully finished the course. “Sparkle, I think we should-“

Sparkle scoffed so loudly that the nearby tributes turned to see what had made the noise. “I’m not allying with someone just because they can climb a ladder.”

When Zenobia called the boy from Thirteen, he seemed to approach the course with trepidation. His partner completed the course successfully, and he used her entire climb back to the floor to stare up at the course. “Nervous,” joked Sparkle, and her partner joined in with a hesitant laugh.

“No,” corrected the girl from Two. “He’s working it out.”

“He’ll be useless,” Sparkle argued. “Just watch.”

Thirteen’s boy had strength in his arms. Iumenta could see it in the way he grasped the ladder when he finally began his climb. He was fast, although she could see his chest heaving with the effort when he was only half-way there. By the time he reached the top, he needed to pull himself on to the platform and wait on his knees above the gymnasium to catch his breath.

Eventually, he staggered to his feet. “Is he injured?” asked the boy from One.

“No,” Sparkle answered, with a cruel smile. “He’s just exhausted.”

Without realising, Iumenta began to gnaw at the dry skin on her lip as she watched the boy approach the hanging rings. He staggered toward the jump and reached up, but he had no energy left. As he tried to swing, he fell down into the net. Iumenta was certain that the scream she heard was of anger rather than fear.

Sparkle laughed. Iumenta jumped at the sound, biting down on her lip, and tasting blood. The grating sound reminded her of the crows which flew over her house. Then, Sparkle punctuated her cruel sound with a brief, “told you he’d be useless!”

Iumenta did not notice the boy clamber from the net. She did not hear his footsteps on the metal floor. She heard the mocking laugh come to a sudden halt and turned: the boy from Thirteen had his hands gripped tightly around Sparkle’s shoulders as she tried to pull away from his grip. With a sudden push, the scowling boy forced her to the floor with the same strength he had used to climb. He lifted a foot to stamp on her chest, until he was thrown off balance by her furious partner.

“Eden!” yelled Zenobia, and the crowd parted to let her pass. She grabbed Eden by the scruff of his neck, like a kitten. He punched back against her chest, but she did not release him, dragging him away from his target. “Fighting with the other tributes is strictly prohibited.”

Iumenta watched as a Peacekeeper approached from the side of the gymnasium, his gun drawn. Eden stiffened, losing his fight. Zenobia glanced between her prey and his predator, before softly dismissing the Peacekeeper with a shake of her head. “Hadrian promised me you weren’t going to be any trouble,” she hissed.

Like a petulant child, Eden pointed to Sparkle. “She called me useless!”

“I don’t care. You save it for the arena.”

In the turmoil, Sparkle was still on the floor. She had pulled herself to her knees and glared at Eden but managed to make it no further. Iumenta moved closer and offered a hand. “You alright?” she asked quietly. Sparkle offered no answer, but she did take her hand to pull herself to her feet.

“We know he’s never been good at following rules,” she spat.

Eden lunged forward again, opening his mouth. Zenobia pulled him back. “Shut it,” she commanded, and he did. The Head Trainer released him to the furious arm of his district partner. Then, she clapped her hand and tapped the screen on her wrist again. “We need to move so you can eat on time. Serenity, you’re up next.”

Chapter Text

[21] Puzzle

By the time they were dismissed for lunch, Raven was famished. He was familiar with deep, growling hunger but it was not normally accompanied by physical activity and desperately trying to hold himself high in a crowd that wanted him dead. In the training canteen, he was determined to exploit the Capitol’s shallow generosity and filled his plate with their food. Then, he hesitated. He did not want to sit beside Flicker.

The canteen was built to force conversation and confrontation. There were five large, circular tables, with eight seats each. Flicker had managed to find solitude despite the Capitol’s attempt to force them together – she was by herself at a table as she shovelled mouthfuls of food into her mouth with her hands.

Raven scanned the room, desperate for another option. The growing alliance between One and Two had commandeered the central table, with other tributes dotted across the other seats in their pairs out of desperation for company. In the corner, the boy from District Thirteen was sat at a table with no other inhabitants. This was a preferable option to Flicker, and Raven steeled himself to choose it.

Placing his tray on the table, Raven kept his focus on his food as he took a seat on their table. He had a fork and began to shovel food into his mouth. Finally, he glanced upwards. Thirteen’s strange boy was looking at him, seeming not to blink as he stared.

Raven held the stare briefly, before asking, “was this seat taken?”

“No,” replied the boy.

There were both distracted by food. Despite his hunger, Raven forced himself to use the bare minimum of cutlery after his instruction from his new mentor. Thirteen’s boy watched him before picking a spoon from his tray and copying the movement. Raven could not help but notice the mimicry. “Not used to cutlery either?” he asked, attempting conversation.

Thirteen’s boy blinked, confused. Raven repeated the question. “Oh,” replied the boy. “No. Not used it before.”

They returned to food. The silence stretched on, becoming uncomfortable like a growing toothache. “Pretty impressive that you went for that career girl,” said Raven, eventually.

“She deserved it,” he answered, quietly. He continued eating before speaking with his mouth full. “What’s a career?”

“You don’t know?” asked Raven, surprised at the boy’s ignorance. Then, he remembered the strange reaping and extended discussion that surrounded Thirteen’s reaping. “You wouldn’t, I suppose. It’s One, Two – sometimes, Four. They all get together, make a big alliance in the Games. I think there might be different names for them.”

The realisation was visible, as Eden leaned back from the table with wide eyes. Then, he stretched to look over Raven’s shoulder. “Mercy!” he called, loud enough to turn heads across the canteen. Mercy turned to find who shouted for her and scowled when she saw the answer. “Mercy, over here!”

The cadet was stood with a full tray, playing the familiar game of finding a table where she could be comfortable. Reluctantly, she followed the call. She sat with her partner but chose to sit three seats away. “I’m only staying with you because I think you’ll embarrass Thirteen if I don’t,” she spat, before glancing at Raven. She nodded as a greeting. “Hello, Twelve.”

“What do Thirteen call the alliance?” asked Eden, still loud.

Mercy rolled her eyes. “Which alliance?”

“That alliance.” Eden pointed to the central table, catching the attention of the tributes from One and Two. When they looked, he ignored them. “Twelve called ‘em careers.”

Mercy heisted, trying the new term for size on the growing group. It was impossible to ignore the central table with their loud conversation and confident demeanour. She shook her head. “Just…” she tried, trying to find the right word. “We just call them the inner-district alliance.”

“Oh.” Eden seemed underwhelmed, tearing a bread roll in half before taking a large bite. Mercy shot him a disgusted look as he spoke with his mouth full. “I didn’t think we were supposed to team up. Why do they do it every year? We don’t even have a special name for-“

“Shut up!” hissed Mercy. Eden followed her instruction, although he narrowed his eyes at her. She continued in a hushed whisper. “They train, alright? That’s why they volunteer.”

“Are they allowed to do that?”

Mercy shook her head. “It’s all training, in a way,” she argued, desperately. “It’s fair. My training in Thirteen, that will help. And then there’s your, well, whatever you’ve had. When you’re working to build Panem, you’re always prepared.”

Sniggering at her tone, Eden nodded to Raven. “She’s a ‘keeper, back in Thirteen,” he explained. “What did you do in Twelve?”

“It’ll be coal,” said Mercy, answering for him.

“Nope,” corrected Raven. “We don’t do coal until we’re eighteen. Can’t risk losing potential tributes in the mines.”

“So what do you do until then?” asked Eden, relentless.

Raven had backed himself into a corner and needed to elaborate to escape. He did not attend school and was not good enough at lying to pretend he did. He did not want to confide in strangers about his brother either. Raven stumbled his way through a reply.

“I…uh…I do…” he tried. As she looked down to cut her food with a knife, Raven gestured to Mercy with his head. “I do lots of things…”

He trailed off. Eden’s head tilted, confused. Then, he began to understand the message and a wide grin grew across his face. “I get it,” he nodded. “The ‘keepers don’t like me either.”

***

“They have scythes in the weaponry racks,” murmured Amity, as she slipped into the seat beside her partner. Vixen did not have food. There were two other tributes at his table, and he had pressed his back against the wall to shrink from them. He glanced at Amity and managed a small smile at her arrival.

Amity was prepared. She had two plates on her tray: one was piled high with rice and a rich stew, and the other had two buttered bread rolls. She took the bread and pushed it towards Vixen.

“You need to eat,” she instructed. The small boy nodded obediently and took one roll, ripping it in half. It was clear that he was unimpressed. “What? Is it not good?”

“Not as good as in Nine,” he answered, whispering.

Amity was thinking about District Nine. It seemed that skill was directly tied with trade, as the tributes from Seven and Eleven had excelled on the rope course. District Nine did not have a culture of climbing, but they had something else.

“Have you ever done field work?” she asked. District Nine relied on collective labour during harvest, drafting anyone able to work in the field. Amity was familiar with it. However, Vixen was a mill boy.

Surprisingly, he nodded. “Good,” continued Amity. “They gave you a scythe?”

He nodded again. “Once,” he added. “Last year.”

Amity took a forkful of stew, savouring the bite. The meat fell apart in her mouth as she chewed, far richer than anything she had eaten in Nine. “We should be fine,” she reassured, after swallowing. “Like I said, they have scythes as weapons. I imagine it’s similar to harvesting.”

It was clear to both tributes that using a scythe to kill would not be the same, but the simplified comparison was somewhat comforting. The weight and movement of the weapon would be familiar. The outcome would just be far from harvesting.

Vixen finished his bread, wiping the crumbs from his hands on his trousers. “Don’t show people you can use one, though,” he suggested quietly, and Amity nodded to agree.

***

In an absence of conversation, Alder comforted herself with observation. She could not catch sentences as they flew over her head; the other tributes were talking too fast for her to read their mouths, if they were talking at all. Instead, she committed herself to memorising the different groups which were forming at the five metal tables.

She also found comfort in food, having piled her plate high with a serving of every offering from the Capitol. She managed cutlery as much as she could, eating neatly with only a fork as she watched the tributes around her. There was nothing that tasted as good as her mother’s cooking.

The inner-district alliance had commandeered the centre, as they did each year. District One’s blonde, confident volunteer seemed to be dominating their conversation. She had an audience in her partner, and the girl from Two. Two’s boy was sat at the same table but seemed far more interested in his food than anything being said.

Alder glanced around, curious. People seemed to sit with their district partner, whether they liked them or detested them. District Nine were pulling apart bread rolls over a whispered conversation, and District Three were discussing something that seemed important as they sipped soup straight from their bowls. There were two exceptions: Twelve’s boy was as far as possible from his rude, scowling partner, and District Four were on opposite tables.

Alder felt a thump on the table through her resting elbow. There was an avox beside her, placing a tray down to the table whilst Inari waited awkwardly beside her. The servant gave a respectful nod when her task was complete. Inari sheepishly pointed at his arm in explanation and made a comment for the sake of himself rather than his partner. He sat and picked up a spoon.

***

Leon hung on to the alliance is if it were a ship being tossed in a storm. He was scrabbling for leftovers of the conversation that reached him. Epona kept gifting him sharp, disgusted glances that he tried to shake off as he fought to find favour with the pair from One.

“I’m not sure what to think about Four,” continued Sparkle, looking around the room in search of further allies. She took control of the discussion in the same manner she took control of the growing team. Leon detested her infuriating habit of twisting a strand around her finger as she talked, playing a air-headed girl as she talked vicious strategy.

Ferro jumped on her comment, desperate to agree. “They have potential,” he offered. “The girl, especially.”

“It was the boy who volunteered,” countered Epona, in her bored monotone.

“He did,” agreed Sparkle. “I don’t think it was planned, though. He could have something up his sleeve.”

“Potential, like I said.” Ferro ate with a single fork, spearing pieces of chicken breast from a sauce on his plate. He waved the food in the air as he spoke. “One allied with the Capitol last year. They might be worth something.”

Sparkle looked to the Capitol’s tributes, making an act of leaning back in the chair and craning her neck so that everyone knew who they were discussing. Leon swallowed, preparing his voice. “I heard Seven call them Black and Blue,” he tried, but his commentary bounced off the conversation and went unheard.

Epona scoffed. “The boy is nothing. He’ll have sponsors, but we won’t need those if we do our job correctly.”

Leon juggled with the unfamiliar language. He had asked his mentor to explain what a sponsor was that morning, and received a hurried answer that only confused him further. If he made them like him, they would send him a gift – that was all he knew. However, he did understand that there would be a cornucopia filled with survival supplies. Gifts seemed entirely unnecessary.

“Thirteen?” tried Ferro.

Sparkle spat out the drink she was taking a sip of. “I want him dead by the first cannon, and I’m calling dibs on doing it.”

Leon laughed at the memory of the furious boy from Thirteen pushing Sparkle to the ground. No one joined in.

“The girl,” Ferro clarified, hurriedly. “She’s a Peacekeeper, isn’t she?”

Resting her chin on her hand in a pensive manner, Epona dragged a spoon through her rice and stew without ever taking a mouthful. “It’ll be similar training to Two, I suppose,” she explained. “You’d have to fight her over her partner though. She wants him dead too.”

“You think?” asked Sparkle.

Epona lifted her spoon from her plate to point, where their target sat in reluctant conversation with Twelve and Thirteen. “Look at her face. She hates him. I wonder why.”

They stared for a moment, unable to overhear the conversation. Thirteen’s girl caught them staring and raised an eyebrow in their direction. The alliance did not reply.

“We can pick up Four,” finalised Sparkle. “Then, the Capitol girl. If Thirteen is any good, we’ll take her too. We know that we’re good, Ferro, and I’m guessing you are too, Epona. There’ll be a lot of us, which means plenty of cannon fodder.”

“What about me?”

Leon’s voice was small, interrupting the discussion like a mouse running beneath the table. Sparkle acknowledged him for a moment, before delegating the decision to Epona with a half-hearted shrug. The hostility between the tributes from Two was thick enough to cut with the knives they left on their plates.

Epona looked at her partner, and then to her alliance. “Leon was not the designated volunteer,” she explained again, as if the younger boy was not there to hear her. “He has never stepped foot in any sort of training building, nor had any training regime. He is not a Peacekeeper cadet. He has never specialised with a weapon. I’m not even certain he’s from Two.”

“I’m not,” spat Leon, treating Two as an insult and throwing it back to his partner. He tried to make himself seem taller in his chair. “I’ve never been to any of your training, but that does not mean I cannot fight.”

“Where are you from, then?” asked Ferro, confused.

Leon shrunk back down. The familiar lie fell from his lips with practice, but he embellished it for a new audience. “Ten,” he answered, looking down at the table. “But I’m telling you, I am trained. I can fight.”

Placing his experience on the table, Leon begged the alliance to accept it. They did not seem to hear him.

“We don’t need a mouth to feed who won’t pull their weight,” decided Sparkle, commandeering the conversation again. “You need to stop tagging along with us. We don’t want you.”

“And if you go for the cornucopia,” warned Epona, “we will kill you first.”

***

Azure did not like being punished. He was not innocent. His dance teacher would punish him if he forgot a routine he was supposed to practice. His vocal coach would punish him if he failed to hit a note when he was on stage. His mother would punish him if he ate something he was offered without asking permission first. It was why he worked hard to remember every step, hit every note, and only eat food that his mother agreed with.

He sat at a table without a plate. There were other tributes sat with him, but no one made conversation. Serenity remained silent despite their shared home. Instead, she eyed him curiously as she ate her way through a collection of meat and cheese paired with plain rice. She had a plate of cake, too – a small slice with white icing and studded with sugared cherries, waiting for her to finish her main meal.

Azure tried not to stare or lick his lips. His stomach growled. Cake was his favourite. At each party, he had to steal anything sweet and eat it quickly in a corner before his mother saw. It never ended well. It made him sick. He knew this.

“There’s plenty of cake at the counter,” said Serenity, and Azure shrunk further into his seat. “You don’t need to keep staring at mine like it’s going to bite you.”

“I’m not hungry,” lied Azure. He turned away from the cake.

The Hunger Games were a punishment. Azure did not know why he was being punished, and he did not believe President Dux’s reassurance that it was random. If there was the slightest chance that he might be released, he needed to show he could behave.

***

Cove muttered a curse, before silently apologising to his mother for tainting his mouth with the language of a sailor. The first aid station was his safe choice for a quiet afternoon, and he gratefully accepted the needle and thread to stitch together a wound made of thick plastic. His stitches were small and neat enough, but blood was spreading from the many pin-prick wounds across his hand. He placed the latest in his mouth, sucking the blood from his finger. It was already smeared across the plastic sheet.

“You’re not supposed to injure yourself,” complained the boy who shared the station with him. Cove did not recognise him, but the seal of District Ten was stitched to the sleeve of his shirt. The boy grabbed a pile of bandages from the table and forced them into Cove’s hand. “Here. Wrap it up.”

Cove was familiar with small, sharp wounds. He had cut himself open on rocks and shells enough times. “It doesn’t need covering,” he answered. “It’s hardly going to get infected in here.”

“Please,” begged the boy. His face was pale, except for the green tinge which played against his flushed cheeks. “If you were really stitching someone up, you’d need to cover any injury so you can do it now.”

Hesitantly, Cove followed the instruction. He wrapped the white bandage across his bleeding hand, securing it across his thumb with a neat knot. “There,” he said, punctuating his obedience by waving his bandaged hand in the boy’s face. “Happy now?”

“Thank you,” replied the boy, his voice rushed with relief. Then, he paused and took a long look at Cove’s work. “That’s not bad, you know.”

Cautiously, Cove laughed. “I’d hope so. We learn basic first aid in Four.”

There was a pause between them as they returned to their stitching. Cove could barely hold the delicate needle in his wrapped hand, and his wound was secured with far larger and erratic stitches across the plastic sheet. He risked a glance to the work of the boy beside him and did not manage to contain his shock at the perfect stitching. “You must learn it in Ten too,” he mumbled. “That’s so good.”

“I’d hope so,” said the boy. “I’m going to be a doctor.”

“A doctor?” repeated Cove, before thinking back to the boy’s pale face and need for every wound to be covered. He hid his smile by looking down at his own jagged work. “How can you be a doctor? You’ve scared of blood.”

Ten’s boy finished his work, pulling on the thread to snap it apart. “There’s plenty of doctor’s work that doesn’t involve blood,” he muttered. “Like, setting a broken bone. That doesn’t need blood. We get a lot of them in Ten.”

District Four’s brief medical training focused on deep cuts, sunburn, and how to resuscitate a drowning sailor. “I’ve never learnt how to do that,” replied Cove. “Set a broken bone, I mean. We don’t get many in Four.”

“Well, come on then,” offered the boy. He waved Cove closer. “I’ll teach you.”

***

Fern picked the knife from her partner’s hand as if it would burn her. It was Sunnie’s weapon of reluctant choice, and an image of the innocent sweet seller wielding a blood-stained blade had become the icon of her Games. Fern’s stomach turned as she twisted a similar weapon to feel its weight in her hand. The nausea was clear on her face.

“It’s our best choice,” reassured Solar, picking a knife for himself from the extensive choice on the weaponry rack. “There’s always a knife in the cornucopia, and for you…”

He trailed off. Fern predicted his words, shuddering. “I need to look as much like Sunnie as possible,” she finished. In her hand, she readjusted her hold on the knife. “I know. I want her sponsors.”

The knife station sprawled across a large portion of the gym. Alongside the weaponry racks, there were long distance targets for tributes to practice their throwing. There were also simple circle targets, and humanoid silhouettes with red marks indicating a fatal shot. However, Solar and Fern both positioned themselves near a collection of training mannequins. They were sewn of thick, black fabric and had no distinguishable features. It was still impossible to hold a knife to them without imagining an arm, a head, a person.

Solar circled the target, before deciding on a position to attack. “You need to get close,” he explained, holding his knife like a dagger, and plunging it into the mannequin’s head. The blade easily split the fabric outer shell, spilling straw across the floor. “But it’s fairly easy to kill someone with. The dummies don’t fight back though, and I think a real tribute probably will.”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” replied Fern, moving in for her attempt. She went for the chest, where her knife slid through the target as if it were butter. “Do you think we can get through skin like this?”

There was no answer. At Solar’s silence, Fern turned from her inanimate opponent and caught her partner glancing across the gymnasium with a worrisome scowl. “What?” she asked, following his gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“We’ve got an audience,” muttered Solar. He twirled the knife in his hand as he watched, before using the blade to point. “I think you’re more popular than you wanted, Fern.”

“Six?” she asked, immediately.

Solar nodded, before mimicking his partner and plunging his knife through the heart of his dummy.

***

Saori decided that he had been seen when Five’s boy began waving a knife in his direction. He had not hidden himself away to observe them – instead, he had practically been begging for their attention and had finally been blessed with it. He took the hostility as an invitation and walked to them with a confident stride.

“You’re pretty impressive,” he called, when there was still enough distance for him to judge their response. Fern scowled at his tone, and Saori agreed with her – the compliment was too sweet, like a candy made with an artificial sugar. He pretended to admire the wounds that the pair had inflicted on their targets, before lowering his voice to something more respectable. “It seems you know your way around a knife already.”

Fern’s disgusted expression told him that his deliberate comment had hit where he aimed it. “I’ve had practice,” she replied, coldly.

Saori smiled, cold. “I’m sure.”

“You need to clear off, Six,” spat her partner. The irritating boy positioned himself between his tribute partner and Saori’s torment, although he was shorter than both. Fern took him by the shoulder and tried to pull him back.

“It’s fine, Solar,” she murmured. “He can’t do anything to me.”

“Yet,” added Saori. Solar reluctantly stepped back and placed himself beside his partner, but Saori hardly gifted him a second glance. “I like him, Fern. It must be nice to have a partner who’ll actually talk to you, rather than only focusing on where she’ll get her next hit of morphling from.”

Fern was her sister, and Saori had studied her sister long enough to know that sympathy lowered her guard. “She’s really that bad?”

He nodded. “Less competition for us, though,” he added, in a tone he knew to be patronising. It was the same voice his classmates used when they were trying to rile him, and he knew it was effective. Solar’s trembling fists were a visual confirmation. “I suppose I’ll leave you to your knives, Five. I’m trying to keep an eye on everyone, so I know what I’m working with. I guess if I see either of you two with a blade in the arena, I’ll keep my distance.”

Saori grinned, because he knew it would anger her, and left.

***

To Serenity, hand-to-hand combat was a performance rather than a defence. She enjoyed feeling the power and the muscle of an opponent and choreographing a way to use it against them. Behind her height and the speed to twist herself from tight holds, she was built with strength. There were hidden muscles, and Serenity utilised them in pushes and pulls and punches that surprised the trainer she was working with.

“You’ve done this before, Miss Serenity!” called her sparring partner, a younger trainer who relished a tribute that provided competition. Rather than standing back and instructing in technique, she offered a real fight. Serenity fell from her position, her hair sticking to her sweating forehead. She grinned. She had done this before, and she missed it.

In the pause, Serenity became aware of her watching audience. She was no stranger to being the key player in a demonstration; she had been the example in many physical education classes before joining the academy. However, it felt different in a gymnasium where the competition lined themselves alongside her mat and calculated her moves with her.

The fight began again. Pushing the audience to the back of her mind, Serenity focused on her opponent. She hesitated enough to allow her wrist to be grabbed, before using the leverage to twist her opponent’s arm around her chest until she yielded and allowed herself to be pushed to the mat. Serenity pinned her there, with a knee digging into her back. The fight was over.

Serenity grinned as applause broke out across the mat. “It’s not that impressive,” she called, finding the perfect balance of both humble and boastful. “We learn combat in school. At least, we do if you go to the right school.”

“Do you learn anything else?” asked One’s girl, as Serenity released the trainer. The audience comprised of District One, with District Two’s stern looking girl standing slightly aside - the inner-district alliance was as much of a tradition as the opening ceremony.

Pulling herself to her feet, Serenity left the mat and approached the watching group. “It depends,” she answered, but she wore a knowing smile alongside her hard-earned glow. “I’m quite an expert in the Games. You can’t watch as many as I have without picking up something useful.”

The girl from One played with her words, considering each one carefully and reading between them to find what Serenity could offer her. One’s boy lacked the tact of his partner. “We want you as an ally,” he stated, with no hesitation or consideration for his wording. Serenity almost laughed at the sudden outburst. She composed herself.

“Me?” she clarified. “I don’t know whether to be honoured or concerned.”

The girl nodded, with a clear, annoyed look at her partner. “I’m Sparkle,” she introduced. “That’s Ferro, and that’s Epona. We’re interested in people who know what they’re doing. The Games – they’re a little bit more than child’s play these days, so we want experts.”

The warm flush from the fight disguised Serenity’s blush of pride. “I’m an expert,” she replied. She shared a brief but strong handshake with Sparkle. “I’m in.”

***

Flicker burned to be noticed, but she hid the desire beneath a quiet, angry façade. The other tributes ignored her, her own partner refused to sit with her at lunch, and the trainers had decided that she was not special. It hurt. Flicker knew that she was likely nothing special, but she detested the Capitol confirming it.

She did not want to embarrass herself by taking on a task that took real talent. Instead, the seething girl collapsed on the floor at the knot tying station and snatched a length of rough rope. She twisted it around her fingers.

The trainer seemed excited at the prospect of a newcomer, but Flicker glared at him as he took a step to approach her. He hesitated, before deciding to return to his display of knotting techniques. Flicker did not want to be there. She wanted to tackle someone to the ground, but the black-haired stuck-up from the Capitol was commandeering the hand-to-hand combat station with the brat from One.

There was another girl playing with rope. Flicker could not recall her name – and did not care – but recognised the distinctive yellow that tainted her skin. She was trying to tie a simple square knot, but the rope kept falling from her trembling hands.

“What are you looking at?” she growled, noticing Flicker’s eyes on her. Her voice was hoarse, as if her chest was filled with grey smoke. She coughed as she spoke.

“Don’t know,” answered Flicker, sharply. Her voice had bite, and her stare had fire. “Don’t know who you are.”

“Well, it don’t matter, does it?” spat the girl. She threw her rope to the floor in frustration, her fingers rubbed raw in her effort.

Flicker twisted her rope into a simple square knot, to prove that she could. The embroidery on the girl’s sleeve branded her as Six. Flicker finally recognised her as the girl who was barely coherent at her own reaping, and who had a smart-arse of a partner.

“You’re just showing off,” muttered Six’s girl, glaring at Flicker’s neat knot as it lay on the mat.

***

“They said there’s something for it,” reassured Lucet, as he stepped into the elevator with his partner. Satin watched him with a visible concern – his small hands were covered in burns from an incident at the fire-light station, and he kept his fingers outstretched so that the pain was manageable. They were alone. “Armure can get it for me, the trainer said.”

“I hope it heals before the arena,” replied Satin.

“It will,” answered Lucet, quietly. Then, as the glass elevator began to rush to their floor, he added, “I think I worked it out, you know.”

“You worked it out?”

When he was thinking, Lucet knitted his eyebrows together. It made him seem older. “I heard Three talking, after the ropes. They said that the compulsory things are all things that we’ll need in the arena, so we’ll need to climb!”

The lift reached its destination. The door opened automatically as a polite, Capitol voice welcomed them to the eighth floor. The apartment was empty, with neither escort nor mentor there to greet them. Satin stepped into the room first. “That makes sense,” she answered, slowly. “I’d check with Armure before making a judgement, though.”

“It’s not just that!” Lucet struggled to keep up with his partner as he followed her. “The climbing – it wasn’t like climbing a tree. And then, on the first aid station, there were screens that told you about tetanus. Do you know about that, Satin? You get it if you cut yourself on rusty metal.”

The table was set for a meal, with empty plates and cutlery. The silent servants still transported elaborate dishes from the kitchen to their place on the mahogany centrepiece. In the absence of his mentor, Lucet caught the eye of an avox and held his hand up helplessly. She nodded, bowed her head, and left to fetch the cure.

“Plus, at the fire lighting station,” he continued, taking a seat at the table beside Satin. “They told me there are lots of materials that aren’t safe to burn. They were talking about metal and plastic and chemicals. It doesn’t make sense unless the arena is full of rusty metal and all sorts of dirty things.”

Satin nodded, slowly. “The weaponry was fairly normal, so there’s no clues there,” she replied. “A junkyard? I don’t think they’ve ever had an arena like that.”

“There’s no climbing in a junkyard,” countered Lucet, and Satin reluctantly agreed.

She tried to think. Exhaustion tainting each thought she could form. Her muscles ached from her hard work, and her mind ached from trying to piece everything together. “Do we have anything in Eight that would fit that?”

“The factories,” Lucet answered, promptly. “And then, there’s the station where they turn the trains. I think that’s pretty rusty, and there’s a metal crane to lift the carriages that you can climb. At least, my cousin said he climbed it once. I don’t believe him. He’s scared of heights.”

Satin wanted to be proud of her partner’s thinking, but the thought of a station loomed over any praise she wanted to give. They could survive in a wood or on a plains, where nature could work both for and against you. She did not want to traverse a landscape that reminded her of Eight, where the rainwater that ran through the street ended a muddied brown with the clothing dye running off the factories. “It’s possible,” she relented, eventually. “Gives an advantage to Six, though. I reckon the boy would be able to use it.”

Lucet tilted his head. “They wouldn’t make it easier for him, would they?”

Gritting her teeth, Satin nodded. “Considering who he is, it’s not impossible.”

Chapter Text

[22] Volatile

Alder rested on the floor, with her cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. It was still dark outside, but the Capitol’s glittering light danced across the city’s busy streets. Alder enjoyed watching it. It was easier than sleeping. She was exhausted, and every muscle in her small body ached, but she could not sleep.

The city did not sleep either. Alder watched as they sustained themselves on celebration: there were parties and dances adorning the world below. She could feel the vibration of the loud music on the glass. She wanted their energy. She needed it.

In the distance, the golden glow of dawn was finally beginning to stretch across the horizon. Alder wondered if it was the same sunrise she watched in District Eleven, which appeared from behind their silhouetted orchards.

It was morning. Alder had no further reason to hide. If she could not find sleep, she would not waste time searching for it.

She wandered the corridor in socked feet, unfamiliar pyjamas, and her cardigan to defend against the chill of the morning air. Alder could feel the movement of people in the floor and hesitated, waiting for them to leave before she continued pushing forward.

They did not leave. It was not Sage - his lumbering footsteps could be felt through walls. It was not Inari either, or their escort. Instead, the people were as quick as the mice that darted between the trees in Eleven’s orchards. Curious, Alder rested her head against the doorway and peered into the dark stretch of the dining room.

There were four people, dressed in white, shapeless robes and stained by stark, red paint on their face. They each held a fistful of cutlery as they carefully danced around the table, setting knives and forks across napkins in a strange, practiced routine. It was still a long wait until breakfast, but some food already waited: pastries were piled high on wire towers holding plates, and serving dishes were placed across small stoves that kept them bubbling.

Alder saw the word, written in harsh black ink on Sage’s notepad: avox. He had explained the silent servants at the previous evening’s meal, trying to capture their existence in a short sentence. As they set the table, they spoke with each other through furtive glances and soft, upturned smiles.

Then, one avox with her hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun placed her last fork on the table and turned to another. First, she drew a circle with two pointing fingers. Second, she mimed pouring a jug. Finally, she grabbed hold of her own wrist and used her free hand to move her fingers like fire. A boy nodded in response, pointing to the kitchen and then to the top of his wrist.

It was signing. Alder recognised her conversations with her mother, as the strange servants talked to each other through their simple gestures. She began to catch only a handful of words – drink and fire and time – but there was a full, structured conversation playing across the room without a moving mouth in sight.

Alder gasped. The young girl, who was mid-sign, heard her. In the presence of a tribute, the avox faded into a neutral respect and bowed her head. The signing stopped. The conversation died.

Taking a further step into the room, Alder waved her hand to catch the attention of the avox. There was a pained expression as the servant took a finger, placed it on her parted lips, and dragged it down her face. She punctuated the sign with a half-shrug of resignation.

Alder mimicked, copying the sign, and finishing by pointing a finger at her ear. The avox touched her own ear with a shake of her head, raising her eyebrows in a question. Alder confirmed with a nod: the avox could not talk, and she could not hear.

The serving girl looked down at her hands. Then, she looked at Alder. Finally, she looked to the table. She pointed to a glass that sat beside a plate, before pretending to lift it to her lips. Alder copied the action, and she was presented with a glass of iced water poured straight from a carafe.

Slowly, the tribute and the avox learned to talk.

***

It was difficult to see the room when she was upside down. Flicker continued to gather her hair until it was away from the face, tying it with a black ribbon she had found in a drawer. Then, she stood herself the right way up and noticed she was being watched.

Her mentor – who was not even from Twelve, and so could not tell her what to do – was staring at her. Flicker began by trying to ignore her. Collapsing into a chair, she heaped rice and thick, beef stew on to her plate. She went to take a handful before pausing, clenching her hand into a fist, and picking up a fork.

“What?” she spat, eventually. She was still being watched as she shovelled stew into her mouth. She received a scolding shake of her mentor’s head for speaking with her mouth full, but it was accompanied by an explanation.

“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” stated Clara.

Flicker took a mouthful from her fork, chewed it carefully, and then swallowed. Finally, she spoke. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

Clara smiled at the improving table manners. “You’re going to show the Gamemakers any special skill you might have. You’re getting more likeable, and people are beginning to assume that you’re quietly confident about something. You must have a skill, yes?”

There was a large hunk of beef sat atop the rice on her plate. Flicker considered spearing it with her fork and chewing it, but she settled on finding a knife. “I’m pretty damn good at laundry,” she muttered, as she cut the meat in half and ate it in manageable bites.

“I don’t think that will cut it,” replied Clara. Flicker scowled at the airy, mocking tone.

***

Saori settled into a familiar routine which reminded him of his usual, dreaded journey to the academy in District Six. He woke at the sound of a buzzer in his room. He showered because the Capitol had the means to dry his hair instantly. He dressed in the uniform. He grabbed breakfast from a heavily laden table. He did not speak to any of his team.

On the second morning, there was a figure waiting for him. Allegra barely raised her head when her tribute entered, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. There was an empty glass beside her, and Saori noticed the amber residue as he chose a flaked pastry to take in the elevator with him. His so-called mentor was no better than his partner.

He picked a napkin from the table, tipping the cutlery from its embrace with a loud clatter. Allegra held her head in her hands. “Do you need to make that much noise?” she moaned, inhaling the steam from her mug. Her voice was hoarse, as if it were overused. “You need to sit. You’re going to get sick, running around and shoving sugar down you like that.”

“I’m late,” argued Saori, the lie as sweet on his tongue as the pastry would be.

“No, you’re not.” Allegra stretched herself upwards as if she had slept at the table. Saori stared at the deep purple shadows that ringed her eyes and decided it was possible. “I’ve been mentoring too long. I know the timings. Now, I’ve got a job to do, and I haven’t been doing it. Sit, and we’ll sort you out.”

Her eyes were red, matching the raspberry preserve that sat alongside the fruit toast. Saori met their watering gaze with ease, waiting for her to break. When he did not answer, she continued, exasperated. “Come on, Saori! What are you good at? You got any weaponry?”

Deliberately, Saori wrapped the thick, navy napkin around his stolen pastry. He placed the delicious parcel in his pocket and turned to the elevator.

Allegra slammed her fist down on her plate and pushed her mug away. It caught on a spoon and fell, spilling coffee across the white tablecloth. “You’re all the same,” she muttered. Then, she raised her volume. “Your brother was a selfish asshole too, you know!”

He stopped. The familiar burning, simmering anger returned, white hot. Saori turned back to his mentor and took three deliberate steps until he towered over her seat. “My brother,” he spat, “could easily have won if you did your job. I intend to win without your help, and I know exactly how to do it. So, unless you want to be on the receiving end of what I can do, I suggest you shut up rather than trying to play catch up.”

Saori turned and stormed to the lift.

***

In the elevator, Vixen felt a gentle push against his ankle. He glanced down, watching Panko nudge his leg with his head again. He placed a paw on his shin, begging for attention. The door to the elevator closed.

Amity was lost in a one-sided conversation and did not notice the furry interloper. “It could be worse,” she continued. Vixen looked back to her, willing her to keep staring at the door. She looked uncertain, as if she was trying to convince herself. “The other tributes are alright, and some of the stations are interesting. If it wasn’t building to – well, you know.”

Vixen offered a vague noise of agreement, which placated his partner. She looked to him as if she had forgotten he was there, smiling. “You’ll be fine too,” she reassured, as an afterthought. “And you’re on time today, so Miss Zenobia can’t be angry.”

The elevator announced their arrival. The door opened, and the pair hurried along the short corridor. Vixen remained a step behind Amity, and Panko remained between his feet.

They were the last to arrive, but Zenobia shot Vixen a look of approval when she noticed him. She took a register on the wrist. “We’re nearly all here, so we just need to-“ she announced, before stopping herself short. She stumbled over her script before picking herself back up. “We need to keep ourselves safe and leave all the fighting to the arena. I’m talking to you, Eden.”

Thirteen’s boy grinned. “Yes, ma’am!” he answered, with a salute.

Zenobia was watching him. Vixen shrunk beneath her stare, keeping his own eyes on the floor. When she dismissed the collection of tributes with a regimented wave, she called out. “Nine!” she shouted. Amity turned. “No, not you. I need to speak to your boy.”

Swallowing the lump which formed in his throat, Vixen acknowledged the cat by reaching down and picking him up. Panko meowed at the sudden attention, catching his claws in the soft material of his owner’s t-shirt. Vixen did not move, but Zenobia walked to him as the tributes dispersed. “Vixen,” she began, exasperated. She sighed deeply. “Look, I like you. You’re very sweet. I’ll even forgive you for being late yesterday, but I cannot allow a cat in my training gymnasium.”

Panko yelled, reaching out with a paw to catch Vixen in the face. He lowered the cat further down his chest, trying to form a sentence. “Sorry,” he choked. “I- he followed me, so-“

“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Zenobia. Her tone softened. “He’s not safe here. You’ll need to run back to your floor and leave him with your mentor.

Vixen nodded. Before he could turn away, Zenobia reached out a hand and gave Panko a quick scratch behind his ears.

***

Cove craved comfort. He found it in a spear.

Reaching to the top of the weaponry rack, Cove took the spear that reminded him of home. It was weighted differently, with a heavier handle and no green cast on the metal from being drenched in ocean water. He twisted it in his hand, swinging it in familiar circles to feel the movement. It made a soft whispering noise against the air.

There was no ocean. There were no fish to catch. Instead, there were human-shaped targets at the end of an empty throwing range. Cove readied his grip on the handle, missing the ridges of familiar dents and scrapes. He had thrown a spear before, to scare sea birds away from his catch. He was never as good as his sister, but he was good enough.

Cove practiced a throw, nearly overbalancing without the resistance of water to keep him on his feet. Then, he threw the spear at a target. It was lighter than his usual weapon and had more flight than he expected, landing solidly in the centre of the target as if he had aimed. Cove had hoped for anywhere near the target and glanced around self-consciously to see if anyone saw his accidental success.

They did. Cove was being watched by the forming alliance. One’s girl approached him first, with an outstretched hand and a sneer like a shark. “That was pretty impressive,” she praised, nodding to the spear that waited in the target. “You throw often?”

“We fish with them,” explained Cove, hesitantly. He took her hand briefly before pulling away. He did not trust the approaching team, with their bared teeth in welcoming smiles.

Her partner’s mouth hung open in shock. “You must have some pretty distant fish,” he commented.

“I- oh, no. I mean, we take birds out sometimes,” Cove clarified, tripping over each syllable. “When we’re fishing, I mean. We stab the fish, mostly. I guess it would be better with a trident, because that had three points and a spear only has one, but we only have a spear at home. I could probably throw a trident, though. Actually, I don’t know. I think a trident would probably be better for stabbing. It’s like a big…fork.”

Cove bit his tongue. He needed to stop talking.

Luckily, the alliance was paying no attention to the seaweed that spurted from his mouth. They were communicating in furtive glances and raised eyebrows, making a decision that Cove did not recognise. Eventually, the blonde girl announced, “we’re making a team.”

“We’re looking at volunteers first,” added Two’s girl, with arms folded tightly across her chest. “You volunteered in Four. You’re trained, right?”

“There’s an academy near my house,” began Cove. He intended to explain it had collapsed in a rockslide, and they had scavenged for weaponry in the ruins. However, he did not have the opportunity.

“Good,” interrupted One’s girl. “You’re handy with a spear. We want you. We’re already planning to fight it out at the end when we get there, so any victory is going to be completely deserved. You in?”

Cove hesitated. He turned, glancing at his accidental success still embedded in the human-shaped target. He hit the chest. He would have killed them if they were more than painted plywood. Then, he returned to the alliance and their practice and their experience. He did not belong with them.

What would Sennen do?

He wanted an ally. He wanted his twin. However, she was not talking to him, or acknowledging him, or wanting him. She was here to win and would likely ignore him for as long as it took to reach the victory that she thought she deserved. Cove spoke with anger, letting it cloud his judgement. “I’m in.”

***

Sennen started at her brother through a curtain of her own hair. It clung to her face, damp with sweat after learning hand-to-hand combat from an instructor who was too strong. An avox offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted. She collapsed to the mat. She rested. Without distraction, her thoughts turned to her twin.

When he threw the spear, she was not surprised. Cove had always been the better twin, even if she would never admit to it. However, the colour fell from her flushed face as she watched the alliance approach him.

It was not difficult to guess what they would say. Sennen could not hear their offer, but it involved gesturing to his distant target. The water began to churn in her stomach. When Cove shook their hand, Sennen’s strength became targeted on the plastic bottle. She scrunched it in her fist and threw it to the floor.

“You ready for round two?” called the instructor, mistaking anger for eagerness.

Suddenly, learning to strangle and pin seemed a very appealing endeavour. Sennen pulled herself to her feet. In a confident ring, she answered, “absolutely.”

***

“A serrated edge is better for sawing,” commented the instructor, as she took Mercy’s hand and directed it to the sharp blade. Mercy pulled her hand away. The instructor did not notice. “It’s good for survival, but it isn’t for combat. Here – try this.”

She reached to the top of the weaponry rack, taking a sharp combat knife and placing it in Mercy’s inexperienced hand. The blade was hollow, but the handle was heavy with a moulded, rubber grip. “You need to be careful. This will slice through anything – an arm, a throat. I’m wearing body armour, so I don’t mind if you hit me with it.”

Mercy gripped the knife as if she was about to stab something in front of her, feeling it as an extension of her own limb. “I’ll need to avoid your face, right?” she asked. The woman nodded and watched carefully as the tribute prepared herself for a fight.

“I’m using a safety blade,” she reassured, as she followed Mercy to the mat. “I can hit you, but I’m not going to be cutting anything.”

“Understood,” replied Mercy. She readied herself within striking distance of her teacher, keeping her knees bent and protecting her vulnerable chest and midriff with tightened arms. The instructor gave a short count. Mercy struck first.

Trained to prioritise attacking over defending, she shot forward like a speeding bullet from a gun. The instructor predicted the motion and twisted to protect herself, but Mercy ducked to the floor. She used her elbow as a battering ram, before kicking the instructor in the back of her knees and upsetting her stance.

The instructor was unsteady. Mercy threw her full weight against her chest, landing beside the young woman as they both tumbled to the floor. They were tangled together, which provided Mercy with the time to twist herself over the instructor’s body and straddle her chest. She pressed the knife to her unprotected throat, placing her knees across her two flailing arms.

“Like that?” asked Mercy, innocently. The woman was sweating, glancing at the knife which pushed hard enough to leave a dent in her skin.

“Like that,” she confirmed, voice tight. Mercy moved the knife away and the instructor began to breathe again. They both clambered back to their feet. “Where did you learn to do that?”

With a smile that betrayed pride, Mercy replied with a shrug. “It’s basic Peacekeeper training. You need to be fast, and you need to know how people move so that you have the upper hand. I figured it would probably be similar with a knife.”

“Can I try?” asked a voice.

Mercy turned to the newcomer, finding her escape from the mat blocked by an unfamiliar dark-haired girl. Her stare was cold like the sharp blade of a knife, and Mercy took a step away. The confidence she had in herself drained away, like blood from a wound.

“Sure!” called the instructor, immune to the judgemental glances that were targeting Mercy. “You’ll just need to grab a knife, and then come here where I can-“

“With her,” interrupted the girl. As she stepped on to the mat, Mercy caught sight of the seal stitched on her uniform: District Two. “I want to spar with her. Can I?”

Mercy could not decline. She never backed away from a fight. However, she turned her attention to the instructor and willed her to find an excuse. She did. “I’m afraid not,” the instructor answered, shaking her head as if she felt sympathy. “We can’t risk injuring another tribute.”

If the girl felt disappointed, she did not show it. Her face did not change. “That’s a shame,” she answered, monotone. “I guess we will have to wait for the arena.”

***

Azazel did not settle. He paced to the sound of clashing weaponry, shouting tributes and the echo of impact on soft, rubber mats. There was nothing he wanted to learn. Instead, he tried to memorise everything that was offered.

His mentor was not helpful. However, he had fed them a crucial piece of advice: keep an eye on the compulsory training. Instead, they had been dismissed to train as they wished that morning without the whisper of another compulsory event on the horizon. Azazel needed to figure it out.

Azazel hated thinking. He needed to do something, which is why he paced endlessly around the gymnasium. He gritted his teeth at the thought of his boy, knowing Tesla was capable of working out the arena and would likely be screaming the answer at his screen.

As he walked beside a small station dedicated to constructing fishhooks from old metal scraps, Azazel noticed he was being watched. The sharp eyes of the girl from District Eight were fixated on him as if he were art, following him around the room. She noticed she had been noticed and called out. “You’ve been walking in circles for twenty minutes. I was starting to wonder if you’re going mad.”

“I think I am,” he replied, muttering.

He moved closer as the girl laughed, twirling a shoddily made fishhook around her fingers. She waved down to the table, pointing at the materials that Gamemakers had deemed necessary to know how to fish. “It’s a real mix,” she explained. “After all, I can’t imagine the twins from Four making little fishhooks from old cans and pieces of metal chain.”

It was familiar. Azazel picked an old piece of wire, pulling the plastic coating away to expose the copper. The fire-starting station showed how to make tinder from wooden beams. The knot-tying station had the opportunity to learn to tie pieces of old cable. The shelter-making station demonstrated how to reinforce a collapsing roof with plastic sheeting.

“You notice it too?” asked the girl.

“Nothing is making sense,” complained Azazel, and she accepted his frustration with a nod. “And there’s no compulsory training-“

“-which will reflect the arena,” she finished, thoughtfully. “Well, they made us climb so I bet that will be included.”

Azazel nodded. “There must be something else, though.”

Eight’s girl bent her fishhook out of shape as she tried to secure it to a length of string. She sighed, dropping the warped metal back on the table. “My partner guessed it might be a junkyard,” she offered. “Any ideas?”

“It’s too natural for that,” he argued. “Have you seen the edible plant station? There’s definitely going to be plants. And there’s tree climbing.”

As she considered his words, the girl from Eight took a hand to her hair and began to twist it absent-mindedly around her finger. “So, a mix of natural and man-made.”

Her particular phrasing stirred something in Azazel’s memory, like when his boy prompted him before he dropped a wire in the wrong box. “A factory,” he offered, suddenly. The girl tilted her head, wanting more. Azazel gave it. “If you leave something long enough, plants will take over. We have an old factory like that in Three. It was destroyed by an electrical fire, and now it’s just like a forest.”

She considered his answer. Then, she grinned. “It’s possible,” she replied. “You know, you’re pretty smart, even for Three.”

Azazel glowed with the unfamiliar pride.

***

As the bell rang for lunch, Raven snapped the twig he was using as a paintbrush and left the pieces on the table. His arm was painted with his name over and over again, berry juice staining his pale skin. It was something he could do successfully, and he was desperate for success.

He thought he knew how to survive. It seemed far more difficult in the Capitol.

The instructor approached with a damp cloth as the tributes began to file to the canteen. Raven scowled, and the young woman backed away. There was no camouflage in his art: he wanted a repetitive motion to let his mind wander, but it had only found a problem in every single solution.

The food was insulting. Raven had provided for Jackdaw since he was thirteen – he did not need to rely on a hand from the Capitol. However, there were no roots or plants to scavenge in the canteen and he was forced to take a plate.

They won’t feed me in the arena, he thought, bitterly. He took a chair and ate with his hands, in his own personal rebellion. The edible plant station had demonstrated he knew nothing about plant life outside Twelve, and he had quickly learned that he was incapable of lighting a fire. The free meal in the canteen was a prize before a punishment.

There was the cornucopia. That was their gift, tainted by the beginning melee that would likely kill Raven if he went in.

Flicker joined him at the table, sitting silently beside him and deciding to follow his messy rebellion. She shovelled rice to her mouth with her fist, staining her fingers in rich, brown gravy that flooded her plate. Raven’s arm was still red, as the damp berry juice began to smudge and create rivers down to his knuckles.

“Camouflage ain’t your thing,” stated Flicker, as she glanced at the mess. “What did you do in Twelve? We might be better at that.”

“Lived in the Hob,” muttered Raven, begrudgingly. He did not need to elaborate – the Hob was not a location for those who wanted to make an honest living.

Flicker lifted her plate to drink the gravy from its edge. “Probably a good runner then, if you’re a damn thief,” she tried, and Raven did not argue. “Actually, you have to be. You nearly outran the ‘keepers when you weren’t at the reaping.”

That was true. Raven considered her judgement and believed her. He had outrun the Peacekeepers. He had also outrun angry merchants, who noticed their jewellery was missing after they were knocked in to.

He could climb, too. He could scramble to the coal loft in the Hob quicker than anyone else. He could move silently, and find a use for anything he found, and bargain his way to anything he wanted.

“You know, Flicker,” he murmured, finishing his final mouthful. He rubbed his hand against the berry juice, smudging anything that remained into an unreadable, crimson mass. “You’re alright, sometimes.”

Flicker made a rude gesture. “Don’t get used to it.”

***

Leon preferred to eat alone. He scowled as the pair from District Ten rushed to him as violently as a rockfall. The girl was red, flushing in anger as she pulled her reluctant partner across the canteen by his arm.

“You’re not from Ten,” she demanded, trying to tower over the table but falling short. She hit a fist on his metal table. “You’re telling everyone you’re from Ten. You’re not!”

“You noticed,” replied Leon, dryly. He continued taking a mouthful of his soup, deliberately taking the time to savour the taste before continuing. “I’m from Two.”

“You’re not!” The girl grew wilder as she grew annoyed. Her voice rose to a shrill volume that had other tributes glancing in their direction, despite her partner trying to cool her down.

Leon relented, putting his spoon down on a napkin and picking up the soup bowl with both hands. “Correct,” he answered, before lifting the bowl to his mouth and drinking the soup instead.

His answer sat heavy in the air between them. The pair were taken aback, shocking the girl into a brief, calm silence. Her partner still held her sleeve but stopped pulling. “So, you are from Ten?” he asked, in a quieter voice.

Sighing through his soup, Leon placed the empty bowl on the table. “You answered that,” he tried, but the girl regained her grumbling composure.

“You’re not from Ten,” she repeated in a vicious hiss. “We’ve never seen you there. You don’t look like you’re from Ten. You don’t even speak like you’re from Ten. Why are you telling everyone that you are?”

“If the Capitol tells you to say you’re from Ten,” he explained, calmly, “you say you’re from Ten.”

Leon watched as his statement worked through their heads. It seemed as if Panem’s butchers were not the brightest, as it seemed to get lost halfway there. “So, you’re not from Ten or Two?” asked the boy, tilting his head in confusion.

“If that’s true,” added the girl, “where are you from?”

Following the instruction of his escort, Leon placed his spoon on the tray alongside his empty bowl. He pushed the try away from him. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he answered, simply, “so let’s give it a few days, okay?”

***

There was a harsh, piercing whistle to indicate the end of the allotted lunch hour.

“Come on,” barked a Peacekeeper, herding the tributes like sheep. The guards moved like a tide to urge the children from their tables. “An avox will clear your plate. You need to head to the gymnasium.”

“Come on,” repeated Mercy, softer and targeted to her partner. “Let’s go.”

They sat furthest from the door, and nearest the guard. The tributes were funnelled to a narrow corridor with one entrance, creating a crushing crowd in the canteen. The Peacekeepers did not pay attention, continuing to push forward with their arms outstretched. “Move it,” cried one, loud like a rumbling train. “Quicker. Now.”

Eden became caught at the back of the group, where the guards were pushing and growling at those who they believed were taking too long. There was no one touching him but there was a pressure on his back. It began to boil to a white-hot anger. He was trapped.

Mercy caught sight of the colour leaving his face and widened her eyes at his clenched fists. “Eden?” she asked, softly. A Peacekeeper grabbed her sleeve, pulling her further into the slowly moving crowd of tributes.

The guard shouted again, unintelligible through his helmet. Eden reached the door and forced his way through, becoming trapped further in the corridor that widened into the gymnasium. He soldiered on. His feet were heavy on the floor. They were not moving fast enough.

He was pushed. He erupted.

Eden swung his elbow at the Peacekeeper’s head, creating enough force to send a spidery crack running along the visor of the helmet. He grabbed it, pushing with enough force to send it clattering to the floor. With his opponents face exposed, Eden attacked again.

He fought with his fist, aiming for the bridge of his nose. He dug his knuckles into the man’s eyes. Then, he made a swift, hard kick to the man’s stomach and shoved him to the floor when he was unbalanced.

It was too quick. The Peacekeepers remained in the canteen, only to come rushing to the corridor at Eden’s raw shout. The other tributes scattered, but stopped and gathered to watch him as their own curiosity took over. Eden took out his lifetime of fury on a man who came too close.

He stamped on his chest. He kicked his cheek. In one fluid movement, Eden went for the man’s waist and snatched the shotgun from the holster. He was armed.

Eden knew how to hold a gun. Despite his trembling hands, his finger was on the trigger as he tried to keep the barrel steady. The Peacekeeper was not enough; he scanned across the gathered crowd for a target. The curiosity was not enough to keep them still, and tributes screamed and cried out as they dodged behind equipment and pillars.

He fixated on one who was frozen. Eden’s attention was captured by the blue-haired Capitol boy, who had knelt to tie a shoelace but had fallen in the sudden panic. He sat in the centre of the entrance, unable to move as he looked down the barrel of the gun like a scared deer.

Eden stopped. He aimed. He waited. He trembled so much that it was difficult to hold the gun still. He could hear the Peacekeeper behind him scrambling back to his feet, shouting commands through the thick blood pouring from his nose.

Eden threw the gun aside and ran for the exit, disappearing behind a swinging door.

Chapter Text

[23] Apology

In the chaos, there was peace. Inari clutched Alder’s hand, having grabbed her and pulled her behind a pillar in the panic. She held on tightly enough to leave dents in his skin with her nails. Her breathing was ragged, and she pushed herself into Inari’s chest, hiding her face in his t-shirt.

A door fell closed with a soft click. Inari peered around the pillar: the stolen gun lay on the floor, and the thief was gone. The collective, thunderous roar of Peacekeepers ready for pursuit replaced the silence.

From the balcony, the Head Gamemaker raised her hand. “Do not kill him,” she ordered, in a deep, reverberating voice. The guards looked back, bemused. “You must not harm a tribute. He will be returned alive.”

The targeted Peacekeeper limped from the corridor, face stained with drying blood from his nose to his chin. He moved slowly, wincing as he bent down to retrieve his gun. “The kid’s a threat,” he barked in response.

“Luckily, he harmed no one but you,” replied the Head Gamemaker, coldly. “You’re of a high standing. You should not be beaten by one of them.”

Cautiously, tributes began to emerge from their hiding places. Alder freed herself from Inari’s shirt, joining him in staring around the room as pairings and alliances appeared from behind pillars and metal weaponry racks. At the request of the balcony, the instructors fell into afternoon training as if nothing had happened and began to try and entice tributes to their stations.

Inari dragged himself to his feet and pulled his partner up with him. There was no rush to return to normality. Despite the instructor’s enthusiasm, there was a bemused lull across the gymnasium. The Capitol’s boy was still on the floor, completely still and staring at where the gun had been. He did not even notice his hair falling across his face, blocking his view.

Giving Alder a reassuring pat on her shoulder, Inari left her and made the short journey across the gymnasium, holding out a hand to the boy. It went unnoticed. After a pause, Inari offered a quiet, “you okay?”

His voice added to the nervous buzzing in the room. The tributes were beginning to return to training, accompanied by whispered discussions of what they witnessed. However, his question seemed to pull the Capitol’s tribute back into the gymnasium. He blinked twice, shook his head quickly as if emerging from a trance, and then glanced at Inari’s hand.

Reluctantly, he took it. Inari helped him clamber unsteadily to his feet. The boy was trembling, and Inari pulled him closer in an attempt to comfort him. “You okay?” he repeated, and the boy blinked again. “You need a minute?

The boy hesitated, before shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he choked.

“You sure?”

He dropped Inari’s hand, wiping his palms against the soft fabric of his trousers. He shook his head again, as if to rid it of thoughts rather than give an answer. “I’ll be okay,” he whispered, and he turned to walk away before Inari could refuse his answer.

***

In District Thirteen’s tribute apartment, Eden threw himself through the door and pounded across the floor. He stopped in a flurry at his mentor’s side, desperately trying to rub away any trace of tears from his face. “I did something stupid!” he panicked, his voice shrill as he tried to catch his breath between gasping sobs. His chest heaved with the effort. “I did something stupid, and now they’re going to come and find me, and they’re going to-“

“Breathe,” interrupted Hadrian. Eden tried, his breath rattling in his chest. The mentor looked at the corridor where the boy had appeared. “Did you run up the stairs instead of taking the lift?”

Eden nodded. He rubbed the skin around his eyes raw using the back of his hand.

With a sigh that he tried to make comforting, Hadrian began to hope for the best. “What did you do?”

Eden managed to stutter the entire story through short, panicked sentences. “It wasn’t my fault!” he tried, but he was unconvincing. “The Peacekeeper – he…he pushed me and I just…”

It became clear that the sentence would never be finished. “You were right,” said Hadrian. “That was stupid.”

Panic faded to anger. Eden turned from his mentor, kicking a table which held and empty coffee pot and a collection of white mugs. They rattled under the force. “It was not my fault,” he repeated through tight, gritted teeth. He punctuated each word with an attack. Then, he stopped. In a quite voice, he asked, “are they going to hurt me?”

“Doubt it,” reassured Hadrian. “Did you kill anyone?”

Eden shook his head.

“You’ll probably be fine. They might even like your temper. It’s a television show, after all. We do need to convince them that it’s just this exciting, explosive temperament rather than anything…difficult.”

Eden began to chew on the skin around his thumb. “How?”

“You’re going to apologise, for a start.”

His face darkened. The previous panic was only visible in the red rash around his face – everywhere else, Eden was vicious. “No,” he spat. “I don’t apologise.”

Hadrian pulled himself up from his dining chair. “You do now,” he argued, moving to the door to the elevator. “Come on – it’ll do you some good to grovel to the Gamemakers, and to that Capitol boy too. If you want sponsors, you don’t want to be seen pointing a gun at their favourite.”

Eden folded his arms and pouted, like a sulking toddler. “I’m not doing it.”

“If you don’t apologise, they’ll probably kill you in the arena,” countered Hadrian. “It’s your choice.”

***

“You must be able to climb,” stressed Ilara, in a patronising tone that won her an eye roll from her partner.

“In case you forgot,” reminded Acacia, through painfully gritted teeth. “I’m a mechanic. I don’t need to go climbing through trees to replace a fanbelt.”

“Acacia,” said Ilara, pointedly.

Her partner interrupted, correcting her. “Asa.”

“Asa,” she repeated, sighing. “You can’t grow up in District Seven without climbing a tree.”

“Well, I did, alright?” he argued, turning red. He looked away.

There was a tree tucked in the corner of the training gymnasium. It was not real – at least, it did not look like any tree that Ilara had encountered in District Seven – but it offered an easier climbing challenge amongst the precarious rope ladders and distant obstacle courses. Ilara took hold of Acacia’s sleeve and dragged the younger boy unwillingly to its trunk.

“You did alright on the high ropes,” she praised, before pointing into the plastic branches. “You should be fine.”

“That was different,” mumbled Acacia, but he was determined to meet her challenge. He placed a hand on the lowest branch, before turning to his partner. “What is the point of this?”

“You’re from Seven. You need to be able to climb a tree.”

There was no argument. Acacia readjusted his hand on the branch, lifting his left foot into a small dent in the trunk. He stood, seemingly suspended, for a long pause.

Ilara fell into sympathy and instruction. “Pull yourself up,” she offered, and Acacia hesitantly followed her instruction. “Here – try and keep three limbs in contact at all times. You’ve got two hands and a foot, so you can move your other foot higher.”

Acacia tried to make a comment, but it was lost in his effort as he took another step on the trunk and scrambled to the lowest branch.

“Same again,” continued Ilara. “The branches will get thinner as you go higher, but you’re small.”

“Thank you for that reminder,” called Acacia, through a mass of fake foliage. He found another branch with a solid hold for his hand and continued shakily through the leaves. As he climbed, he counted to three. “I don’t get how Eleven makes this look so easy. He doesn’t even have three spare limbs.”

Raising her volume so that her comment met her partner, Ilara shouted upwards. “Practice. There are a lot of things that take practice.”

“I know that!” Acacia’s branch moved and his voice wavered, so he sat down and decided he was as high as he needed to be. After a pause, he spoke again. “I have a lot of talent that comes from practice, but none of it’s useful in the arena.”

Ilara was quietly proud of Acacia’s first attempt in a tree – not that she believed any citizen of Seven should be climbing a tree for the first time at thirteen. Hidden amongst their bickering, they had a lot in common.

***

Isabel sat back on her heels, staring in dismay at her attempt to stitch a wound together. It seemed a simple task: she remembered to clean the cut with an antiseptic cloth, and she had even coated it in a cream to prevent infection. However, she did more damage to her plastic patient as she attempted to sew it together. The rubber skin was full of tiny, pin-prick holes where she had repeatedly stuck the needle. Isabel desperately tried to keep her stitches small and neat, but they were so close that the skin was ripping beneath her fingers.

The thread broke, and Isabel threw her needle to the mat below her. If I get injured, I’ll just die, she thought, regretting every occasion she had bribed Kinnie to fix the rips in her uniform for her.

Trying to avoid the task, Isabel began to let her mind wander. She glanced around to find her partner, but Azazel was nowhere to be found in her corner of the gymnasium. Instead, there was one person sat with her at the first aid station, neatly wrapping a bandage around a mannequin’s leg. The seal embroidered on his t-shirt labelled him as District Eight – that explained his proficiency with fabric bandages, and the neat knot that he tied.

“Hey, Eight,” Isabel called, and the boy looked up from his work. She regretted the call; Isabel had not encountered any tribute who showed interest in her, but this boy stared at her and expected an explanation. He was her age, and a similar build – they could probably take each other in a fair fight, and she immediately disliked the thought.

“What?” he prompted when Isabel did not carry on with her shout. His voice dripped with suspicion, but Isabel was innocent. She gestured in despair at her practice wound.

“You can sew, right?” she asked.

The boy was taken aback, blinking. “I’m from Eight,” he answered slowly, as if she were simple. “Obviously, I can sew. We can all sew.”

“Well, you can come and help me then,” ordered Isabel. She lightened her tone with a lilt and grinned, trying to show the boy that she was joking. He did not smile. Instead, he stood and walked over to investigate her work. With an audience, Isabel felt as if she needed to explain. “I cannot stitch this wound together. The thread keeps breaking.”

“You’ve been holding it so tightly, I’m not surprised,” he muttered in response. Without asking, the boy took Isabel’s hands in his own and pulled them further apart. “Here. You need to have some slack in this thread, otherwise it will keep breaking. And your stitches need to be further apart.”

He sat beside her, pushing her further along the mat so they could share the space around the demonstration. Isabel let him guide her hand as he placed the needle back between her fingers, pushing it carefully through the rubber skin.

“I assume it’s like fabric,” he explained as he worked, taking Isabel’s hand through the motion of pulling the thread carefully across the wound. He turned the needle and began the second stitch. “If it is too close together, it’ll rip just like you did before. If it’s too far apart, then the skin won’t heal properly, I guess.”

“So, you have no idea what you’re talking about?” interrupted Isabel. The boy’s hands fell from her own as he looked to her, confused. “You said you’re guessing. You don’t have any idea, do you?”

“I know about sewing,” he replied. “That’s clearly more than you do.”

Isabel could not argue. She tried to follow the boy’s cautious advice, easing the needle through the skin, and creating a series of three jagged, uneven stitches. He nudged her as she unthreaded the needle and began to tie a secure knot. “There – you can do it.”

Deliberately, Isabel pulled the thread until she felt it snap beneath her fingers. “Only because you showed me,” she countered, dropping the remaining thread to the mat. She held her hand out for the boy to shake. “Issy.”

The boy looked at her hand in suspicion, eyeing her with the same distain he showed for her sewing. Then, his face broken to a bright grin, and he shook her hand with a tight hold. “Lucet.”

***

Amity struggled with holding her scythe, clasping the light, carbon handle with both hands until her knuckles turned white. It was not a stranger to her, and she knew it as a tool. The instructor was telling her to greet it as a weapon.

“Feet apart,” he instructed, modelling the stance that kept her knees loose and ready to spring into an attack. Amity readjusted her feet to the correct position and readied the scythe, blade pointing to the floor. “You’ll need to point it higher than that. You won’t find any vital organs in your opponent’s feet.”

Against everything she had been taught, Amity raised the blade higher. It glinted dangerously in the luminescent lighting. “Like this?” she asked, craving clarification.

“That’s it! You can decapitate someone if you get the right angle, but you’ll probably be focusing on trying to take off a hand or a finger.”

Amity swallowed. She had witnessed it in the field when someone stepped to close to a harvester’s swinging blade. It was a story in Nine - the scythe demanded a sacrifice for a quick harvest and would take a finger each season.

However, the price was paid in carelessness. It was a tool rather than a weapon, and no one would ever use one to deliberately injure. Amity tried to listen as the instructor taught her the opposite.

***

In the corner of the gymnasium, the alliance allowed themselves to succumb to a dragging boredom. There was no fun in the training when the other tributes were no longer intimidated by them, and the endless hunt for further allies had dulled over the day and a half of training. There were already five of them, although Sparkle described it as four and a half – she was not entirely convinced by Cove.

He sat amongst them but did not do anything beyond agreeing with everything that was said. Serenity was on her feet and proving herself as an asset, swinging a mace to get a feel for the unusual weapon. There was a mannequin lying on the floor, pummelled until it began to bleed white cotton stuffing.

Ferro turned to a sword. He found comfort in the familiarity, swinging it as if he was fighting his own shadow on a small mat. He yelled at the imaginary opponent, slicing through the air with a triumphant shout as he danced forward.

“Your feet need to be further apart,” called Epona, who was watching from the floor with an intense interest. They shared a strength and, although they differed in blade, they both decided they were the expert in the other’s discipline.

“If I put them any further apart, I’ll leave myself open to an attack,” replied Ferro, through tightly gritted teeth. His face shone with the glow of his effort. “You don’t know about balance with a heavier sword, anyway.”

“I know enough to know that your feet should be further apart.” Epona did not back down. She pulled herself to her feet and approached Ferro, ignoring the threat of his sword. “Look, your balance is all off. I could give you a hard push in the stomach and you’d fall over backwards.”

Ferro dropped his sword to his side, glaring. “Except you wouldn’t get close enough to push me because I have a damn sword.”

“You’re too slow with the swing to be any real threat to me.”

At the exchange, a fire began to grow between the two volunteers. Epona continued to be oblivious to it. She took a step closer and reached to correct his hold on the sword, until Ferro pulled it from her. She huffed and folded her arms. “I don’t see how anything that heavy is going to do any damage, anyway. I suppose you could bludgeon me to death.”

“I could cut your head clean from your body,” growled Ferro. He dropped the hilt of his sword and held it carefully by the blade, pressing the handle against his ally’s throat. The cold metal left a dent in her skin. “Right here. I wouldn’t even need to try that hard.”

“You could try-“ began Epona, and Ferro accepted her invitation. His furious attack was a surprise, with the hilt of the sword being pushed upwards into her jaw as she tried to continue speaking. She stumbled, focusing on the attack and where it originated from. She constructed a defence before Ferro pulled the sword from the skin.

As he raised the sword to hit her again, Epona ducked and moved in underneath his wide stance. She reached, grabbing his wrist. The weight of the sword hindered Ferro’s movement and she twisted the arm to her whim. She secured it behind his back in her own grip until the larger boy was crying out. The sword clattered to the ground with a crash.

They were surrounded by Peacekeepers before the sword lay still on the floor. Epona released her ally as soon as she proved she was correct, and Ferro’s pride was bruised more than his arm. “You must not engage in combat with another tribute,” commanded a guard, muffled through his helmet.

Epona engaged with respect, straightening her back, and facing the instruction. “I was simply giving a demonstration,” she specified with a nod, leaving Ferro cradling his arm. “I believe I’ve made my point.”

***

Dakota sat on the floor with a knife, twirling the blade in her hand with a practiced ease. She made no effort to train with it. Instead, she began to trace permanent patterns in the concrete beneath her, unfamiliar with her lucidity. She could hear every crash and every shout, and she could see every colour and every seal stitched on the sleeves of shirts.

Succumbing to boredom quicker than most without her usual vices to escape to, Dakota took the time to use her mind. She was seen as a body more often than a brain, but bright ideas occasionally appeared. Replaying the attack in her memory, she considered the boy with the gun.

Thirteen’s boy was quite unremarkable, like her. Dakota grinned to herself at the similarity – they were both pretty enough, both quick enough, and both bright enough to be useful to those around them. However, the boy showed an undeniable talent amongst his mediocrity. When he aimed the gun, he aimed well.

Cessna – Dakota’s boy – could fire a gun with ease. She had seen him do it, often point blank into a cheating merchant’s forehead. However, her boy could not aim. He owned a gun in a similar way to anyone else -  you did not own anything valuable in the outskirts of Six without having the means to defend it.

So, Thirteen’s boy is trained with a gun.

Dakota dug the point of the knife deeper into the floor, beginning to kick up dust. She grinned to herself when she remembered the target: the blue-haired annoyance, praising the city with every breath yet still standing atop Panem’s gallows. Thirteen was the Peacekeeper district. They were all well-trained, obedient dogs who would not target a citizen or guard.

There was no chance that Thirteen’s boy was no cadet. He was a threat. Dakota enjoyed the word, whispering it to herself as she dug chunks of concrete out with her blade. Her tribute partner might think he was a genius with all his fancy education, but she beat him. She worked out something that he did not know.

***

Azure was lost in leaves. He surrounded himself with several plants and tried to identify those with medicinal qualities, but they each looked the same. His mind swam each time he picked one up and he sorted them into piles with no reasoning. He held one to the light panel above the station. It revealed no clue to him. It all meant nothing.

There was another boy at the station – Seven, according to his sleeve – who was having far more success. His foliage was placed in neat piles and the activity no longer held his attention. He stared around the gymnasium instead, laughing when he caught an opening door.

“Thirteen’s back,” he warned with a grin. He looked to Azure with a mischievous glint. “You should watch yourself.”

Azure paused, still holding a leaf. He slowly tore it to green confetti as he watched the arrival. Thirteen’s boy, with his eyes securely fixed to the floor, was marched into the gymnasium by a furious mentor. His arms were wrapped around his chest, tight enough for his fingers to leave dents in his own flesh.

The tribute was escorted to the floor beneath the Gamemakers’ balcony, where he was reprimanded by his mentor and forced to finally look upward. He called something, which was inaudible over the clashing and panting and shouting of the training tributes.

“He’s proper annoyed them,” murmured Seven’s boy. The discussion between the floor and the balcony was short and shouted, with the mentor nudging his charge to expand on each point he made. Azure could not look away; when the conversation finished, Thirteen’s team turned to him. He could hear the boy from Seven grinning. “Oh, look – your turn now.”

It was a forlorn walk. Without the ferocity of the fight in the corridor, Thirteen’s boy scowled as he was shuffled across the gymnasium to the medical plant station. He stopped several steps away from Azure, who let the torn leaf fall from his hand and flutter to the mat beneath his knees. The victor nudged his charge in the should and whilst the boy glared back at him, there was no explosion.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered begrudgingly, looking back to the floor. He did not sound convincing. Azure could not find a response. He stared at the boy, as if the barrel of the gun was pointed at his face again. Eventually, he realised the expectation was on him to provide a response as if there had been a simple disagreement.

“It’s fine,” he answered, obediently.

The boy continued, his biting tone returning when there was no longer a need for an apology. “I wouldn’t have actually shot you, you know.”

“Nah,” interrupted Seven’s boy. He distracted himself with reorganising his leaf piles as he spoke. “You should have gone for it. We’d have one less to worry about, and we could’ve shared his sponsors.”

Azure was trapped between the two, as Seven’s boy made him a target and Thirteen’s boy laughed at the mocking. His head flicked between the two, unable to focus on either. The saviour was the waiting victor, who moved from anger to fury at the comment.

“Who’s your mentor?” he demanded of the boy from District Seven.

The boy grinned with a lop-sided half smile, creating confidence in his hunched demeanour. “Aspen Hollow,” he answered, as if he was proud.

The mentor scoffed. “Figures,” he replied, with a roll of his eyes. Then, he focused himself on the silent, wide-eyed Azure. “Eden means what he says, you know. He’s got a thing about the Keepers. You just got in the way.”

“Most obvious target,” added the tribute, with a nod to Azure’s bright hair.

Azure followed his script. “It’s fine,” he insisted.

***

Serenity enjoyed excitement if it was not directed at her. She entered their tribute apartment with a rare grin, animated and prepared to discuss the dramatic turn of the day with anyone who would listen. Throughout, she was comforted with the knowledge that the event belonged to her partner who moved through the corridor with a tail between his legs like a scolded puppy.

“Has it hit the screens yet?” she called, catching the attention of their escort and their substituted mentor. It was clear it had – the large panel showed a report of the day’s training beneath Goldie’s familiar, endless commentary.

“Azure!” cried Infinity. She stood from the comfortable chair and rushed over when the tribute pair made themselves known. She grabbed the younger boy and dusted him down as if he had fallen. Azure stood still, letting it happen. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I asked to come down, but we weren’t-“

“I’m fine,” interrupted Azure.

“I did tell them that the Games were no place for criminals,” continued Serenity. She placed her morality on the table, so that the excitement tasted sweeter. “Training is so dull though, so at least he spiced it up. Your sister did too, actually. She’s very good at putting people in their place.”

She addressed the final comment to their mentor. Gem was still sat in the chair, and Serenity took a seat opposite him. He nursed a drink, and the empty glasses on the coffee table suggested it was not his first. “It’s all over the screens,” he confirmed, ignoring the statement about his sister. “I don’t think they’ve talked about anything else, which isn’t too good if you’re still trying to catch the audience. He picked a bad target though – half the Capitol want him shot in the street.”

Although she sat, Serenity was still electric. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, alternating between sitting up and sinking back into the cushions. An avox entered the room carrying a tray of glasses with a deep, rich red wine. In celebration, Serenity waved her over. “We could toast to the upcoming execution of the traitor,” she offered, taking a glass. She took a sip. “Or we can drink to forget it even happened. I’ll let you make the call, songbird.”

Azure scowled. It did not fix itself into a broadcast-friendly smile. “He can’t drink,” scolded Infinity before Azure could speak. “He’s thirteen, Serenity. I know they have all sorts of strange customs in the districts, but we have standards here.”

“He’s a tribute.” Serenity accepted that she was not going to be granted her toast, taking another large mouthful of the wine. It tinted her lips red. “It hardly matters at this point. He’ll be dead by the end of next week.”

Briefly, Serenity thought she caught Azure’s hands clench into tight firsts. When she looked, they were hanging limply at his side. He still scowled – it was not very becoming, and she opened her mouth to tell him.

“Standards,” interrupted Infinity. She reached to take the wine from Serenity’s grasp, but the tribute pulled away and emptied the glass before it could be stolen. “As a tribute, you’re even more visible than usual. You should be setting the example.”

“I am, compared to the others,” Serenity replied. She waved her empty glass at the screen, which was showing captured footage of the attack. “I just thought, it might be nice to let him taste wine before someone kills him.”

“I’m in the room,” said Azure, after a beat of silence. His voice was quiet.

Serenity placed her empty glass on the coffee table, to join the others. “I know,” she replied.

***

As if they were children again, Sunnie and Fern held each other tightly. They were wrapped together atop the cover of Fern’s bed, and Sunnie grasped her sister as if she was comforting her after a nightmare like she did before the Games took it from them. For a long time, they sat in silence as Sunnie buried her face in Fern’s soft hair and savoured the familiar scent of home.

“You’re going to be my priority,” she whispered. Fern pulled away, positioning herself to clearly see her sister’s face. There was nothing hopeful in it: Sunnie was exhausted, with dark, purple shadows beneath her eyes and raw rashes across her cheek.

“You could try and protect both of us,” tried Fern, but Sunnie shook her head.

“I can’t do that,” she answered, voice breaking. There were no more tears left in her. “I have to decide who I can give up each year, and I can’t do that to you. You need to come home. I can’t fail this time.”

“You don’t fail,” said Fern, but Sunnie did not hear her. She pulled her in tighter, as if she never wanted to let go.

For a minute, the only sound was the dull, thumping accompaniment of distant Capitol music. Sunnie eventually broke the silence herself. “It’s my fault,” she murmured, and Fern barely heard her. She tilted her head to catch each word. “You, and then…the other boy, from Six. They’re punishing me.”

Fern freed herself from the hug. She reached up to take a lock of her sister’s hair and begun to braid it, like when they were children and waiting to hear the town clock strike midnight together. “Why would they?”

“For not being a good mentor,” replied Sunnie, half-heartedly. She did not seem to have an answer but kept trying to give one. “For not keeping it together. For not listening. For not…for a lot of things, Fern.”

Dropping her hair, Fern placed her hands on her sister’s cheeks and forced her to meet her eye. “You listen to me,” she instructed, and Sunnie nodded weakly. “You are not a bad mentor, Sunnie Evander. You do your absolute best for every single tribute. They aren’t punishing you.”

“You don’t know that,” said Sunnie, weakly.

“No,” corrected Fern. “You dragged yourself here for me. There are not many mentors that would do that. And you’re doing your best for Solar despite…despite everything.”

Suddenly, Sunnie pulled away. She looked down at the cover over the bed. She did not argue, and this was enough to placate Fern who leaned back into her tower of soft pillows. Whispering, Sunnie added, “Solar will have to die, you know.”

Fern held her breath. “I know.”

***

Solar curled his legs up into his chest, sitting uncomfortably on the windowsill so that he could rest his forehead on the glass. His body ached from the constant training. His mind ached from his constant guessing and predictions. The cold glass was comforting, although it vibrated to the rhythm of distant celebration.

Behind him, there was the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Do they ever stop partying?” asked Solar, glancing up at the reflection in the window. Cotton Sterling stood in the doorway, watching the same view.

“No,” answered the victor. He stepped into the room. “During the Games, it’s pretty much constant. They slow down a little when it’s all over, but it’ll pick up again during the tour.”

“It’s sick,” stated Solar.

Cotton nodded. “It is.”

The mentor tried to sit beside the tribute, pushing himself into the tight space of the windowsill with his knees bent at a tight angle. His shoulders hunched with the curve of the wall, and Solar could not resist a smile at the sight. “You come to say goodbye?” he asked.

“I have,” replied Cotton, quietly. He ignored the view to take in the image of his former tribute. It was far from their first, hostile meeting across a breakfast table: Solar watched him sincerely and trusted each word he said. “Sunnie is here now, so they don’t need me. I’ll be heading back up to Eight.”

“Giving them all our secrets, I suppose,” murmured Solar. He punctuated it with a half-hearted laugh, trying to prove that it was a joke.

Against the soft laughter, Cotton was serious. “Definitely not,” he clarified. “A tribute’s strength, that is between themselves and their mentor. I’m no longer your mentor, so it’s not my place to say.”

“I appreciate that,” said Solar. Then, he added, “but it hardly amounts to anything anyway.”

There was a heavy silence between them. Solar could hear the music in the street if he placed his ear to the glass, but it was a rhythmic, deep beat without a tune by the time it reached the window. There were bright colours adoring the floor, dancing to the noise.

“Sunnie is going to favour her sister,” stated Cotton, as if it were a fact. Solar had already reached the same conclusion – he was on his own.

“Thank you,” he began, but Cotton did not accept the gratitude.

“Don’t let her do it,” he interrupted, louder. His voice echoed on the glass. “You might not believe me, but Sunnie is a very competent mentor. She could work with both of you, and you deserve that.”

“I do,” Solar agreed. “But Fern is her sister, isn’t she? It’s different.”

“You could win, Solar.” Cotton’s tone was speaking in fact again, but Solar did not believe him. He pushed. “You could. You know how the Games work. Use that.”

“How?” asked Solar, quietly. The arena did not throw a handful of coins to a tribute who predicted the outcome.

“You need to think about each tribute as a threat,” explained the mentor. “You need to play offensively. Think, who is your biggest opposition? Take them down when they aren’t expecting it, and you’ll be the strongest one left eventually.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You need to try.”

Awkwardly, Cotton turned his back to the view and placed his feet on the floor. He was still hunched over, with his knees at his chin. “You need to try,” he repeated, softer. “I want Satin to win. If that can’t happen, I want Lucet. If I can’t have either, I want you. You could do it, if you try.”

Beneath them, a parade began. The bright colours marched through the street with the discipline of a Peacekeeper regiment. Solar was silent. He considered the speech carefully, before offering the answer he felt was expected. Quietly, he replied, “okay.”

Chapter Text

[24] Rehearsal

Cove was growing familiar with a silent breakfast. If Sennen ate, she ate in her bedroom. They would only meet to enter the elevator together, before separating as soon as the training began. They did not exchange a word.

Before the final day of training, breakfast was shared between the boy and his mentor. Ocean nursed a mug of steaming coffee as she stared at her charge. Cove struggled to butter a soft, white roll as it turned to crumbs in his hand. There was a basket on the table that offered District Four’s signature robust bread flecked with seaweed, but Cove ignored it.

“I hear you made some new friends,” said Ocean. Her voice disturbed the steam above her coffee and sent it dancing across the table. The comment was dressed as a question, wearing a curious intonation and a raised eyebrow.

Cove noticed. He looked away. The bread continued to fall apart in his hand until he gave up, eating it whilst the butter was still thick enough for his teeth to leave dents. He held up his chewing as an excuse for not providing an answer.

Taking a sip of her drink, Ocean continued. “I don’t know if they’re really the right kind of friend for you, Cove.”

“They asked,” answered Cove, sharply. His voice was thick with bread, but his eyes were sharp.

 “How did you convince them?” asked Ocean. “I’ve had many, many tributes in that alliance. Each year, there’s at least one that tries it.”

Cove was no longer hungry. He pushed his plate away. “They’re strong. They’re my best chance.”

“If they decide they don’t want you, they’ll kill you and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I know.”

Ocean sighed into her coffee, before picking up the cup and draining it in one swallow. “You’re not like them,” she argued, softly. “Your sister – now, I could see her with them. She has the right mindset. But you, you’re not the person they think you are and when they find out-“

“They won’t find out,” interrupted Cove.

The conversation was shattered by a slamming door. Sennen was awake and would silently make her way to the elevator without glancing at her brother as she walked by. In a hurried whisper, Ocean continued her warning. “You’re not like them, Cove. You regret volunteering.”

“Of course I do,” hissed Cove. He was aware of his sister’s footsteps growing closer. He pushed his chair back from the table, preparing to join her. “But if it’s either me or Sennen, I might as well give myself a good chance.”

***

There was a flurry of final training, with tributes desperate to master their skill in their final morning. As the calm against a clashing storm, the large alliance gathered at the centre to discuss their day. There was no rush for them. They remained where people could see them.

“We should focus on what people are doing today,” suggested Epona in her strange, soft voice. She held a sword as a comfort but did not swing it, having already half-heartedly sparred with an instructor before declaring it too easy. “It’ll be a good indication of where their mind is today, and what they think their weaknesses are.”

“If they’re capable of thinking that far ahead,” added Serenity, spitefully. She watched her partner, who was circling a series of survival stations without commitment to any.

Sparkle took the advice, glancing curiously across the gymnasium and the desperation of her competition. There were some tributes trying to pick up a weapon, whilst others sat at survival stations and tried to take in every shallow explanation. Ferro gave her a gentle nudge on her shoulder, pointing to the obstacle course strung across the ceiling beams. Sparkle looked upward: the pair from Eleven were lying in the ropes, watching every tribute beneath them.

“That’s just lazy,” she murmured, deciding that last-minute practice was ultimately more useful than people-watching. Ferro pointed to a lower part of the course, and Sparkle automatically followed his lead.

“They’re not the only one,” he added, as they watched the boy from Nine as he balanced precariously on a rope ladder. “They can climb, I suppose. It’s meant to be a strength.”

“Climbing is nothing special,” replied Sparkle, with a bite. She was grinning. Ferro recognised a dangerous glint in her eyes: she was bored, and the tributes trapped overhead were filling her with cruel ideas. She turned to her ally and asked, “we want to intimidate the other tributes, yes?”

“I guess,” replied Ferro.

“Well, that little one is only good at one thing.” Sparkle’s tone changed to a mocking lilt, dragging Ferro along with it. “Let’s show him we can do it better anyway.”

Together, they moved to the young boy. He sat above their heads, eyeing the allies as they came nearer. His suspicion was obvious in his wide eyes and his cautious glances.

“At least he didn’t drag his damned cat along,” muttered Sparkle, before grabbing Ferro’s hand and trying to smother an early laugh. She pulled backwards, as if she was allowing her ally to pull her across the floor. She shouted, her voice growing shrill as if she were crying. “No! Please don’t take me!”

Immediately, Ferro caught on to the trick. He threw himself in with enthusiasm, grabbing Sparkle around her waist and picking her up. “Don’t take me!” he joined in, as Sparkle balled her hands into fists and pretended to sob with shrill, overdramatic cries.

It was not subtle. They attracted an audience of tributes who were training nearby, winning both laughter and disapproving scowls at their antics. District Nine’s boy noticed immediately and went pale, his eyes filling with tears in the same manner that District One were mocking. His upset was cause for celebration, and Sparkle and Ferro ran back to their alliance laughing.

***

There was comfort in fire. Raven held his hands to the small flame, warming them to celebrate his success. He could do it, and that gave him a significant advantage over the other tributes who simply wasted their time rubbing sticks together. He allowed himself to bask in that success.

Adding another log, Raven watched as the campfire grew bigger. He wanted it to become a beacon, so other tributes would look at him and notice that he was capable of something. However, every other tributes seemed locked in their panicked, last-minute attempt to master a skill in the short morning.

There was one figure who did not train. Thirteen’s boy – who had gone wild and tried to shoot them the previous day, for Panem’s sake – was stood against a wall with no particular skill to learn. His only movement was a continual rubbing of his left arm and constant, repetitive glances at the larger number of Peacekeepers guarding the door.

Raven spoke before he realised that his mouth was open, calling to the boy across his roaring fire. “Thirteen!” he called, and the boy turned. Raven wanted to clamp a hand across his own mouth and pretend he had never spoken, but it was too late. Instead, he waved the strange boy over. “Come on – I’ll teach you to start a fire.”

There was no hesitation. Thirteen’s boy seemed grateful for the invitation, accepting it with a quick run to the fire station. Beside Raven, he fell to his knees with a force that likely caused bruising. He almost stumbled into the fire itself. “Thanks,” he murmured, before glancing back across his shoulder to the excessive guards. “People keep looking at me. I don’t think anyone wants me to train with them.”

“You did try to shoot us,” reminded Raven, softly. He took another stick and used it to poke his fire.

“I did not,” complained the boy. He folded his arms, pouting like Jackdaw did when Raven told him to rest. “I tried to shoot the Capitol boy. Big difference.”

The stick caught and began to glow. Raven took it from the flame and nursed it, blowing gently and watching it grow. “Is there?”

“He’s Capitol,” answered the boy. “He deserves it.”

The stick became a torch, and Raven watched it burn as the flame grew closer to his hand. Eventually, he tossed it back into the fire. “He’s a kid,” he replied, eventually. “We’re all kids.”

“He’s a kid of the people who put us here,” stressed Eden. He moved closer to the fire, his hair swinging over his shoulder and dangerously close to the flame. “I’m going to take out both of them. Him, and the girl. That’s my goal of the Games.”

The girl stood with the alliance, her usual stoic expression hidden behind a bright laugh as she half-heartedly sparred with the girl from One. “She’ll be tricky,” warned Raven. “And you should have killed the boy yesterday, when there was no fight.”

“I didn’t volunteer just for the people back in Thirteen to get what they wanted.”

Thirteen’s boy took a stick from the pile and held it to the flame, in the same way he had seen Raven do. It caught quickly. He did not panic as the flame travelled along the wood and to his hand. “I’m going to take out both of them,” he repeated. “Then, I’m going to win. Thirteen are going to hate it.”

Raven treated the conversation as a puzzle, and he could not solve it. He tried to hide it, but the expression on his face was of confusion. They each wanted to win for a different reason – Raven was desperate to return to Jackdaw – but there was only one victor at the end.

“Is that why you volunteered, then?” he asked. The boy finally turned back to him, mirroring his confusion. Raven elaborated. “Because it would make them angry?”

Thirteen’s confusion twisted back into a grin. “Yeah,” he replied. The fire finally reached his hand, and he extinguished the stick on the floor. “Something like that.”

***

Chanté and Iumenta stayed in their pairing of convenience as the training period dragged to a slow and predictable end. In a search of some semblance of home, they sat together at the first aid station.

“Tighter,” instructed Chanté, guiding Iumenta’s hands to wrap the stark white bandage on his own arm. She followed the instruction and pulled until Chanté offered an approving nod. “You need pressure to stop bleeding. It needs to be as tight as you can.”

“Like this?” asked Iumenta, seeking approval. She found it. “What if I don’t have any bandages though?”

Chanté gestured to his shirt, and then to Iumenta’s. “Any material will do. Tear your clothes into strips.”

“What about infection?”

“You don’t need to worry about infection whilst you’re still bleeding out.”

She neatly tucked the top of the bandage into itself, and Chanté moved his arm to test the covering. When it did not move, he smiled. “There you go,” he praised, and Iumenta smiled with him. “That’s not bad, you know. You should try being a medic rather than being a butcher.”

“Well, I ain’t going to need to worry about being either if I’m not careful,” replied Iumenta, her smile fading. Chanté shook his head at her pessimism. “What about if it does get infected, though? What can I do?”

“Beg for sponsors,” answered Chanté, realistically. “You can’t treat sepsis with a handful of leaves. There are some herbs, though. Usually, a plant that hurts will have a plant nearby that will help. Nettles, for example. There’s usually dock leaves near.”

There were no leaves to demonstrate at the station, but the two tributes had explored a edible plant life station which had offered some medicinal plants. It all relied on the arena providing them with the correct environment, and that was not a guarantee.

“Have you decided what you’re going to show the Gamemakers yet?” asked Iumenta, taking another strip of bandage and practicing the new technique on her own forearm.

Chanté shrugged. “This, I guess. I’m good at it.”

“You are.” It was more difficult on herself, and Iumenta could not pull the covering as tight as she had on her partner. “I don’t know yet. I think it’ll be difficult to show anything to do with being a butcher, though I can use an axe.”

“Then use an axe.” Chanté’s voice sounded lighter at the thought, but he pushed through the weakness to give his advice. “You’ll probably score higher than me.”

Iumenta did not like her partner, but he was growing closer to her. She did not enjoy the thought of him floundering through the arena like an innocent newborn lamb. Instead, she wanted him to at least try. Chanté was refusing; he had reassured his mentor that he would hurt someone if he needed to, but Iumenta was not convinced.

“Come on,” she ordered, pulling the bandage from her arm as she pulled herself to her feet. Confused, Chanté followed her lead.

“Where are we going?” he asked, as his partner began to lead him over to a weaponry rack full of sharp, dangerous knives.

“You need to learn how to clean and gut an animal,” explained Iumenta, ignoring the colour that drained from Chanté’s face. He began to argue, but she did not allow it. “No, Chanté. If you’re going to die, I want you to go down fighting. I’m not having you starving to death if there’s plenty of food.”

“I really don’t think I can…” choked Chanté, but Iumenta shook her head.

“No. You deserve to be- I mean, it’ll be embarrassing for District Ten.”

***

For Epona, there was no entertainment in tormenting the other tributes. If you did not have the skill, there was no advantage to seeming menacing. Instead, she fell to the rear of the alliance with the quieter, recruited boy from Four who did not know what to say, or when to say it.

Serenity quickly filled her space alongside their leader. Sparkle expected to be obeyed, and Serenity was quick to oblige. The pair had each grabbed a spear and were sparring, laughing as wood clunked against wood. Epona did not need to fight. She did not need to prove herself. Instead, she sat, waited and watched someone who did.

Her partner was twisting rope across his hand without ever tying a knot. Instead of focusing on his task, Leon’s suspicious eyes were roving across the wise tributes who spent their time with weaponry. He was focused, rarely blinking as he observed.

Sparkle knocked her opponent’s spear from her hands, before throwing her own across the mat. She joined Epona cross-legged on the floor, following her gaze and beginning to watch Leon for herself. “Do we know what he can do yet?” she asked, quietly.

Frustrated, Epona shook her head. “I’ve been watching him constantly,” she confessed, leaning back against the wall behind her. “He hasn’t touched any weapon, apart from a knife on the first day. On the train, he insisted he had an extensive knowledge of weaponry.”

“He did want to ally with us,” Sparkle shrugged. “He was probably lying.”

“I suppose,” relented Epona. Privately, she did not agree. Her partner was too impulsive – or even, too stupid – to have constructed a lie like that.

Sparkle offered a pat on her shoulder, but the movement was awkward, with as little contact as possible. “We’ll get him in the bloodbath.”

“I want him,” demanded Epona.

Laughing, Sparkle nodded. “You can have him!”

***

In a last-ditch attempt to learn something new, Fern had placed herself at the archery station and was attempting to fire a bow. The floor was littered with arrows. With each shot, she was growing more frustrated.

She was not a quick learner. Saori watched her failure, noting each fault: her arm was not straight, the bow string hit her forearm with each shot, and she moved as she fired so that she never aimed for the target. When he looked closely, there was a purple bruise forming on the soft flesh of her inner arm.

“You were doing alright with the knife,” he called. Fern took a deep breath, lowering her bow for a moment. She did not look at him. “I don’t think this one is particularly your forte.”

Her determined expression was tainted with spite. Fern raised her weapon again and aimed at a human-shaped target. She remembered to exhale as she fired and kept the bow steady throughout the release, but the arrow missed and flew into the wall at the back of the range. It did not even stick there, clattering to the floor with a loud, embarrassing noise. Frustrated, she dropped the bow on the floor. “I just wanted to have something for distance.”

“Luckily, you can throw a knife,” replied Saori, punctuating the comment with a patronising sneer. Fern ignored him for as long as she could. She picked the bow up, placed it carefully back on the rack, and returned the quiver of arrows to the instructor who tried to encourage her with false words.

Finally, she turned to Saori. “What do you want, Six?”

It was clear in the way that her judgemental green eyes flashed from his feet to his face that she expected another insult. Saori could not blame her – he had forgone his own practice in favour of waiting for her to make a mistake. Still, she had earned his honesty.

“I want an alliance,” he stated, simply. Fern watched him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Quietly, he added, “with you.”

“With me?” she repeated, before visibly biting her lip to prevent herself from saying anything else.

Saori continued, hurriedly. “If you’re not allying with your partner, obviously. If you’re available, what harm can it do?”

“What harm can it do?”

Fern took a step away, backing herself into the confines of the archery station. She watched Saori’s face as if she expected another sneer, but he did not offer her one. He tilted his head in confusion, trying not to shrink under her sudden cold glare. When Saori did not reply, Fern filled the silence. “I think we are both very, very aware of the harm it can do.”

“If anyone should be worried about betrayal, it’s me,” Saori argued, suddenly. “After all, you’ve got previous.”

“Sunnie has previous.” Fern grew louder and took on the deep, defensive tone that she used whenever she spoke of her sister. She had not used it with Saori, but he had heard it before. It had no effect on him. “I’m sorry about your brother. Honestly, I am, but we both know that any alliance is never going to last forever.”

***

When Azure heard his partner’s heavy footsteps approach behind him, his body tense and the stick that he was trying to use to start a fire fell from his hand. He scrambled against the tinder to collect it but could not find it in the mix of paper and dry grass. It did not matter. She had already seen it.

“What are you showing to the Gamemakers?” asked Serenity, stretching to her full height above the boy rather than crouching to speak to him. She cast an imposing shadow.

Azure found the stick and picked it up. He clenched it in his fist. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You need to show something.” Serenity took a further step, and Azure peered at her through his hair. She was glaring as if she was predator, which made him her prey. “You’re showing a weapon, yes?”

“I’ve barely touched a weapon,” muttered Azure. He returned to his attempt at fire. He could not even create smoke. “Why don’t you go back to your new friends?”

“I needed to check you won’t be embarrassing the Capitol with your score later.”

Azure rested the stick against the log, taking it between his palms and trying to rub it fast enough to forge heart. He lowered his hands as instructed. The stick broke, and Azure threw the two pieces to the floor in frustration. “I don’t know!” he offered in frustration.

Serenity still watched him with a critical eye as the sticks rolled from the mat and onto the concrete. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to let yourself be outscored by district children,” she spat. It was phrased as a question, but it did not sound like one.

“Maybe,” retaliated Azure, “it is not about where they come from. Maybe, it’s their skill.”

“Did you try? Did you train with any weapon?”

Azure shook his head, and Serenity huffed like a disappointed parent. “What was the point?” he tried to justify, panicking. “Look at me, Serenity. If any of them come at me, I don’t have a chance. I can hide, or something.”

“The Hunger Games are a combination of everything,” explained Serenity, exasperated. She sounded as if she was holding her head in her hands, but she did not want to give her partner the satisfaction of her disappointment. “You cannot win with just an arrow, Azure. You need to have the bow to fire it. You need to have survival and weaponry.”

“Well, I don’t!” Azure’s voice was shrill enough to attract attention from the other tributes nearby, but he did not care. He was only good for attracting attention. “I don’t, okay? I’m not going to win in the same way as you, so you should just go back to your new friends and do what you think is right.”

Disappointment changing to pity, Serenity looked down on her partner. “I’ll make sure that they throw you a spectacular celebration of life,” she said, beginning to walk away. “I assume that’s what you would have wanted.”

***

The final lunch hour was introduced by a bell. Practiced and obedient, the tributes laid down their weaponry and tools to make the short walk through the corridor. They moved like a slow and gentle tide and met expectations with a predictable ease.

Leon did not flow with them. He stood like a rock pointing above a wave, casting a longing eye back to a station he chose to avoid. The archery rack seemed to call his name. It had a bow of every size and material, with an assortment of attachments and tensions of made of materials that he could not even name. There were quivers of arrows, with flights built from the feathers of seemingly every bird. It was a world away from anything he shot before becoming a cog in Panem’s turning machine.

Reluctantly, he looked back to the door. The final strain of tributes were trickling to lunch. Leon took the opportunity, breaking into a run and making it to the archery station as the final person disappeared into the corridor. There were only instructors nearby, and they were preoccupied with cleaning up the arrows which littered the floor. They did not say anything to him, although Leon would not have listened if they did – he needed to test the weapon before his private performance.

Leon took the first bow he touched when he reached across the rack. Lighter than he expected, it was constructed of a fine wood painted to resemble a grey metal. There was a warmth to it, reminding him of his home on his old ship: hunting with his father across new land, shooting with his mother to practice his aim, and pointing his bow at oncoming Peacekeepers who replied with gunfire.

Testing the tension, he lifted the bow and pulled the string back to his ear. The memory remained in his muscles, but his arm trembled with the effort. He would need to adjust to accommodate his lack of practice.

“Shoot it.”

Leon let the bow fall at the voice, trying to hide it behind his back as if the bow was not clearly visible behind his figure. There was an amused instructor watching him as he clutched a handful of arrows and wore an empty quiver. He nodded to the bow, urging the tribute on. “Shoot it,” he repeated, and he held out an arrow. “You clearly know how. You don’t want the others to see it, right?”

Sheepishly, Leon nodded. He did not take the arrow. The instructor insisted and forced it into his hand. “You need to try it before your session,” he continued. He looked over his shoulder to the same door Leon watched, before turning back. “They’re all gone now. Shoot one arrow. I want to see you.”

Bringing the bow out from behind his back, Leon hesitantly took the arrow. He notched it on the string and carefully rested it on his thumb, holding it in place as he lifted the weapon. There was a target peppered in holes in front of him, and Leon aimed for it. He pulled the bowstring back to his ear, trying to exhale steadily as he shot. His arms trembled with the unfamiliar stress.

“Take a deep breath,” reminded the instructor. Leon listened. When he fired, his arrow flew into the centre of the target.

***

Before they reached the canteen, Ferro grabbed Sparkle’s sleeve and held her between the training and their break. They were pushed around as the remaining tributes fought their way to lunch. Ferro found Sparkle’s hand, pulling her over to one side.

“Everything alright?” she asked, concerned. She was focused on Ferro’s expression, but it did not offer her anything. He waited until the corridor was empty, glancing into the canteen and their familiar central table. The alliance was already beginning to gather with laughter and plates filled with food. They were too far away to hear him.

“You’re not going to like this,” he began, and he felt Sparkle tense in his hand.

She pulled away from him. “What are you-“

Ferro silenced her with a quick finger to his lips. “I think we need the boy from Two,” he insisted. Sparkle heard his voice and met it with laughter, before realising that he meant every word he spoke. Then, the laughter turned into a roll of her eyes as her partner continued. “No, Sparkle. I’m serious. I think there’s something about him.”

“Like what?” she challenged.

Shrugging helplessly, Ferro stuttered as he tried to find an answer to appease the girl in front of him. “I don’t know. There has to be something. I don’t think he would volunteer without having something up his sleeve, and I’d rather have it on our side than against it.”

Sparkle turned from her partner and began to move to the table. “You heard Epona,” she argued, assuming Ferro would follow her. When he did not, she hesitated in the doorway. “The boy wasn’t supposed to volunteer.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” stressed Ferro.

“We’re doing well with who we have,” continued Sparkle, shutting down any argument before it could really begin. “If we have too many, it’ll be difficult to win when it comes down to us. I already have my eye on Ten too. That boy from Two is going to be dead by the first cannon.”

“Can we consider him?” Ferro begged. Sparkle left him in the corridor.

***

Fern placed her full bowl on the table heavily, announcing her arrival. She sat beside her partner for the sense of home he offered but he was distracted by meaningless numbers. Cotton had left the latest betting odds in their apartment, and Solar had poured over their contents until training began. Now, he muttered to himself as he stirred his rice and stew together with a fork. Fern was certain that tributes were not supposed to see their odds, but she was not going to argue over an advantage.

“Are you okay?” she asked, in the soft, concerned voice she used whenever she spoke with her partner. Since her sister had arrived, the conversation between the pair had grown rarer and stilted.

Solar nodded. “I am,” he confirmed, when Fern was not convinced by his movement. “I’m thinking.”

“Private session?” she tried.

“Yeah.” Solar jumped on her suggestion, as if he had been looking for a life raft in a sea of dishonesty. “About that.”

He returned to muttering briefly, before falling silent as he began to eat forkfuls of his lunch. Fern did not understand his numbers, but she understood that he never seemed happy with them. Eventually, he swallowed and finally looked to her. “Had a good morning?”

She considered a polite lie, before deciding that there was nothing to hide. “Six asked me for an alliance,” Fern revealed, quietly. Solar made a noise of agreement, but then his eyebrows knitted together, and he fully turned in his chair. Fern clarified, “the boy, I mean.”

“The boy?” he clarified. “With you?”

“Yeah.” Fern took a spoonful of her own thick soup, but she did not eat it. Instead, she let it drop from her spoon and back into the bowl. “I said no.”

“Because it’s him?”

“Because I don’t want an alliance.”

Solar nodded. This was agreed between them. As hard as going alone sounded, Cotton had recommended it to them both. “That makes sense,” he reassured. “I wonder what he wanted.”

“Sponsors, I think,” clarified Fern. She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think it would work. The audience won’t remember those Games anyway.”

***

“Satin?” asked Lucet, his tray shaking in his hand with a rattle of cutlery and glassware. His partner looked up from her final meal in the gymnasium’s canteen, before moving her own plate and gently tapping the table beside her as an invitation to join. He did.

“You worried about performing to the Gamemakers?” she asked, taking a fork in one hand and forgetting the etiquette training in favour of spearing honey roasted vegetables.

Lucet ignored his food. His plate was filled with a surprising array of dishes that mixed together on the porcelain surface, but his hands twisted anxiously together rather than reaching for cutlery. “No,” he admitted, voice shaking. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve given up on a good score.”

“What’s wrong, then?” she asked.

Replying in a whisper, Lucet stuttered through his reply. “The Games. I don’t want to do them, Satin.”

“I know, but we have to-“

“I don’t want to do them by myself.”

Satin stopped eating. Her forked hovered in the space between plate and mouth. Slowly, she lowered it and placed it back on her tray. “You know what Armure said about allies,” she explained, before her voice trailed into an uncomfortable silence. They had briefly discussed alliances with both mentors: they were a detriment at best, and a hazard at worse.

“I don’t want to be alone in there,” continued Lucet, tripping over his answer. “I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to be in there all by myself.”

They were still performing to the audience of tributes, and Lucet was a determined actor. He looked down at his plate to hide any tears that were beginning to well in his eyes. The canteen grew in conversation around them as their own silence stretched on.

Eventually, Satin relented. “I can’t promise anything,” she managed, voice as sweet as honey. “If I can find you after the bloodbath, I suppose…”

The promise was hollow, but Lucet still breathed a quiet, “thank you.”

***

Amity looked at her partner in the same manner she looked at a field mouse. There was something about him that evoked pity, even though pity was not practical or beneficial in the arena. In the gymnasium canteen, it was a luxury she could still afford.

“They weren’t right to do that to you,” she stated, simply. She took a seat beside the small boy as she spoke, ignoring the other tributes which were scattered around their circular table. Vixen ignored everything, including his partner.

His plate was full, but he was not eating. Amity scowled. She nudged the plate closer to him and, instinctively, Vixen picked up a fork. “They weren’t right to do that to you,” she repeated, but she did not continue further. There was nothing else she could say – the large alliance was not right to mock him, but there was no rule to stop them. In the arena, being cruel counted for more than being kind.

Finally, Vixen took a reluctant mouthful of food. He muttered something through his rice that Amity could not catch. She pretended she heard him clearly.

“I’m serious,” she continued, as she found the words. “There was no need for it.”

He swallowed. “They’re right, though,” he replied, barely audible. “’Bout my reaping. Was bad.”

The forlorn tone wanted Amity to sweep him into a hug, but the boy winced at any movement she made. She kept her arms firmly by her side. “It was the reaping,” she reassured. “We were all scared. They don’t need to be mean about it.”

“They’ll win anyway,” countered Vixen, and Amity had no comforting reply.

***

It was a short conversation headed by the tribute from the Capitol, but Sparkle had considered the merit and decided the play the idea as their own. She positioned herself at the front and centre as they approached the table. Ferro supported her from the side and nudged her forward as she looked down at the latest target for their alliance. After all, they needed cannon fodder to keep the audience entertained.

The target stared back, steadily holding the gaze of each ally as he looked across them. Raven’s lips curled into a smile when he saw the boy from Four, who was not gifted at looking menacing. “What’s this?” he asked, gesturing lazily at the group that was casting a shadow across his empty plate. “Come to try and intimidate me before the Games even begin?”

At the table, there were three other tributes: Thirteen’s boy was watching with an infuriating curiosity, Thirteen’s girl was staring into her food, and Twelve’s girl was silent for the first time since arriving in the city. Raven was the only person daring to stare them down. Sparkle lowered the shoulders and stared back.

“We’re building a team,” she announced. It was unnecessary; the alliance was obvious, and Raven yawned at her comment.

“Oh!” called Thirteen’s boy, excitement playing with the cruel smile on his face. “Can I join? I’ll be good!”

Sparkle ended her staring competition to look at the boy as if he was a piece of dirt on the sole of her boot. “No,” she spat, and the boy laughed. Turning to her original target, she laid the offer on the table. “You seem to know what you’re doing. We want you to join.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Raven joined in the laughter. The sound was similar to the cruel cry of a crow, echoing through the canteen and cutting through other conversations. He threw his head back and practically hit the table with his fist. “You’re serious?”

Readjusting, Sparkle fixed what she hoped was a menacing scowl on her face. “Yes.”

“You want me to be a Career?” asked the boy. Sparkle performed a double take at the nickname, and felt Ferro do the same beside her. “You think I want to be a Career?”

“People don’t turn us down,” added Ferro, hurriedly. “if you’re not with us, then you’re against us, and you don’t want to be against us.”

“Then I’m against you. I ain’t joining you. I have some self-respect.” Raven glanced across the  other recruited allies, who did not look as if they belonged in the same conversation. He added, “no offence.”

“We will kill you!” spluttered Sparkle, suddenly. It seemed the only thing to say.

Raven stood. He was taller than Sparkle and used the advantage to tower over her. Resting his hands on the table, he spat at her. “Try it,” he dared.

Chapter Text

[25] Showcase

President Amarie Dux left her mark on every aspect of the Hunger Games. She was not a Gamemaker, but she stepped in amongst them, prepared to offer her own opinion on the tributes’ display of power and prowess. They needed to be kept on task and reminded that a given score must not highlight anyone dangerous.

“And if they do not demonstrate a weapon, we will not be scoring above a six,” she explained to the assembled group of men and women on the famed balcony. After all, there was Panem’s entertainment to consider too. “Survival is an asset, but it is just so dreadfully boring. Of course, my decision is final.”

***

Ferro beamed, pushing through the heavy double doors as if they were made of paper. He practically ran to the centre of the room as if approaching the spotlight for a curtain call. “Ferro Revere,” he called to the balcony with a bow. He paused as if expecting applause. There was none. He continued, “eighteen, and a volunteer.”

Gesturing to the equipment, President Dux waved him on. “You have five minutes to demons-“

“I don’t need five minutes,” interrupted Ferro. His confident grin fell when he realised who he spoke over. President Dux reassured him with her own light laugh.

Ferro had a sword that he wanted, and he scanned the weaponry rack until he found it. He requested a trainer to spar with him and when a suitable partner was found, the ferocious demonstration began. It was a violent clash of metal against metal. Ferro was light-footed for a large boy, and anticipated and dodged the instructor’s blade with ease. His own offensive attacks came with speed and surprise, as his sword struck a limb.

“I wish they were less obvious about the whole thing,” murmured a Gamemaker, flippantly. “The Games just aren’t as fun when you can see who’s going to win.”

There was a sudden weakness, as Ferro exposed his chest to a strong shove. He fell off-balance, stumbling back. He twisted the motion into a swing of his sword, striking the instructor across the bridge of the nose with the hilt of his weapon. Taking advantage of the shock, Ferro threw himself against the man. The instructor landed heavily on the floor, and Ferro placed the point of the sword to his throat.

***

“This will be fun,” murmured a young man, rubbing his hands together.

Sparkle entered the gymnasium with the same energetic vigour as her partner. Despite training in a sensible braid during the morning, she had spent a large portion of the allotted lunch time untying and combing her blonde hair. She emphasised her name as she stood in the centre, enunciating, “Sparkle Lustre,” with a smile. Then, she offered a request. “I’m gifted in both spear and axe. Which would you like to see?”

President Dux did not particularly care. However, the audience appreciated a close and personal kill. She requested the axe.

Practically skipping to the weaponry rack, Sparkle chose an axe with a large, sharp blade that looked heavy despite the fluidity in how she held it. She requested a simulated exercise over an instructor and stressed her ability in taking on multiple opponents. “No one can beat me,” she reassured, as the computer formed three orange opponents and began a loud countdown. “I’ll show you.”

The programmed, humanoid projections moved like tributes, considering a complicated pattern of offensive and defensive manoeuvres. This did not matter to Sparkle, who was at home with an axe in her hand. As an opponent moved to attack her, she planted the blade in its chest. The figure fell to the ground and melted into a pile of illuminated geometric shapes, before disappearing entirely into the floor.

There were two projections left, and they attacked together. Sparkle dodged the swing of a sword from one and used her lower position to force her axe into the leg of another. The simulation removed the injured limb and accounted for balance, allowed the figure to fall to the floor when Sparkle leaped out of the way. She swung the axe into its back and turned to face the final opponent.

In an arena, the remaining tribute in an attack would turn and run. The simulation faced Sparkle with a swinging mace. The weapon required a raised arm, which opened its chest to attack and provided Sparkle with a well-earned victory. She took a bow, placed the axe where it belonged, and left with a grin that President Dux decided was far too complacent.

***

There was anticipation in the unexpected. The smaller, curious boy from District Two shrunk under the powerful gaze from the balcony. However, he reached his mark, shook himself off and looked them in the eye as he spoke. “Leon Marin-Cortez,” he announced, clearly. Then, he hesitantly added, “District Two.”

At the signal, Leon bolted for the archery station. He ran his hand across the string of each bow before finding one that spoke to him, taking it down and testing the tension of the string. An instructor handed him a quiver, which he instinctively swung across his back. He took an arrow, notched it on the string with a practiced hand, and scanned the gymnasium for a target.

There were circular targets to practice aim, and humanoid targets to practice killing. Leon selected the latter, taking a step away from the firing line. His posture was rod straight as he lifted the bow, pulling the string back to his ear with an open chest.

When he fired, the arrow sailed through the air with a whistling hum. It landed squarely in the head of the target. In a matter of seconds, a further arrow was notched, aimed, and fired into the chest. Leon lowered the bow. “You have anything that moves?” he asked loudly, looking to the balcony for confirmation.

An awaiting instructor moved forward at the question. She waved Leon to a mark on the floor, where a button waited opposite an expanse of grey matting. When Leon pressed it with his foot, the range lit up in an orange glow as a humanoid figure appeared and darted across the floor. It carried an axe, and it began to run to Leon.

He watched. He aimed. He fired. The target dissolved.

“We didn’t know you could do that!” exclaimed a Gamemaker. The balcony applauded gently as the tribute turned to face them “We thought we knew the strengths of all your inner-district lot by now.”

Leon grinned; it was smug, with a cruel bite that disappeared when he put the bow on the weaponry rack. “No one knows I can do that,” he replied.

***

As she entered, Epona’s eyes flickered from side to side as she looked for any evidence of her partner’s skill. The space had been thoroughly tidied. The hunt distracted the tribute who overstepped the centre of the room. She stepped back with a sheepish speed, before clearing her throat. “Epona Jericho,” she announced, monotone but loud. “District Two. Eighteen.”

“You may proceed,” announced President Dux, sensing the tribute desire permission. Epona did not move until she received the instruction, moving to a weaponry rack and securing a sword with a heavily weighted handle.

“Opponents,” she requested, tossing the weapon between her two hands as she felt the weight. She took a central stance on a training mat. An instructor approached, but Epona shook her head. “No. Opponents. I would like more than one.”

Looking over his shoulder, the instructor waved to another. They remained together to choose their weapon, and Epona prepared for a competition of three.

She was lightning. The battle began with no formal announcement, as Epona did not show her opponents that mercy. She moved as if the sword was constructed of paper, avoiding any offensive action taken by the two instructors with ease.

There was the ear-crashing sound of blade against blade as they clashed. An instructor pulled away, leaving his sword in one hand and his form open to attack. Epona hit against his weapon again and disarmed him, before placing the point of her sword against his chest. At the sound of footsteps, she pushed the hilt of her sword into the nose of the instructor approaching behind her.

He brought his hand to his face to brace against the pain. Epona span and pushed her blade into his chest instead. He dropped his sword, and Epona kicked it away. She respectfully nodded to the balcony and waited to be dismissed.

***

“All downhill from here,” joked a Gamemaker, to a soft murmur of agreement across the balcony. The disapproving noise faded as Azazel entered the gymnasium. The tall boy was anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck, with his eyes firmly fixed to the floor. He did not introduce himself. He stood on the scuff in the concrete that indicated the centre and waited for an instruction.

“Azazel?” asked President Dux, after a pause. He nodded. “You have five minutes.”

Azazel looked around with the sudden searching of a tribute who had not yet decided.  He pointedly ignored weaponry at first, edging to the fire-starting station before shaking his head to himself. Eventually, he returned to a rack, took a lighter training sword, and turned to a mannequin.

His lack of training was painfully evident. Azazel’s grip was awkward, and he moved stiffly like an automaton as he took a practice swing. However, he was methodical. He began with the head.

Using a short, sharp swing, Azazel decapitated the figure and kicked the plastic skull across the gymnasium. Then, he dismembered each arm and stabbed them until their white stuff bled onto the floor. He left a gash across the shoulders, cut open the stomach, and sliced each leg into a mismatched number of pieces. He finished by impaling the sword in the chest, where it stood without support.

He was panting by the time he declared himself finished. It was not skilled, or impressive, but it was angry. “Can I go now?” he asked, breathless and cold. President Dux nodded, and Azazel left with a final kick of the abandoned head.

***

Isabel wrapped her own arms across her chest, pushing open the door to the gymnasium with the force in her shoulder. She was greeted by the sound of several pens being placed down on tables; the Gamemakers knew there would be no point in taking notes for her display.

She stood on tiptoe beneath the balcony, as if she was about to take flight. “Issy,” she announced, attempting a weak smile. “District Three.”

When waved on, Isabel immediately moved to the survival side of the open space. She moved across several stations and collecting an armful of supplies. Then, she carefully built a tower of wooden logs, sticks and twigs on the mark at the centre of the floor. She lay tinder in the middle, laying handfuls of cotton and some dried straw as if building a nest for a strange creature.

Isabel made a quick, final trip to the fire-starting station to retrieve a bow drill. She aligned her drill against her hearth board. Using the power in the string to compromise for her own lack of strength, she quickly moved the bow back and forth until a spark began to glow. She made a small cry as it caught, grinning.

It needed to be nurtured. Isabel picked up the tiny flame and fed it with small, shallow breaths until it began to grow. She laid it at the centre of her laid logs, where it caught against the other tinder she had prepared. There was no more time to allow the fire to grow.

“Well done,” praised President Dux, and there was a chuckle across the balcony as Isabel lowered her face to hide her blush.

***

“Well, someone is in a hurry!” called a Gamemaker. Cove began to burn red, deliberately slowing his quick pace as he moved to the centre of the gymnasium. As he walked, he glanced around at the weaponry racks provided. He visibly relaxed when he saw a collection of waiting spears.

“Cove Alexander,” he introduced, in a rehearsed manner. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember his mentor’s script. “Fifteen. District Four. Before we start officially, I want to let you know that I can swim. It’s just, there’s nowhere here when I can show you here, and…”

He trailed off. The rehearsal had not considered the entire conversation. Cove’s hands met at his front, twisting nervously together.

“We will make an inquiry,” reassured President Dux. “What will you be showing us today?”

“Spear.”

At the throwing range, Cove pointed to the human-shaped target. He carefully selected three identical spears and a trident, laying each at his feet. Cove hit the target on his first throw, but the spear failed to pierce with the correct force and clattered back to the ground. His second spear missed completely and sailed into a wall. His third spear pieced a leg, splintering the wood.

The reluctant volunteer was growing increasingly and visibly frustrated. This translated into power. He finally picked up his trident and threw without consideration for aim; he just wanted to damage. The three points of the weapon ended studded across the figure’s throat. Shocked, Cove looked across at his kill. He turned to the Gamemakers and tried to convince them it was deliberate.

***

“Sennen Alexander,” called Sennen, striding into the gymnasium with a confident gait and a bright smile. “Before we begin, I am a fantastic swimmer but there’s no opportunity to show you. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm it and factor it into my score.”

“Interesting,” pondered President Dux, aloud. “Your brother introduced himself with the same comment.”

“He did?” asked Sennen. She was not curious. She seemed furious. However, she harnessed this frustration into ferocity throughout her demonstration. Sennen approached the weaponry rack of spears, and President Dux decided it was safer to stop pointing out similarities.

Sennen focused on a trident, choosing five identical weapons and laying them across an awaiting table. Then, she gave a quiet instruction to a nearby trainer. He began the computer simulation of moving targets.

The orange figures stood no chance. With her first throw, Sennen missed and sent a trident sailing into the archery station behind. However, she was quick as she picked up her second and shattered an approaching target by sending her trident through its chest. She grew more familiar with each throw – they were not always a killing blow, but they certainly maimed.

To finish, Sennen entered the simulation. She retrieved her missed first trident from the ground, turned slowly around, and impaled it through the throat of an approaching figure. She turned to leave as it melted into a puddle of orange pixels across the mat.

***

As soon as he entered the gymnasium, it was clear that Solar had no idea what he was going to do. He took a cautious stance at the centre of the floor. “Solar,” he announced, with an air of confidence that clashed against his twisting hands. He leaned forward on tiptoe before rocking back on his heels. “What do you want to see?”

On the tip of her tongue, President Dux held an explanation that they were not allowed to influence the tributes’ displays. Another Gamemaker spoke before she could, and excitedly shouted out, “something with weaponry!”

Solar glanced around the heaving weaponry racks, weighing up his options. “Alright,” he agreed, quietly. He picked his way across the space to a collection of sharp, blood-drawing knives. “We can do something with weaponry.”

He chose a knife with a serrated edge, for sawing rather than stabbing. Solar ran a finger across the blade and yelped when it drew blood, sucking on his finger in his mouth to clear the wound. Then, he shook himself off, remembered where he was, and stared nervously at the balcony before positioning himself at a mannequin.

Sawing was a simple movement. It was clumsy, but Solar demonstrated that he was light on his feet with quick reflexes. He could reach across and stab someone in the chest. He used the serrated edge to drag across the dummy’s arm. He sawed the limb off in a few short movements, pulling it and kicking it to the floor. Finally, he decapitated the mannequin, threw the head up in the air, and caught it as if he was playing a game.

“He’s probably dead,” he said, throwing the head to the floor.

***

“Oh!” exclaimed a voice, as Fern made her way in with her head bowed. Her hair was tied in familiar twin braids, and her fists were clenched as tightly as her jaw. “It’s like watching Sunnie, all over again.”

“I’m not Sunnie,” corrected Fern, in a stern, loud call. “I’m Fern.”

“Indeed,” said President Dux. She shot a disapproving look to the Gamemaker who had spoken out of turn. “Your time will begin whenever you are ready, Miss Fern.”

Despite her victory, Sunnie Evander had entered her arena with an average score and a preference for close combat. Fern could argue she was not her sister until her face turned blue, but there was nothing but resemblance as she clumsily picked up a knife. “I’d like a partner,” she said, but there was no confidence in her decision. An instructor stepped forward with her own blade and allowed Fern time to take a fighting stance.

It was pure desperation, staged like a ballet. Fern was quick and unpredictable, scraping an advantage. However, it did not outweigh her unfamiliarity with the weapon. She was a cornered animal, lashing out and catching flailing limbs with small scratches. The fight – if it deserved the title – lasted less than a minute until the instructor side-stepped her opponent and tripped Fern onto her back.

Fern kicked out and aimed at her opponent’s shins. The sudden, sharp pain bought her time to scramble back to her feet and edge away.

“I think we’ve seen enough to properly evaluate your skill,” interrupted President Dux, sounding kinder than she felt. It was impossible to watch without remembering Sunnie’s desperate victory.

***

There was a ripple of quiet chuckling as one Gamemaker mumbled, “what year is it?”

The shadow of Xico Carlisle seemed to enter the gymnasium, following his former ally. However, he scowled at the balcony when he realised the laughter was in his direction. “Saori,” he said, emphasising his own name. If they shared nothing else, Fern and Saori shared a dislike for being confused with their sibling. “Saori Carlisle. District Six, and all that. Shall I just get started?”

He did not wait for the reply. There was a plant matching activity displayed on a giant screen, and Saori moved to it with a roll of his eyes. It was simple in nature, but there were hundreds of poisonous plants that were to be matched to their antidote. He knew nothing of medicine. He barely knew anything of plants. However, he could memorise, and he had dedicated a portion of his training time to rehearse a demonstration.

Beginning with matching a nettle with a dock leaf, Saori continued with a pattern. President Dux leaned forward across the edge of the balcony and watched the repetitive movements of his hands. The tribute did not even look at the screen as he made his selections, bored.

He finished with no errors. Saori turned to the balcony. Wryly, he asked, “can I go now?”

“You went so fast, I feel the need to just check,” replied President Dux. “If you happened to encounter a Toxicodendron radicans in the arena, where would you find a remedy?”

Visibly, the tribute’s confident melted away. He looked back to the screen, where a cheerful message of congratulations welcomed him with no hint. “Well,” he began, shakily. “Toxicodendron radicans is…that’s poison ivy, isn’t it? You’d need to find…to find…”

He trailed off, eyes desperately roving for a clue that did not exist. President Dux allowed him to stumble and trip over the beginnings of incorrect guesses before putting Saori out of his misery. “I think you’ll find jewel weed is an effective remedy,” she said. “Round, dark green leaves with bright orange flowers.”

“Of course,” replied Saori, dryly. “How silly of me to forget.”

***

Dakota entered the gymnasium, shaking and sweating enough that half of the people on the balcony considered offering her a drink. She stumbled across her own name in a forgettable introduction before standing silently in the centre. The silence stretched out, interrupted only by a ticking clock on the wall behind the Gamemakers.

President Dux cleared her throat. “Dakota?” she called. The trembling girl glared at her. “You have five minutes-“

“I ain’t got anything to show you,” muttered Dakota, but she still turned and walked to the knot tying station. There were lengths of rope laid across a table for the tributes, and she began to twist one around her fingers as if she was trying to tame a snake. There was no thought in the movement; occasionally, she looped it in a way that accidentally formed a knot.

After a minute, the Gamemakers returned to idle chatter, glasses of wine and the arrival of a platter of hors d’oeuvres.

Dakota built slowly to a finale. With a sigh, she finally tied a knot that she knew - the tribute created a flawless noose with a practiced hangman’s knit. She slung it across the table and waited as it swung.

“Where did you learn that?” asked President Dux, who wanted anything from the secretive girl that showed them nothing throughout three days of training.

“I pick things up,” replied Dakota, still refusing to offer anything. She shrugged. “Useful things, nooses.”

***

District Seven were the painful reminder that the long, boring stretch of afternoon was only halfway through. The balcony dulled boredom with lavish orders of food and wine, tasting their distraction from the quiet stretch out outer district tributes. President Dux ordered them to remain coherent, but the Capitol was built on vice and she could not deny her citizens their release.

Acacia entered the gymnasium to a delighted, slightly dazed applause. His arrival was upstaged by a platter of colourful fruit but the sullen boy’s expression suggested that he was also bored of the whole affair. He did not introduce himself, and President Dux noted the indiscretion. Instead, he reached across a weapon from and selection a long, heavy sword from the extensive collection.

“Finally,” muttered an observer into their wine glass. “We get to see some action.”

However, Acacia tossed the sword to the floor with a satisfying sound. He moved to the training mannequins and selected one which was programmed to react to movement. He took a knife but did not impale it in the target’s chest; instead, he used it to rip through the fabric skin and pull out a handful of wire and two battery packs.

Using his teeth to strip coating where he needed copper, Acacia wound the coloured wiring around the heavy blade of his sword in a surprisingly artistic manner. He improvised a connection by forcefully jamming wire against battery. Then, he used fishing wire to tie the battery pack to the handle.

“What in the gem of Panem…” began one Gamemaker, before trailing off as Acacia attempted to lift the sword. It was almost too heavy for him, and the tip left a white scratch across the concrete as he dragged it to the archery range. There, vague human targets were waiting with straw stuffing.

Acacia lifted the sword with a cry of effort, swinging it into the mannequin. The sword sparkled, flashed and then ignited the straw inside. The target was dry, and the flame was quick. It begun to spread across the range.

“Asa Sasaki,” he announced, pulling the wire away from the hilt as he dropped it back to the floor. He gave a weak gesture to his roaring fire and sarcastically added, “ta da!”

***

Grinning at her audience, Ilara offered a curtsey to the balcony. “Ilara Grove,” she introduced, with a polite tone that sounded almost like a handshake. There was still a smoky haze in the air with no apparent source, which irritated her eyes.

“Good afternoon, Ilara,” replied President Dux, relishing in the tribute’s manners. “You have five minutes to demonstrate your chosen skill.”

Ilara bowed her head before glancing around the room, looking for something particular. She lingered on the infamous rope course that had tested her pace on the first day, but the Gamemakers had already seen that.

There was a second course, which had been overlooked due to its difficulty. The netting was strung across the ceiling’s beams and could only be accessed if you had the strength to pull yourself up a swinging rope. Ilara did, and she demonstrated with gritted teeth and hands that burned against the rough material. She twisted the rope around her feet as she climbed.

In the ceiling, there was nothing else to do. There was no obstacle course, where success was objective. Instead, Ilara showed that she could cross netting quickly, hand from a taut rope, and reached up to touch a supporting beam whilst hanging upside down. There was clear strength and confidence in her movement, but the balcony was yawning.

***

“I hear they have a little training programme,” whispered one Gamemaker, indulging in scandal. “Cotton is behind it. I believe he teaches them all sorts of things.”

Lucet did not enter the gymnasium as if he had been trained. He was polite and offered a confident introduction, before jumping nervously up and down on the balls of his feet. There was a collective groan as disappointment as he trotted to the survival stations. However, Lucet was diligent, focused well during his training, and had taken care to rehearse.

“First,” he announced, trying to his trembling voice. “You need to find food. There are many different plants that you can eat, and I’ve learned them.”

On the table, there was a pre-prepared selection of foliage. Lucet quickly sorted through it, building two piles. “These are poisonous,” he explained, pointing to the pile on his left. “It could still be worth your time collecting them, because I think other tributes might fall for them. If I want a meal, though, I need these plants instead. I need to cook them, too.”

He moved to the fire-starting station and crouched amongst the selection of materials. He continued to narrate as he worked. “You start small, so the fire can catch. You should bundle the kindling in the middle, and you can use dry grass, or cotton, or something like that. Now, we can start with the smaller twigs…”

Slowly, Lucet built a model fire pit. He stopped speaking as he poured his energy into lighting it, taking a sharpened stick and twisting it against a prepared log with an unfamiliar ferocity. There was smoke, and a sudden spark that grew into a small flame on the kindling. Lucet picked it up and nurtured it with air before placing it in his fire pit. There, it caught.

“We don’t have time to watch it grow properly,” he announced. He stood and approached the knot tying station. “I can show you this though, and I’m pretty familiar with fabric so this’ll be easy.”

In his final minute, Lucet used wire and rope across a hanging bar. He constructed a strange contraption that ended in a loop on the floor. As President Dux announced his time was over, Lucet tossed a small pebble into the space and demonstrated a competent twitch-up snare.

***

When Satin entered the gymnasium with a confident glint in her eye, she immediately headed to a rack that held wooden staffs. “Can I begin straight away or is there something more formal?” she asked.

“You can begin,” replied President Dux.

“Thank you.” Satin bowed her head. “I need a moment to prepare myself and find a live partner.”

Immediately, an instructor volunteered to become a target. Satin welcomed her gratefully and offered her a choice of weapon. For herself, Satin took a wooden staff that could demonstrate versatility when held in the correct hands. She tested its balance before announcing, “I’m ready.”

Her partner chose a sword. She did not wait for Satin to strike first; she rushed forward with the blade pointed outward, and Satin blocked it with a swing from her staff. The dull noise echoed across the gymnasium.

Having demonstrated her defence, Satin began to attack. She was quick-footed and chased the instructor forward in fluid steps. Twirling the staff as if it were a baton, Satin forced the instructor’s hand away from her chest and her face. It was impossible to kill with the blunt wooden end, but she exploited weaknesses in the instructor’s technique that would have been fatal with a sharper implement. There was no end to the fight. Satin held her own until a soft buzzer indicated the end of her time.

She left with a bow to her opponent, and to the balcony. “If anyone has trained in Eight,” began one Gamemaker, before finishing the statement with a punctuating chuckle.

***

There was a brief lull between tributes. The balcony indulged in pastries and sweet tartlets, becoming merry with the wine and sparkling orange drinks which were served with umbrellas. Eventually, Vixen hesitantly entered the training gymnasium.

He did not stop to introduce himself, but no one expected it. His movement was hidden behind a rowdy drinking song until President Dux hushed the balcony with a pointed order. They finally fell silent as the small boy ran his eyes across pieces of rarer weaponry. He paused, and then chose a scythe.

“Interesting,” muttered an observer, as Vixen twisted the scythe in his hand to feel the weight. “It does make sense, with District Nine.”

“It’s taller than him,” said another. Together, they laughed.

Vixen settled at the end of the archery range, where three straw dummies were still waiting to be used as a target. He glanced anxiously at the awaiting balcony, before biting his lip and returning to his inanimate opponents. Vixen was small, but he was quick and observant as he swung the scythe with a practiced hand.

Although he was not able to kill, Vixen was reliably able to injure. The was no pause between swings – he began by taking an arm from the nearest target, before slicing through the chest of the middle and decapitating the furthest. He reversed his direction and demonstrated a consistency in his movement. Despite his height, the scythe allowed him to slice across shoulders and throats and heads.

Suddenly, Vixen through the scythe to the side as if it had grown hot. He flinched at the clash of metal on concrete, running out of the gymnasium without waiting to be dismissed. He left intrigued murmurs across the balcony in his wake.

“He did use a weapon,” said one. “We could award him a higher score.”

President Dux contemplated this. “We do not want an underdog,” she warned, although intrigued by the audience reaction to an impressive score from such an unimpressive boy. “If he ends up in any combat, I’m fairly sure the others will kill him before he thinks to attack.”

***

Amity entered the room with grace, which was a quality that was rarely encountered in an outer-district tribute. In her tight training outfit and her hair in a high braid, she was no longer the polite girl in a floating dress. “Amity Barret,” she announced, sternly. Then, the façade dropped, and she smiled. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“It’s lovely to meet you too,” replied President Dux, softly. The formalities were a breath of fresh air amongst the drudgery. “You have five minutes for your demonstration.”

Like her partner, Amity found a scythe. She led her performance with a practice swing, moving the weapon quick enough to slash a noise into the air.

“That’s not combat,” murmured one pessimistic observer, who was several glasses of wine into impaired judging. “That’s all fieldwork, that is.”

Amity slashed side to side as if harvesting grain. She chose a single, inanimate mannequin to practice with. It stayed standing as she repeatedly attacked it with furious swipes of her weapon. The long blade cut gashes into fabric skin and straw bled from the wounds.

Eventually, Amity caught her opponent clearly and took and arm clean off. The limb clattered to the floor. She gasped and stumbled over a break in her movement.

“That will be sufficient,” interrupted President Dux, falling short of sounding reassuring. The display was competent for an outer-district tribute, but it was not enough – boredom was as powerful as any alcohol on the balcony, and the training was beginning to drag to a close.

***

Chanté tried to hide his trembling hands as he entered the gymnasium. President Dux noticed as he forced them behind his back, swallowing as he reached the centre of the floor. He stared up to the audience with wide eyes and spoke in a quiet voice, announcing, “Chanté Senner.”

The balcony was falling asleep. “You have five minutes,” replied President Dux, wearily.

Hesitantly, the tribute glanced between stations and tried to decide. There were rumours in the broadcasts that his family worked as medics and eventually, Chanté decided to demonstrate. He moved to the first aid station with skittish steps and fell to his knees on the mat.

His trembling hands caused a problem. To begin, Chanté attempted to show his neat stitching of wounded skin. He took over a minute to thread the needle and tore the imitation skin as he tried to stitch it together. His movement was stiff and tight and eventually, he grew frustrated and threw the skin down with a loud huff.

Instead, he attempted to demonstrate he could set a broken bone. This was easier; Chanté straightened the model arm correctly, bathed it, wrapped it in bandages and improvised a splint with longer sticks from the fire-lighting station. Finally, he showed that he could bandage a wound. He took his example and lifted it to the balcony. It smelled of desperation.

***

Entering the gymnasium as if she was already a victor, Iumenta dared to skip to her place. She attracted the attention of the balcony with a confident introduction. “Iumenta,” she called in a lilting, tuneful tone. “I’m competent in many different skills. In particular, I’m good with a butcher’s axe, and I can-“

“Show us,” interrupted President Dux. Iumenta was taken aback for a moment, before falling back into her relaxed demeanour.

“Alright,” she grinned. “I will.”

If she did have any other talent, she did not show them. Instead, Iumenta focused on weaponry. She nodded to an instructor to begin a simulation when she was settled in the centre of the space, and she was quickly approached by two familiar, orange figures that carried both short and long-range weaponry.

Using an axe for butchery and using an axe for combat were two very different skills, but Iumenta seemed to possess both. It was difficult and the simulation registered two non-fatal hits on the tribute. However, when her targets were close, Iumenta became unstoppable.

She had strength. She could wedge the axe in the centre of her opponent’s ribcage with targeted precision. The simulation did not allow for this, and Iumenta overbalanced at the lack of resistance with her first swing. She overcorrected and stumbled, before attacking the pixels with a quick turn from her back.

Iumenta threw her axe at the second competitor. The handle hit it on the head, and the computer registered it as a victory.

***

Inari entered the room as if he expected applause. His arm was bound to his chest in his strange system of knotting, and it was an unsaid agreement between tribute and balcony that he was going to climb.

“Are you safe to demonstrate?” asked President Dux.

“Do I get an extra point for doing it one-handed?” he asked. President Dux chuckled at his audacity.

“We will judge you accordingly,” she replied, and waved him to take centre stage.

Inari pushed a weaponry rack to the edge of the gymnasium before pulling himself up and balancing across the top. From there, he reached to a supporting pole that extended from the wall to a beam. He was able to grab it with a small jump, catching it with his working arm and pulling himself up.

As Inari moved higher, he laughed and moved faster. He did not care that the beam was narrower than his feet. Eventually, he was level with the balcony at and architectural intersection. He held on to the beam and pulled himself higher, sitting himself on the balcony’s supporting beam.

“You’re not allowed to come closer,” warned President Dux – the security briefing that accompanied handing weaponry to the tributes did not account for one who could scale the walls.

“I ain’t armed,” claimed Inari, but he dutifully sat himself down on his beam, eight metres in the air. His legs dangled across the distant floor of the gymnasium. “I wish I could show you a proper performance, but I can’t do that with one arm and you ain’t got the right kit anyway.”

“I think this will suffice,” agreed President Dux. She felt quite unwell watching him. “Are you able to get down?”

“Oh, thought I’d jump,” replied Inari, with a cheeky grin. Then, he climbed back to his feet and edged along the beam the same way he had arrived. He lowered himself path on to his chosen path. “Down is the easy part.”

***

Alder attracted sympathy in the same manner that dropped seed attracted a bird. She stood on tiptoe in the centre of the gymnasium, looking to the balcony with a tilted head. Rocking back and forth as she waited, she twisted her hands anxiously in the fabric of her loose shirt.

“You have-“ began President Dux, before biting her tongue. Alder’s head tilted further at the movement of her lips, but the distance was too great for her to discern what was being said. She was oblivious to any and all instruction. Eventually, President Dux set her to her demonstration with a simple wave of her hand.

She was strong in the sky. Although not as adept with performing as her partner, Alder hid strength in her slight frame and pulled herself up a climbing rope in small, swift movements. It wrapped around her feet as she moved higher, which offered her a surface to stand and swing on. At the top, she neglected the netting. She took to the wall like her partner and demonstrated a flair for clambering up the supporting beams.

Alder was slow. She hesitated, cautiously looking for places to put her hands and feet. She moved with light footsteps, but her feet dragged, scraping across the metal. She kicked out with each movement and filled the gymnasium with a solid, dull thud. She was followed by an echo yet was oblivious to the noise she was making.

The balcony noted the concern quickly and reflected it in their judgement.

***

There was a brief pause, and the attention of the watching Gamemakers quickly focused on a buffet at the back of their balcony. President Dux waved them to it. “I suppose there’s no harm whilst we wait,” she said through the collective surge towards food and alcohol. “You will return to your seat as soon as our tribute arrives, of course.”

Raven did not arrive. He waited outside the entrance to the balcony, afraid that his echoing heartbeat would be head over the conversation about canapes. Clara had enjoyed his risky idea. She was the one who told him that each score was written down on a piece of paper. She was the one who told an avox to bring him here. With the balcony distract by their buffet, it was his role to make it successful.

Stepping into the balcony with a silent movement, he skirted alongside the edge of the wall and forcefield. He used the empty chairs for cover and ducked down, just as he did on the rare occasion he entered a building to borrow an item in District Twelve. The President was preoccupied with speaking to an avox, but her paper sat on a low table. A pen rested on top.

It was in his reach. Sitting on the floor, Raven pushed himself forward and slipped the notepad and pen from the table in one quick movement. He glanced across the scoring of the tributes before him, but his mind was swimming and incapable of taking in any figure. Giving up, he used a pen to scratch ‘twelve’ beside his own name.

When he placed the paper back on the table, Raven glanced up to catch President Dux’s eyes fixed on him. She watched, intrigued. He froze.

“Please continue,” she encouraged, and Raven sheepishly handed her paper out to her. President Dux read his score and chuckled. “I think you may be pushing your luck a little, but you can rest assured that I’m impressed with the novelty.”

***

Flicker entered the room with heavy feet. Her face was downcast, but the scowl was burned into her brow and evident in the hunch of her shoulders. She paid no attention to the audience on the balcony. She looked away from them, staring to the concrete on the floor. Eventually, she dragged herself to the centre, sat down, and folded her arms across her chest.

“Flicker?” asked President Dux, hoping to pry an introduction from the tribute’s tightly clenched hand. There was no reply, or acknowledgement. “You may begin. You have five minutes.”

At the beginning of her timer, Flicker lifted her head and stared down the leader of Panem. Her eyes flared and sparked like a growing fire. She did not release the tension in her shoulders or relax her white knuckles. Instead, she spoke a word that caused a gasp to run across the balcony. It was followed by nervous laughter and glances to their leader. The president simply rose to Flicker’s challenge and stared back.

There was no movement for the duration of the demonstration. Flicker remained on the floor with her arms folded. She only rose to her feet at the sound of a soft buzzer, flashing a rude gesture to the balcony as she turned on her heel and left.

“Well,” mumbled a Gamemaker. “She’s brave – we can give her that, at least.”

***

Hesitantly, Eden entered the training gymnasium with a glance to the guard who waited at the door. He approached the centre, where he took the time to bow his head to the awaiting crowd. “Eden St. James,” he announced, as the hesitation melted into a cocky, confident smirk. “District Thirteen.”

“You have five minutes,” President Dux replied, before dropping her voice to an urgent whisper. “We must be aware of how our score will be seen. He’s shown himself to be liability and I don’t want to praise it, but he could be entertaining.”

He strained to hear the conversation about him, but Eden was unable to catch any word from the balcony. There was a louder mutter when he did not approach any weaponry but instead approached a survival station, and he smirked at the expected shock.

Eden had knowledge, rather than the simple ability to memorise. He was determined to show it. There was no hesitation as he identified and organised a collection of provided plants, sorting them into neat piles of edible and non-edible foliage. He struggled with two practically identical leaves and held them up to try and get a closer look in the fluorescent light. It did not help, and he abandoned them to the floor. Eden looked up to the balcony and opened his mouth as if about to speak, but then bit his tongue.

Having proved he could survive outside of a cell, he finally met the expectation of weaponry. Eden chose a small knife, tracing the blade across the back of his hand before taking it to a training mannequin. He was slow and tired in his movements, but he hit hard – he knew exactly where to aim.

“What a strange boy,” mumbled President Dux. Her confusion was echoed across the balcony.

***

“Severen, Mercy,” announced Mercy, punctuating her formal introduction with a practiced salute. She settled into an at-ease position at the centre of the gymnasium but did not look away from the balcony. “Peacekeeping Cadet. Junior Division. First Class.”

“Fantastic,” praised President Dux. She leaned over the balcony, eager to watch Panem’s finest perform for her. “What will you be demonstrating today?”

At the sight of her leader, the tension grew across Mercy’s shoulders. She fought to keep them even. “Hand to hand combat, Madame President,” she replied. There was a red flush fighting to be seen across her cheeks. “It’s…it’s standard training across the Peacekeeping program, as I’m sure you know.”

“You have five minutes.”

Mercy nodded. She saluted a final time, before breaking line to run to the station and the mat she had trained on. “I’d like an instructor,” she requested, and a competent trainer stepped forward to fight.

The mat was soft beneath her feet and acted as a reminder to keep her knees bent and her body light. Mercy struggled through deep, calming breaths as the instructor joined her and readied himself for her attack. “On my count,” warned Mercy, and her opponent nodded.

At the call, they both charged. Mercy was slight but she was quick, and she anticipated her opponent’s movements with ease. She took a risk in dropping to her knees and pulling herself underneath the trainer’s outstretched arms, hitting the back of his knees and setting him off balance. As she flew back to her feet, she collided into his back with her side and wrapped her arm around his neck.

The man fell. He twisted as he collapsed to the mat and grabbed Mercy’s hair. She fell with him and rolled over her ankle, landing back first on the soft mat. The stronger man fell on top of her and pinned her to the ground.

***

Azure was familiar with an audience, but it was impossible to tell from his cautious entrance to the training gymnasium. He twisted his fingers into anxious knots, staring at the ground as he walked in. President Dux coughed to remind him of her presence, and he snapped to attention as easily as any soldier. There was still no colour to his cheeks.

He did not introduce himself. Instead, his eyes slid across each person on the balcony as they stared back at him like a pack of starving dogs. They settled on the president and tried to remain, but they did not manage it. Azure returned to staring at the floor.

“You have five minutes,” called President Dux, when it became clear that there was no introduction waiting for them. She did not criticise – the silly boy was often told by his mother that he needed no introduction anyway.

Glancing across the gymnasium, Azure remained rooted to his spot. He did not turn his head to look at weaponry. Instead, he observed each of the survival skill stations and tried to choose one that would be enough. He faltered, taking two hesitant steps forward before finally glancing to a rack of polished swords.

“He knows his audience,” chuckled one observer, as Azure gave a final, longing look to the fire-starting station. He turned on his heel and chose a sword.

The weapon had a delicate blade but a strong handle, which made it a good choice for anyone unfamiliar with the weapon. Azure held it in his left hand and stared at it as if it would bite him, wide-eyed at the serrated edge of the metal. Eventually, he turned to a row of training mannequins and began to size them up as targets.

Placing both hands on the sword, Azure recklessly swung as hard as he could. The blade impaled into the targets stomach, where the edge became stuck in the fabric. Azure struggled to pull it free and stumbled as it came loose. He tried again, half severing an arm.

There was a gentle, bored sigh across the balcony.

***

“Serenity Pergale!” called the Capitol’s female tribute, as she entered the room with a spring in her step and a cunning smile painted on her face. She found centre-stage with ease. “I imagine you’ve had a very long day, so I thought we’d get this over with quickly.”

There was polite laughter, like the breeze in rustling trees. “Indeed,” agreed President Dux, who had indulged in her own glass of wine as the task came to an end. “You have five minutes to demonstrate your chosen skill.”

“Of course, Madame President,” said Serenity, respectfully bowing her head. Then, she was true to her word.

The sword was an honourable weapon, when held in the right hand. Serenity shot to the weaponry rack to choose and settled on one with a wooden handle and an angled blade. The sharpened edge would be useful for cutting or for sawing through wood, but Serenity understood the Hunger Games.

“An opponent,” she requested, and a trainer stepped forward with a sword of their own.

Serenity’s blade was hollow. She adjusted to the change in weight and used it to her advantage, able to slice through air quicker than her opponent. The day was long, the trainer was sluggish, and Serenity offered no reprieve. She anticipated an incoming attack, side-stepped away from it’s grasp, and responded with a strike of her own.

The sudden force surprised the trainer, who let his own sword fall from his hand. Immediately, he turned to grab Serenity by her neck but she ducked, picking up his fallen sword on the way to the floor. Swiftly, she had two blades, a disarmed opponent, and an applauding audience. She bowed.

“You learn combat at the academy?” asked President Dux, although it was a statement they both knew to be true.

“Hand-to-hand,” replied Serenity, with a nod. She carefully lay both weapons on the floor. “Its important to be able to adapt your knowledge from skill to skill, and I took swordsmanship as an extra-curricular when I was younger, to build discipline.”

“You built it well,” praised the President, dismissing her own tribute. Finally, the balcony was free to revel in their food, wine and freedom.

Chapter Text

[26] Judgement

Sharing a loveseat with Ferro, Sparkle pulled on strands of hair at her neck to keep herself awake. The day had surprisingly exhausted her, and Goldie’s calm voice as she introduced the scoring system through the screen was like a lullaby.

“Is your alliance confirmed?” asked Dazzle. She was running through her copious notes on strategy, sponsors, and skills. “It’s official with Two, but I know you don’t want the boy.”

Ferro placed a comforting hand on his partner’s knee, prepared to answer on her behalf. She did not complain; Sparkle did not wish to be lectured by her sister that evening.

“Two’s girl,” he confirmed. “Capitol’s girl too, and Four’s boy. Twelve wasn’t interested, but Sparkle has her eye on Ten.”

“That’s it?” asked Dazzle, glancing up from her paper.

Ferro finally turned to her, leaning over the back of the chair. “Is that not enough?”

Interrupting a further question, Goldie’s excited voice streamed through the screen. Sparkle’s portrait, taken during the training, filled the screen behind her. It was enough to draw Ferro back to the screen, settling in beside his partner for the long evening of information. “Here we go,” murmured Sparkle. She took Ferro’s hand in her own, and he squeezed it back tightly.

“Sparkle Lustre,” announced Goldie. The girl leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, as if she might miss the announcement. It appeared beside her face as Goldie revealed it. “She has received a score of nine.”

“Nine?” she repeated, unsure. Ferro moved his hand from her knee to her shoulder, pulling her in closer for an embrace.

“Nine is good,” he reassured, before cutting his praise short as his own face greeted him from the screen. He was fixated on the screen.

Unsurprised with the number being fed through her earpiece, Goldie continued. “Ferro Revere, with a score of nine.”

The pair fell back into the soft cushions of the loveseat together, celebrating their shared scores with shared smiles. Sparkle felt the tiredness finally pool across her body as the previously held tension eased into the success.

Behind them, Dazzle’s voice cut through Goldie’s excited commentary. “A nine? Is that it?”

***

Epona’s enthusiasm was becoming exhaustion. She hated the high-pitched voice of the Capitol’s commentator, but she paid close attention to every word in the incessant broadcast. Mason kept his hand on her shoulder. Epona wanted to shrug it away, but she could feel the shake through his hold – her mentor was as nervous as she was supposed to be.

“Epona Jericho,” announced Goldie, finally. Epona allowed herself to lean forward, and Mason’s hand finally fell from her. “She has received a score of ten.”

“Ten!” repeated Mason. He pulled Epona into an unwanted embrace, which she allowed for a heartbeat before pulling away. “Epona, that’s brilliant! You outscored One! No one else is going to get a ten, I bet it.”

Their celebration was shared on the sofa as if she was the only tribute. Watching, Leon sat at the dining table alone. His knees were drawn up to his chest in a posture of someone waiting anxiously, but he glared at his tribute partner with a confident anger. They ignored him, and he so desperately wanted to prove them wrong.

Mason did not glance at him, even when the screen reminded him of his second tribute. Goldie’s clear image was checking the information in front of her as her eyes widened. “Leon Marin-Cortez,” she announced, “has also received a score of ten.”

He did not need them. He did not want them. Epona turned to make a comment, but Leon scraped his chair across the floor to drown her out. He escaped to his room in the noise.

***

Isabel was shivering. Azazel could feel her in the cushions of the sofa and could hear her in the creak of the wood. “Here,” he offered, reaching over to a basket beside the seat and claiming a blanket for her. She took it from him with a soft smile of gratitude, before returning to the screen.

“What did you do again?” she asked, quietly. The broadcast lingered on District Two’s high scoring for a long time, leaving them to wait anxiously. Their mentor drank liquor as if it was water.

“Killed a dummy,” replied Azazel. He was grateful when Isabel laughed. She went to answer the question for herself but was interrupted by her own name. She pulled the blanket tighter across her shoulders.

“Isabel Alambre,” said Goldie, in a clear and clipped voice, “with a score of four.”

Isabel let the blanket fall onto the sofa beneath her. Instead, her hands went to her lap where they began to twist around each other. Her head turned down, and her hair fell across her face. Azazel stretched an arm around her and pulled her in closer.

He murmured to her, stroking comforting circles on the fabric of her blouse. “It’s not bad, Issy. The others aren’t going to be interested in you. That’s good!”

His reassurance went unnoticed, as Isabel’s hand moved to her face to hastily wipe away and escaped tear. Cybus offered nothing; he lifted his half-empty glass to his mouth once more. The broadcast did not cease to allow tributes to mourn their score, and Goldie rattled onwards at a relentless pace. “Azazel Delon,” she announced, “has received a score of six.”

Cybus slammed his glass down to the table, pointing at the screen. “Those Gamemakers have got a lot to answer for,” he muttered, before scraping his chair across the floor and disappearing into the corridor.

***

“They only care about a high score,” reassured Ocean, trying desperately to bridge the gap between her island tributes. Despite insisting they were not the same, Sennen and Cove shared the biting of their lips and a tense, upright posture as they waited. “If it’s low, or around the middle, you’re just another tribute. And it’s okay to be just another tribute, because then you won’t have a target on your back. We’ve still got the interview to fix-“

She was interrupted by the broadcast. The anxiety across the seating area rose like a tide – the city may not care about high or low scores, but the twins did. Between them, everything was either comradery or competition. The Games were becoming war.

“Sennen Alexander,” announced Goldie, with a gentle smile, “with a score of eight.”

Ocean nodded. “That’s good,” she reassured, but Sennen remained unconvinced. She risked a glance to her brother. The score was only good if she won between them, as the feuding pair needed their own victor. She cared about his score more than her own.

“Cove Alexander has also received a score of eight.”

“That’s good too,” tried Ocean, but her twins were disappointed in their similarity rather than their score. To distract him, the mentor leaned over to Cove and whispered at a volume hidden by the buzzing of the screen. “Your new friends will be happy with that.”

***

Fern and Sunnie shared a small sofa, as Solar sat alone in an armchair. They did not talk; the only sound across the room was the voice from the screen, rattling off numbers that corresponded to each tribute. In his head, Solar was trying to add them to his own odds. He needed to know his competition. As Cotton had told him, he needed to know his targets.

“A score isn’t the end of everything,” reassured Sunnie, suddenly. When Solar turned, she was looking at him despite focusing on her sister. Solar shrugged and sunk further in his chair. “It doesn’t mean anything. High, low, whichever. They’re just a guess.”

Fern reached out to brush a piece of hair from her sister’s face, as if she was the mentor. “Solar’s good at guessing,” she added.

“I’ve heard,” said Sunnie. “Is that what you did for the Gamemakers? Did you guess?”

Solar shook his head. “I used a weapon. They tend to do better.”

The screen’s discussion turned to District Five. Fern’s hand fell from her sister’s hair and found its way to her arm, being taken in a tight hold. Goldie announced the score slowly, as if trying to tease her. “Fern Evander has received a score of six!”

“Just like me,” murmured Sunnie.

Solar no longer existed. Fern and Sunnie shared a quiet laugh as a celebration, as he waited and tried to predict his own success.

“Solar Dedisco, with a score of six,” announced Goldie, and Solar frowned. It needed to be higher. He was in the middle. He was average. He was where he had been for the entire Games, but he needed to be more.

***

Quietly confident, Saori sat at the dining table. He rocked back on his chair, absent-mindedly switching his gaze from the ceiling to the screen whenever a number was announced. He was meant to be remembering them, but there no longer seemed to be much point to anything.

Dakota was on an armchair, wrapped in a blanket and half-asleep like an invalid. There was some colour to her cheeks which had not existed during the reaping, but she still shook. Saori knew it was morphling – he had seen it enough on the streets of Six, and hardly blamed her. He also decided it made her less of a threat.

“Your brother scored a four,” reminded Allegra. It felt backhanded, like an insult disguised as a compliment. “I ain’t much hopeful for Dakota, but you might be able to drag something half decent out of this.”

Mumbling, Dakota cursed her mentor from her blanket. Saori nearly joined her, but he was briefly distracted by the score for District Five. His blonde-haired adversary from Five had scored a six, and he was determined to beat it. His waiting was prolonged by the infuriating ladies first of the Games.

Goldie took a breath to listen to each score in her earpiece, announcing the names with a blinding grin. “Dakota Ford has received a score of two!”

The recipient of the low score laughed at herself, her eyes brighter than they had been for her entire stay in the Capitol. Whilst her mentor scowled, Dakota could not hide her self-deprecating chuckle. “Anyone can get a six or seven,” she mumbled, through an almost delirious stupor. “It takes real talent to do so badly you score a two.”

“Shut up,” instructed Saori, straining to listen to the screen as his own face appeared. Goldie was pausing again, before picking up in her animated tone.

“Saori Carlisle,” she announced, before pausing. Saori took the delay personally, and finally she continued, “with a score of five.”

His stomach fell. He put his head down on the table. He had been caught out with questioning, and Fern had won.

***

Acacia chewed on his bottom lip as he glared at the screen and dared it to reward him.

“At the end of the day, it hardly matters,” began Aspen, falling into rehearsed reassurance. Acacia turned his glare to his mentor instead, and he fell silent. It did matter. He had worked too hard for it not to matter.

Ilara was pretending she did not care, but she was better at dancing than she was at acting. She braided her freshly washed hair, turning her head to the window and watching the lights dancing in the Capitol’s skyline. However, Acacia caught her sneaking a look to the screen when she thought no one was watching her.

“I still don’t believe you set something on fire,” she complained, noticing that she was being noticed.

“Well, I did,” replied Acacia, quick and sharp. “Wired up a sword.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Ilara scoffed, but Acacia did not notice. He edged further on his chair as the screen changed to show his home. Goldie waited as the information was fed to her, and the pause seemed to stretch on, and on. Ilara’s face filled the screen first, and Acacia was not surprised – she seemed to get everything first.

“Ilara Grove,” she read, pausing in an endless search for dramatics. Despite trying not to care, Ilara stopped combing her hair to listen. “It is a score of four.”

Immediately, Ilara turned to the window. “They don’t really matter anyway,” she tried, echoing her mentor’s half-hearted reassurance. Her voice trembled, but Acacia ignored it. There was no time to gloat yet.

“Acacia Sasaki,” announced Goldie, and he rolled his eyes at his own full name. It was as if no one was listening to him. Goldie continued, “achieved a score of eight!”

“Eight!” repeated Aspen. He slammed his glass down on the table. Then, he shook himself and tried to settle back into his seat. “That’s…pretty good, Asa.”

Acacia allowed himself to settle too. “I know,” he answered, but he did not hide his despondence. He wanted more.

***

Lucet could not sit closer to the screen. He knelt on the carpet, his face illuminated by the bright, blue glow as he waited for his own number to appear. Armure joined him on the floor in solidarity and sympathy. “Your eyes will turn square,” she warned periodically, but there was nothing that would pull Lucet away.

Keeping her distance, Satin was safely sat at the dining table with District Eight’s other victor. Cotton was tapping absent-mindedly on the wooden surface, and she wanted to tell him to stop, but he was thinking. “It’ll be fine,” he murmured, to himself more than to Satin. “We can work with whatever you get.”

Satin reached out and gently grabbed Cotton’s hand, stopping the tapping and taking his attention. “I did well. It’ll be respectable.”

“Yours will be,” he stressed, with a nod to Lucet.

The smaller boy rose on his knees, pointing to the screen. “It’s us!” he cried, as Satin’s face appeared across the broadcast. “Come on, it’s us!”

Cotton went to reassure him that they were watching, but there was no time. Goldie was beginning to move faster, hoping to finish before the Capitol spent their short attention span. “District Eight,” she introduced. “Satin Winchester, with a score of eight.”

Satin smiled with pride. “Told you,” she nudged, but Cotton was distracted. His face was clouded with worry, as the scoring continued.

Lucet edged closer. “Lucet Buckram,” read Goldie, “with a score of four.”

The small boy sunk back to the floor.

***

At the instruction of their mentor, Amity was settled in a sofa. She tried to stifle a yawn in a hastily raised hand, taking a glance at the smaller boy beside her. She expected him to be asleep, but Vixen was wide-eyed as he waited for their turn.

“You do much damage?” croaked their mentor. Jonah had shown little interest in their performance, until the sudden idea of the numbers and sponsorships spurred him to ask. “You given me something to work with?”

It was clear that Vixen would not answer. He was fixated on the screen, scratching absent-mindedly behind his cat’s ears. Amity shook her head to wake herself up and filled the silence herself. “I think so,” she responded, cautiously. “They seemed rather bored by the time I arrived, though.”

“Sounds about right,” said Jonah, pulling his silver hipflask from his pocket. He raised it to his mouth, drained the contents, and smacked his lips together as droplets of alcohol fell across the carpet.

Amity was still not familiar with seeing her own face broadcast across the Capitol Games Network. It was as if she was watching someone else’s score, until Goldie read her name in a clear, high-pitched tone.

“Amity Barret, with a score of five.”

Five. She sunk back into the soft cushion of the sofa. Jonah grabbed her knee in a way that she thought was supposed to be comforting, but she pulled away.

“It don’t mean nothing,” he muttered, retracting his hand. “They’ll only pay attention to the high scores, or the surprising ones. Don’t take no notice.”

The broadcast continued. Goldie finally stuttered, as she heard each score through the shining earpiece that she wore throughout the performance. Her voice caught in her throat as she tried to speak, eyebrows raised. “Vixen Axwell,” she managed, taking in the number she heard. She coughed. “He has earned a score of seven.”

“Seven?” repeated Jonah, as if he had not heard. The screen confirmed the higher score. “My boy, what in Panem’s name did you do?”

Panko took offence to the noise, leaving his owner’s lap. Amity managed to pull Vixen into a congratulatory hold, and he tried to shy away from the attention. However, his flushed cheeks were accompanied by a small, proud smile. “Scythe,” he managed, and Jonah nodded in understanding.

“I should have known, you little field mouse,” congratulated Jonah. “You’ll have to nail the interview so there isn’t a target on your back.”

***

Iumenta bit her nail so low that her thumb bled. Her mouth filled with the copper taste, and she finally lowered her hand to her lap.

“Nervous?” chuckled Birdie, with a smoking stick in her mouth. The smell made Iumenta nauseous, but she said nothing – there was no point in offending the person in charge of her sponsorships. Iumenta nodded, and Birdie reached to give her a pat on her knee. “You don’t need to be.”

Chanté readjusted his position on the sofa, for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Do the scores matter?” he asked, his nervous energy showing in how her intertwined his fingers as he talked.

Birdie took a mouthful of smoke, exhaling it slowly before she responded. “A bit,” she admitted, with a nonchalant shrug. “You’re both going to struggle without sponsors, so a high score might help. Not the be all and end all, though.”

Nodding, Chanté changed position again. The screen shifted with him, showing a capture of Iumenta’s confident, smiling face from some point during training. It was her turn to move, as she edged closer to the screen.

Goldie listened to the voice in her ear and made the announcement with a grin. “Iumenta Blanchard has scored seven!”

“Seven,” she repeated in her own murmur. It was not excessively high, in a way that made Iumenta’s stomach sink at the sound. However, it was not forgettable. She needed to hope it was enough.

Chanté gave her a gentle pat on the back. “Well done!” he praised, but he did not look away from the screen as his own face appeared.

“Chanté Senner, with a score of four.”

Suddenly, Iumenta’s score did not seem as bad as she thought.

***

Alder was thankful for each visual. As Goldie’s painted-red lips moved through the screen, the story of the scoring was told through images of each tribute and large numbers that floated across the screen. She was trying to remember everything again. It was too much, but she was determined – she needed to know.

She was nudged. Alder turned to her partner, who checked she was fine with a hand gesture they had practiced several times a day since arriving in the Capitol. Inari raised his eyebrow as he lifted a hand, shaking it side to side with his fingers spread. She nodded – she was as fine as could be expected.

Inari took her hand in his own as her own face appeared. She was growing used to it, although Alder had not recognised herself on the first reaping broadcast. Goldie took a long time to rattle through the introduction, and Alder believed she caught her own name on the commentator’s lips. Then, the number appeared beside her picture and announced her score to Panem.

Five.

The grip on her hand grew tighter. She turned back to her partner, where Inari was giving her congratulatory signs and trying to celebrate the disappointing score. Alder still smiled, and signed thank you, and tried to accept that it was not too bad. She was not the lowest, which was something that she needed to remember.

Inari appeared next. Alder returned his comforting grip and watched as the number floated on to the grin beside his smiling face.

Nine.

Letting go of her hand, Inari jumped to his feet and pointed to the screen as if he could not believe it. Alder could feel applause, realising that the celebration was coming from her mentor. She clapped too, wincing at the stinging in her hands as she forced them together.

***

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” cawed Flicker, throwing her head back in a harsh chuckle. Her mentor glared at her, pacing tirelessly behind the sofa where her tributes were perched. The screen was muted, but the numbers were clear.

“What did you do?” repeated Clara. “I know about Raven, but I don’t know about you, Flicker.”

Finishing her laughter, Flicker replied with a roll of her eyes and a fold of her arms. She crossed one leg across the other and leaned back into the cushion. “I don’t need to tell you nothing,” she replied, settling in as the broadcast continued the long walk to District Twelve.

“I’m your mentor. You should tell me.”

“Nope.” Flicker shook her head, quick like a disagreeing toddler. She was smiling. Clara decided this was not a good sign.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but Raven nudged her in her side with his sharp, pointed elbows. “Shut it,” he ordered, in a harsh whisper. He pointed to the screen, where District Twelve was finally being featured. “It’s us!”

Using a small remote, Clara turned the volume high enough for Goldie’s voice to fill the room. There was no bright, smiling picture of Flicker to accompany her score. Instead, they found a shot where she looked bored rather than hostile. “Flicker Ashbourne,” announced Goldie, trying to hide a small grin as she received the score in her ear, “has a score of two.”

Flicker laughed. She showed no surprise, or shock, or horror. She simply laughed, throwing her head back into the sofa and roaring with a happier sound than she had managed since the reaping.

“A two?” cried Clara, clasping the back of the sofa with both hands. “Did you do anything at all, Flicker?”

“Not at all,” answered Flicker. “I didn’t do a single damn thing.”

Clara opened her mouth to argue – or to scream, it was difficult to tell – but she was interrupted by the introduction of her second tribute. Raven was still staring at his partner with a confused scowl. He turned to the screen and his own vague face as Goldie continued.

“Raven Kohler, with a score of seven!”

There was a sigh of relief. Although he did not laugh, Raven fell back into the comforting reassurance of his mentor with a soft grin. “That’s better,” added Clara, in a softer tone than she used for her other charge. “At least I have one tribute who wants to stay alive.”

***

As they waited, Hadrian poured a drink for each of his tributes. They took the glasses with cautious, looking into the clear, bubbling liquid. “Is this alcohol?” asked Mercy, taking a sniff of the drink. Eden took a sip without waiting for the answer.

Hadrian chuckled. “No,” he reassured, pouring himself a glass. “It’s a type of lemonade. Pretty sweet, but it’ll distract you. I don’t want you thinking too much about these scores.”

“They’re important,” protested Mercy.

Eden finished his glass almost immediately and placed it on the table in front of him. “They are,” he said, agreeing with his partner using a rare nod. “I want a high score.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect too much,” said Hadrian as he finally took his own seat, looking at the screen rather than his tributes. “These scores, they’re not always about your potential as a tribute. They might give you a low score just because they don’t like you, Eden.”

The tribute boy scowled, but there was no time to hold it. The screen was filled with the introduction to their own home, as Goldie began to smile at the relief of nearing the end. Mercy wrapped both hands around her glass and held it anxiously against her lips, tapping the glass on her teeth with a soft clinking sound.

“Mercy Severen,” announced Goldie, and the girl leaned forward. “She has received a score of seven.”

Finally, she took a drink. There was no celebration, but Mercy made no attempt to hide her smile between sips of the lemonade. “That’s good,” praised Eden, softly. He tilted his head. “At least, I think it is.”

“It is,” confirmed Hadrian, with a nod. He gave his eldest tribute a smile. “Well done, Mercy.”

Mercy was trained in modesty, as she often had very little to celebrate. However, she would not fully be satisfied until she knew she outscored her partner. “Thank you,” she offered, but she did not take her eyes off the screen as Eden’s face replaced her own.

“Eden St. James,” continued Goldie, with a wry grin – Eden’s infamous attack had earned him a reputation across the commentators, “has received a score of six.”

Mercy finally relaxed. Her father would be proud.

***

Serenity took her partner by the shoulder, gently shaking the smaller boy until his eyes fluttered open. “Did I miss anything?” he murmured, voice slurring together with sleep as he readjusted himself in the chair.

“You fell asleep around Six,” replied Serenity, scowling slightly. She did not understand how her partner could sleep through something as important as the training scores, but she had long given up on trying to understand the strange mind of Azure Sorrenhill. “There was nothing too notable. There’s been sevens, and some eights. Eleven managed a nine.”

“Eleven?” asked Azure, still waking up from confusion. “The girl?”

“The boy,” said Serenity, with a shake of her head. Azure made a small noise of understanding, blinking slowly through Goldie’s final spiel of commentary.

“It’s been a long night,” buzzed the voice through the screen, as the commentator settled her hands atop her desk and smiled to the camera. “Finally, we have reached our own home team! Ladies and gentlemen, I am excited to reveal the scores for our tributes from the Capitol.”

Azure sat straighter. Serenity tried to hide that she was just as eager. Goldie’s announcement continued.

“Serenity Pergale has received a score of ten.”

“Ten?” repeated Azure, wide-eyed. He looked from the screen, to his partner, to the screen.

Serenity shrugged, as if the score was easily achieved. She wore a smug smile. “I told you – I know the Games very well.”

Azure eyed her with suspicion, keeping his attention on the screen as he snatched sideways glances in her direction. Serenity did not give him the satisfaction. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, as if daring him to comment. She would not show celebration. She would act as if she expected and deserved that score. Serenity rivalled District Two – she rivalled victors.

“And finally, our own Azure Sorrenhill,” interrupted Goldie, with a soft sigh of finality. She listened for the score in her ear. “He has a score of four.”

“Four,” repeated Serenity, questioning rather than celebrating. Finally, she smiled. “I suppose you gave it your best try.”

Chapter Text

[27] Preparation

Satin could not look away from the intricate gold patterning on her plate. She was trying to avoid the pleading gaze of her younger partner by drowning herself in the breakfast service. Food waited on the table with its tempting steam and scent, but she kept her hands in her lap. She was not hungry. Her sudden request hung heavily in the air across the table.

“I see,” said Cotton, eventually. His voice was quiet, but he did not seem surprised. “It won’t be a problem for us to mentor you separately, I suppose. It’s the benefit of having two victors in the Capitol.”

Looking through her hair, Satin noticed that her partner had not touched the food already on his plate. “Satin,” he pushed, cautiously. His voice whined like a child asking for a cake they were not allowed to have. She could not look up. She knew that, if she saw his face, she would change her mind.

Cotton reached across, taking Lucet’s hand in his own. “It might make it a little bit easier,” he tried as Lucet pulled away and hid his hand in his lap. “You are going to have very different interviews, after all. And, I mean, at the end of the day…”

The mentor trailed off. He did not need to finish.

“You promised, Satin,” said Lucet.

Satin did not look up. She collapsed further in on herself, keeping her gaze at her feet beneath the table. She would change her mind if she saw his face. It was like trying to drown a newborn kitten.

There was a scrape of wood against carpet as Armure pushed her own chair back. Satin noticed the movement as she reached forward to take her mug of coffee with her. “Come on, kid,” she muttered, nudging Lucet on her way to her feet. “Bring food, and we’ll go get started. You can stay with me for now.”

Satin waited to hear Lucet’s voice again, speaking in protests and promises. However, he did not speak. She felt his eyes watch her closely, before pushing his own chair away and dutifully following Armure into his bedroom. Satin did not look up until she was certain the younger boy was gone.

Her mentor greeted her with a raised eyebrow: a question. “You promised, Satin?” he repeated, asking for clarification. He took a bite of his buttered toast as he waited for an answer.

The table was open. Satin could take the food she wanted without facing the judgemental, plaintive stare of her partner. She was still not hungry. “It wasn’t a promise,” she replied, quietly. “He asked for an alliance during training and I just…it won’t…”

“You agreed to make him feel better,” offered Cotton, and Satin nodded. Cotton blew air through his teeth in a low whistle. “That’s a tough one. Lucet’s a nice kid, very polite. It is the Games at the end of the day and-“

“And he’ll hold me back,” interrupted Satin. She rested her elbows on the table and placed her head in her hand.

Cotton’s voice was thick with crumbs. “He will. There’s no other way to say it, Satin. Remember what I said on the train?”

For a moment, the only sound across the table was the bubbling of a rich, meat stew. Then, quietly, Satin argued, “he’s just a kid.”

“You’re all just kids,” shrugged Cotton. “He will die, but you don’t have to.”

***

Iumenta did not like her schedule of interview practice and etiquette training, but she was silenced by a breakfast plate piled high with meat and cheese. Chanté did not join them. His plate remained infuriatingly empty, and Birdie sighed at it as she lit a cigarette from a candle on the table. The foul-smelling smoke soon filled the room. Iumenta tried not to gag.

“He’s taking his breakfast in his room,” explained the mentor, with a disappointed shake of her head. “Kaeso put him up to it.”

“It was a reasonable request,” protested Kaeso, in the infuriating tone he used when he believed he was correct. His voice was muffled as he spoke through a napkin, trying to avoid the toxic clouds that floated from Birdie’s mouth. “If I wanted to be left in peace to eat a bowl of fruit, I’d expect to be granted that luxury. Honestly!”

“He ain’t going to be left alone in that arena,” warned Birdie. Her own breakfast was a black coffee, a cigarette, and an empty plate. She turned to Iumenta with a stern eye. “Though if he ain’t here, we can talk about your little strategy.”

“What strategy?” asked Iumenta, convincingly. She impaled cured meat with a fork and shovelled it into her mouth, chewing and refusing to speak with a full mouth.

“You ain’t going to pull that off with me,” Birdie scolded. “I’m getting alliance requests from all sorts of very interesting people. They liked your score enough, but you must have done something to already be on their radar.”

Pride crept into Iumenta’s voice, eating at her lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me, kid.” Birdie extinguished her smoking stick on her empty plate. “District One have asked for an alliance with you. They’re volunteers, Menta. What are you playing at?”

Iumenta swallowed. She did not take a second mouthful, placing her fork down on her plate. She was too excited for food. “I’m showing you that I can win, like you asked,” she replied. “The alliance, they always win so I made sure I was part of it.”

“They don’t like us outer-district lot. It’s risky.”

“They like us when we’re useful.” Iumenta pushed her plate away, focusing on the movement rather than her mentor. There was nothing that would change her mind.

Birdie shook her head, as disappointed in Iumenta as she was in Chanté. The alliance was a strategy which echoed around the Tribute Centre each year. It could not be silenced. “So, guessing you want me to agree to the request?”

Confident, Iumenta nodded. She added, “and please don’t tell Chanté.”

***

Eden pushed fruit around his plate with a fork. Occasionally, he paused to take a bite of something unfamiliar but would pull a face at the sour taste. His hair was unbrushed. His face was still bruised. He did wear clean clothing.

Across the table, Mercy was as polished as a military boot. She had managed to braid her hair – not perfectly, but to an acceptable degree – and wore the closest clothing she could find to a uniform. She ate a full meal, keeping her dirtied cutlery on the plate at a precise angle to show when she was finished. She watched her partner as if he would bite her as readily as he did the fruit.

The avoxes held a more exciting conversation than the partnership did until Hadrian appeared from the corridor in a rush. He was stilling pulling a jacket over his flailing arms as he collapsed into the chair at the head of the table. “Coffee,” he demanded, and the request was immediately fulfilled by a silent servant. Hadrian grasped the mug in both hands, drank deeply, and smacked his lips together in anticipation. “I can’t get used to these early starts. I don’t normally have tributes who are so…eager.”

Mercy glared at her plate. The cutlery was wrong. She twitched the fork alongside the knife, bringing her hands back to her lap when she felt it was correct. “We’re being interviewed tomorrow,” she stated, but her tone twitched up at the end as if it were a question.

“Interviewed?” asked Eden. His question was obvious.

Behind his coffee, Hadrian nodded. “You are,” he clarified, before turning to Eden. “The interview is your last chance to get sponsors, so you need to be on your best behaviour. You’ll meet Goldie, and she-“

“You’re allowed to coach us for that,” interrupted Mercy, abruptly.

Hadrian turned back to her. “I am.”

“How is that going to work?”

The mentor paused, confused. He glanced from tribute to tribute. “I’m assuming you’ll want to be trained separately, and we need to talk about strategy and decorum. Diana can handle that, so I think I’ll take…yes, I’ll take Eden first.”

“You always take him first.”

Mercy’s voice cut through the meal as if it were butter, loud enough to leave her mentor in a surprised blink. She noticed that she was being stared at and looked down at the table. “It’s true!” she continued. “I should think that he is perfectly capable of answering questions, considering how many interrogations he’s gone through.”

“That’s not fair!” argued Eden, matching her volume with conviction. “You watched half of them, so you should know-“

Hadrian took the metal jug of coffee for himself. “You two,” he moaned, pouring another glass. “You both need to calm down. We don’t want to bring District Thirteen-“

“It’s nothing to do with District Thirteen, is it?” Mercy steeled herself as she interrupted authority, pointing accusingly to her partner. “He’s going to bring District Thirteen into disrepute no matter what. He already has, for Panem’s sake! He’s a rebel!

Eden hit the table. “You’d fight back to if they treated you the same as me!”

“I would not! Hadrian’s only spending time with you because he thinks you might win, but you’re not going to. Someone’ll kill you straight away!”

As he stood, Eden’s chair fell backwards on to the floor. An avox winced at the sound. “Who? You?”

Hadrian held his head in his hands. “Please,” he begged, through gritted teeth, “it’s too early in the morning for this. Mercy-“

“Stop favouring him,” she interrupted, “or my father’ll…”

Then, she stopped. There was silence, and Mercy was left awkwardly searching for a comment that did not some to come.

“Or your father will what?” asked Hadrian, eventually. He lifted his head. “There’s nothing your father can do, Mercy. There’s nothing any of us can do.”

***

Inari was the tribute that a mentor would envy. Despite his obvious physical limitation, he devoured interview questions as if they were a simple meal. He did not need any coaching on stage manner, audience interaction, or how to look into a camera.

“You could do that too,” commented Sage, running through the list of different interview angles in his notebook. They were ticking each one off with a practice question, and Inari was growing bored. “I don’t think that being flirty is the best thing for you, but you could do it.”

The tribute grinned at the ease, a curl of hair falling across his face. “I can do any of it,” he replied, beginning to trace the patterns on the tablecloth. “It’s my job, isn’t it?”

Closing his notebook, Sage relented. “Well, you’ll be fine as yourself anyway,” he settled. He was not familiar with being comfortable with pre-arena events. “I spoke to Aspen. His girl is dancing. It would be good for you to show something off as well, but…”

He trailed off. In response, Inari waved his broken arm in the air. He winced at the effort, and Sage grimaced with him.

“Yeah, I know,” he continued. At the table, he turned to find his second charge. Alder was watching the discussion with a tilted head, tapping a pencil against the table and feeling the vibrations through her hand. She still had a napkin in front of her, where Sage had attempted to scribble down what he was doing before focusing on his easier job.

“Alder,” he tried, but the girl did not respond to the call of her name. Sage sighed, ripping a page from his notebook and crushing it into a ball.

Inari became unsettled in his seat. His turn was over, and he needed to move. “We understand each other, a little bit. I could help her.”

“It’d never be allowed. They’d say it was unfair, that you’d have more time.”

Sage marked his tribute’s tapping, mimicking her motion with his own pencil and paper. She noticed and stopped. Then, she gestured for the notebook. Sage offered it to her, and she took it to write her own conversation.

What do you want me to do?

The mentor looked at his tribute as if she was a doll, sitting and waiting to be styled. There was an eager gleam in her eye, and she perched on the edge of her chair as if she was willing to try anything. However, enthusiasm did not overcome obvious obstacles.

“What do you think?” asked Sage, eventually. He offered the question to Inari. “You’ve seen people perform before. What would you tell her to do?”

Inari genuinely considered the question he was entrusted with. “She’s cute,” he tried, as if she were a lost dog. “When Koru first took me, he made me be cute to the audience. They’d throw coins for me to collect.”

“Cute doesn’t work in the Games,” complained Sage, but he resigned himself to the option.

***

Clarus performed his escort duty without saying a single complaint, but he did not try to hide any complaint that happened to cross his face. He folded his arms across his chest as he looked down on his shrub of a boy. There were many different opportunities to appeal to a Capitol audience, and Acacia Sasaki fulfilled precisely none of them.

The sullen tribute was mirroring the pose, sinking into his chair with an infamous scowl and arms folded so tightly that he was creasing his shirt. He did not wear shoes, and the socks on his feet were somehow grey despite only walking through the spotless apartment that morning.

“Why do I get you?” he spat, noticing the unspoken criticism on his escort’s face. “Why can’t I have Aspen? Why does Ilara get to have him?”

“Ilara is considering something else for her interview,” replied Clarus, taking a deep breath and steadying his voice to a respectable calm. “You’ll have your chance later. Until then, it is my job to make the Capitol audience like you.”

“Well, they ain’t going to,” argued Acacia. Somehow, he sunk further. Clarus was certain that if they kept talking, the young boy would end up lying across the floor.

“Now, now,” he placated, only slightly sarcastically. “There are plenty of weird and wonderful tastes in the city. I’m sure we can find at least one person who will like you.”

The truce they made on the train still stood. Acacia had kept his deal: he learned to use cutlery, was polite enough, and even smiled on command, although it was never for long. Clarus did his best in return, and there were several potential sponsorships lined up, pending the results of Acacia’s currently rocky interview.

“You’re not wearing your wig,” announced Acacia, suddenly. He sat up, using his spine for the first time that morning. Clarus blinked pointedly, reached a hand to his head and ran a finger through a free curl.

“No,” he replied. He had forgotten – the wig had been missing since the opening ceremony, after deciding that turning Acacia’s appearance into a trend may be a back door into some further funding. If it was working, it was slow. “I did mention it on the train, Acacia.”

“Asa.” The correction was quick, practiced and tiresome. “You just need freckles. You’d blend right in with the Seven folk, you know, without all that gunk on your face and the stupid accent.”

“And if you want the Capitol to fall in love with you, you might want to be careful about saying we have a stupid accent.”

The scowl returned. The arms crossed again. The boy fell back, practically horizontal. “You all do though,” he muttered.

“I’m not arguing with you,” replied Clarus. “We just don’t like to hear it pointed out. We both know you have a quick, cruel sense of humour – Hadrian was seething when he came to report you yesterday. Let’s take your comments and direct them at someone the audience will agree with.”

***

Leon sat alone, cross-legged on a rug. The screen illuminated his face in a flickering blue and filled the apartment with its high volume. To honour the interviews, there was a special broadcast showing the favourite interviews of previous victors and he was sat, watching intently and mimicking the answers in a whisper beneath his breath.

His concentration was broken by a shrill voice. “Where’s Mason?” called Ayanna, forcing Leon took look from the screen to the corridor. His escort blocked the natural light from the window as she entered the room, her skirt brushing across the wooden floor. She was scowling. “He should be helping you, shouldn’t he?”

“He isn’t” spat Leon, bitterly. Realising that it was not as important as the escort’s tone suggested, he returned to the screen. “He’s got Epona. Spending the day with her.”

Ayanna looked down at her tribute on the floor, folding her arms. “Epona is practically interview ready. I’d suggest you need far more support than her.”

“Thank you,” replied Leon. The sarcasm dripped from his tongue like water dripping in an old cave. “He won’t help me. You know that.”

The screen filled a silence between escort and tribute. Ayanna perched on the edge of a chair, watching as Capitol Games Network revisited the infamously sultry interview of Armure Herrington. She played to the crowd in a sheer dress, speaking answers in a thick, coy voice that implied more than it said. Leon whispered along with her as she spoke.

The intention was clear. Ayanna coughed. “You’re teaching yourself from the screen?”

Moving closer to hear the screen against the questioning, Leon replied, “what else am I meant to do?”

Ayanna did not reply immediately. Her tribute displayed a unique, rustic charm which she had not seen in any other tribute, and especially not in his partner. It would be a shame to waste it on mimicking an older interview that played to the wrong audience. Ayanna leaned across and switched the screen off, leaving Leon to turn and glare at her.

“Hey!” he cried, reaching to take the remote from her hand. Ayanna pushed it between the two sofa cushions.

“If Mason is not going to coach you,” she explained, firmly but quietly, “then I will, and mimicking Armure’s lovely little interview is going to do you no favours with the audience.”

Leon went to argue, opening his mouth but making no sound. Slowly, he considered his escort’s words. He listened, closing his mouth again.

She continued. “You can’t be sexy, Leon. You’re not going to be able to pull it off. Instead, you need to be charming.”

“Charming?” repeated Leon, with the strange intonation of someone who had never heard the word before.

Enthusiastically, Ayanna nodded. “Charming,” she confirmed. “District Two are never charming. They’re always overconfident and bragging about everything. You’re not like that. You need to be polite, and respectful, and complimentary, and funny, and honourable, all at once. I think you’re clever enough to do that.”

Leon considered the instruction he was given. In his face, there was recognition. He nodded slowly. “I can do that.”

***

Reluctantly, Sennen collapsed into a chair and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she moaned, as her eyes rolled like waves on a beach. “You could easily mentor us separately.”

“I don’t want you separately,” growled Ocean. She took her own seat, looking across from twin to twin. She was finally able to consider her tributes as a pair. “I’ve wanted you together since the reaping. You know, there are tributes who would kill for an interview opportunity such as this.”

“And they probably will,” interrupted Sennen. She followed her mentor’s gaze to glare at her brother, who sat with his feet resting on his chair. He was staring at Ocean, and nowhere else. “I don’t want it. I’m not being interviewed with him.”

“It might help you,” said Ocean.

“It won’t,” spat Sennen.

Cove finally acknowledged her, flinching at her harsh tone. He let one foot fall from the chair to the carpet, leaning against the wooden back of his seat. He still did not look, beginning to focus on the white of the tablecloth. “We want them to like us,” he tried, plaintively. “The sponsors-“

“You don’t need sponsors.”

Sennen was a crashing wave, pulling everything under her in a furious tide. She continued in a voice of poison. “You won’t need them. You’ll have enough from the cornucopia, you and your friends.”

Cove flinched again, folding in on himself. “They’re not my friends,” he argued, quietly, “and they’d have taken you if-“

Pushing her chair away from the table, Sennen stood. “I’d have said no!”

There was a heavy silence, like salt on a breeze. Ocean placed her head in her hands and mourned her vision of a united interview. Cove was being dragged under. “I need an ally, Sennen,” he argued, drowning. “You won’t talk to me, and I can’t do this on my own.”

“Then you shouldn’t have volunteered,” shouted Sennen, and she stormed from the room.

***

Solar filled the room by tapping a knife on the mahogany wood of the table, whistling a mindless tune to himself. His mentor, Sunnie, watched awkwardly as he waited for her to say something.

“The interview…” she began, and Solar fell silent to listen. Sunnie considered her sentence for a moment, but inevitably found no end to it. Solar picked up his tune and tapping again.

In her bedroom, Fern was stumbling along in high heels with their escort. Solar did not have to worry about such frivolity and had been left with their mentor to discuss interview image. However, Sunnie did not seem to have much to discuss.

Eventually, Solar interrupted his own whistling. He placed the knife on the table “The interview,” he repeated, and Sunnie seemed to stir awake. “I could talk about my brother.”

The mentor grabbed onto the idea with both hands. “Yes,” she said, nodding. Then, she tried to create a new idea. “At the reaping, it was his…”

She trailed off. “Birthday,” helped Solar. “It was his twelfth birthday.”

“Birthday,” repeated Sunnie, as if she had remembered by herself.

They fell into silence again. Solar resorted to tapping the table with his fingers before remembering something. “I could talk about you, too. I bought him chocolate from your shop as a gift. Fern served me.”

“As a gift,” repeated Sunnie again, before seeming to suddenly understand what she was saying. She went wide-eyed, looking straight at her tribute. “On reaping morning?”

“Yes,” Solar tried to stop his eyes glazing over at the memory of the succulent chocolate. It did not compare to food in the Capitol, despite how delicious every meal was. “He gave me one to try, and it was amazing and-“

“You ate something from our shop on reaping morning?” cried Sunnie, suddenly standing at the table as if she had heard a shocking rumour. It was Solar’s turn to be wide-eyed; nervously, he nodded and confirmed. Sunnie ran a hand through her hair. “No wonder you’re here! Where’s Fern? I need to speak to Fern!”

Solar watched his mentor run from the room and leave him with nothing but the sweet memory of the chocolate.

***

Azure was curled in a comfortable chair, trying to appear relaxed as his heart pounded in his chest. Gem wore a relaxed smile and Infinity was calm, both muttering together over the notebook that they shared.

“What will your strategy be in the arena?” fired Gem, reading from a prepared list of potential interview questions.

Uncomfortably, Azure shifted in his seat. He did not like interviews. He was prepared for questions about himself, or his family, or his music – his mother had spent several years training him for those. However, the Hunger Games were unfamiliar territory. “In the arena,” he began, trying not to stumble over his answer.

Luckily, Infinity interrupted his attempt at an answer. “We don’t need to do this,” she said, putting the notebook down on her lap. “Azure has done interviews like this since he could walk.”

“It’s all about sponsors,” argued Gem. His tone betrayed confusion rather than anger. “You need to decide which angle to play, so you know which sponsors you’re playing for.”

“He’s Azure, for Panem’s sake! He’s already got half the Capitol sponsoring him.”

Azure bit his tongue, playing with it in his teeth until he could taste blood. He took his knees from his chest and placed both feet firmly on the ground to feign a confidence he did not feel. He needed to tell his mentor and his escort that he was terrible at being interviewed, but the opportunity never seemed to arise.

“He could still have more,” continued Gem. He took the notebook from Infinity’s weak grasp. “The interview is the most memorable part. We have to do well. Come on, Azure. What do you think about your competitors from the districts?”

In every interview, Azure was given the discussion and the questions in advance. He would practice his answers with his mother until she deemed them acceptable, and he would perform with the correct responses and reactions. He had been told it was a necessary evil following a disaster of a debut interview when he was seven. Now, he was expected to know his own answers. There was no one to tell him what to say. Was he supposed to laugh, or to compliment them, or pretend he could win?

“My competitors,” he repeated, trying to buy time to think of an answer. His mother told him to compliment the Capitol whenever he could. That was the easiest way to make people like him. It might work with the districts too. “They’re…they’re good.”

Gem waited. His face fell when it became clear that there was no more to the answer. “Is that it?"

Clenching his hands into fists, Azure looked to the ground. He hated being wrong. “I mean…I mean, my competitors are…they are…”

“Forget that one,” interrupted Gem. “You might be better at talking about yourself. What do you think of your chances in the arena?”

Azure did not have the energy to consider who he was. His mother was not there to tell him; she was downstairs, putting the finishing touches to a costume for his competition. As he opened his mouth to stumble through a stilted answer, the lift into the apartment rung like a bell to announce a visitor’s arrival. The door slid open, and a dishevelled escort stepped out with a hand running through her purple hair.

“Indigo?” cried Infinity, in lieu of a greeting.

Indigo stepped into the room. Her heels made a loud sound on the wood, digging into Azure’s head and leaving a hole. “I am at the absolute end of my tether!” she announced loudly, throwing her hands into the hair in a grand dismissal. Her lip was so bitten that the natural, pink colouring was beginning to show through her lilac gloss. “I understand that we cannot have tributes with a fantastic camera manner every year, but my boy will not even entertain the fact that he’s going to be interviewed tomorrow.”

Gem left his chair, guiding the overwhelmed escort to fall into it. “Sometimes they’re just not personable,” he tried, but Indigo shook her head vigorously.

“He will not even talk! Jonah had him all morning and handed him over to me, saying he couldn’t even get him to introduce himself. He won’t even say hello! I don’t know how we’re going to get any sponsorships.”

“Your boy is the little one, isn’t he?” asked Infinity. She tilted her head, which Azure recognised as a sign that she was thinking. “You know, there are plenty of people who will sponsor a tribute just because they’re cute-”

“I don’t think he’ll even go on stage,” interrupted Indigo. She leant forward and placed her head in her hands. “I thought that you two would be having an easy time with Azure, so I came straight here when I realised we were going absolutely nowhere with Vixen.”

“You want us to try?” asked Gem.

Indigo shook her head. “I want Azure to try.”

As she spoke, she lifted her head and looked directly at the wide-eyed tribute. Azure thought he must have heard her incorrectly. The stare told him he had not. He tried to find the voice that he had managed to lose. “I…I don’t…” he stuttered, but no one listened.

Indigo continued as if he was not in the room. “Azure’s interviews are always flawless. I thought Vixen might listen if it was someone closer to his age. Honestly, I don’t know. I’m running out of options.”

Although he disliked having many people hold on to his every word, Azure hated being ignored. He felt as if he could scream but there was no sound left. He tried to communicate this to his escort, telling Infinity with his expression that he was not capable of mentoring himself through an interview and certainly not someone from an outlying district.

She misread him. “I’m sure Azure could give it a try,” she offered. “He can probably teach us more about interviews than we can him!”

Unable to say no, Azure was guided to the elevator by the purple-haired escort.

***

Neptune tried to hide his sigh, encouraging his young tribute with a smile whilst inwardly judging her ability to walk in the high-heeled shoes. Isabel stumbled as she tried. Her feet would not stay straight, and her ankles buckled at the unnatural position she was forced to stand in.

“I can’t do it,” she mumbled, holding to the back of a dining chair to keep herself steady. Her tone remained polite and measured even as she whined.

“You can,” pressed Neptune. Gently, he took Isabel’s hands from the wood and steadied her himself. She grabbed immediately and held hard, shuffling along in the sparkling, six-inch shoes. It did not help that they were a size too big. “It’s no different to a normal shoe, Issy. Start with your heel and roll onto your toe.”

Isabel followed the advice of her escort. She placed the heel on the ground, where the small surface created a scuff on the wooden floor. Her ankle twisted as she moved onto her toes and Isabel fell into the nearby dining chair. She kicked the shoe off immediately, and tried to hide a quick gasp of pain as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“I can’t,” she repeated, quietly. Her breath caught in her throat. “I can’t do the heels, Neptune. I’m sorry.”

“No, no!” cried Neptune, hurriedly. He wrapped his arms around the shoulders of his charge, pulling her into a side embrace. “No, Issy, don’t cry. They’re only heels. We don’t need to cry about our shoes.”

“But I can’t do it!”

She leaned into the hold, as if she craved it. Neptune found his own breath catching as hers did. There was no need for a thirteen-year-old to master a walk in high-heels. There was no need for a thirteen-year-old to be dressed in anything except a cheery dress and a smile. There was no need for a thirteen-year-old to be caked in cosmetics. However, she was still competing against the other, older tributes, and Neptune was beginning to want her to win.

“It’s just a shoe,” he reassured, letting Isabel fall from the embrace. She sniffed again and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her plush jumper. “I don’t think Julia will put you in a heel like that anyway.”

Isabel kicked the other shoe across the open room, placing both of her feet flat on the floor. “If you say so,” she mumbled.

“I do.” Neptune pulled a chair beside his tribute and sat at her height. “You know, I’m always right.”

Despite everything, Isabel managed a small chuckle. She was not naturally gifted with personality; Isabel was a quiet thing, with a girlish love of the beauty of the Capitol and a cautious optimism that faded whenever the conversation turned to the Games. She threw herself into everything, and she trusted too easily. She trusted her stylist. She trusted her escort. She trusted her mentor.

“What did Cybus say about your interview?” pushed Neptune, gently. Isabel pulled away from the conversation, but the escort persisted. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Coughing to delay an answer, Isabel waited for her escort to move on. He did not, and she collapsed into a sigh. “He wants me to talk about my home, but I don’t have one,” she complained, squirming uncomfortably as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“You have the Community Home,” pressed Neptune.

“That doesn’t count.” She sniffed again. “If I talk about Kinnie or the other kids, I’m going to get upset and I can’t do that on the stage.”

She was beginning to become upset already; Neptune could see it and considered moving the conversation to a different topic before Isabel continued without prompting.

“Cybus keeps telling me that it doesn’t matter, because Azazel is going to do something really important and everyone will be talking about him and that people will talk about me too, but I’m tired of relying on him for everything, Neptune.” Isabel stamped her socked foot on the floor. “I can do this by myself, you know.”

Neptune was unconvinced. In the same way she walked in heels, Isabel stumbled through every aspect of the Games and clutched to other people for support. However, the escort reached out and brushed a lock of hair from Isabel’s face. “You can,” he reassured, convincing. “You can do this by yourself.”

***

Azazel did his best to be civil. It was difficult, when Cybus was continually swigging from a silver flask as he looked the tribute over from head to toe like a piece of meat. He had hoped to have the afternoon with a mentor rather than a drunkard, but it seemed they were one and the same.

“I didn’t need long with the girl,” Cybus explained. “We know exactly what she’ll talk about, being from the Home. She’ll probably fall apart on camera anyway.”

Cybus fell silent, staring at his male tribute. Azazel fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “Have you decided what I should talk about?” he asked, when the silence became unbearable. He was rocking in his chair.

“I’ve known since the reaping,” said Cybus, surprisingly coherent for the amount of alcohol Azazel had seen him consume. “I told you on the train. You’re a heartbreaker, and you’re damn good at it. I’ve got ladies falling over themselves at my sponsor meetings, even though you’re nothing special as a tribute.”

If he expected Azazel to seem pleased, he was disappointed. His tribute kept awkwardly moving in his chair, unable to meet the eye of his mentor. He took in the boy’s reluctant demeanour. “However,” he continued, “you don’t seem like you’re liking that angle, and I don’t reckon you’re not good enough of an actor to pull it off if you’re not committed. We could play off a big declaration of love if we need to. Do you have a girl at home after all?”

Azazel hesitated. He shook his head.

Cybus took another drink. “Then, what’s our problem?”

Azazel had been asking himself the same question since boarding the train. He believed he played his assigned role well, but it did not feel like him. He knew why. Cybus did not. However, he was getting closer to the answer and Azazel believed it would be faster to just give it to him straight. What did he have to lose?

“I don’t have a girl,” he stuttered. He could feel Cybus staring at him, his gaze burning. “What if…what if I had a boy instead?”

Although he focused on his twisting hands, Azazel saw the familiar movement of Cybus lifting his flask to his lips. The mentor hesitated, and then lowered the flask. “We can work with that,” he said, quietly, “if that’s what you want.”

“Will the Capitol be alright with it?” asked Azazel, jumping at the acceptance. His words ran together in his hurry.

Cybus nodded. “They won’t care,” he shrugged. “Now, they make it a problem in Three because boyfriends don’t make new workers. They’ll eat it up here, but your boy – well, he’ll be stuck dealing with Three by himself if you name him.”

“He won’t mind,” replied Azazel, firmly believing it. His boy had been wanting to tell people for their entire time together; it was him who was cautious and hesitant. His eyes suddenly filled with tears, and Azazel did not know where they had come from.

“Do I know him?”

Azazel’s voice was soft as he spoke the name of the thing he missed most. “Tesla. Tesla Faraday.”

“Xander’s boy,” thought Cybys, aloud. He nodded his head gently. “Knew his father briefly. Bright kid. Polite. His dad ain’t going to be happy.”

“I know.” Azazel’s hand moved from his fingers to his wrist, finding the wire bracelet that he had worn throughout his time in the city. He was never going to take it off. “I want to do it, though. I might never get the chance to tell him I love him again.”

Cybus finished his drink. “Then, I think we found what you’re going to talk about.”

***

“I am not claiming to know anything about dance,” announced Aspen, as he pushed a sofa to the wall with a grating sound of wood on wood. It opened the space, and Ilara seemed to shrink as she stood alone in the middle of it. “However, I do know the Capitol and they love a performance.”

“Is it going to be enough?” asked Ilara. The usual balletic grace had faded from her movement. In its place, there was a shy, stuttering student. It was her suggestion and Aspen had indulged her, and she no longer believed it was a good idea. “They want to know about me, don’t they?”

“There will be enough time for a short conversation with Goldie,” reassured Aspen. He leaned on a glass window as he observed. Self-conscious, Ilara turned away as she began to stretch. “Anyway, the Capitol are vain, Ilara. They see a pretty thing, and they want to own it for themselves. You’ll have sponsors coming out of your ears if you can make them think you’re a treasure.”

She stretched her feet. There was comfort in the movement and her trembling began to fade. It was almost as if she had returned to the studio, with the barre and its familiar notches, and the piano’s habit of slipping out of tune. “I’ll need a pair of proper shoes,” she said, practicing a movement that took her straight to her toes. “And I’ll need music.”

Aspen grinned. “I can do both of those.”

“And styling,” she continued. “I know that’s not your area, but I’ll need the correct outfit if I’m able to dance.”

“Caeso has already been informed. He’d been working on something in that manner anyway, after meeting you.”

There was something else. Ilara stood centre-stage in the tribute lounge, with her body warm but her mind unprepared. She would not be able to dance until she knew it was taken care of. “Finally,” she said, carefully and quietly. “I want them to know that I’m from the Capitol.”

Aspen’s smile fell. “When I met you on the train, you said you weren’t.”

“I know.” Ilara felt lighter as she talked. She turned her feet into a tight first position, fighting for her balance on the thick carpet. “I want sponsors though, don’t I? I think it will help me.”

“It’s not what I’d do,” argued Aspen. His face was darkening but he continued in his role, walking around to admire Ilara’s rod-straight posture. “You’re not representing the Capitol, Ilara.”

“I just think they’d like me more if I wasn’t district.”

Ilara performed a careful plié, testing her movement in the training clothes she had dug out of the wardrobe. It was not the same as a leotard ordered from the Capitol or practicing in her pyjamas in her bedroom on an evening. This felt like preparing for a show that she thought would never come, but her only audience member was becoming less enamoured with her.

“I think you should be proud of Seven,” he complained, settling into a chair to begin to critique her performance with an unpractised eye.

Ilara sighed. “And that is where we differ.”

***

Locking the door behind her, Dazzle stood between her sister and the escape into the main living area. Sparkle held her own elbow in her hand, watching her mentor awkwardly as she became trapped in her own room. The conversation was expected – Sparkle knew she had not been taking the Games seriously, and Dazzle was her mentor before she was her sister.

“Your alliance,” began the elder, leaning back against the wooden barricade of the door. “It’s looking pretty impressive, Sparkle. There’s going to be six of you. That’s a lot.”

“We have cannon fodder,” justified Sparkle. She fell back onto the soft mattress of her bed, becoming enveloped in the duvet. “The boy from Four, and the girl from Ten. We’re not serious about them. Ferro and I are going to take out the others when it’s closer to the end.”

Dazzle nodded, approving. Then, she continued. “Alright. Who’s going to take out Ferro?”

Trying to answer, Sparkle stuttered. She stopped. She paused. She asked for clarification.

“Ferro,” repeated Dazzle. She checked the door was locked again, before standing over her sister on the bed with her arms folded across her chest. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? When it comes down to it, who’s going to take out Ferro?”

“I will,” relented Sparkle. She caught herself on the words, taking a deep breath when the sentence was complete. She could not meet her sister’s eye. “I’ll do it.”

“Will you?”

There was a silence as heavy as silver in the room, sitting between the two sisters. Dazzle was waiting for an answer, and Sparkle was unwilling to provide it. The stalemate did not last long.

Dazzle continued, correcting herself. “You won’t. I don’t think you can. Before you volunteered, I said you were becoming too close to him.”

“We’re just friends,” argued Sparkle, but Dazzle still shook her head.

“There is one winner, Sparkle. Either you need to hope someone else kills him first, or you’ll need to do it. I want you to win.”

***

Flicker was a reluctant prisoner, fighting against a locked door like a caged animal. Her own mentor waited with a calm anger, arms and legs crossed as she sat in a chair and waited for her tribute to stop attacking a door.

“You can’t keep me in here!” yelled Flicker, kicking the door with her own socked feet. The session was supposed to focus on decorum and walking in heels, but the room was filled with foul language and the door was marked by thrown stilettos. “You can’t!”

Clara offered no response beyond a scowl. Eventually, Flicker exhausted herself like a small child. She half-heartedly tossed the shoes towards her mentor but missed and slid down against the door to sit on the carpet. “I hate you,” she offered, but it did not land.

“What did you think was going to happen?” asked Clara, coldly. She did not raise her voice but there was underlying electricity in her tone. It demanded a response.

Flicker gave one with a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“In the gymnasium.” Clara unfolded her legs and placed both boot-clad feet on the floor, hard. “Sitting down. Refusing. Cursing at the Gamemakers, and the president. You’re ruining the hard work that I’m putting in for you.”

“What hard work?” scoffed Flicker.

Clara’s response was a harder stomp. Her chair scraped across wood as she stood, towering over the tired tribute like a threatening giant. Her voice finally reached a shout. “I am trying to make you likeable,” she roared. “I’m starting to think that you don’t want anyone to like you!”

“Maybe I don’t!” cried the tribute, just as loud. There was a heavy silence between them, sitting like coal in a mine.

With a sigh and clenched fists, Clara gently kicked her tribute’s foot with her own. “Get up,” she ordered. Flicker did not comply. “Up, Flicker. We need to practice your interview. You going to promise me you won’t offend the whole city in your three minutes?”

Flicker almost choked on her own indignancy. “Ma told me not to make promises I know I won’t keep.”

***

At the noise of glass being placed heavily against wood, Dakota finally sat up in her chair. There was a reluctant stalemate between tribute and mentor, as Allegra clunked two empty glasses and one full bottle onto the table.

“You drink, I drink,” she muttered, taking the seat opposite her charge. “Maybe, we’ll get through this.”

Dakota eyed the amber liquid with suspicion as her mentor poured it across the glasses. “Ain’t you worried about that withdrawal thing?” she asked, but she took the offered glass without hesitation.

“Morphling was the big one. We’ll barely get that out of your system before the Games begin.” Allegra lifted her glass to her mouth and emptied it in one thirsty swig, smacking her lips together. “Anyway, you’ll be more likable if you’re drunk for your interview. Seems to make you more friendly.”

Dakota did not rise to the comment. She barely heard it. Her senses were enveloped by the drink: she watched the liquid swill across her glass and smelt the burn as she lifted it to her mouth. It was bitter as she took a sip, and sticky across her skin as she wiped the residue away with the back of her hand. She glanced back to the glass. It was empty. She placed it back on the table and pushed it forward, indicating that she wanted another. It was poured for her.

“What you want me to talk about?” she asked, willing to work for a drink like a dog did for a treat. There was no answer to her question at first – Allegra seemed to be trying to find it at the bottom of the bottle.

Eventually, the mentor’s scratched voice offered a suggestion. “Home,” she said, with a shrug. “I don’t know anything about who you are.”

“There ain’t much to know. Live alone. Mam’s dead.”

“Sister? Brother?”

Dakota shook her head. “Ain’t got no one. ‘Cept Cessna, I suppose.”

The alcohol was effective in loosening lips. Allegra prompted with further pours and delicate questions, until her tribute began to open up.

“There ain’t much to say about him,” Dakota explained, between sips. “Never finished schooling. Barely went. Ain’t my thing. He saw me working. Used to work as a runner at the yard, jumping between the trains. Said I was fast. And pretty. Gave me stuff to do.”

“Stuff?” asked Allegra.

Dakota scowled. “I ain’t supposed to say. Can’t say much anyway.”

Her morphling, and her drinking, and her attitude said more than she ever vocalised. Allegra waved her own to continue. The bottle was half-empty.

“Says he’s my boy. He is, really. We both just have other stuff to do. I’m good at being pretty, that’s what he says. Other people give a lot of things to see me. Money. Information. I could do that at the interview.”

“Do what?” Allegra was lost in the story, and a distance away from being a mentor.

“Be pretty.” Dakota scrunched her nose. When she finished her drink, she kept the glass in her hand. “It ain’t going to work properly, I suppose. The Capitol are too up themselves to be like the men in Six. They won’t want any more of me.”

Allegra finished the bottle.

***

Vixen recognised the boy from his shoes. They each had a standard-issue pair of white training shoes in their tribute wardrobe, but the Capitol’s boy took the time to tie his in the shape of a star. Beneath his table, Vixen pushed himself tighter against the wall so that he would not be seen.

“He’s in here somewhere!” called Indigo. Her feet were recognisable in extravagant, high heeled boots. “You find him. Hopefully, he’ll actually listen to you.”

She left the room, her feet making a clacking sound across the tile. Vixen heard her lock the door behind her.

Panko was still on his lap. Vixen pulled the cat closer into his chest to try and muffle the loud purring sound that rumbled in his chest. However, the room fell silent, and Panko no longer wanted to be confined to the fabric of his owner’s shirt. He struggled in Vixen’s arms and jumped to the floor, scampering out from under the table and heading straight to the pair of white trainers that he wanted to investigate.

At first, the boy was hesitant. Vixen watched him take a step away from the cat. Panko followed and mewed, protesting the extra work that his exploration now required. The boy crouched at the sound and offered his hand for Panko to sniff. When the cat determined that he was safe, he knocked his head into the boy’s fingers and waited impatiently for further strokes.

The boy laughed as Panko continued to protest, falling backwards at the force in the cat’s push. His face came into Vixen’s view as he sat on the floor. He wore a genuine smile at the animal, before he caught sight of the tribute under the table and the smile disappeared. There was a pause, where the silence was filled only by Panko’s half purr, half indignant meow that he always managed when he was being ignored.

Panko grew bored. He turned his back on the newcomer and headed back under the table, meowing at his owner for the attention instead. Vixen put a hand out but kept his stare fixed on the blue-haired boy in front of him. He stared back.

“Hi,” he said, barely audible.

Vixen looked away. It was difficult; anyone from the Capitol demanded attention, and this boy seemed to do it more than most. He stayed silent.

“I’m Azure,” tried the boy again. “Your escort came to get me. She said…she said you were worried about the interview.”

It was a lie. Vixen knew it. Indigo had tried everything: bribery, threat, shouting, and begging. There was nothing that would make him speak on that stage, so she had stormed off as if she could not comprehend that someone would want to avoid a camera rather than prance around in front of it.

Bringing himself closer, Azure edged along the floor. Vixen froze to his spot. It was like being back at the reaping, where the muscles in his legs short-circuited in the panic. However, Azure’s voice was not a Peacekeeper’s bark or Indigo’s shrill shout.

Panko began to purr louder as Vixen scratched him absent-mindedly behind his ears. The gentle rumbling sensation was comforting against his hand.

“What’s his name?” asked Azure, and he nodded to the cat.

Vixen could wait. He spent a lot of his time waiting. He did not need to offer an answer, but Azure did not change the question, or repeat it. He waited expectantly, until Panko began to stop purring as he fell asleep on the tiles. Eventually, his trainers caught on the floor with a squeak as he sighed and went to stand. Despite everything, Vixen realised he did not want the boy to go and be replaced by an escort or mentor.

He found his voice. “Panko,” he managed, in a voice that was hoarse and unused. He coughed as it got caught in his throat. Azure stopped. “His name…”

It was all he could manage. “His name is Panko?” finished Azure, and Vixen nodded. Azure edged closer until he joined them under the table, reaching out to stroke Panko’s head. “I like Panko. That’s a cute name. He came with you from District Nine?”

Vixen nodded again, and Azure joined in. “He must be very important to you,” he murmured. “I could ask Goldie to let you talk about him for your interview. It’ll be easy!”

It would be easy, for someone like Azure who was familiar with a camera and audience. Vixen had decided he would not even set foot on the stage, and no one from the Capitol seemed to understand that. He coughed again. “I can’t.”

Azure’s face changed to concern. “You can’t?”

Shaking his head, Vixen did not elaborate.

Panko rolled over, stretched his two front paws and meowing when Azure retracted his hand. “I don’t know what to tell you, then,” he admitted. “I don’t know what Miss Indigo wants me to say. I’m no good at interviews either.”

Vixen still watched Azure, eyeing him with suspicion. It was clear that Azure, with all the stories the screens were telling about him, could not be bad at an interview. “You don’t believe me,” said Azure, and Vixen looked away, guilty. “No, I understand. I wouldn’t believe me either. I get told the questions before the broadcast, so I can practice. I can’t do it if there isn’t a script, and I’m not allowed to have one now.”

Without asking, Azure moved further under the table. The cold, ice-like feeling began again as everything in Vixen’s head screamed for him to run, but his feet would not listen to the instruction.

“What else could you talk about?” thought the boy, aloud. Vixen went to move away but there was no room. “I talk about my mother a lot. If you find something important to you, you can talk for hours without it even feeling like an interview.”

That was the biggest obstacle. Vixen shook his head again. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” repeated Azure. He took time to think, beginning to untie and retie his shoelaces to keep his hands busy. Vixen had seen him do this many times in the training gymnasium, seemingly whenever he wanted to be left alone. He continued, eventually. “You can talk to me. It’s not a lot, but it’s more than I’ve seen you talk before. You can pretend the interview is just to me, if you’d like.”

Vixen distracted himself by making a soft chirping noise. It called Panko over, and he scooped his kitten from the floor. Panko settled into his arms without protest. “But,” tried Vixen, “the audience…”

“Oh, you can’t see them.” Azure waved it away as if it was nothing. “You won’t notice the television cameras at all, and the lights are so bright on stage that you can’t even see even the first row of people.”

“Really?” asked Vixen, before he could stop himself. The interview sounded different to the Opening Ceremony, where he had peeked through his hands to see the audience stretching out like an endless wheat field.

Azure nodded excitedly. “Yeah!” he confirmed. “You can just pretend that it’s Goldie, who is absolutely lovely. She’s interviewed me before. And then, you’ll know that I’m listening backstage, and that’ll be everyone.”

Panko pushed his head forward, and Vixen realised his hand had stopped. He picked up the repetitive stroking again. “I don’t…” he began, trailing off again. Azure did not seem to mind.

“Anyway,” he continued, leaning his own back against the same wall as the smaller boy, “you have to remember that people aren’t expecting too much from you at the moment. They’re going to be proud of you even if you just come out on stage, and they’ll listen to anything else you say because they’re excited to see you.

It did not sound like the interview that Vixen had been forced to watch on a screen in District Nine. Somehow, the Capitol’s boy was making it sound possible. “You sure?” asked Vixen, cautiously.

“I am.” Azure was sure in his answer, even if he was not sure of himself. “So, you’ll try?”

Panko rolled over in his arms, and Vixen moved his hand to stroke gently under the cat’s chin. He did not want to make a promise so he settled on, “maybe.”

Chapter Text

[28] Impression

It was a silent morning in the Capitol’s apartment. Serenity had a plate piled with a rainbow of fruit, which she carefully speared with a fork. She had forgone a knife: there were places for proper etiquette and cutlery, but an informal breakfast was not one of them.

Azure had an empty plate. He nursed a mug of coffee, but he seemed to spend more time blowing away the dancing steam than he did drinking it. “Do you even have milk and sugar in that?” Serenity asked, between mouthfuls of a soft, white fruit speckled with tiny black seeds.

Her comment seemed to stir Azure from a trance, and his eyes widened as he looked towards her. She was amused by his default noise of confusion, which he quickly replaced with a far more polite answer of, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“I said,” repeated Serenity. “Do you even have milk and sugar? I watched you pour the coffee into your mug, and then you just started sipping it. Do you drink coffee without sugar?”

“Oh.” Azure glanced down at his mug as if to check, and then looked back to his partner. “I never have anything in it. It’s basically water if you take it this way.”

“Plus,” called an infuriatingly bright voice from the doorway. Infinity appeared, with her hair and make-up already prepared for the remainder of the interview day – she would definitely be styled again before her appearance that evening. She joined her tributes at the table and tucked into a waiting pastry. “Azure is probably saving himself for this evening, when there will definitely be sugar.”

“There will?” asked Serenity and Azure, in almost perfect unison. Azure could not consider a final meal before the Games would be any sort of celebration, and Serenity had never heard of it happening.

“Your cake!” announced Infinity. Then, when both tributes continued their confusion, she sighed and offered a clarification. “It’s your birthday, Azure. I could not let the day pass without marking it somehow, and the Gamemakers agreed that it would be a good ending to the interviews. So, there will be cake!”

Azure blinked, counting under his breath as he tried to calculate each day. Reluctantly, he accepted Infinity’s explanation. “Oh,” he murmured, looking down as if his coffee was the most interesting drink in the city. “I’m fourteen.”

Serenity took another bite of fruit. “Nothing special, then,” she said, before giving a smile like an imitation diamond. “Happy birthday, I suppose.”

Azure did not thank her.

***

Alder attempted to hide her trembling by sitting on her hands. However, it left her unable to eat anything and she needed her breakfast to settle her stomach. She did not wear her cardigan despite the cold chill in the apartment, and the robe she wore barely offered any reprieve.

If she felt bad, her mentor looked worse. Sage ran a hand through his hair so often that Alder was surprised he had hair left. Her partner was still managing to shovel food into his mouth despite seeming despondent about it, and their escort had not arrived at breakfast at all. It was a silent meal; no one moved their lips.

Eventually, Sage dug a pencil from a pocket and began to scrawl on a napkin. He held the message to Alder, who had to reveal the betraying shake of her hand to retrieve it. Sage did not comment if he noticed.

I can come on stage for your interview as an interpreter. I’ll make sure to say something that makes you shine.

Alder scowled. She wanted her own interview. She was certain she could write an answer quick enough to flourish in the allotted time and she looked up to protest. Sage was already shaking his head, pointing back to the napkin.

They said no to your cardigan.

The scowl turned into a quivering lip. Alder’s cardigan was the only thing keeping her together in the Capitol, and she felt as if she would desperately need it in the arena. She glanced up to ask but Sage was already murmuring conversation with Inari instead. Alder returned her hands to the chair and her gaze to the table.

Luna announced her arrival at the table with a tap on Alder’s shoulder. Alder tried to hide her surprise, but it was impossible: she was already an anxious, shaking, silent mess and it was becoming increasingly difficult to disguise. However, the escort did not comment about panic. She held out a carefully wrapped parcel instead and indicated that Alder should take it from her.

Cautiously, she did. The paper was the rough, brown paper that was used on rare parcels in District Eleven, but it was wrapped in a blue hair ribbon that Alder carefully placed beside her plate. She did not rip the paper. It was too good for that. As she carefully unfolded the gift, she revealed a single square of crocheted wool.

She gasped, recognising the pattern immediately. There was a pale-yellow background with a stretching, green tree stitched in the centre. It was the pocket of her cardigan, painstakingly removed from the garment and gifted to her as a token.

***

It was becoming too much. Epona scratched at her arm, forcing an angry red mark where the lace of her dress sleeve fell and irritated her skin. The reflection in the mirror shared the same affliction and she found herself staring at the surface wound.

With a sigh, her stylist grabbed her arm and pulled it away again. “Stop scratching,” he commanded, tired. “Can you not handle a little bit of lace, Epona?”

“The lace is rough,” she stated. “I don’t see the point in clothing that is not comfortable to wear.”

“The point is to look beautiful.”

“What is the point in looking beautiful?”

The stylist sighed again. He did that a lot when he worked with her. Epona had nothing in common with him: he spoke endlessly about different hair colours and the permanent pictures that were inked across his dark skin. “You want to win sponsors,” he explained, as if speaking to a child. “The Capitol like pretty things.”

Epona found herself chewing on her bottom lip. She forced herself to stop. “I do not need to be pretty. I can use a sword, and I’m capable of throwing a spear, and I can shoot a bow in an emergency, and I-“

“You are a funny little thing, aren’t you?”

Picking a pair of sharp scissors from a rolling cart, the stylist put the blades to the lace and cut it at Epona’s shoulder. She relished the relief but clenched her hands into fists to resist the temptation of irritating her skin further. “I’ll tidy it up when you go to lunch,” he explained, readjusting the sleeve’s fabric in a new style. “I’ll unpick the lace properly. You’re clearly not a fan, and you look beautiful enough in the silk.”

Epona scowled. Her reflection copied her. “I don’t want to be beautiful,” she complained. “I want to be capable.”

***

“Try them on,” urged Caeso. He pushed the satin slippers into his tribute’s hands.

Ilara looked from her stylist to the gift, tracing a finger across the sole of the pointe shoes she was being allowed to hold. “Are you sure?” she asked, breathless. They were a soft pink, with ribbons crisper than anything received from the special import train in District Seven. “They’re mine?”

“Well, they won’t fit me,” continued her stylist, with a smile. “Aspen told me that you wanted to dance, and he insisted that you needed the proper equipment. It’s not my area in particular so I made an enquiry to the Capitol Academy of Performing Arts, and they donated this pair. What, are they not suitable?”

Tucking on shoe underneath her arm, Ilara took the other in both hands. She began to bend the shoe with a great force until it snapped. Caeso’s face was filled with concern. Ilara could not help her laughter. “They’ll be perfect,” she reassured, “but I need to make them mine. You need to be careful with a shoe like this. If I don’t break them in, I could hurt myself.”

“That would not be ideal for the arena, no.”

Ilara knew what she liked in a shoe. She did her best to recreate it with the stiffer, Capitol brand and the small space. Then, she slipped each shoe over the stockings she wore beneath her interview dress. She carefully strung the ribbons across her calf and tied them neatly. With her tulle, interview gown, she looked ready for the stage.

Cautiously, she stood. “Take my hand,” she instructed. Caeso obliged and held her tightly. With the practiced air of a dancer, Ilara tried her new shoes.

Caeso gasped as she seemed to soar to the very tip of her toes. “Are they what you need?” she asked, as Ilara gracefully returned to the floor before flying again in a different position. She wore a dizzying grin,

“They’re perfect,” she replied, and all cruel comments about her district heritage were forgotten with the gift.

***

“What do you think?” asked the stylist. He expected a compliment but was prepared to settle for any comment that escaped his shocked tribute.

Mercy had nothing to say. She reached out to brush her fingers against the cold glass of the mirror. She did not recognise herself. Mercy had resigned herself to a glittery evening gown and instead, she wore an elaborate outfit of several layers.

There was a blouse, starched and blinding white with lace trimming the stiff collar. She wore a padded jacket over it, sewn of a rich, emerald fabric and studded with golden buttons. Then, there was a pleated skirt which sat above her knees and socks made of a soft cotton. They shielded her feet from the stiff boots, which were so highly polished they seemed to reflect more than the mirror.

“It’s a uniform,” she choked, eventually. It did not compare to any regulation outfit from District Thirteen. For a start, there were colours and creams piled on to her face. They were not visible individually, but Mercy recognised them: her eyelashes were thicker, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were shining . Her hair was also not braided. Instead, it was styled and soft with sweet-smelling lotions. Her curls were arranged around her face with a special comb.

“It is,” replied the stylist, with a chuckle. “It’s what the people have come to expect of you, Mercy.”

“It’s not a military uniform, or a Peacekeeper uniform, or a-“

“We’ve seen that before. You’re more special than that.”

Mercy tugged on her jacket. It was shorter than regulation length and sat at her waist, but she enjoyed it. There was just one final point which distracted her from enjoying her own reflection fully. “Is Eden wearing the same thing?”

The stylist laughed again. “In colour, yes,” he explained, “but that is all. Hadrian wanted you to be seen as individuals.”

“Individuals,” repeated Mercy. She liked the word. It was unfamiliar. District Thirteen scolded individuality; they were a collective, although she never wanted to be bundled in with that rebel. This was her interview, to impress her sponsors, before her victory. “What is he wearing, then?”

“I took inspiration from our older military uniforms.” The stylist twitched the shoulders of Mercy’s jacket into placed. She could almost envision a series of patches sewn to them, to match her father. “For Eden, we focused on the calmer aspects of a cadet uniform. However, I styled you with the uniform of a military commander. They’ll be calling you Commander Severen as soon as you step on that stage.”

Commander Severen - Mercy enjoyed the sound of that.

***

“You promised me a flower,” stated Isabel, as she rustled the copper petticoat of her dress. She did not mind the lack of a floral adornment; the dress already rivalled her friend’s reaping gown, even if the material was as stiff as her uniform.

Julia twitched the petticoat back in place and straightened the skirt across Isabel’s legs. “I know, sweet,” she said, in her quiet and comforting tone, “and there will be, but I’m going to put them in your hair instead.”

“Oh.” Isabel lifted her hands and held them together at her chest, so she was not tempted to keep playing with the fabric. The copper tulle of the petticoat bounced as she moved, rippling the intricate circuit board design on the skirt. “I like the idea of that.”

Rising fully to her feet, the stylist smiled softly at her tribute through the mirror. “It will look beautiful against your colouring. You’re a true classic beauty, Issy. I still wish I could dress you in something built of nature, but Cybus wanted you to match your partner.”

Isabel carefully lowered a hand to trace the copper wiring that ran around her like a maze. She was relying heavily on her partner. Her mentor never told her directly, but he implied it with every comment – they were linked together like components in a circuit, with one powering the other so she could shine.

“Azazel has a big plan for his interview,” murmured Julia, sensing the concern sparking through her tribute. She reassured her with a quick squeeze to her shoulder. “I think you can handle your interview wonderfully by yourself, but the Capitol will be talking about Azazel and we might as well take it for the both of you. You’re both going to be beautiful.”

***

“And how have you found the Capitol, Miss Flicker?”

Flicker gritted her teeth until the pressure rumbled through her ear and pierced through the silence in the room. Grimacing, she forced the power into a smile and hid her anger in clenched fists. There were no sleeves to hide behind in her dress, so she positioned the white-knuckled hands behind her back.

“There is wonderful food, and a soft bed,” she tried. It did not sound genuine. Flicker tapped her high heel against the floor, trying to ignore the ache that was forming in her clenched feet. She lowered the tone of her voice so that she did not squeak like a mouse. “It’s a big change from District Twelve.”

Clara clicked her fingers, pointing to her charge. “That one,” she said, impressed. “That’s a good answer. We’ll try that again. How have you found the Capitol?”

Flicker tried to take a deep breath, but the anger rattled in her lungs. “It’s a big change from District Twelve,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. “The air is definitely cleaner, and I don’t have any deliveries to do.”

“Deliveries?” asked Clara.

“My mother is a mending woman. I’d rather face the arena than face her when I haven’t completed my chores on time.”

Surprised, Clara laughed. Flicker had never heard the tuneful sound before and the tension fell away to allow surprise.

“You do have a sense of humour hidden behind that scowl,” said the mentor with a smile. She walked over to her tribute in her own heavy boots, twitching the black skirt into its final position. “And, surprisingly, you clean up really well. You wore your heels.”

“They forced them on my feet,” muttered Flicker, edging away from her mentor.

“You’re beautiful.” Clara stood back, as if admiring art. “If we can get through this evening without offending anyone, I’ll consider you as a success story. You’ve been a particular challenge.”

Flicker liked being a challenge. She finally smirked. “I’m not promising anything.”

***

Inari glanced across the empty room, confused. His stylist had referred to it as the ‘green room’ but there was nothing green about it. Instead, it was the plainest place in the Capitol: the wall was painted a startling white, each chair was a grey plastic, and the only colour came from a small screen that was showing a countdown until the interview broadcast began.

His outfit was comfortable enough, but the trousers were too tight to make perching on a plastic chair enjoyable. Instead, Inari aimlessly wandered in a circle and tried unsuccessfully to find a window. He was the first tribute there.

“We might have a problem,” said a voice in the doorway. Inari turned as if he had been caught doing something wrong, but it was only his mentor. Sage pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know – I’m supposed to be in the audience and not with you, but I need to be backstage if I’m going on with Alder.”

“What’s the problem?” asked Inari, as his voice filled with trepidation. The interview did not concern him – he could play to an audience as easily as he could fall asleep – but he did not like seeing his mentor filled with a bubbling, nervous energy. It was as if he was back at the circus, when someone would say it had been too long without an accident and the remainder of the cast would spend the show waiting for one to happen.

Sage continued without noting his tribute’s concern. “Goldie came to each mentor this morning, wanting to know how to make you shine. I was right about Seven – the girl is putting on a proper show, and apparently the Capitol want something from you as well.”

Inari’s shoulders lowered and his sling settled back against his neck. “Oh,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Is that all? I can do something.”

“Your arm,” complained Sage, as he reached out to touch the black frame encasing the broken bone. It was not hidden in fake foliage in this outfit; Inari was certain he would be asked about it. “Anyway, you’re more than that. The Capitol want to see an outer district performer and you’re much better than what they’re expecting.”

“I’m not.” Inari pulled his arm away. He winced. “Not really, anyway. I can still do something with my arm like this, though. Koru was beginning to let me practice tumbling again before the reaping happened.”

Sage shook his head. “Inari…” he began.

“It’ll be alright,” interrupted the tribute. He managed a smile. “It will be fine, Sage. It’s what I do.”

There was a distant voice in the corridor, and it acted as a reminder that Inari would not remain alone in the so-called green room. Sage leant against the doorframe. “It’ll be fine,” he reassured, to himself more than to his tribute. Then, he began to turn to leave. “Good lu-“

“Don’t say that.” Inari’s tone was harsh and required an explanation. Sage turned back and waited until it was provided with a sigh and a shake of a head. “We don’t – in the circus, I mean, we don’t say that. It’s meant to be bad luck to say it. We say something else.”

“What do you say?”

“Break a leg.”

Sage smirked, nodding at the cast his tribute still wore. “Seems ironic,” he commented, before beginning to turn again. “Well, break a leg. I’m sure we can get another cast if we need it.”

***

Satin was escorted through the corridor as if she were a prisoner. Her stylist’s arm was wrapped around her waist, steering her through the maze of screens and servants. She tried not to stumble as her high heeled shoes dug into the plush carpet.

“I’m glad you’re wearing more today,” said a voice, and the stylist’s hand fell from the tribute’s waist. Satin was able to turn and find her former teacher grinning at her.

She blushed, feeling the heat running across her cheek. “I don’t think the mentor is supposed to see the tribute before the interview,” she replied, as Cotton took a step closer.

“I’ll take her down, Cornelia,” he muttered to the stylist, and the bright woman entrusted the tribute to his care. He focused entirely on Satin, his protégé. “I’m not your mentor, remember? I’m allowed to come and speak with a friend.”

They continued the short walk to the waiting room. “Of course. You were feeding all my strategies to Five, weren’t you?”

“Oh, shush.” They stopped at a white door. Inside the room, there were echoes of indistinguishable voices. “Armure and I will both be working with you. She will make any final decisions, but I can consult, and I can work with sponsors. You’re in safe hands.”

“I know.”

Satin could feel her mentor’s racing pulse through his palm. The heat created a clammy coat across her own hands.

“You know what you’re going to talk about tonight?” he asked, cautiously.

“I know. Your public speaking classes are finally coming in useful, Cotton.”

He managed a laugh. “I’m glad.”

There was another set of footsteps accompanying the conversation; another stylist was escorting another tribute to the green room. Satin stole a glance across her shoulder to see but could not match a name or district to the black-haired face. “I should go in,” she suggested, turning back to the door.

Cotton dropped her hand. “You should,” replied the mentor. He steeled himself with a breath, as if he was the person about to be interviewed rather than his student. He gave Satin a pat on the back that almost seemed confident. “You’ve got this. You’ve got this whole thing, Satin.”

***

Azure entered the room with a cautious step, hiding amongst the nervous buzz of several waiting tributes. The room was nearly full; each chair was taken, and some tributes were sitting themselves on the floor. The screen was showing Goldie, who was warming the audience up for a long evening.

He noticed the small boy immediately. Vixen was curled in the corner of the room, resting his head in his hands and against his knees that were drawn up to his chest. There was no cat – his escort was probably looking after him – but Vixen’s hands still moved as if he expected a set of tiny whiskers to be sniffing around his feet.

There was nowhere else to go. Azure took a seat on the floor beside him. “Hi,” he tried. There was scattered conversation amongst some pairings, and raucous laughter from the growing alliance, but the boy still heard him. Vixen turned his head, took a quick glance at Azure’s face, and then returned to his hands. He was not crying. Azure decided that was progress.

“Hi,” he replied, in a hoarse voice.

As the other tribute refused to face him, Azure took the opportunity for his gaze to drift across the room. The pair from Thirteen were bickering, with the girl elbowing her partner sharply in his arm before being pursued by his loud protests.

“I’m sure you won’t be able to see the audience tonight,” reassured Azure, edging closer to Vixen so that their conversation would remain between them. “You can tell by the lighting that they’re using. I’ll be listening backstage, though. I think you can do this.”

Vixen hesitated, as if he was unwilling to show that he was listening. Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he turned his head again with the confused furrow of a brow. “You do?”

Azure faltered at the sudden request for clarification. “Well, I don’t think people are even expecting you to make it on stage,” he tried. “You will, though. You’ll do what we practiced together. So, I know you can do it.”

Vixen thought about this for a minute. When he was thinking, he gnawed on his bottom lip and then carefully licked the wound like a kitten licking milk from its whiskers. “I guess,” he settled, and he returned his head to his hands. Muffled through the fabric of his yellow shirt, he added, “thank you.”

***

Goldie was on the screen and in a minute, the final evening before the arena would be in full swing. Fern felt a tug on her skirt and turned, expecting to see her stylist with a last-minute alteration. Instead, the culprit was Saori. Fern scowled at his face, taking in his outfit before returning to his sheepish expression.

“Look, you can kill me tomorrow if I’m bothering you that much,” he began, but his tone indicated that he was making a threat rather than a bargain. “I want to know what you’re going to say when they ask about me.”

“You think I’m going to spend my interview talking about you?” asked Fern.

He rolled his eyes. “Whether you like it or not, our fates are forever intertwined,” he replied, linking his index fingers on both hand as if to prove a point. “It’s quite poetic, really. They are going to ask about me and if we play it right, we’ll be remembered by sponsors even if we both kill each other tomorrow. Let’s exploit it.”

Fern considered his elaborate wording. He was not wrong; she hated it. Across the room, Solar was trying to catch her attention and asking with a nod of his head if she needed a partner to rescue her. She declined.

“I’m going to be truthful,” continued Saori. “I’m going to tell Goldie that I hold absolutely nothing against you, and that the arena can make people do difficult things. I think the audience will love it if we’re nice about each other.

“They want us at each other’s throats,” argued Fern, but she was not convinced. She remembered her sister’s Games, where her sponsors pooled with the sponsors of her ally to provide them both with food and water. Fern put her integrity down and replaced it with convenience. “Fine. I’ll say something similar about you.”

Chapter Text

(29) Audience

Goldie Flickerman was loyal to her heritage, and committed to her role as the Mistress of Ceremonies. She specialised in turning each repetitive tribute into a memorable moment: she spoke to each mentor, researched each family and tried to calm each tribute on stage. She even wore black so as not to overshadow the carefully crafted outfits.

With a practiced, lipsticked smile, the interviewer poked her head into the green room as she made her way to the stage. The air inside was thick with anxiety and hairspray, interrupted only by whispered conversation.

“Are we ready?” she cried, in an attempt to whip each tribute into a marketable frenzy. There was barely a ripple. The room lacked any energy and Goldie sighed; sometimes, her role was very difficult.

***

Awkwardly, Dazzle Lustre pushed herself through the seating reserved for the mentor and escort teams. The last minute adjustments to her tributes’ interviews were necessary but it left her with a walk of shame through the already seated audience. She bit the inside of her cheek as she pushed, muttering apologies to people as Goldie began to introduce the evening.

She was grabbed by her waist and pulled into an empty chair, as her styled gown caught across an arm rest. Her brother brushed the tulle back into her lap. “Where have you been?” Gem asked, in a forced whisper. He grinned at his sister and Dazzle was able to return it.

“Sparkle was-“ began Dazzle. She was interrupted as the audience became an applauding frenzy at the end of the pre-interview spiel. The cheering grew louder as Sparkle walked on stage with a flirtacious confidence.

“She’ll be fine,” reassured Gem. He took his sister’s hand and held it tightly.

Sparkle twirled as she walked on stage, showing the audience her satin dress which was held at her waist by a golden belt. The outfit shone under the harsh stage lighting as she sat on the red chair and arranged the skirt across her tanned legs. The outfit was white: the colour of purity, the colour of innocence and the colour of surrender. Dazzle hoped that no one else would see it.

“Sparkle Lustre,” repeated Goldie, savouring the name as if it tasted sweet. Sparkle responded with a rehearsed giggle and a less rehearsed flush across her face.

“You don’t have to be all shy around me, Goldie,” she teased. “I’m not a victor yet!”

The interview was praise. Goldie threw it across the stage like confetti, complimenting Sparkle’s high training score, polite demeanour and impeccably-styled hair. Dazzle allowed herself to relax back in her chair and tried to enjoy the moment; it was difficult to be the opening act, but it seemed as if her younger sister was confident.

“I’m assuming that Gem and Dazzle taught you everything you know,” pushed Goldie. “Am I correct?”

Sparkle leaned forward. “I’m not sure about the arena,” she answered, with a grin, “but about the Capitol? I don’t know how I’d have coped without them! They taught me about the best food, and the right settings on the showers, and even the cutlery I need to be using…”

Goldie joined in, spinning an anecdote involving a fish fork and a tricky appetiser. The crowd laughed with them rather than at them. Dazzle allowed herself the opportunity to glance around the stadium to gauge reactions: they seemed to be falling in love with her. Sparkle had a good script and a personable sense of humour that each fell away as soon as the arena was mentioned.

The façade dropped. The joking was over. “I won’t talk about strategy,” Sparkle answered, after Goldie requested it. She wore a sly smile. “That would be silly. However, there is no one who can come close to me. I am an excellent javelin thrower, and the fastest person in my class. I hope the Capitol will pay close attention to me rather than to Gem and Dazzle.”

“I am sure they will,” reassured Goldie, taking Sparkle’s hand to raise it in the air in triumph.

***

Alyssa Revere had not expected the ostentacious decorations at the Lustre family’s garden party. Their property was decorated banners and candles, with a large screen strung between two sturdy trees and a projector to show the interview broadcast. She had not expected to see herself on the screen either but there she was: her face was as clear as a diamond as she stood on the reaping stage.

“We need clarification,” Goldie begged, as Ferro finished showing the crowd how tightly his suit jacket fitted across his arm. “Alyssa Revere was called as the female tribute before our wonderful Sparkle stepped in. Do you know her?”

Ferro laughed. Alyssa joined him, and Decadence Lustre gave her the same unimpressed glance they had saved for the family since the reaping. “A sister,” announced Ferro, before Decadence could tut loudly. “Younger. Just twelve, Goldie.”

“And would you still have volunteered if Alyssa was your partner?”

Shaking his head, Ferro looked for a camera in the audience. “Listen,” he said, to a cheer in the crowd. “She would absolutely kill anything in the way of her success. She’s possibly even more skilled than me, but don’t tell her I said that. Me and her, we’re absolutely built for these Games.”

There was a mutter across the manicured lawn. Decadence had turned to her husband to complain about the brash interview. Alyssa laughed loudly again, deliberately causing a disturbance across the rich, respectful silence.

“I’d say you’re absolutely built for the Games!” cheered Goldie. They pantomimed a routine which seemed rehearsed: she reached out and tried to wrap her hand across Ferro’s bicep, making a big show when she needed two hands to reach fully. The women in the crowd wolf-whistled as the interviewer fanned herself, seeming faint as she collapsed back in her chair. “I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of those arms. Well, at least, not in the arena!”

Ferro balanced an endearing, family-driven humour with an intense display of power. It impressed his younger sister, although she would never admit it. However, Decadance Lustre began to loudly criticise embarrassing interviews. She spoke loudly about the necessity of honourable tributes, and Alyssa finally turned and told her to be quiet in less than honourable language.

***

Icarus Shale felt as if he deserved the stage. Her pouted like a toddler, digging a hole in the gym mat he had been told to sit on. The academy reunion – a screening of the interview broadcast – was as traditional as a midnight fighting ring or the swim in the quarry, but he did not want to attend and watch. There was a notable silence across the class’ old gymnasium; no one wanted to speak about their imposter volunteer.

It was convenient that Epona was strong enough to carry herself through the event without a smile. Icarus recognised her discomfort through the old screen. Her black hair was tied back from her face, but her dress was a long material that caught across her waist and legs as she walked. She hardly attempted to appeal to the audience, clenching her fists and sitting on the chair as if she was suspicious of it.

“You are an incredibly well-mannered girl,” complimented Goldie, after robotic greetings were exchanged. Icarus could almost feel her cold, robotic handshake on his own fingers. “It is such a delight to have a crop of polite tributes this year.”

“The Capitol has shown me nothing but kindness,” answered Epona, plainly. The audience on the screen clapped and celebrated her answer, but the gymnasium remained silent. Icarus kept pulling sponge from his mat and built a small pile by his crossed legs.

“I hope you will return our kindness by giving a fantastic show in the arena. How are you feeling about the Games, seeing as they begin tomorrow?”

Icarus waited for his training partner’s face to become bright. Whenever she spoke about her goal, her eyes lit up and she finally spoke with expression. However, she remained as she began. “I enjoy a challenge,” she replied, but it did not sound as if she did. “I like to see a problem, and consider each possible way to solve it. There are so many different outcomes in the arena and I like to think I’m prepared for them, but I’m excited to stretch myself tomorrow. I’m fully capable of winning, but I don’t yet know how I’m going to do it.”

It was carefully rehearsed. The gymnasium, filled with people who had grown up with Epona, could hear the script. The Capitol did not notice.

“You got a ten in training!”

Epona finally smiled. It was like a ghost, and almost disappeared before the camera captured it. “I did. I’m well-rounded. I excel in everything, and I’m perfectly suited to the arena.

Before the buzzer sounded, the interview briefly touched on the unspoken partner. Goldie asked for her opinion on the commotion at the reaping. Epona declined to comment. Icarus tore a hunk from the gym mat and threw it at the screen.

***

“He will be fine,” reassured Beryl, the lady who continued to rent her room despite the pressure from District Two. She had repeated those four words many times, but they were of very little comfort to Pedro Marin-Cortez. He sat on her old sofa with a trail of tears on his cheeks. He had lost his job. He had been spat at in the market. He had been followed home. There was still no guarantee he would see his son again.

His son appeared onstage to cautious applause. He was dressed well; in the absence of a suit, Leon was wearing a dark, turtleneck jumper in the same shade as his partner’s dress. He seemed confident and as Goldie reach her hand to to shake his, he took it and kissed her fingers. There was whistling in the crowd.

Goldie fanned her face, falling back into her chair as if fainting dramatically. “A true gentlemen!” she exclaimed. “Leon, you’re supposed to take a lady to dinner first. What are we going to do with you?”

Leon smiled nervously. A dark blush flashed across his cheeks as he took his seat. “Sponsor me, hopefully.”

The audience laughed, and cheered for his appeal. Goldie made a large show of hushing them as if they were a group of small children. She leaned in closer to her tribute when it was quiet enough for her to talk to him. “We’ve been really intrigued by you. You’re not the typical tribute from District Two-“

“I know,” he interrupted. Leon twisted a curl of his dark hair around his finger. “They usually have black hair. I’m sorry to disappoint.”

He was quick, his tongue sharp with wit. Pedro forgot his anxiety and watched wide-eyed as his son held Panem in the palm of his hand. “That damned mentor won’t have helped him either,” Beryl commented, sounding resigned rather than angry. “Your boy is playing Panem all by himself.

The conversation quickly turned to Leon’s controversial reaping. He settled in to the conversation naturally and charmed his way through difficult questions. “We don’t normally see a volunteer at this age,” Goldie pushed. The audience were silent now. They wanted to know everything. “What’s your opinion on this? Do you think your age will be a concern?”

Carefully, Leon balanced between desperation and self-deprecation. Pedro watched this fade as his son began to talk strategy. He was resolute, and as solid as a rock. “I got a ten,” replied Leon. “That is the same as Epona. I think I can do it. I can beat them.”

***

The community home was silent. Kinnie McCarthy had been gifted a seat on their old, collapsing sofa rather than on the floor but it was of little comfort. She sat beside Ada, the ten-year-old who had already taken the empty bed.

Isabel was cautious on the screen. Kinnie admired her outfit: a dark-green dress of flowing satin, embroided in a copper thread that flashed under the stage lighiting. The skirt was filled with orange ruffles. Kinnie watched her friend try and use the fabric to hide how she nervously pulled at her painted nails.

“Isabel,” began Goldie. The name did not sound right in her accent. “You seemed so eager to come and join us after your reaping. You’re from your district’s community home, yes?”

Her bottom lip was quivered as she tried to answer, and Kinnie remembered the sleepless night they had spent together before the reaping. It was not supposed to be them. “Yes,” Isabel answered. “I’m from the home.”

“You grew up there, didn’t you?” coaxed Goldie.

“They’re my family. I think they’ll miss me.”

The house mother was doing her best to hide her tapping fingers and her anxious twisting of her hair; she was failing. The home was dark without Isabel’s presence.

“Then, let’s talk about getting you back there,” tried Goldie, determined. It did not matter. Isabel continued to sink in on herself. She could not think of any of her own strengths. She could not justify her own training score. She could barely speak of District Three without crying.

Eventually, Goldie turned the conversation to the Capitol in the hope of bringing a smile to the tribute’s face. “You’ve become very close to your partner,” she stressed, and the audience sighed at the close pairing who had been a hit in the city.

“He’s been very kind to me,” managed Isabel. She bit her lip, taking off the stain her stylist had applied with her teeth. “He’s very clever. He tried very hard to help me during training, and he misses the people from home too.”

It was impossible; Goldie gave in to the return to District Three. “Who do you miss from home, then?”

Tilting her head, Isabel thought hard. She still twisted her fingers together in her dress. “The other people from the home,” she answered, eventually. “It’s too quiet in my room here. I miss Kinnie. We sleep next to each other. She’s my best friend.”

At her name, Kinnie began to sob.

***

“Your mate’ll be on next,” called a gruff voice, scratched at the edge by smoke. Tesla Faraday gave his father the courtesy of raising his head, distracted briefly from his contraption of wires and an old battery back. “That girl ain’t much.”

“Zel will be better,” reassured Tesla. He pushed his chair from the table and joined his father, standing behind the sofa to get a better view of the screen. It was his first opportunity to see his boy since the ridiculous opening ceremony. His heart stuttered as Azazel stepped on to the stage, wearing a tailored suit of emerald green and copper cotton alongside the old wire bracelet from their reaping evening together.

He was greeted by a cheering crowd, and he played to them with a half-smile and a torrent of self-deprecating comments. He praised his younger district partner, gave vague hints about his private session, and talked about his factory work in District Three. Tesla was surprised that it sounded like a normal conversation that they might have under a street lamp or across a workbench.

However, Goldie soon leaned forward with a scandalous expression and made a comment that changed the tone. “You’ve been breaking many hearts in the Capitol,” she said, and Tesla felt the burn of jealousy in the put of his stomach. “You’ve been entertaining our wonderful ladies since you got here!”

“Guilty,” smirked Azazel. He held his hands up in a mock surrender.

Goldie continued, “which is a little bit naughty of you, because you’re a taken man.”

Tesla knew his boy’s face as well as he knew his own. He recognised the waver of uncertainty that flickered between smiles. “I am,” replied Azazel, the bravado of his flirting having disappeared.

“You must tell us, who is the lucky lady?”

Azazel’s tongue flicked from his mouth and licked his lips. The Capitol cheered at the action they thought was flirting, but Tesla recognised the nervous energy. “It’s not a lady,” his boy answered, without too much of a pause. “I have a boyfriend.”

The audience gasped, and Tesla’s father joined them before turning it into a deep, raspy chuckle. “That’s a surprise,” he murmured. “Knew there was something off about that one. You know that about him?”

Tesla did not answer. He could tell the likely conclusion of the interview and although he did not mind, he did not feel prepared. He nervously clutched the back of the sofa, kneading the cushion with his fingers.

“What is his name?” pressured Goldie.

“Tesla,” answered Azazel, without hesitation. “His name is Tesla, and he’s the best person in the whole world.”

Turning on the sofa to look behind him, Tesla’s father was wearing a scowl. “What is he on about, Tesla? Why’s he saying you?”

Tesla tried to turn and leave the room in favour of the dark street outside. As he took a step, he felt his father grab him by the scruff of his shirt.

***

The house was so silent, it was possible to hear the crashing of the waves on the distant beach. It had been quiet since Sennen and Cove had left for the Capitol. River Alexander and his mother had managed alone until his father had returned, when the house had been filled with his sobbing upon hearing the news.

They could watch the interview on a screen at the beach if they wanted to, but the family came together in their small sitting room to experience the moment in private. River sat on the floor as if he were five years old again, trying to be as close to the screen as possible.

Sennen looked older than her age. She swept across the stage in a rippling, floor-length gown of a deep blue silk. Her familiar comfort of a quick braid was replaced by an elegant up-do, and the paint across her face punctuated her soft, distant expression unlike anything she ever wore at home. River hardly recognised the confident figure as his sister.

“Your name is on everyone’s lips here,” introduced Goldie, as Sennen took her seat. “You and your brother, you stole the show at the reaping.”

“It’s a natural gift,” replied Sennen, with a half smile. “I’m from a fishing family, so I know how to catch things. Fish, attention – it’s all the same at the end of the day.”

River resisted the urge to touch his sister’s image on the screen. “I wish they’d just let her be herself,” he complained, as his mother and father nodded. The person in the interview was a person the audience wanted to see, but it was not his sister.

“You’re a fishing family! There have been fantastic tributes from fishing families before. Is it something that can help in the arena?”

Sennen readjusted in the chair. She seemed comfortable, until she tucked her legs together and to the side with her hands placed delicately in her lap. “I’m good at spear fishing,” she explained, “and with a trident, naturally. I’m a fast swimmer – you have to be, when you work in the water. I can make a decent net. It will all work together.”

As his sister sold her strengths, River gnawed on his lip. It felt wrong, as if he was watching someone dressed in a costume and pretending to be her.

“You were reaped,” Goldie mentioned, unecessarily, “whilst your brother volunteered. Did you ever consider volunteering?”

“I’m only fifteen,” reminded Sennen, although she played far older. She shrugged. “I guess we will never find out.”

***

As Sennen left the stage, she greeted her brother with a brief hug. The stiffness in their movement was evident on the screen. “They never hug at home,” mumbled their mother. “I don’t know why they’d hug now.”

Wanting to take in every inch of his siblings before the arena, River did not blink. “They’re still arguing. Look – it’s like they hate each other.”

Cove was the spitting image of his sister in appearance. His shirt was the same material as her dress, but he seemed to shrunk into it as he sat on the chair. He moved several times before settling on tense, crossed legs and hands clasped anxiously together.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had a volunteer in Four,” began Goldie. The audience needed a reminder – Cove certainly did not look like a volunteer. “You’ve chosen a strange year to give it a go as well, against your sister. What made you do it?”

He was not a natural on stage. He stumbled across a hesitant pause. “It wasn’t exactly planned,” Cove eventually admitted, and the audience laughed. “We’re only fifteen, like Sennen said, but I realised that it was her and we’ve always done everything together so…

Cove fell away, and Goldie jumped in to save him. “You can’t let your sister take all the glory, can you?”

“No.” Cove blinked slowly. “I suppose not.”

There was nothing that Cove could offer as an individual. He briefly mentioned an alliance, but he spoke reliably of his sister. She was there when they fished at the beach, and cheering for him during swimming races, and standing behind him as they registered for the reaping together.

“He looks sad,” stated River. The comment was obvious and understandable, but it interrupted the silence. His brother’s shrinking mood read very clearly on the camera. It would not be helping him gain any sponsorship donations, and River’s comment emphasised that.

“He looks sad,” stated River. He did not need to say it; it was obvious, and it was understandable. Unfortunately, it read very clearly on the camera and would not be helping him gain any sponsorships.

Quietly, their father replied, “but he chose to be there.”

***

Sunnie Evander detested the stadium. The large crowd was watching her; she could feel their hard eyes burning into her back, and feel their cruel whispers form her name. She sat stiffly in her chair with her head glued to the stage. Behind her, the mentors from District Eight were watching. Cotton gently patted her shoulder, letting her know that he was there.

“She’s going to do great,” he murmured. “She’ll be falling over sponsors by the time she’s done.”

This did not ease any concern. It was what Sunnie was afraid of: sponsors came with obligations.

Her younger sister entered the stage in a short, orange dress like the inside metal of copper wiring. She was adorned with white bows – there were two in her famous braids, and a large one draping across her back. Sunnie took a lingering look at the sight and then closed her eyes. If she could not see it, she could pretend it was only a nightmare. She was familiar with those.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Goldie,” greeted Fern, as polite as she was with new customers in the confectionery shop. “It’s very strange to see you on the screen, and then seeing you straight in front of me.”

Sunnie’s hands tightened into fists as the audience chuckled. They liked her. They wanted her.

The interview became a blur of noise, like hitting every key on a piano at once. Whenever Fern spoke, the audience clapped, or cheered, or showed support. She was earning sponsors, and Sunnie hated sponsors. She finally opened her eyes when she heard her own name.

Fern was glowing. The stage lighting was flattering on her skin. She looked beautiful, and at ease. “What do I think of Sunnie?” she repeated, wide-eyed.

“Yes!”

“She’s…” she began, before trailing off to think. She pulled the same face that she pulled when trying to figure out a difficult sum. “Goldie, she’s my sister. I love her.”

Goldie was not satisfied. “She’s a victor, though,” she pushed. “Do you remember her Games? Did you watch them? What do you think of our boy from Six?”

There was a small, contained explosion as Fern’s welcoming grin gave way to a short temper. Sunnie recognised it: it was the same anger that emerged whenever someone in District Five criticised her mentoring, or when the screen made a joke at her expense.

“I think,” Fern answered, speaking in a calm and measured voice that shook with the effort, “that I would rather spend my interview talking about me.”

***

District Five were treating Raiden Dedisco as if he might break at the slightest jolt. He noticed that they were trying to be kind to him, but it did not seem as if they were trying very hard. There was nothing they could say which would comfort him so instead, they threw half-hearted words of encouragement at his feet.

He did not wish to watch the interview broadcast on the large screen by the Justice Building, where people would awkwardly pat him on the back before whispering about him as they walked away. Raiden remained in his home, curled up on the uncomfortable sofa. His mother was beside him but his father was at work – mandatory viewing needed power to be mandatory.

“Just you and me,” his mother said, ruffling his hair. She was getting better at faking a smile. “It’ll be fun.”

It was not fun. Solar was bright, like the sun for which he was named. His orange suit was torn at the sleeves and the fabric was too stiff, but he still moved with confidence and fluidity. He greeted Goldie with a handshake and settled into the chair as if he was throwing himself on a bed in his own room.

“So,” began Goldie, “a little bird told me that you’re a bit of a gambler.”

The audience gasped. Solar laughed, and Raiden realised how much he missed the sound. “It’s nothing official,” stressed his brother – he was good at lying. “I’m far too young for that, Goldie. I just like trying to pick a winner, and I’m pretty good at it.”

“Did you have a pick this year?”

“Of course!”

“Who is your victor?”

Solar laughed again. It was melodic. Raiden closed his eyes and tried to commit the sound to his memory as he pushed closer to his mother.

“That would be telling,” said Solar, “and I don’t like revealing my secrets. I’ve always said that District Five will do well since Sunnie won, and I think we have a really strong chance this year.

***

“Shut it,” shouted Volvo Cessna, as he threw a glass bottle in the direction of a young boy. The glass smashed, and the boy jumped. “For Six’s sake, Sammie. We gotta listen to Koty.”

“She’s dead, Volvo,” spat another boy.

“You’ll be dead if you don’t shut up.”

The gathering fell silent. The screen was broken and the sound came with a distracting blur of the noise, but it was enough to watch the interview broadcast in a small, abandoned waiting room of the Southern Quarter’s train station. They were waiting for a shipment but it had been delayed, and Volvo insisted they listened to Dakota.

She was on the screen, dressed in finery she could only dream of in District Six. Dakota was barefoot – Volvo grinned; his girl had never liked heels – but her dress was grey and black, adorned by jewelry in the shape of a road sign. The fabric began low on her chest and stopped high on her knee. “They know how to show her off,” whistled a boy, and Volvo gave them a cold enough look to force silence again.

Dakota was more aware of her surroundings that she had been when Volvo last saw her. She struggled to form words, but they were not slurred when she spoke. “You seem a very fiesty girl,” Goldie commented, and Volvo laughed at the accurate description. “I’m sure you can handle yourself in District Six, but you seemed to reluctant to leave that people have been speculating you might have a boyfriend.”

“Here’s your five minutes of fame!” taunted Sammie, giving Volvo a good-natured poke in the ribs.

Dakota shook her head. “Nah,” she answered, lazily. “Not got anyone. My ma died three years ago. Never knew anyone else.”

“But a pretty girl like you, Dakota. You must have had at least a crush!”

She shook her head again. “No one came to say goodbye to me. I ain’t got no one.”

***

As the mayor’s son, Camden Zenelli was expected to be seen in the merchant crowd that gathered to watch the broadcast. The working people were kept in their houses by an excessive Peacekeeper patrol. The Carlisle family were not allowed to attend the celebration for their own son, and Camden was pretending not to care.

There was an underlying hope fueling the district. Xico was popular in the arena but his interview was a notorious distaster: the boy was not a public speaker and stuttered through a hesitant, forgettable conversation with Goldie. Saori, on the other hand, was quicker with his retorts and had a dark streak in his sense of humour.

Camden felt the nausea roll in his stomach when he saw his former classmate on the large screen. He was dressed in a tight black jumper which rolled up from his belt as he folded his arms. His hair was adorned with glitter. There was no trace remaining of the scowling, sullen boy in his hand-me-down school uniform.

“You look just like your brother!” cried Goldie, starting the interview on the wrong foot but surprising nobody. Camden could see the resemblance in the grey trousers and white belt. He expected a bitter roll of Saori’s eyes that accompanied any comment about Xico, but the tribute kept smiling.

“You’re not the first person to say that to me,” he answered.

Slowly, Saori emerged from the shell that the school had forced him into. He spoke highly of his brother and of his home. “It’s intelligence,” he emphasised, proudly, when asked if he had a strategy like his brother. “You need to think, and to plan. You can’t learn that in three days of training, Goldie.”

“And do you have intelligence?” pushed the interviewer.

“I much prefer to study ancient civilisations and poetry,” admitted Saori, playing hesitancy to his advantage, “but I believe I can adapt it all to the arena. I’m eager to learn, and I want to continued studying when I win. I bet my classmates miss me already.”

The final comment felt personal. Camden heard it loud and clear, flooding with a cold guilt as the words echoed across the gathered crowd.

“I hope he does make it back,” whispered his father, and Camden agreed. The mayor shook his head at the screen. “The family deserves so much better than this.”

***

Sylvia Amandine tapped her fingers on the table to the beat of the music, as if she was playing the tune herself on the piano. The screen distorted the sound and the twinkling music sounded flat and broken, but her student danced as well as she ever had. Ilara was graceful: she was on pointe, well-rehearsed, and giving the performance of a lifetime.

“Wow!” cried Goldie, applauding along with the audience as the short tune came to an end. Ilara offered a practiced curtsey to the watching crowd, a grin spreading across her face at the cheering.

The stylist seemed familiar with the stage. Sylvia was pleased to see her protégé wearing a ballet uniform again. Ilara ran her hands across the stiff tulle of the mint skirt, and the leaves stitched to her bodies rippled with the movement. She collapsed, panting, into the chair offered for the tributes and her skirt filled the space, exposing her long legs and offering the audience something else that they could cheer. “Where did you learn to do that? In District Seven?”

“Yes,” giggled Ilara, hiding her red face behind her hand. “I have a wonderful teacher, who taught me everything she knew.”

Sylvia felt her chest tense. She wanted to teach her more. She wanted her student to be the pride of the Capitol, but she would likely never see it.

“And ballet,” continued Goldie, taking the final minute of Ilara’s interview to finally reveal information. “Is that common in District Seven? What were you going to do with it?”

Ilara gestured to her skirt, and to her shoes. “I’m going to be a dancer, of course,” she answered, in a persistent present tense. “I was going to come to train here, in the city. It’s my dream to perform for you all.”

“You just did!” cried Goldie, and the crowd roared.

The tribute girl shook her head. “I want to perform properly,” she said, resolute. “After the Games, I want to train here with your finest dancers.”

“Do you think you would settle here if you won, Ilara?”

The crowd fell silent. Sylvia joined them. It was a risk for a district girl to say she could dance amongst the Capitol, but Ilara was not some woodlot girl from District Seven. “I think so,” she began, edging forward against the rough tulle of her skirt. “After all, my mother-“

The buzzer indicated the end of her interview.

***

Killen Hickory sat with his own family, in his own house, and watched the interview on his own screen. The factory was closed – by order of the Capitol, any non-essential work needed to be stopped for mandatory viewing. The evening stretched on into a myriad of bright costumes and dull answers, but Killen waited patiently for one person. He wanted to see his apprentice. He needed to see if his mechanic could charm the Capitol.

Most importantly, he wanted to see if the boy’s dry, deadpan sense of humour would get him through the interview without offending anyone important.

“So, Acacia,” began Goldie, and Killen laughed before anything else was said. It did not seem as if people learned in the Capitol; they made the same mistakes as their predecessors, over and over again.

“Asa,” interrupted the small boy. He was overcome by a large jumper whicht matched the dancer’s beautiful dress in colour, but in nothing else. He did not fill the chair with size, or the stage with beauty, but the subtle roll of his eyes and his tone of voice showed that he was going to attempt to fill the screen with personality. “Honestly, Goldie. I thought it was obvious.”

The crowd laughed. Acacia did not entirely embrace it; Killen could see his eyes flicker as he tried to remember his lines, as he did whenever he tried to remember the lies to feet the logging factory inspectors. “Of course,” corrected Goldie. She placed a hand on Acacia’s knee. He pulled away. “I spoke to Clarus this morning, and he insisted I get it right.”

“He’s learning,” said Acacia, dryly.

“So, Asa.” The audience chuckled at the interviewer’s emphasis. “You might be one of our younger tributes, but you got one of our highest scores…”

She was right – Killen smiled, knowing that his mechanic would have done something either spectacular or dangerous. He might have rewired the lights, or taken out the Gamemaker’s special forcefield. There was no chance that Acacia gained favour by simply using a weapon. That was not his style.

“It was easy.” Acacia smiled. “I set the place on fire.”

Goldie performed a wave to the balcony, addressing the Gamemaker’s with a joke about the score. “I’m sure you did,” she reiterated. “You can absolutely light up the room with and good performance, and-“

“No,” interrupted Acacia. He folded his arms. There was no joking now. “I don’t think you’re listening to me. I really set the place on fire.”

***

Cotton Sterling was trapped in the tight seating of the audience, trying to keep a fixed smile for the camera and a fixed hand on Armure. She held his hand back tighter in a reassuring manner – they needed to be careful that the press did not catch them in case it began another round of rumours, but he needed her that evening.

“She is going to be fine,” reassured Armure, whispering through the excited audience as Satin was introduced. She entered the stage with a spring in her step and a smile in her face, walking in a cloud of blue tulle that showed off a skimpy, skin-tight dress beneath the lace. “She’s absolutely brilliant at this, and you know it.”

“I know it,” repeated Cotton. He did not believe it. The Capitol were fickle; they could like her tonight, and want her dead by the morning.

“Satin!” cried Goldie. Cotton gripped Armure’s hand tighter. “We’ve been waiting to speak to you since that reaping that everyone talked about.”

“I don’t think everyone was talking about it,” replied Satin, with practiced modesty. She carefully rearranged her dress to show her legs through the dress.

“They were! We were so happy to have an exciting tribute from Eight-“

“We try so hard with every tribute,” murmured Cotton, and Armure dug her nails into his palm in her way of saying, shut up. Satin readjusted her dress, and crossed her legs. There was a whistle from the front row of the audience and she heard it, managing a smile at the offer. Amure’s hand was beginning to grow clammy.

“I’m thankful the Capitol remember me,” continued Satin, through whitened yet gritted teeth. “And whether you remember me for my personality, or my appearance, or my skill, I hope you remember to sponsor me, too. District Eight isn’t going down without a fight this year!”

Goldie applauded alongside the watching audience. “I’m sure you won’t be,” she praised, “and we are excited to see exactly what yourself and Lucet are able to do for us.”

At her partner’s name, Satin’s interview personality faltered. “We won’t disappoint,” she managed after a notable hesitation.

***

Tartan was alone again. His mother was in the house; she was lying with a cold, wet towel across her face to block the light whilst he watched over a boiling pot of a stew made from whatever they had in the cupboard. Despite the headache, the screen was turned to the interview broadcast. It was mandatory viewing. It could not even be silenced.

“It’s Lucet, ma,” called Tartan from the stove, watching his mother wince at the volume of his voice. He lowered his tone to a murmur. “They’ve got him in proper clothes this time.”

He wiped his hands on an old rag, turned the stove to a lower heat, and edged his way on to the sofa beside his mother’s legs. His cousin was trying desperately to joke with Goldie, but his humour did not land with the interviewer. The audience still cheered for him; it was a noise of pity rather than celebration.

“And your token,” continued Goldie, turning to the audience to try and encourage them to be louder. “Lucet has brought a very special token with him, his mentor was telling me. We have a wooden ball, don’t we?”

“We do,” answered Lucet. His voice wavered despite the fire in his eyes. “I don’t have it with me to show you. We’re trying to find a way to make it easier to carry in the arena.”

There was a weak ripple of laughter. “You’ll have to go for the cornucopia just to get a bag!” tried Goldie.

“I’m wondering if I can just throw it at people, to be honest.”

Tartan’s mother raised a hand and edged the wet towel from her face, peering out from beneath it with a squinting eye. “He’s sounding alright,” she murmured, before retreating back into darkness. Tartan nodded, forgetting he could not be seen.

“Where did you get your token?” pushed Goldie, as the timer grew closer to the end. “Did someone give it to you?”

“My cousin,” answered Lucet, immediately. His voice softened as he talked about his home. “His name’s Tartan. He gave it to me because I didn’t have a good luck token, and he wanted it back after the reaping but I guess it didn’t turn out as we planned.”

The crowed murmured. Goldie pulled a face which mimicked their noise. “Well, you’ll have to go out there and win to make sure you can give it back!”

The interviewer gave Lucet the perfect opportunity to swing into a weak conversation about ability. Tartan heard everything as a blur, having focused on his own name coming from the screen.

“Is he talking ‘bout you?” asked his mother.

“Yeah,” answered Tartan, quietly.

His mother sighed. “That ain’t good. Nothing good ever happens to the people that tributes mention.”

***

“She is beautiful,” stated Enya Barrett, as her daughter stepped on to the stage in the pale yellow outfit. She walked steadily in her heels, with the slit in her skirt offering just enough to make the audience cheer whilst still keeping a sense of mystery to Amity’s appearance.

“She is,” replied Gwendolyn. The young girl moved closer to her aunt and awkwardly placed a comforting arm across her shoulder. She did not sound certain as she spoke, but Gwendolyn was not the sort of person to recognise beauty. Instead, she just wanted to compliment her cousin.

Goldie also wanted to shower the tribute in compliments. The Capitol was cheering as Amity walked to the chair, taking the time to show off the colour of her skirt and her crown of hair.

“You,” began Goldie, “are absolutely the face of beautiful dresses for these Games.”

The audience applauded the comment, and Amity gave a coy smile. “Thank you,” she answered, politely. Then, she held out her hand for the interviewer to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you this evening, Miss Flickerman.”

“And such beautiful manners!” cried Goldie, as she shook the tribute’s hand vigorously. “Amity, you are a rare gem in our outer districts. Indigo must have been coaching you very well.”

Amity laughed, and tried unsuccessfully to hide that she was offended. “Indigo is a wonderful escort, but this is not her coaching,” she explained, placing her hands neatly in the folds of her skirt. “This is how my mother raised me. If you cannot speak politely, why speak at all?”

“Is this the same mother that gifted you the dress that you wore at the reaping?”

“I think she has a very keen eye for patterns, don’t you?”

Enya stiffened at her mention. The city was cheering for her – her parenting, her choice of dress, and her effort in raising her daughter.

Amity and Goldie discussed fabric and elaborate stitching for a large portion of the interview; it was hardly riveting conversation, but the audience were listening as if they were preaching a powerful new idea. “It’s a shame we can’t wear a dress in the fields,” lamented Amity, as she desperately tried to turn the conversation to strategy. “It would be very dangerous with the scythes, you see. It’s not possible to be beautiful all the time!”

“I’m sure that you are beautiful all the time,” replied Goldie. She stopped the attempt, turning the interview to Amity’s hair, and her eyes, and her fair skin. There was no comment that the tribute could make which allowed her to talk about the arena.

Enya was desperately grateful that her daughter continued to be beautiful and graceful on camera. However, Amity desperately needed to be more than her appearance.

***

Kit Axwell’s grandmother had not been the same since they had taken Vixen. She found a flaw in everything her grandaughter did or said. She apologised each time in her own way: with food or a gift, but never with a word. Kit sat on the sofa with her, a mug of milk sweetened with honey in her favourite mug.

To their surprise, Vixen made it to the stage dressed in an oversized shirt. He was hesitant and glanced across his shoulder before moving to the chair with mouse-like steps. Seemingly blinded by the lights of the stage, his eyes were wide and glancing fearfully at the audience.

He missed Goldie’s first question. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I think someone might be a little nervous,” clarified the interviewer, and the audience cooed on cue. Goldie placed a hand on Vixen’s leg. “I said, your mentor has calling you his little field mouse to everyone who will listen, and I can certainly see it with how quickly you came to meet me just then. Where did the nickname come from?”

Vixen was as white as a cloud, clutching the seat of his chair as if he might fall off. He was fixated on the audience and stared out from the stage. Eventually, an answer danced on his lips. “Quiet,” he managed, stuttering through each syllable. His voice was only just caught on the microphone he wore. “And quick.”

“I’m sure you must bite, too,” helped Goldie. There was a laugh, which Vixen ignored. “You did get a seven in training, after all! How did you do it?”

He paused, before shaking his head. Goldie tried gently to coax him into an answer, but Kit and her grandmother could both see that there was no chance of one. “Panem bless him,” his grandmother mumbled to the screen. “He’s too scared to talk.”

“No,” corrected Kit. “He doesn’t want to give away what he did.”

It did not take long before Goldie pressed on, leaning into the score as an opportunity to talk about the training period. “You didn’t seem to make many friends during training,” she began, “but then you didn’t need to, did you? Vixen brought a friend with him!”

Vixen’s face finally gained colour as it lit up. He spoke a little louder. “Panko,” he replied.

“And I’ve got it on good authority that Panko is enjoying your leftovers during his stay in the Capitol,” continued Goldie, and the tribute briefly smiled as he nodded. “You made another friend, didn’t you? Jonah told me that he was very worried about your interview, but you’ve been golden. I heard that someone came to help you.”

He glanced over his shoulder again, drawn to the dark shadow of the backstage. “Azure,” murmured Vixen. “He helped.”

Kit’s hand found her grandmother’s as they both reached for each other across the threadbare sofa. “Thank you to that Capitol boy,” murmured her grandmother, “for getting our Vixen on that stage.”

***

In the absence of his sister, Kasabian Blanchard was responsible for the laundry. He sat in front of the screen with a bucket of cold water and a smooth stone, absent-mindedly trying to scrub blood from a white apron. The screen showed the interview and the family was gathered around it, but no one was speaking. He hated silence.

“’Menta will be unstoppable on that stage,” he announced, above the splashing of water. “You know what she’s like when it comes to talking, right?”

There was no reply. His family was fixated on the screen as the interviewer introduced their missing member. Kasabian dropped the stone and watched it sink to the bottom of the bucket.

Iumenta practically ran onto stage. The dress was not unlike something she would wear at home; the fabric was far superior but it was in a soft blue, and ended at her mid-calf. She had been forced into heels but they were small, and she did not stumble as she greeted Goldie with a bright grin and a quick handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to be here!” she announced, loudly. Kasabian noticed the quivering edge to her voice, but her volume portrayed confidence to the Capitol. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting and talking to you since I arrived!”

There was no trace of District Ten in her voice; Iumenta’s accent was hidden behind clipped consonants and strange emphasis on every other word. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too,” replied Goldie, and Kasabian realised what his sister was doing: she was mimicking the Capitol’s way of talking. “There’s so many people whispering about you, Iumenta-“

“Call me Menta,” interrupted Iumenta, as she collapsed into her seat. She grinned. “My favourite people are allowed to use the nickname.”

Goldie placed a hand on her chest, feigning at feeling honoured. Kasabian saw through the façade and scrunched his nose in disapproval. “Iumenta is such a beautiful name, though,” complimented Goldie. “I remember it did cause a slight concern at the reaping, however. How did you feel about that whole event?”

Laughing with the audience, Iumenta sunk back into the comfortable chair as if she was having a conversation with friends. “It was a bit of a disaster, wasn’t it?” she replied, and the audience agreed with a cheer. “It was that blasted rain, smudging all our ink. I think our escort did particularly well in continuing – my name is hard enough to read even when it’s dry!”

“You did seem a little bit surprised on our camera,” pushed Goldie.

Iumenta did not let it phase her. “I was just surprised he pronounced it correctly without my proper coaching.”

Kasabian took his hand from the bucket and shook it vigourously to return the feeling to his fingertips. He dried them on his shirt. “I told you that she’d be good,” he muttered, still bitter that his family did not reply. They remained silent as Iumenta continued to mould the audience to her whims.

***

There was no light in the house. Casco Senner sat in his chair and did not move as the sun set beyond his window. His face was illuminated by the screen; it had turned itself on as the interview broadcast began. His wife sat beside him and placed a hand on his, but nothing more.

Their son appeared on stage with the forced, nervous confidence of a tribute desperate to prove themselves. He wore blue – which was a far preferable alternative to the butcher’s uniform he had worn on the chariot – and hardly looked any different from his own reaping.

It was an interview with a predetermined ending. Chanté could weakly laugh and joke his way through polite questions but it was impossible to avoid the one aspect that could cost him each sponsor. Goldie approached it delicately. “Your father is a doctor,” she began, slowly and calmly as if telling a story to a child.

“Healer,” corrected Chanté. “You need to be trained in the Capitol to be a doctor. It’s a very important distinction.”

“Healer, then,” continued Goldie. “You have a peculiar way of living in District Ten, don’t you? I’ve heard from your escort that you’ve been rather…selective with your food during your stay here.”

Chanté accepted defeat. Casco watched his son’s shoulders sink inward as he tried to dance around the obvious answer. “It’s not being picky,” explained Chanté, unconvincingly, “but it’s thinking more about what I eat. I’m a healer too. I don’t want to hurt anything, and an animal has to be killed for meat, so I don’t eat it.”

Goldie was like a dog with a stick and refused to let the idea go. “But if you don’t want to hurt anything,” she pressed, leaning forward in her seat. “Chanté, the arena is not a place to make friends. How are you going to juggle this rather large part of your life with survival?”

The confidence had all but drained from the boy, who twitched nervously in his chair as his hands twisted together. “It’s…flexible,” he admitted. He spoke as if he had lost a great battle. The audience crooned with him, sympathising over making difficult decisions like needing to choose a different shade of red for a dress because the fabric was in short supply. Chanté endeared himself to them – but he was still not a fighter.

“Well,” muttered Casco as his son was given a large round of applause. He leaned over to finally turn on a lamp. “That’s that, I suppose.”

***

“Mama,” called Thatch, whining as he lifted his hands in the air and made a motion as if to grab something. Susette Tarragon reached down and picked her youngest son up without looking, trying to settle him into the skirt on her lap. He did not want to settle. He had a grizzling cry, as he sucked on his thumb until the skin was sore.

She tried to comfort him, but her attention was fixed to their screen. Thatch did not even recognise his sister as she mounted the stage to a polite applause.

“Alder will be accompanied this evening,” explained Goldie, as Susette reached over and turned the screen louder. Alder’s mentor – their strange, solo victor – entered the stage behind her. “As much as we do enjoy Sage’s company, he is only here to interpret for our wonderful tribute. We won’t be asking him any questions!”

Good, thought Susette. Her daughter deserved the spotlight.

Sage carried a notebook and a pen, which he handed to Alder. She was prepared to use it and stared wide-eyed at the interviewer, smiling as if waiting for a gift. The Capitol cried for her, but Alder did not respond.

“So, Alder, how are you finding the Capitol?”

She was able to read the predictable question on the interview’s painted lips. Sage accompanied it with an approximation of sign language; Susette recognised some of the gestures, and realised that her daughter must have made an attempt to teach their own signs to him. Quick in her choice of words, Alder’s hand flew across the page before she showed it to her mentor.

“Alder loves it here,” interpreted Sage. Alder stared at his lips as he spoke too, and tilted her head as he did. Her smile became smaller. “She has especially fallen in love with the food, and she loves the wonderful clothes that the Capitol have given her.”

“She’s a girl after my own heart!” crooned Goldie. “What type of clothing do you like, Alder?”

Alder was writing before Goldie asked her, furiously scribbling her pen across the page. She held it out to her mentor who gave it a glance of courtesy. He turned back to the interviewer. “She’s decided she absolutely loves dresses. There’s not many opportunities to wear them in District Eleven, you see. And her cardigan, of course.”

“Yes! The famous cardigan!”

Susette knew that something was wrong. It was hidden in the way her daughter’s brow furrowed as she wrote, and in the way she made no attempt to discern what was being said. She simply put pen to paper and jammed the notebook into Sage’s hands. The mentor barely even looked at it.

“The cardigan is a gift from her mother,” he replied, unsettling Susette with her mention. “Unfortunately, Alder is not allowed to take it as a token into the arena but we have-“

Alder stamped her foot on the stage, her microphone picking up the loud noise. She snatched the notepad from her mentor’s arms and turned. Storming from the stage, she left the audience muttering and chattering nervously as Goldie and Sage faltered into silence.

***

In the tent, the audience around the ring was amongst the largest in the show’s history. Koru Ramsdell hardly paid the crowd any attention; he was not the ring master until the performance started, and they refused to begin until they had watched their aerialist’s interview. They had rigged their temporary screen and projector again, and their audience watched the mandatory viewing with them.

“We work hard in Eleven,” Inari explained on the screen, leaning forward in his seat as if speaking to Goldie was the most exciting thing. Goldie was good in return and hung on to his every word with a laugh or a giggle. “Of course, we have to. We’re in charge of Panem’s food! But we have to celebrate after our work, and I’m part of that celebration.”

“We have circuses in the Capitol as well, don’t we?” asked Goldie, turning to the audience. They cheered in response. “I just don’t think they can be the same thing, though. You’re a – what did you call yourself, Inari?”

“An aerialist,” responded the boy, smugly.

“Tell us, then. What is an aerialist?”

He smiled, as if he was about to speak about his favourite thing in the world. It matched the smiling photo the circus had hastilty printed on a paper sheet for each seat, asking for a sponsorship donation. “I can do tricks,” was the explanation he settled on. “I’m like an acrobat. I use a hoop at the moment, but I’ve worked with silks and with a trapeze before. Well, not at the moment, obviously.”

Inari pointed to his broken arm helplessly, limply waving it in the sling.

“But you do it up high?” pushed Goldie.

“Twenty feet,” grinned Inari. “Can go higher if I need to. I’m proper helpful in the orchards at harvest, climbing all those trees.”

The audience cheered, both on the screen and in the tent. It was as if their aerialist had performed a trick there and then. Goldie did not leave him alone. “Can you do anything on the floor?” she asked, practically begging. She eyed his plastered arm. “I mean, probably not considering-“

“I absolutely can,” interrupted Inari. He stood from his seat and scampered across the stage, finding an empty space. “This old thing hardly stops me, honestly. Watch this!”

The tribute took a deep breath before breaking into a brief run, turning himself head over heels without a hand even touching the floor. He landed perfectly on pointed toes to the rapturous applause of the watching crowd. Koru pushed a sudden swell of emotion down, hoping to keep it private – he had known the boy was a star from the moment he laid eyes on him in the Community Home.

***

Lizbeth Willow held her daughter closely, rocking her as she began to drift to sleep. The screen in their small cottage was quiet for the evening, but her boy leaned over and turned the volume back on as Flicker took to the stage. The audience applauded hesitantly, as Flicker stormed her way to the chair beside Goldie.

The outfit was an improvement on the skimpy miner’s uniform from the opening ceremony, but only mildly. The dress was stretched tightly across Flicker’s chest, with black mesh emphasising the cleavage that was forced upwards. Her hair was adorned with a headband which made her seem almost childlike, or innocent. “They’ve got no idea what to think of our Flicker,” murmured Lizbeth. Her friend hitched her skirt to her knees as she sat. She went to kick off her heels, but thought better as the applause died down.

“Well, Flicker,” began Goldie, cautiously. Flicker glared at her, but did not say anything. “You look absolutely wonderful tonight, but are we going to have to turn your microphone off?”

There was nervous laughter. Flicker managed a smile: a sideways, mocking smirk that acted almost as a threat. “I ain’t going to promise,” she answered. Lizbeth could see her friend’s restraint in her answer. “I will try, though. There’s kids here.”

The audience seemed to ease into her, and accepted her as a tribute. Lizbeth tried to switch her arms so that she could settle comfortably into the chair, but her baby stirred with every movement and she did not want to risk waking her.

Goldie continued. “You haven’t seemed the happiest here in the Capitol.”

“I hate the heels,” stated Flicker. She stuck her feet out, showing off her very impractical stilettos. “And I hate your dresses, and your fancy food. Bed’s alright, I suppose.”

“Alright then.” Goldie turned to the audience. “She likes our beds, ladies and gentlemen. It seems we have done something right.”

They laughed. “I’ve seen Flicker’s room,” murmured Lizbeth to her boy, “and I’m not surprised she likes their beds. Probably nice to have no holes in the roof.”

***

Etta Sandrine carefully stirred a boiling pot, having loaded the water with pine needles and mint leaves until it smelled as strong as any perfume. “Take a deep breath,” she said, nudging her small boy with her foot. Jackdaw wheezed as he took each breath, and he was kneeling over the pot with an old jacket trapping him with the steam.

“I can’t see the screen,” he moaned, between rattling breaths. The Hob was practically empty throughout the interview broadcast. There were a handful of the other merchants who spent the evening like the strange pair: tending their tables whilst illuminated with the bright light of an old screen. Etta had placed their cracked contraption on her selling table. On an ordinary year, she would not have watched.

The audience was muted after Flicker’s stilted, censored interview. Jackdaw poked his head out of the jacket as his brother was introduced and promptly set himself coughing again by laughing at Raven’s outfit. It was loose but low cut, and held to his body primarily with a tight necklace rather than a collar.

“He looks like a dog,” murmured Jackdaw, and Etta did not disagree.

However, it was popular in the city. The crowd in the Capitol whooped and cheered as Raven took his seat, managing a grin even though he held his arms tightly to his chest to try and hide it.

“I think we need to start with the question that is on everyone’s minds,” began Goldie, dropping to a dramatic whisper as if telling a terrible secret. “You did miss the reaping, Raven. Care to tell us why?”

“My brother,” answered Raven, firmly and quickly. He let his smile fall. “He’s very sick. He wasn’t strong enough to attend the reaping, and I was looking after him.”

“I’m not very sick!” cried Jackdaw, shooting his words at the screen. The effort made him cough again.

Etta rolled her eyes and began to rub sharp circles on the boy’s back. “Shut it, and take in that steam,” she commanded. Jackdaw reluctantly followed her instruction.

“Would you mind telling us about your brother?” asked Goldie, and the crowd began to murmur.

For a moment, Etta was certain that it looked like Raven did mind. He pushed it beneath another staged, sad smile. “His name is Jackdaw,” he explained. “Everyone calls him Jack, though. Our ma, she liked birds. He’s eight, and he’s got a real bad chest. As bright as anything, though.”

Jackdaw grinned at the praise.

“And if you win,” Goldie continued, “you’ll be able to look after him properly!”

Raven’s disgust for the city was hardly disguised. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “Something like that.”

***

Commander Otto Severen seethed at the screen, resisting the urge to throw his empty cup across his bedroom. Goldie – as vapid and as silly as she was – gave a mock salute as his daughter entered the stage. Mercy did not even complain; she attempted to grin, and returned the salute with her right hand. Her salute was correct, at least.

“Cadet Severen!” cried Goldie, as her military tribute marched across the stage. Mercy sat as if there was a metal rod across her spine, holding her hands in her lap. “Well, I think that we should take this moment as a country to thank you for your commitment to Panem.”

“I have not done that much,” replied Mercy, modestly. “I’m still training, of course. My father is the true servant of the country. However, I am very grateful for the support that District Thirteen has given me to allow me to serve my home.”

“Do you think that this training will help you in the arena?”

Coyly, Mercy smiled. Her father tilted his head in anticipation, preparing for the disappointing answer that his daughter always seemed to give. However, Mercy was well rehearsed. “Absolutely,” she replied. “I am extremely well prepared for this arena, and for this fight. I am skilled in combat, weaponry, psychological tactics, survival – I think I am the perfect candidate to represent District Thirteen.”

The audience cheered, and Mercy nodded her head to them in gratitude. Goldie seemed to push, unconvinced. “I have to say that your score does not seem to reflect this confidence, Mercy.”

“My training is in efficiency rather than entertainment,” argued Mercy, immediately. This was a question she had practiced, and it was clear in her confident answer. “The Gamemakers are completing a different task to me and want people who might be a little bit more entertaining, like Eden. However, those entertaining tributes will be lying dead on the floor as soon as us efficient tributes are allowed access to those weapons.”

The answer resonated well in the military-minded District Thirteen. Commander Severen was almost proud of his daughter.

***

Eden was dazed by his loud cheer. The sudden noise spooked him; Hadrian Beckett could see it in the quickening of his breath. He was also surprised as the Capitol erupted in applause for their mockingjay-branded criminal – but then, they did not know that part.

“Come sit by me!” called Goldie, as Eden froze. He managed to begin moving again and collapsed in the indicated seat. Hadrian did not believe in superstition but he crossed his fingers and hoped that nothing would go wrong. The entire evening was bright lights and barked questions, and there was only so much time to train Eden to treat it positively for once in his life.

“It’s very different to District Thirteen, isn’t it?” began Goldie. Her slow start to the interview gave Eden a place to hide, and he took it. It was exactly as they had rehearsed.

“I wouldn’t know,” he managed, after a slight stumble across his sentence. “I haven’t seen too much of Thirteen.”

There was a laugh. He turned to the audience and glared to them as if he was not expecting it, but Goldie brought him back. “Ah, of course!” she exclaimed, throwing her hand in the air as if she had simply been stupid rather than carefully engineering every aspect of the interview. “I think we all want to know why you’re in so much trouble with our Peacekeepers.”

Hadrian mouthed the words with his wild tribute. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to say,” answered Eden, and he managed a smile. “It was stupid of me, but I volunteered to pay my district back.”

There was no sarcasm, or complaint, or fear. Eden spoke as plainly as if it was his true opinion. Hadrian was grateful for it: if the boy could not lie, there was nothing he could do as a mentor.

Goldie did not let it go. “We’re not certain on the specifics about you, Eden. We do know that you’ve been held by Peacekeepers before your reaping, and we’ve heard rumours that it’s been quite a while.”

“Again, I can’t say,” replied Eden, shaking his head. It was what they decided on; the Capitol could not disprove what went unsaid. “Let’s look forward to the Games instead, because I know some people in this glorious city don’t think I can do anything if I’ve been in a cell for a long time.”

It was almost too much. Don’t push it, thought Hadrian as his tribute continued.

“I’m very capable, you see. I have good aim. I know a little bit about plants. I can fight. I think I’ll give District Thirteen the glory that they deserve this year.”

“You’re skilled, and you’re loyal, and you’re very well spoken,” gushed Goldie. “You’re the exact type of person that the young people of Panem should be trying to be!”

Hadrian did not know how Eden did not laugh. He simply smirked and gave a cocky, “absolutely.”

***

“Miss Serenity Pergale!” cried Goldie, and the stadium seemed to shake with the volume of applause. Serenity walked on the stage, and her older brother could not help but laugh. Cassius Pergale watched the proceedings from the very back of the crowd, where he had forked over more money than he cared to admit for a live ticket to the evening’s proceedings. His sister was the only reason he had considered it. She could not disappoint.

“Miss Goldie Flickerman,” replied Serenity, mocking the intonation and announcement. However, she had the charm of a youngest sibling and it seemed comedic rather than cruel. Goldie laughed at it herself, before throwing a self-concious hand across her mouth.

“I don’t really sound like that, do I? I must work on being more enthusiastic?”

Serenity reached over and patted Goldie’s leg, comforting her as if she was the target of the questioning. “You’re doing a fantastic job,” she reassured, and won back any favour she had lost. Cassius laughed; his sister was as calculated as a fox. “I’m just so familiar with your voice after watching your commentary for all these years, I thought I’d have a bit of fun with you.”

“Oh, yes! You’re a Gamemaker, aren’t you?”

Cassius blood ran cold at the term. He shrunk further into his seat. Would people recognise him at the reminder? He did not want them to; the loss of his job had finally left the tabloid broadcast, although it was hardly an issue of his own making.

Smirking in a manner that mimicked modesty, Serenity continued. “I’m not an official Gamemaker, but I was hoping to be one. I still am, if they’ll take a victor up on their balcony.”

“I do think a victor would give a very unique perspective to our Games,” said Goldie. She turned to address the famed balcony where the Gamemaker’s watched the evening’s show. Cassius was sat directly beneath it. “What do you think? Would you be willing to have a victor on your team in the future?”

There was a brief, hurried discussion in the hunt for a safe response. The Head Gamemaker allowed herself to be featured on the camera as she replied, “I think we might be able to make an exception for Miss Pergale.”

The audience cheered for Serenity’s future, as she elegantly jumped from question to question to demonstrate her excellent knowledge of the Hunger Games. She discussed strategy as if it was the weather, and could recall almost every victor from any arena that was mentioned. It was clear that she was an expert: a confident, calculated girl with the knowledge, the skill and the drive to succeed.

However, Cassius could not concentrate despite bleeding his wallet dry to be there. His sister was the centre of attention. His sister was the focus. His sister was the one being praised as the future Gamemaking prodigy. There was still no acknowledgement that he would be allowed to work in their establishment again.

***

Infinity caught herself chewing on a manicured nail, and pulled it from her mouth. She pushed both hands beneath her legs so as not to bring them to her face again, and tried to focus on the stage. It was difficult, when the tributes that she had worked so hard with were being presented to Panem.

She was nudged. Beside her, Gem was watching the interviews in his capacity as their mentor. He had been murmuring to his sister throughout the broadcast and finally returned to his given role. “It’ll be fine,” he muttered, amongst the excited buzz of the surrounding audience. “Serenity was good, and now it’s Azure. He’ll blow them all away.”

However, Infinity was not so certain. Azure had seemed to shrink in confidence throughout the day and seemed a quiet, tearful lump as she shipped him to styling this morning.

Her tribute entered the stage with a smile that did not meet his eyes. There was a forced spring in his step, and he collapsed into the chair beside the interviewer as if it was his second home. The audience roared. Azure let them, and seemed to encourage them with his waves and his gestures to those who shouted the loudest.

Goldie did her best to calm them and eventually, the hollering stopped long enough for her to take her seat and her microphone. “Wow,” she began, and the crowd almost started again. “I think they might know you.”

Azure laughed politely, accompanied by his audience.

“I have been interviewing Azure here since he was seven,” continued Goldie. Infinity shuffled in her seat uncomfortably; Goldie was a good interviewer, and did not normally speak for her guests in the way she was doing for Azure. “He is a very special person but tonight, he is with me in a different capacity. He is here as a tribute.”

As if on cue, the audience gave a whispered gasp as if the news was a surprised. Azure did not even open his mouth to speak. “We are finally able to hear his thoughts on this competition,” finished Goldie. She glanced at the tribute, and Infinity almost believed that she saw uncertainty between the two. “Azure, how do you think you are going to fare in the arena?”

Azure leaned forward to answer the question, and a collection of audience members cheered for them again. He gifted them a smile. “I have the support of the Capitol behind me,” he answered. Infinity relaxed; he sounded confident enough. “I think that counts for something.”

“Now, you’re typically performing for us. You’re singing our wonderful theme song this year, which is almost as if it was planned! How do you think this will help you in the arena?”

Suddenly, Azure no longer seemed at ease in front of his supportive crowd. He perched on the edge of his chair, clutching the seat. His smile fell, and his eyes widened with panic like a bird who landed on a three-lane road. Azure stuttered through the beginning of several different answers but nothing stuck, until the audience began to murmur. “S-sorry, I think I’m a little distracted!” he managed, playing his hesitation off with a chuckle. “The Games are tomorrow, after all.”

“They are absolutely all consuming, aren’t they?” helped Goldie. She placed a comforting hand on his leg. “I think we’re all with you. We want you to focus. We want you back, after all.”

Infinity’s hand worked back to her mouth. The interview was a stilted stop and start of smiling and silence. However, Azure had the manner to play through it as if nothing was wrong. If the audience noticed the pausing, mumbling and long, rambling answers with no cohesion, they did not react to it. The interview only fully fell apart when it reached his birthday.

Goldie stood and waved to someone offstage as she spoke. “It is a very special day, of course,” she announced into her glittering microphone. Azure took a deep breath, as if he was steeling himself for something unwanted. “If you know Azure, you probably know this already. It is actually his fourteenth birthday today and if it is truly going to be a birthday celebration, we need a cake!”

An avox entered the stage carrying a small, white cake with elaborately piped icing. There was a single candle, already lit, which she cradled with her hand. Azure stood and was left with no option to take the cake as it was offered to him.

“For the last few moments of this interview, it’s time to sing!” introduced Goldie. She pretended to conduct the audience. “One, two, three!”

Azure stared at his cake as they sang. The crowd was tuneful, but there was no smile on his face. Infinity noticed it first: his mouth was quivering, his hands were shaking and there were tears in his eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?” murmured Gem, leaning forward as if it would help him get a closer look. Azure fell into obvious tears. They rolled down his cheek and onto the icing, almost extinguishing the candle. His chest heaved as he tried to take deep breaths between quick, racking sobs.

Infinity was not certain. “Is he nervous?” she tried, but there was no answer they could discern from the audience. As the crowd stopped singing, Azure turned and ran off the stage.

Chapter Text

[30] Vigil

Sobbing echoed through the backstage corridor of the stadium. Panko followed the sound with a keen ear, and Vixen followed his cat cautiously. They edged past silent servants and waiting mentors without much notice, using the noise to help navigate the unfamiliar maze. Panko was on a mission, and Vixen was his accomplice.

They reached the room where they had waited for the interview. There was no crushing crowd of tributes waiting inside. Instead, Azure sat on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest and a half-collapsed birthday cake dropped to the floor beside him. His face was buried in his hands as he openly sobbed, his body wracking with the sound.

Vixen hesitated in the doorway. He hated when people saw him cry and assumed the Capitol boy would share the sentiment. However, Panko ran straight over to him and pawed at his leg when he realised the boy was upset. It was enough to bring Azure back into the room, and he caught his breath with a cough as he instinctively wiped his tears with his sleeve. He looked at the cat in confusion first, before offering a trembling, outstretched hand.

“Sorry,” he apologised, catching sight of the smaller boy in the doorway. He tried to hide any traces of his tears, but he still fought sobbing in his chest.

Shaking his head, Vixen tried to communicate that there was no need to apologise. Panko quickly gave up interest in being petted and began to explore the buttercream on the forgotten cake. Despite his crying, Azure hiccupped a small laugh at the cat burying his face in icing. As an afterthought, he glanced back to the doorway. “Can he have cake?”

Vixen nodded. Azure caught his breath. “Do you want some?”

There was a pause. Then, Vixen nodded again. He edged into the room as if he was the nervous animal rather than his pet and settled himself on his knees a safe distance away from the Capitol boy. Azure slid the plate across the floor until it was between them. “I don’t have a knife,” he warned, voice thick. “I think you’ll just have to dig in with your hands.”

There was no hesitation. Vixen reached into the buttercream and took a chunk of the cake, taking a bite from his palm. The buttercream became stuck around his face, and he used the sleeve of his expensive shirt to wipe it away. He pointed to the cake. “You…” he began.

Azure silenced him with a shake of his head. “No,” he replied, pushing the plate of crumbs and buttercream to the smaller boy. “I don’t like cake. Your interview went well.”

The forceful change in topic was obvious. Vixen decided not to address it and instead continued to take small bites of cake, shaking his head. “It did,” pushed Azure. “They loved you.”

“Because of you,” mumbled Vixen, through the crumbs.

Azure was sarcastic and scathing when he spoke again, in a tone that he rarely used. “I clearly know what I’m doing. I couldn’t even make it through a birthday song.”

There was a pause. Panko grew bored of stealing buttercream and walked back to his owner, meowing for his attention. Vixen offered him a spare hand and accidentally coated the cat’s head with crumbs. “You were good,” he offered, eventually. His voice was barely audible.

Without the effort to continued arguing, Azure responded with a deep sigh that echoed through a rattling chest. Panko tried to shake the crumbs from his head before deciding to meow at the other boy too. Azure stroked him gently, thinking. As the room began to fill with a gentle purr, he decided to keep talking. “Tomorrow, I’m going to head in whichever direction the cornucopia’s tail is pointing. I think that’s my best chance. You can come with me, if you want.”

Suspicious, Vixen narrowed his eyes and looked for any indication that it was a trick or a joke. There was none; the Capitol boy was refusing to look at him, brushing crumbs from Panko’s head. “Why?” asked Vixen, quietly.

“Allies,” replied Azure, matching the volume. “You don’t have to.”

There was a voice in the corridor. Vixen looked to the door with the wide-eyed expression of a deer as his escort called his name “Vixen!” she called again, before stumbling across the pair sat in the green room. Indigo let air hiss through her teeth at the sight. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Vixen. What are you doing in here?”

Slowly, Vixen lowered his handful of cake back to the plate. He wiped his hand clean on his shorts. “Don’t do that,” scolded Indigo, but it was too late. “I don’t know what to do with you district folk. I feel like I need to teach you everything and – oh, Azure.”

The escort finally noticed the blue-haired boy in the floor. He tried to evade her by edging closer to the wall and staring at the uneaten cake. “Azure,” she repeated. “Hello, Azure.”

“Hello, Miss Indigo,” managed Azure. He was unable to stop the tears which were beginning to return.

“I wondered where you went. I was expecting more from your interview, if I’m honest. Though, I suppose I should thank you for how much you helped with our Vixen.”

When Azure did not reply, Indigo tutted. Her tongue on her teeth made the same sound as her stiletto heels across the tiled floor. “It’s a shame, really,” she continued, oblivious to the onslaught of tears that were beginning to attack Azure’s face again. “I doubt it will affect you that much, but it wasn’t very entertaining. Is your cake good, at least?”

There was no answer to give, but Azure would not have given on anyway. His hands were balled into fists, hidden in the cuffs of his shirt. He used them to wipe his face again. It worsened the red rash. Indigo finally noticed the movement, and the panic, and the tears. Gently, she reached out to take hold of Azure’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Azure practically threw himself against the wall. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled, louder than anything he had managed throughout his time in the Tribute Centre. Vixen jumped, falling back on the tile. Azure hid his face in the sleeves of his shirt. It muffled his voice. “I’m fine! I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

Retracting her hand, Indigo paused. She glanced at her charge and his cat, who were both staring at the Capitol boy with a look of concern. She shared it. “Bedtime,” she announced, eventually. “You’ll need sleep for the big day tomorrow, Vixen. Come on, and I’ll see if I can get you another warm glass of milk.”

Reluctantly, Vixen stumbled to his feet. He took Panko in his arms so that there was no chance of his friend disappearing, and took one last, long look at the sobbing boy before beginning to follow his escort.

Voice breaking, Azure called out again before they could leave. “I’m sorry, Miss Indigo.”

Her face softened. She smiled, and Azure peered from behind his shirt to see it. “Good luck, Azure,” she replied, genuine. Then, she ushered Vixen out of the room and to the elevator. The tribute boy was left thinking of the cornucopia, and tails, and which way he was going to run.

***

The elevator reached the third floor. Isabel was still jumping on the balls of her feet, relishing the vague high from their interview rather than considering the long stretch of survival in front of them. Azazel, on the other hand, was fully aware of every sound, every light and every emotion.

“You’ll need a good night’s sleep,” chirped Neptune, taking Isabel by the shoulder and beginning to steer her to her bedroom. “Come on, Issy. I’ve got a wonderful cream that will get that make-up right off so that you can crawl into bed. Azazel-“

“I’ve got Azazel,” interrupted Cybus. He was stood in the doorway, with a darkened face that told Azazel they were thinking of the same thing. “You get Issy to bed. Big day tomorrow, and all that.”

Isabel broke into an excited, urgent conversation as her escort led her away. She chattered about the interview, and the crowd, and the bright lights. Her voice faded as they disappeared, leaving a heavy silence in the dark corridor.

The waistcoat was suffocating. Azazel clenched his fists, trying to breath. “Have you heard from Three?” he asked, quietly.

“I’ve only just come up myself,” replied Cybus. He led his tribute to the dining table which was bare for the first time since they first arrived in the Capitol. “Been fielding sponsor calls, too. You’ve made a bit of a splash tonight.”

“Is he safe?” stressed Azazel. His mentor pointed to a seat, but he did not take it. He began to pace, unbuttoning his jacket.

“He is,” reassured Cybus, quickly and quietly. There was nothing provided for him to drink but he took the hipflask from his pocket. He drained it. “I ain’t going to tell you my sources, but I did get a quick call. District Three aren’t caring too much.”

With his jacket undone and his fear quelled, Azazel finally took a deep breath. “And his father?”

Cybus shrugged. “Don’t know too much about that. There ain’t an angry mob after your boy, at least.”

It was not enough. However, Azazel accepted it with a hand that ran through his hair. “Right,” he mumbled, still seeing the twinkling stage lights when he closed his eyes. “Then if he’s safe, I just need to worry about…”

He trailed off, falling into a heavy silence that his mentor mimicked. After the interviews, it was the Games. It was the fight to the death that Azazel had been desperately trying to ignore.

“It ain’t that bad,” reassured Cybus. It was clear he was lying, but the tribute appreciated it either way. “Like I said, you got sponsors I can work with.”

Azazel did not understand how the Capitol adored him for telling the truth. In the end, he decided it did not matter. He needed their coins for his own survival, but it became worse the longer he thought about it. He did not know the arena. He did not know what weaponry would be available. He did not know anything.

“Tesla would be so much better at this,” he lamented, practically pulling on his own hair to feel something.

Awkwardly, Cybus draped an arm across his tribute’s shoulders. “I don’t have him here,” he murmured. “I have you. And you’re going to be okay. Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

Like his younger tribute partner, Azazel walked to his bedroom whilst bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

***

Amity braided her hair as she listened to her mentor, finding the repetitive movement of her hand soothing. Her partner was in his room – there was no chance he was asleep, but he was pretending – and she was trying to snatch the last pieces of advice before the day came to an end.

However, her mentor was not saying anything that she wanted to hear. “I don’t think the cornucopia is a good idea for you,” repeated Jonah.

“I don’t know anything about survival,” replied Amity, remaining defiant. There was a pleading quality to her voice. “I’ve never left my village. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You do,” pushed Jonah. He poured a clear liquid into his glass from a carafe, and Amity hoped it was water. “You spent enough time in that training room to get yourself through an arena.”

“I need a scythe, at least.”

“You make people like you enough and I’ll buy you a scythe.”

Amity finished her braid. She wore an elastic on her wrist which had tied her hair during the interview, but she did not use it. Instead, she let her hair fall loose and brushed it out with her fingers. She began the practice again. “I can’t keep making people like me,” she answered, eventually. “You know it ain’t going to be enough. I need to go to the cornucopia.”

“You are the only chance I’ve got,” snapped Jonah. Amity finally heard the desperation that was creeping in and catching at the edge of his voice. He took a drink, placed an elbow on the table and pointed down the short corridor. “You think that boy is going to do any good? You’re my best shot at a victor, Amity.”

Amity took a calm and measured breath. “And if you want any chance of that, I need to have a weapon and supplies.”

“People die at the cornucopia.” Jonah spoke with the darkened wisdom of a mentor. “Each year, people run in and they don’t come out. It’s the best way to get your head taken clear off your body before that gong even stops ringing.”

Again, Amity reached the end of her hair. She finally tied it off, letting it fall across her shoulder. She would be trying to sleep soon and wanted her hair out of her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rosette,” she muttered, as she stood from her chair. “You’re not going to change my mind.”

***

Like the tide, the animosity in the District Four washed away. There was no mentor to guide them: Ocean had disappeared to attend sponsor meetings, complaining she needed to attend twice as many as her tributes refused to work together. However, in the safety of their apartment, the argument was forgotten.

“Please,” begged Cove, as his sister made a step towards her bedroom. Sennen stopped at his voice. He did not elaborate but his intent was clear with the pain in his voice.

She shook her head. “I’m working alone,” she reminded him, “as I should have been this whole time.”

Cove reached out to grab his sister’s arm. She let him, finding his hand with her own. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Sennen warned.

“But-“

“No.” Sennen could not look at her brother. “I hope that alliance is kind to you.”

“I’d leave them for you,” Cove tried.

The touch lingered. Sennen felt herself craving the familiar feeling of her brother’s hand in her own, as if she was laughing and pulling him along a beach as the sun rose. It became too strong to ignore and she let go as if his hand burnt her. “I’m putting myself first,” she replied, resolute. She finally turned and looked at her twin; Cove’s face was crest-fallen, with tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. “I want you to do the same, Cove. Then, we’ve both done our best and neither of us can feel guilty if we win.”

***

Acacia was practically falling asleep in his chair, but he refused to go to his room. It would be admitting defeat to crawl into bed, and it would make the next day arrive faster. He wanted to cling on to the night as long as he could.

His mentor was sat with his head in his hands at their dining table. It was covered in complicated paperwork, which Acacia had briefly asked about. The response was uninteresting: mostly sponsorship papers, which needed physical copies to comply with tricky financial ruling in the city. Aspen tried to work with the varying figures but could not concentrate; he was almost as anxious as his tributes.

“You know,” he mumbled, speaking through his hands. He lowered them from his face and began to sweep the papers into a rough pile. “I think the sponsors are wrong.”

Cautiously, Acacia opened one eye. “Who has the most?”

“Ilara,” shrugged the mentor, “but I think you’re a much better choice than her. You know what you need to do. You got a better score. You even managed to make yourself likeable, eventually.”

“I’m just a kid,” replied Acacia, mimicking the disparaging tone used whenever the reporters talked about him on television.

Aspen waved the comment away. “Age is nothing. I would know. I really do believe you can win.”

“You do?” Acacia approached the comment with trepidation, and was suspicious of his mentor’s confident nod. “I don’t think anyone has ever believed in me before.”

“Well, what did people tell you when they came to say goodbye?”

The tribute hesitated. He did not want to repeat the entire conversation his father had subjected him to. He did not really want to remember it. Eventually, he settled on, “to be realistic.”

“I am being realistic,” confirmed Aspen, confident. “I think you have this, Asa. It’s time for someone else to be the youngest victor.”

***

“The opening fight is your opporutunity to kill as many as you can,” instructed Dazzle. She read from her notebook, which was open to a page filled with snapshots of her strategy. Sparkle nodded dutifully at each command. “You have an alliance, so you can rely on them. You need to stay in that alliance until it no longer benefits you.”

The tribute pair were sat apart. Ferro had arrived first and saved a seat beside him on a comfortable chair, but Sparkle purposefully sat alongside her sister. She was no longer dressed in her stifling interview dress, but she wore training clothes rather than pyjamas. The evening before the Games was to be used focuing on the intimidating instruction of her mentors.

“Don’t enter a fight if you’re not certain you’ll win,” continued Dazzle. She finally looked up from her notebook to her tributes. “I know you’re both skilled, but there are a handful of tributes who could be competition. Who are they?”

The information had been drilled into the pair during training. “Eight’s girl,” answered Ferro, dutifully, “and Seven’s boy, if his score is anything to go by. I can definitely take him in a fight though.”

“Two,” added Sparkle. Her sister raised an eyebrow; they had not discussed this. “The boy, I mean. He scored highly so he’s got something. We need to see him in the arena to know.”

“Just kill him as quick as you can,” countered Dazzle, unimpressed. “The more you kill, the closer you are to home.”

The mentor’s careful eye was fixed on her sister. Sparkle tried not to shrink in her chair but the intent was clear: she wanted one specific tribute to be home over the other. Unfortunately, she was not the only person to recognise the favourtism.

“Hey, you’re not just going to help your sister, are you?” asked Ferro, jumping in. He stopped saving the space on the chair and swung his legs into it, twisting around to fully face his mentor. He looked between his partner and his mentor. “You’re not going to send her everything?”

“My priority is our district,” replied Dazzle. She spoke quicker than Sparkle expected – it seemed rehearsed. “There is no point in a victory if it does not come with the honour of treating you equally.”

***

Iumenta was an incomplete routine, wearing comfortable pyjamas with her interview make-up still plastered across her face as she padded barefoot into the dining room. She did not want to wash it off yet; if she said goodbye to the interview, she was closer to the arena.

There was the familiar shape of a person in the armchair which overlooked the largest window. He was slumped, but he was not sleeping – Iumenta could see Chanté’s bright eyes in his reflection. He could also see her, beginning in the window and ending in a glance across the back of the chair.

There was no question, but Iumenta still answered. “I can’t sleep,” she justified, moving from the tiled floor onto a plush rug that sat between the chairs. She collapsed on to the sofa beside her partner’s chain, leaning back against the thick cushions. “I mean, I haven’t tried, but I’m pretty sure it won’t come tonight.”

Chanté made a gruff noise of agreement and turned back to his window. On the ground of the Capitol, bright parades and loud parties were making swirling patterns of colour against the grey pavement. Iumenta could not watch it for long. She stared at her partner instead.

“Are you still doing it?” she asked. “I don’t think you’ll get very far in the Games. If you choose not to kill someone, you’ll end up dead. You need to-“

“Why are you doing it, Menta?” he interrupted, in a voice that sounded a heartbeat away from a sob.

Iumenta stopped. She stayed silent. Then, in her own soft voice, she asked, “doing what?”

He gestured vaguely, waving into thin air without much understanding. “The alliance,” he found, eventually. “Teaming up with them.”

Chanté spoke about the inner-district alliance with the same vitriol he used for the Capitol, and for the Games, and for the people who tied newborn kittens up in bags and tossed them into the river. Iumenta stuttered over the realisation that her secret was no longer hers alone. “You know about that,” she managed.

“Yes.” Chanté sunk further into his chair. “You’d have to be blind not to notice it, Menta. You’ve been sucking up to them since training started.”

Iumenta tried not to take his anger personally but failed. She danced around an excuse and tried to disguise it as a justification, hiding it behind carefully curated attacks. “I don’t know about you, but I actually want to win,” she spat. “They’re my best chance. We’re not all able to afford morality, you know.”

“It’s not about morality anymore – it’s about survival.” Chanté finally looked to his district partner. “Those barbarians are going to kill you as soon as you’re not useful to them.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep being useful then, won’t I?”

The scathing tone ate into the argument and left an uncomfortable silence between the two tributes. Chanté opened his mouth as if to say something but closed it with nothing more than a soft sigh. He went back to staring out of the window.

Iumenta’s anger manifested in anxious twisting of her hands. She did not like being argued with through silence. “Look,” she continued, filling it, “just because you don’t like me-“

“I never said I don’t like you,” interrupted Chanté, monotone.

This was a surprise. Iumenta stopped and held for a beat. “I’m a butcher’s girl.”

Chanté shrugged. “You’re what you were born to be. Bet I’d be a different person if I hadn’t grown up as a doctor’s kid. I don’t like it, but I can’t blame anyone in Ten for what they are.”

“Who do you blame then?”

The parade continued beneath them, seeming to break into choreographed dance that filled the street. Chanté watched it closely and did not answer.

Iumenta had no interest in sitting in silence with her strange partner. If she wanted to watch the parade, there was a screen in her assigned bedroom. “I meant what I said, you know,” she offered, as she pulled herself from the sofa. “It’s up to you if you want to stick to what you think, but I don’t want you dead. I just want whatever will keep you alive longest.”

“Same.” Chanté broke away from the parade. “I hope that alliance treats you alright, Menta. Don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.”

“I won’t,” promised Iumenta, and she left Chanté alone with the silence.

***

Dakota was a bottle of wine into her evening. It was not her preferred method of drinking – in District Six, liquor was usually a strong, clear liquid dealt in dented hip flasks. However, the Capitol was luxury and she decided to indulge.

“You going to be sober by morning?” asked the scathing voice of her partner. Saori was disgusted; it was evident in his voice and on his face when Dakota gave him the courtesy of a glance. There was a red rash around his eyes – the little smart-ass had been crying since the interview, and he was unable to hide it.

“Does it matter?” replied Dakota, in a sing-song voice. She lifted the bottle to her lips again – there seemed little point in a glass – and took a deep swallow. “Would rather be out of my mind tomorrow, if I can manage it.”

Saori scoffed. He looked, spoke and acted like a merchant, but Dakota found her joy in knowing he was really no better than her. His only link to the richer world was a dead brother and half an education. “You won’t win if you’re out of your mind,” he criticised.

“Who said anything about winning?” Dakota finished her bottle. “We’re all going to die someday. Let’s toast a life well lived.”

With a clunk, she let the bottle fall to the floor. Saori edged into the room with a trepidation of a man wearing white entering a pigsty. He eyed the bar cart cautiously; their apartment had been dry in an attempt to keep Dakota on the straight and narrow, but their mentor had finally given in. There was liquor of varying shades of amber, bottles of red and white wine, and special-coloured liquids in fancy glass bottles.

“You ever drunk, Carlisle?” asked Dakota. She did not know how old her partner was, but most in District Six stole a sip of something as they grew up. With the disgust he used to treat her every action, she assumed he never had. He confirmed it with a short, sharp shake of his head. “You should. Before you die.”

“I plan on winning,” he answered, but he was still staring at the cart.

“Toast your victory, then. I don’t care. Here, pass me that bottle of red.”

Saori needed to read the label on each bottle to find it. It was a heavy, green glass and he handed it to her neck-first. It was not the finest – Dakota screwed the lid off and threw it down to the carpet. She lifted it to her lips and took a mouthful. Then, she offered it back to the boy.

“Here,” she said. He edged away. “Take a swig. What if you do die tomorrow, eh? You don’t want to go out never tasting wine.”

The prospect of death – despite craving success – tempted Saori. He took the bottle from her hand and cautiously lifted it to his lips. He sipped as delicately as he could from the bottle, and his face tensed at the taste.

“That’s awful!” he spluttered, thrusting the bottle back to Dakota. “Why do you drink that?”

“Makes me feel warm.” Dakota swirled the wine in the bottle like a more dignified person might do when it was poured in a glass. “Makes my brain stop thinking. Makes everything better. Can taste pretty good, too.”

Saori seemed unconvinced. There was nothing amongst the bottles on the cart that looked as if they could taste good, if that was the taste of wine that everyone raved about. “What about the other stuff?” he asked, carefully.

“The other stuff?”

“The morphling.”

Dakota laughed. It was not particularly funny, but there was no other response. “You got some of it stuffed in your pockets to try?” she asked through the sound, and Saori shook his head. “Best feeling ever. Nothing compares. Would rather live on that for the rest of my life than put up with all of this.”

For a moment, Dakota mourned the high. There would be none in the arena. If she did somehow manage to make it to the end, there would at least be an unlimited supply in her future.

“It ruins people’s lives,” criticised Saori. The bite was back in his voice. Dakota almost believed that he could be kind after a few glasses of something alcoholic.

“Didn’t ruin yours,” she replied. “Capitol ruined yours.”

***

“Isaac?” muttered Raven, in a plaintive voice. He hung on the door frame, cautiously leaning into the room without stepping out of the corridor. He half-wore his outfit from the interview, with a black smudge of eyeliner swiped across his face.

The escort was wide awake, his face illuminated by the endless coverage shown on the screens. He turned to look over the back of the sofa, face softening at the sight of his tribute. Raven seemed younger in the flickering light, with his cosmetics clearly smudged by tears that he was trying hard to hide. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, in a voice that invited the tribute into the room.

He leaned over and muted the screen, patting the chair next to him. Raven did not fully accept the invitation; he padded across the floor in socked feet, standing near the escort without quite daring to sit beside him. He anxiously rubbed at one arm with the other. “I’m sorry about how I spoke to you on the train,” he managed, staring at the floor. “It weren’t nice of me, after how kind you were to Jack and Etta.”

“It’s nothing-“ began Isaac, but Raven shook his head.

“No, it ain’t. We don’t like taking stuff in Twelve, but I ain’t got anything to pay you back with.”

On the screen, the Capitol Games Network were running a countdown of the audience voted ‘best arena moments’ for the night before the Games began. Raven turned so that his back was to it, so Isaac reached for a remote and turned it off. “It’s fine, honestly,” he stressed. “You can pay me back by going out there and winning it all.”

Despite everything, Raven’s mouth twitched in a small smile. “I guess,” he managed, before the smile fell and he was left waiting awkwardly. He stuttered, trying to find the words for what he wanted to say. “If…if I don’t…I mean…”

Isaac had been an escort long enough to fill the pauses with the request. “You want me to look out for Jack?”

Raven nodded.

“I can do that,” continued Isaac, with a genuine smile, “but I do think you have a chance of seeing him again yourself.”

***

Cotton awkwardly patted his smallest tribute on the back, trying to coax the boy through body-wracking sobbing that overtook him.

“I can’t do it,” gasped Lucet, in a quivering voice through thick tears. He had his knees drawn to his chest on the chair, and his face buried in the soft fabric of the trousers he wore to the interview. Cotton perched on the chair’s arm beside him, and Armure paced relentlessly behind. She could not face it when a tribute cried. Cotton was vaguely surprised she was still in the room.

“Yes, you can,” she reassured, in a voice that was almost overcome by her own repetitive footsteps. “You can do it, Lucet. You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not.”

Cotton began to rub circles on the boy’s back, to try and ease the tension across his chest that was resulting in the sharp, gasping breaths. He glanced over and caught Armure’s eyes; the other mentor was chewing on her painted nails and ripping the skin from her nailbeds. The night before the Games was almost the worst night.

“I can’t do it by myself,” continued Lucet. “I can’t do it at all. I’m going to die. I’m going to die!”

“Not necessarily,” tried Cotton, who was prepared to placate but not to lie. “You did alright at the interview. You’ll have sponsors and-“

Lucet was not listening. “I’m going to die,” he repeated, his voice fading to a pained whisper. He repeated the comment like a chant, over and over.

Eventually, Cotton pulled him fully into an embrace. Lucet took his mentor’s shirt in two tight fists and sobbed into the soft cotton.

***

Solar looked down at his piece of note paper and found it impossibly blank. He had never shown any talent with words, and it seemed even harder to speak when everything was being committed as – possibly – his final words. However, sleep seemed even more difficult than constructing a letter that fully expressed how he felt, so he persisted.

Raiden, he began. The pencil scratched at the paper in a way that made a noise he disliked, and he scowled at it whilst forming the final letters. It seemed more powerful than any weapon he had held in the gymnasium, and he hated it.

It was easier to say goodbye in rushed whispers in the Justice Centre. Solar tapped the pencil against his face, trying different sentences in his head and finding none that he wished to commit to paper. He wanted to reassure, but there was nothing reassuring: either he would survive, and the letter was unnecessary, or he was dead, and the letter was not enough.

Please look after yourself, he settled. That seemed safe, and Solar felt that it was good, responsible advice. Look after our parents, and don’t take any tesserae. It will be alright.

That was a lie. Solar wanted to promise the world to his younger brother, and he could barely promise safety. Still, he persisted, adding, I want to see you grow up, and be happy, and healthy, and have as much chocolate as you want for every single birthday.

Solar’s pencil hesitated on the final word. The birthday made him think of the reaping, which was only tainted with bad memories. He did not want his younger brother’s birthday to be forever haunted with that memory.

I hope you are proud of me, he tried. It seemed right, so he continued. I hope you know that I did my best. You can only ever do your best. I’m proud of you, and the person that you are, and the person that you will become.

It was too much. If Solar had said this aloud, he was certain that Raiden would grow red and mumble and try to shove his brother away. The mental image was enough to gift Solar a slight smile, as he signed his name at the bottom of the letter.

Then, as an afterthought, he added:

P.S.  Please do not start gambling – I’ve always been better at picking victors than you.

He folded the letter in half, wrote his brother’s name on the outside, and left his room to search for the mentor who could deliver it.

***

Epona demonstrated her strength through her calm demeanour under pressure. She listened intently to the advice that her mentor gave her, although she did not take too much notice of the newest victor’s suggestion. “I am very capable,” she reminded him, although she looked younger with her hair tied up and her figure hidden under loose sleeping clothes.

“I know,” said Mason. He sounded uncertain. He had grown used to the strange nature of his tribute, but seeing her curled up on the sofa without either excitement or nervousness unsettled him. There should have been a sense of urgency, at least. “Be careful in the alliance. You’re competing with some strong characters. I wouldn’t put it past District One to try and take you out whilst you’re sleeping.”

“They can try,” replied Epona, simply.

Mason was at a loss for what other advice to give her. He had tried to write a list but his notes were frantic, and Epona seemed to understand it all anyway. “You’ll probably benefit from an early night,” he attempted, eventually. Surprisingly, Epona rose from the sofa immediately and nodded at her mentor.

“I agree,” she answered, as she headed towards the door. She stopped and looked back towards Mason. “Thank you for your assistance. I look forward to working with you after the Games are finished.”

Mason was not certain that he shared the sentiment, although he was confident that he would work with Epona again. She was too polished to fail.

Once Epona had left, Mason felt as if he was alone. However, a quiet voice that had been eavesdropping on the conversation of strategy spoke up. “What advice do you have for me?”

Leon had been forgotten. He accepted that; it was easier for him to survive if the people around him forgot that he was there. However, he refused to be forgotten by the people who had been assigned to help him. Leon had perched at the dining table following his interview in the hope of some final pieces of advice, and had instead listened to everything which had been given to Epona instead. When Mason did not answer, he scowled. “You’re supposed to be my mentor too.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” countered Mason. He matched the expression. “District Two doesn’t appreciate people like you.”

“You’re still supposed to be my mentor.”

The scowl fell, Mason’s face being overtaken by the furrowed brow he always gained when he was thinking. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he admitted, after a moment of silence. “You have to be hiding something. You didn’t get that ten by charming the Gamemakers like you did with Goldie.”

“Then help me. Start believing I can win,” pleaded Leon.

Mason shook his head. “I don’t believe you can,” he said, beginning to leave the table. Then, he stopped and looked back to the younger boy. With two hands still pressed against the wood, he added, “you’re an outsider.”

Leon nodded, and Mason continued as he stood fully. “Outsiders only tend to win when the main alliance falls apart. Maybe, if you can find a way to take out that alliance, you’ll stand more of a chance.”

***

Eden sat on the roof of the Training Centre, his legs crossed beneath him as he looked up at the empty sky and took in the overwhelming symphony of sound from the street below. There was a party, or so he assumed: music, shouting and cheering all echoed up from the grey road. There was also a gentle ripple of metallic music, all emanating from a section of the roof dedicated to a garden and metal sticks hanging from poles.

“I thought I’d lost you,” said a deep voice, and Eden acknowledged the arrival of his mentor with a quick glance over his shoulder before returning to the sky. Hadrian came and sat beside his charge, grunting as he forced his own stiff legs into the same sitting position.

“There are supposed to be stars,” commented Eden, still scowling at the night. There was a moon shining brightly above them, but it was the only entity. “My papa taught me all about the stars, and how to use them to navigate. When did they disappear?”

Hadrian shook his head, although Eden did not see. “They’re still out there. Capitol’s so bright that it hides them, but you can see them above District Thirteen if you go for a walk on a winter’s evening.”

“They get to drown out the stars too?” Eden scoffed, although the sound was expertly hidden under a dry chuckle. “You come to bring me back inside?”

“No. It’s the last night before the Games. I think it’s a tradition to make some allowances.”

In the bright, Capitol night, Eden’s face was lit up in the different colours of the rainbow. It suited his olive skin and Hadrian felt a pang of thought that the boy would likely have fitted in amongst the city, in very different circumstances. He was sure that Eden would disagree with this, as Eden never seemed to belong anywhere – Hadrian was certain he had figured out why.

“You going to tell me about the bird?” he questioned, deciding to broach the subject before the Games dominated the conversation. The inquiry was built only on curiosity, and there was no malice in his comment. Eden raised an eyebrow. He met eyes with his mentor and a sentence seemed to hover on his lips, although it remained unsaid.

“You can speak freely here,” added Hadrian, hurriedly. “Those windchimes back there, they cover anything we say even if there are bugs. We hang them each year in honour of the dead. Many conversations have been held on this roof and we haven’t been arrested for any of them.”

Eden continued to hesitate, a self-conscious hand raising to his shoulder where the creature sat beneath his cotton shirt. “I don’t trust just anyone,” he warned with a glint in his eye, but it softened as he turned back to the party beneath him. “My family, we liked the mockingjay birds. They were free from the Capitol like we were. The ink, we used to do it on our twentieth year but I got mine early. Mama made them do it when we heard the ‘keepers were probably going to round us up.”

“You’re a jay?” asked Hadrian, thinking of the rebel groups which often situated themselves around the forests of District Thirteen.

Eden wrinkled his nose. “That’s what the ‘keepers called us. Mercy, too. It matches now. I’m going to be a murderer.”

Eden grinned, but it was the empty grin that he had forced throughout his interview, and his ceremony, and his reaping. Hadrian no longer fell for it. “This…family,” he asked, trialling the word. “They going to be watching you? It can make all the difference if someone is rooting for you.”

Eden shook his head. “Don’t have the technology stuff that you do. The Capitol can find it, so we don’t give them the chance. If there’s anyone left. They killed Mama when they rounded us up, and I don’t know where Papa went.”

“Well,” shrugged Hadrian. “I’m rooting for you.”

Eden stood. Hadrian’s trained eye noticed the shake in his legs as he moved to the fence that protected the roof garden from the rest of the sky, and the tremor in his hand as he took hold of the iron. The party below seemed to intrigue him and entertain him for a moment, and he tapped a finger to the distant music, admiring the costumes. Then, in a small voice that reminded Hadrian how young a tribute was, Eden murmured, “I don’t want to die.”

As a mentor, he had heard it before. “I know,” he sympathised. There was nothing else he could say.

It was not enough for Eden. “I know I can win,” he elaborated, the fear seeming to manifest as anger as it always did in the young criminal. “It’ll be outside, and I can find plants and hunt and I know I can kill people if I need to. It’s just…”

He trailed off, the comment lost to the wind. Hadrian dragged himself up to join him and found him draping an arm over the younger boy’s shoulders. Eden flinched but did not pull away, letting Hadrian hold him. “Everyone thinks the exact same thing at this point,” tried Hadrian and although it had reassured many of his tributes, he knew it would not work for Eden. The boy was strange. The boy was different. The boy was definitely capable of victory, and Hadrian realised he also did not want the boy to die.

“Is it worth it?”

Hadrian barely heard him. “What did you say?”

“Is it worth it?” repeated Eden, louder. He waved absent-mindedly in the air, trying to find the language. “I mean, if I can trick the Gamemakers and outlast the others and do everything I need to do, is it worth it? Do I get to be free?”

For a moment, Hadrian pondered the meaning of free. He was a victor, and he used that position to demand privileges that were not granted to other people in District Thirteen. He went outside on daily walks. He had a suite of rooms to himself, and private meals. He got to see Panem if he could provide the right licenses. It was freedom beyond what the incarcerated boy had probably allowed himself to dream of.

Still, there were obligations. Duties. There were the Games, which ran to a strict schedule and beat each victor down year after year. There were sponsorships, and television shows, and public appearances. There were parties – so many parties. And then, there were the more private duties that Hadrian had – mostly – been able to avoid by being a generally unsociable and unremarkable victor. Eden was not unremarkable – he was fairly pretty, and wild, and something the Capitol would bid for generously.

“No,” he answered, honestly. “It’s more freedom than you’re used to, but you’re not truly free. I don’t think you ever are in Panem.”

Eden smiled. It was not his camera smile, full of honey and compliments for the Capitol. It was not his mocking smile, sour like old milk. It was a genuine, sad smile with the glistening of tears in his eyes. “That’s what I guessed,” he answered, and the silence stretched out between them.

Chapter Text

[31] Precipice

The night stretched on. Indigo and Jonah sat together without bickering, nursing a drink each and embracing the smothering silence as they waited. There was nothing more they could do. Their tributes were sleeping and when the call came, they would be escorted to the hovercraft. The mentor and escort would be left to play the Games outside the arena.

“Indigo?” murmured a quiet voice from the doorway. The escort turned immediately. Vixen was stood with his cat in his arms, his face wet with tears and his bottom lip trembling.

Jonah noticed. He knocked back the remainder for his drink. “We’re not supposed to see our tributes now,” he announced, gruffly. “Your stylist will come for you in-“

“Can you look after Panko?” asked Vixen, in the longest and most complete sentence he had strung together since arriving in the city. The cat was aware that something was different; he sat in his owner’s arms without struggling, purring deeply. Vixen looked down at him and continued in a mumble, “whilst I’m gone, I mean.”

Indigo looked over her tribute. Her face fell, before she forced it to hold a bright smile. “Of course!” she replied, stuttering into a bright tone. “I’ll make sure that he gets the best treatment that Capitol has to offer. He’ll be right here, waiting for when you come back.”

“And…” tried Vixen, tripping over each syllable as he tried to string another request together. He glanced nervously at his mentor. A sob caught in his throat. “If I…can you take him back to Nine? If I don’t…”

He trailed off. There was no need for him to finish. Jonah nodded. “Course I can,” he answered, gruffly. “He can travel back with me, first class.”

With a final scratch behind the cat’s ears, Vixen edged into the room and let Panko fall from his arms and onto the dining table. The cat did not want to leave. He pawed back at the young boy’s arm, mewing plaintively. Vixen pushed his tear-stained face into the cat’s fur. Jonah watched the scene. “You live in the old mill?” he asked. Vixen nodded. “I’ll take him back myself. He’ll be looked after, Vixen.”

Reluctantly, Vixen stepped away from his pet. He reached out to continue stroking his head. “Do you have a token now?” asked Indigo, seeming concerned when Vixen shook his head. “Well, we can’t have that at all. You simply must have something to take with you!”

Her face lit up as a fantastic idea filled her head. She reached out to join the boy in stroking Panko, before securing her finger beneath his collar. Panko was well behaved and stood still as she found the clasp and removed the collar from around his neck. “Here,” she said, softly, as she gestured for Vixen to hold out his hand. He did, and she tied the collar across his wrist as if it was a bracelet. She tightened it until it fitted and tapped the inscribed charm that now lay across the inside of Vixen’s arm. “Now, you have something to take with you. And you have a reason to come back, because Panko will be waiting for his collar!”

She waited expectantly for Vixen to smile. He did not. “Thank you,” he muttered, barely audible. Panko reached back out and placed his paw on the back of Vixen’s hand, mewing.

“They’ll be coming any moment now,” reminded Jonah. He ignored the angry glance that the escort shot him. “You best say goodbye.”

Vixen wrapped his arms around his friend and began to sob.

***

Leon sat in front of his window, using a remote to change between different views programmed into the technical glass. He lingered on the vision of a humid forest, with rainwater dripping from oversized foliage. The volunteer was unfamiliar with the routine of the Games, but he knew enough to be surprised by an early knock on his door.

“Yes,” he replied. He had not slept, but he did not sound tired. The door unlocked and was opened cautiously as if the person behind the intrusion regretted their actions. When it closed, Leon tore himself from his view to see his escort pressed against the wooden barricade. “You come to say goodbye?”

Ayanna stared at the floor. “You’re not from District Two, are you?”

There was no escape. Leon melted into his prepared spiel. “I’m from Ten and-“

“You’re not from Panem,” interrupted Ayanna. She glanced up to judge if she was correct. Leon danced on his hesitation. His mouth still moved through the story although he did not make a sound. Smiling, Ayanna understood she was correct. “You could be dead by tonight. You may as well tell me the truth, so I know what I’m working with.”

Leon looked back to the imitation of a window, listening to the soft rainfall and the call of distant, colourful birds. “How could you tell?”

The escort shrugged. “You didn’t try too hard to hide it.”

The anticipation across the room was palpable. There was no story left to tell except his own. “We sailed into Four accidentally,” admitted Leon, telling the truth in the new language for the first time. “From the South. Could point it out on a map, but your maps are all wrong.”

Taking a seat at Leon’s abandoned dressing table, Ayanna watched the view from his window. She briefly recalled her own teaching, and the humid, uninhabitable weather they were told resided at Panem’s southern shores. “What were you doing sailing?” she asked.

Leon scoffed and turned from the window. “This won’t help with sponsors,” he complained, but he pulled his legs up on the bad and made himself comfortable amongst the pillows. “My home, it’s small. Papa wanted to explore, so he took me and my mama. We lost her a year in. She got sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ayanna.

It had been too long, and in a world too far away to still hurt. Leon shrugged, mumbling a phrase which made no sense to the escort’s jumbled head. She asked for clarification, but none was offered. Her tribute was a jigsaw of mismatched pieces, but they were beginning to fall into place. “Is it like Panem?” she asked. “Your home?”

With a laugh, Leon lay back on his bed. “There is anywhere like Panem?” he mocked. “This competition. No one has this. You have other things. You have flight, with your hovercrafts. We did not have that.”

“But this is why you keep saying you’ll be good,” pushed Ayanna, realised the cockiness of her male tribute came from real skill. “You understand the Games? You know why we have them?”

“To celebrate survival,” replied Leon, as if it was simple. “I can do that, so the Capitol will reward me with whatever I want.”

***

Azure sat in the window with his knees drawn to his chest, looking down at the constellation of twinkling lights in the streets below. There was a comforting hum of sound against the glass, but it was impossible to hear from the penthouse of the Tribute Centre. It was a world away from their silent apartment, where Serenity still slept soundly.

“You should be in your room,” murmured Infinity, exhaustion creeping into her voice through slurred words and a hoarse voice. Her sudden arrival jolted Azure, and he immediately placed both feet on the floor and sat up straight. When he realised it was his escort, he slunk back into himself. “They’ll be coming for you soon.”

“I know,” replied Azure, quietly. His voice was broken, and cold. There was nothing tuneful about him in a morning. “I wanted to see the lights again.”

“You will see them again.” Infinity’s reassurance fell flat, barely making it across the large dining room. Instead of continuing to forge false hope, she took a dining chair and dragged it across the floor to sit near him.

Azure leaned back against the glass in defeat. He had already given in to the thoughts of weapons and survival, knowing his talents lay elsewhere – if he even had any. However, there was one thing he was certain he had. “Miss Infinity,” he asked, quietly. His escort hummed a response. “Do I have a lot of sponsors?”

She nodded. “You do,” she replied. “You’re going to be looked after very well in the arena.”

The space was filled with the distant beat of music. Azure’s dreams of twinkling, silver parachutes were tainted by cornucopias and cannons. It was possible to win on sponsors alone, but he hardly deserved that victory.

“Don’t send me anything,” he ordered, turning back to the window. He watched his escort’s confused expression through the reflection.

“Don’t send you anything?” she repeated. “Azure, that’s what the sponsors are for. They want to spend their money on you.”

The glass was cold. Azure rested his head against it. “I don’t want anything.”

“Azure, I-“

“I don’t!” he interrupted, louder than he anticipated. He looked back at his escort as his face turned red. He stammered. “I’m…I’m sorry, I just…I just…if I win, it’s not fair if it’s because of sponsors so I don’t want anything.”

Infinity was silent for a long time, her eyes twinkling with the distant view of sparkling lights. She considered her tribute’s words carefully before nodding. “I think I understand,” she answered, slowly. “I can’t promise it. The sponsors want to know they are helping. I think, if you absolutely need something…”

 “If I absolutely need something,” Azure clarified, his voice relenting and allowing Infinity to win. “Only if I need it to survive. Nothing else.”

Infinity placed a hand on his shoulder and, surprisingly, Azure leaned into the touch. “Alright,” she promised, reluctantly. “Only if you need it to survive.”

***

Azazel paced circles into the carpet with his socked feet. His bed with twisted, with his covers thrown across the floor. The pillows were stuffed against his door to muffle any noise. His screen was switched off. His curtain was closed. He was completely alone, but he could not stop thinking.

He scratched at the bare skin of his arm, forging angry, red marks. He could be dead in less than a day. He might never see his home again. He might never see his boy again.

Pausing, Azazel tore his hand away from his flesh and began to run his fingers across the plastic coating of his wire bracelet. He refused to take it off. The audience had responded well to it during his interview, and they had embraced his stuttered confession. He pulled his hand away and hid it behind his back, feeling himself begin to pick at the wiring in his panic.

It was likely that District Three considered the whole performance as a last-minute, frantic push for sponsors. Azazel needed them to know he was genuine. He needed them to know that he loved his boy. He needed Tesla to be certain of it.

Frantically, Azazel stumbled to the chest of drawers which sat beside the bed. They were full of gifts from the Capitol: soft clothing, nice perfumes, and other things that Azazel could not name. He looked for something particular, throwing clothing across the floor in his desperate search. Hidden between a pair of thick socks and a cotton training t-shirt, Azazel found the stationary set that was left for him to take notes.

It was still wrapped. Azazel tore through the packaging and ignored the paper. He rustled through the set until he found what he was looking for: a pen.

The idea was not perfect, but it would be enough. Azazel opened the lid and scrawled across the top of the cupboard to test the ink. Then, he carefully wrote the name of his boy across his hand in lettering large enough for a camera to catch: Tesla.

As he finished, there was a knock on her door.

***

Sparkle grinned as she was escorted from her room by an entourage of guards. However, she entered the hovercraft, and her footsteps became hesitant. They echoed across the bare, metal walls. Each seat was empty. The only passenger was a masked woman preparing two large needles to inject their trackers. She was joined by another set of footsteps as Ferro climbed into the craft behind her. He took her hand. Sparkle pulled away.

“Sparkle?” he asked, confused. He tried to grab her hand again, but she hid it in her pocket. “Is everything alright?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, convincingly. As she turned to her ally, she hid any uncertainty with a practiced grin. She bounced from foot to foot. “I’ve never been better. Just excited, that’s all.”

Ferro held his hand as if he was still trying to hold hers. It hovered uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

“You need to grab a weapon at the bloodbath,” said Sparkle. She hid her change of subject by taking a seat in the centre of the craft. “We need to get as many as possible today. I want to take out Thirteen, and I know Epona is trying for the boy from Two.”

“Sparkle,” tried Ferro, cautiously. He took the seat opposite his partner.

“If we can halve the number of tributes today, that would be good. That’ll set us up for a quick Games, and we’ll be in a much better position for when we need to get rid of the others-“

“There’s something wrong with you,” interrupted Ferro.

His partner finally stopped talking. Sparkle bit down on her lip; she was not a good actress. There were muffled orders being given beyond the door, where other tributes were being escorted to the craft. Eventually, Sparkle seized their last moment alone. “There’s one winner, Ferro.”

Ferro did not hesitate in his reassurance. “Not for us,” he replied, with a bright smile that matched a child excitedly giving their friend good news. “We are going to work so well together that they’ll let us both win.”

***

Cove jumped up and down on the balls of his feet, shaking his hands at his side like he did whenever he entered a cold ocean. It was if the freezing water had been thrown over him. His fingers were numb, and he could hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears. He was alone.

“Get on,” barked the Peacekeeper behind him. Cove turned. With his helmet, the guard nodded to the ramp that led into the hovercraft. The wind seemed to blow stronger, whipping Cove’s hair across his face.

“I- I can’t,” he stammered. “My sister’s not here.”

The Peacekeeper gave him a brief shove. “She’s travelling separate. Get on.”

Cove stepped with trepidation, as if the water was murky and he could not see what lurked beneath. The ramp did not buckle beneath him. He was followed, ensuring he could not step backwards. He was left with no choice but to continue the journey and to step through the metal doorway of the hovercraft.

It was bleak inside. The wall, floor and seating were all a cold, grey metal that was unlike anything found within District Four. It smelled strongly of chemical disinfectant which crawled down Cove’s throat. There was a masked figure waiting for him, needle in hand.

“Sit,” ordered the Peacekeeper again, and Cove was left with no choice but to take the final empty seat in the craft. He briefly washed his eyes across the other passengers: among them, he found his allies from District One and Two. They ignored him.

***

Fern did not like seeing her sister as alive and as lucid as she was in the hour before they were escorted to the hovercraft. It was unsettling: suddenly, she was awake and capable of fighting. It was a brief glimpse into the determined tribute she had managed in the arena.

“I will be doing absolutely everything I can,” she said. Sunnie glanced nervously at the lift as she talked, expecting the Peacekeepers. “For both of you, I mean.”

Solar rolled his eyes. Fern jumped in at her partners response. “We know you’re trying,” she replied, hurriedly. She was holding her sister’s arm tightly.

“In the hovercraft, they will stick you with a needle,” Sunnie continued. “That’s just your tracker. I’ll be able to see all of your vital signs, and I’ll be able to find you on a map of the arena. Let them do it – that’s not a fight you need to have today.”

The lift made a sound, announcing its arrival at their floor. Sunnie pulled her sister into a quick, tight hug. “Remember,” she added, trying to fit too much advice into too little time. “Don’t do it. Don’t go into the cornucopia. It’s tempting. I know it is, but it’s going to be a bloodbath. Get out there and try to find food and water yourself. I’ll do the best I can here.”

“We know,” repeated Fern. She was hardly listening, burying her face in her sister’s soft dress. Across the hug, Sunnie met the gaze of her unimpressed male tribute.

“You both had faith in me during my Games,” she said, as the Peacekeepers entered the room. “I have faith in you too.”

***

Acacia did not startle at the knock on his door. He was already prepared, sat on his unused bed and dressed in comfortable clothing. They would change him into something else for the arena, but he wanted to have one last decision.

The door was unlocked. As it opened, he was greeted by a faceless Peacekeeper who brandished a large gun in case he refused. Acacia was too tired to refuse. He pulled himself to his feet and almost went willingly.

Ilara waited in the corridor, escorted by her own guard. She had not styled her hair. When it was not scraped back from her face in a tight bun, she had a softer, friendlier expression that seemed to tremble with worry. She was gnawing at her lip. It was bleeding, and it stained her teeth.

“Good morning,” she managed, although she sounded as bright as a bird who had been run over by a logging truck. She coughed at the end of her sentence when Acacia did not dignify her with a reply, but it seemed too late for pleasantries.

As if they were an army, the two tributes were marched through their empty apartment. Their mentor was nowhere to be seen. Acacia decided that he would already be preparing for the beginning of the Games, although it seemed just as likely that he was buried in a bar somewhere. There was no pause to say goodbye to the brief home or to reflect on the visit. They were marched straight to the lift, which took them straight to the roof.

“Move it,” barked a Peacekeeper, poking Acacia in the back before the lift’s doors had opened. It was enough to cause the branch to snap.

“Can you at least let me have a corpse without bruises?” whined Acacia, which earned him another rough push. The elevator opened into a short corridor which hardly fitted the tribute pair and their entourage. A Peacekeeper opened the door, and Acacia and Ilara were faced with the hovercraft.

***

“Where’s Chanté?” asked Iumenta. She tried to be polite, but her manners stammered when she was escorted by two large, faceless guards. The apartment was empty. The journey was imminent. Her partner was nowhere to be seen.

She was escorted through the empty hallway and to the lift, with neither guard even giving an indication they heard her voice. Trying to find courage, Iumenta tried again. “Where is Chanté?”

“Different craft,” growled a Peacekeeper, voice muffled through the mask. He nudged Iumenta until she stepped into the opening lift. “Can’t fit all you brats in one hovercraft, can we?”

“Oh.”

There was nothing else to say. Iumenta accepted the response. Her partner was gone, which was probably for the best – as the Games began, they were on opposite sides. In fact, the less she saw of him, the better.

Iumenta was escorted to the roof. Waiting in the doorway for her turn to board, she watched the hovercraft containing her partner begin the journey to the arena.

***

In the desperate attempt to comfort his tributes, Sage disobeyed the only instruction given to a mentor on the morning of the Games. He sat with them at the dining table. There was nothing to be said: advice would fall on deaf ears, and any wishes of luck would be laughable.

“Your tributes are to be collected from their rooms,” barked a Peacekeeper, as soon as the guards appeared in the corridor. Alder sunk herself closer to the gentle hold of her mentor at the sight. “Leave them. They must be escorted to the craft.”

Sage did not like speaking. He took a deep breath. “I want to ensure that my tributes have what they are entitled to, before you take them,” he replied, trying not to show the guards that their intimidation was working on him. “You are able to inject the tracker into Inari’s left arm despite the injury, so please do that. He will need his sling so-“

“The sling is not a permitted token,” replied the Peacekeeper, monotone. “He is allowed the cast. That is all.”

Sage shook his head. “But his arm-“

“That is all.”

With a soft smile to honour the attempt, Inari relented. He reached behind his neck and pulled the sling across his head, leaving the material on the table. The cast was lightweight. He was certain he would be familiar with it soon enough. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured, quietly. “It wasn’t going to keep me alive anyway.”

The Peacekeeper looked down at the table with disgust. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” replied Sage. He looked to Alder, who was still staring at the guard with large, fearful eyes. “Alder cannot communicate, so she’ll need a way to talk if you want any entertainment out of her. She can take a notebook and a pen.”

“She can take a token.” The Peacekeeper wore a gun in a holster at his waist, and his hand wandered to it. “That is all.”

“She needs to be able to talk,” Sage stressed, but he fell back as the Peacekeeper stepped forward.

Inari took control of the situation, conducting it with a stroke of independence that he refused to use. He stood without being asked and helped his trembling partner to her feet alongside him. “Where do we need to go?” he asked, quietly.

The Peacekeeper gestured to the lift. “There,” he barked. “Leave the girl. You will be escorted separately.”

Without a response, Inari placed his arm across Alder’s shoulder and steered her to the corridor with him. They were practically thrown into the lift by the escorting guards. Alder panicked and glanced back at her mentor like a rabbit, signing a quick thank you as the door began to close.

Sage held himself back from chasing after them. “Break a leg!” he called, as the lift left the floor.

***

Mercy could hear Eden’s shallow, quick breathing despite the wind across the roof. Her partner’s bravado had faded in favour of stilted steps and clenched fists. It was nothing to do with the hovercraft or the Games – they were escorted by four guards, who each kept a step behind Eden and his reputation.

“I think we’ll be fine,” said Eden, suddenly. His voice lacked his usual power and was barely audible. Mercy glanced to him, and he clarified, “in the arena, I mean. We’ll be alright at this.”

Begrudgingly, Mercy admitted to herself that her partner would be good in the arena. He would flourish away from law and society and expectation. Her own beating heart matched his hyperventilating. “There’s only one winner,” she reminded him, as they drew closer to the hovercraft.

“I know.” Eden crossed his arms tightly across his chest as he walked. “It could be either of us.”

“It could,” agreed Mercy. She refused to fall apart under this weight. She wanted to fight to prove to her father, to her home and to herself that she was capable. Considering her own reasoning, she hesitated before asking, “why are you fighting?”

Eden took his turn to be confused. He looked back with a tilted head, and Mercy clarified, “you have nothing in Thirteen. You have no one to go home to. Why are you trying to win?”

“Spite.”

There was no humour or playfulness in the answer. Mercy could see the spite trembling inside her partner and knew it could power him to victory. Slowly, she stuttered, “if…if I don’t make it back…”

The request was clear. Eden nodded, understanding. “I’m not sure your father will want to talk to me,” he answered, and a faint shadow of his usual mocking nature returning. “I’ll try, though. I’ll tell him you love him.”

Mercy shook her head. “Can you tell him I tried my best?”

“I can,” replied Eden, quickly and without judgement. Then, he cautiously added, “and if I don’t…”

“I’ll tell District Thirteen that you tried too,” interrupted Mercy. They stopped as they reached the bottom of the staircase that led to the hovercraft.

Eden smiled. It was not sarcastic, or smug, or mocking. It was genuine, and as warm and welcome as any friend. He offered an outstretched hand to shake. Mercy took it.

***

Serenity did not take a seat immediately after entering the hovercraft. She looked from side to side, seeing who she was flying with and was pleased to see that she was the last to board. There would be no waiting around; as the stepped into the craft, the door slide closed behind her, and the hum of an engine began to reverberate around the metal.

“Please sit,” instructed a woman. She was not a Peacekeeper. Instead, she wore the white uniform of a Gamemaker apprentice, with a mask across her mouth and a needle in her hand.

“Ah,” exclaimed Serenity, recognising the procedure. She listened to the instruction and took an empty seat beside the door. “My tracker.”

“It is,” confirmed the woman. Without asking permission, she rolled Serenity’s sleeve jacket on her left arm up to her elbow.

Serenity lowered her voice to barely a whisper. It was difficult to hear her above the engine, but the woman was leaning close to her mouth. “If you don’t mind,” she said, and the woman hesitated. “I would like the tracker in my right arm.”

The woman pulled back, and the sleeve fell back across Serenity’s skin. She continued. “It’s just, I favour my left arm when I fight, and I don’t want it to be sore for the beginning.”

“The needle does not cause any harm,” parroted the woman, almost immediately. However, when she reached forward again, she took the sleeve on Serenity’s right arm.

***

There was a hesitant rush when the hovercraft landed. The Peacekeepers ordered the tributes to stand and leave, and they were anxious to obey but not to reach the arena. In the confusion, Flicker took hold of her partner by his arm and made him look at her.

“Flicker,” began Raven, on the edge of a trembling shout. “I don’t think you’re supposed-“

“I’m going to the bloodbath.” Flicker’s interruption was whispered, and the quietest she had spoken since the reaping. It had the desired effect, and Raven was forced to a sudden silence. “I didn’t want you to see it and get confused and all killed and stuff.”

Raven pulled his arm from her grasp, his eyes still fixed to her as the Peacekeepers approached them. “But Clara said-“

“I don’t care what Clara said.” Finally, Flicker broke the unending gaze and looked to the floor. “I don’t think I’m going to do well, but I sure want to take as many down with me as I can.”

“You can’t just give up!”

The Peacekeepers were close, and a moment away of pulling them apart. “I’m not giving up,” answered Flicker, her tone betraying anger at everything: her partner, her world, her situation. “I don’t think anyone else deserves to win either. But look at you – you have a brother to go home to, and I have nothing. I’m willing to go in and take down those Career bastards whilst I’ve still got working limbs, and I’ll go from there.”

Flicker was vicious. Raven did not doubt that she would likely go down screaming and covered in someone else’s blood. He admired that about her, as reluctant as he was to admit it. However, the Peacekeepers were grabbing his arm and dragging him away and there was no time to explain that to his partner. Instead, he pulled to look over his shoulder and offered a quick, “I hope it works out for you.”

***

The scent of fresh paint was overwhelming. Saori pushed the nausea away as he nursed a glass of water. His stylist painstakingly unpacked the parcel of clothing that he was expected to change into, laying each piece out carefully on the metal table.

“The shirt is cotton,” she commented, holding it up against her own body as if she was wearing it. The muted, orange colour did not suit her dyed-blue skin. However, Saori understood that it was not a choice of fashion: much like the ‘six’ embroidered on each arm, the colour simply denoted who he was. He was not allowed to be himself in the arena. Instead, he was his home.

“What does cotton mean?” he asked, before finishing his drink. He wanted to pull as much of the arena out as he could before he arrived there. “Warm, right?”

“It could go either way,” The stylist placed it down on the table, before fishing a shiny black material from the paper. “Cotton is good in hot weather, but you’ve got a heavy jacket here. Waterproof, too. I’d expect cold nights and a lot of rain.”

“Great.” Saori placed his glass on the floor. “I can’t wait.”

There was no hesitation in stripping his clothes off around the stylist. After the preparation before each ceremony event, Saori was fairly certain that he had been seen without clothing more than he had been seen with. The provided trousers fit tightly but still provided movement necessary to run and climb. Saori was hopeful for trees.

“Here,” offered the stylist, holding the jacket out to help Saori put it on. He politely accepted her help, although he zipped up the jacket himself. It would likely be too warm, but he did not want any resistance if he was going to run for the horn.

He turned back to the strange woman. “How do I look?” he asked, monotone.

Surprisingly, the stylist’s eyes were misted with newfound tears. She reached a hand up to her face and began to chew on a perfectly manicured nail. “Like your brother,” she replied, her voice breaking in the strange emotion that Capitol people liked to display. If anyone had the right to sob, it was Saori. He forced himself not to scowl at the display.

“Really,” he managed, in response.

The stylist nodded. “I styled him too, you know,” she explained. “Wonderful boy. Very bright. You’re like him.”

What was the expected response? Saori was not certain. He wanted to focus on the arena and the fight that lay before him, but he was entangled in the intricacies of socialisation. “Thank you,” was his safe response, but the stylist continued.

“It’s not fair, you know. We might lose both of you.”

Saori paused, glancing to the clear tube that he knew was his passage to the arena. He did not need to enter it yet. He had time to consider the strange creature in front of him: a woman who participated in the whole gruesome show, and yet was beginning to think it was not worth it. There was nothing he could do about it in the catacombs in the arena, but he knew he would be thinking about it. “It’s not fair,” he confirmed, as he turned his back on the tube.

***

Isabel enjoyed the feeling of her hair being braided. She did not remember her mother in any sort of image, but she had a distant memory of an older woman braiding what little hair she had at the age of three. At the home, she and Kinnie would braid each other’s hair before going to bed so that they would be pretty when they awoke.

Her stylist had soft hands, which moved in deft, quick motions. She created two simple braids as if they were art, beginning at the top of Isabel’s head and working as they fell to her back. When she finished, she tied each one with a simple, plastic tie. “It will stay through anything,” Julia reassured, giving Isabel a squeeze on the shoulder that was slightly reassuring. Isabel was focusing on breathing, trying to catch each breath she tried to take. “These elastics, they’re especially for this kind of thing. I do find them boring, though…”

Julia trailed away, leaving Isabel’s staggered, short breaths as the only sound in the room. She dug through her pocket and made a soft sound of approval when she found what she was looking for. Then, she held them out to Isabel.

Isabel twisted on the floor to glance at the gift. In her hand, Julia held two elaborate hair ties in a soft pink. Each was decorated with an elaborate rose, with petals so realistic that the young girl reached out to feel them. She was disappointed to be met with fabric.

“Every single girl,” explained Julia, in a soft voice, “deserves flowers. You all deserve to feel pretty, even in the hardest times.”

She took one of Isabel’s braids and brought it to the front, securing the blooming rose at the base of her dark hair. It was bright against the uniform, the focus against the dull black.

“You promised me you’d bring me flowers,” managed Isabel, voice trembling.

Julia smiled. It reminded Isabel of her House Mother, and the way she would offer a sympathetic smile if you complained of an ailment or a concern at school. “I keep my promises,” reassured Julia, and she affixed the second rose into Isabel’s hair. “There. Beautiful flowers, for a beautiful girl.”

Isabel took the flower in her hand, looking down at it. “In District Three, we put flowers on graves.”

“Not in the Capitol.” Julia twitched Isabel’s light jacket into place, before rolling up the sleeve. Isabel’s token – her friend’s pink ribbon – was lying on a table nearby, and Julia finished by tying it around her tribute’s wrist. “Here, we give flowers as a sign of a congratulations, or a sign of hope. They are for the living, which is what I hope you will be.”

Standing, Julia pulled her young charge into her arms and placed a kiss on the top of her braids.

***

“I do wish they would give you something more fashionable in the arena,” lamented Brianha, shaking her head at the loose, steel-grey t-shirt that hid Sennen’s figure. “You’re so beautiful, and they’re not even letting you show it off! I dread to think what some of our less gifted tributes are going to look like.”

Sennen was silent. She did not mind the clothing; like her wardrobe in District Four, it seemed to be built for comfort and practicality rather than the concept of fashion. She desperately wanted something to tie her hair into a braid or bun, but it was not provided. “Wonder what your son is wearing,” she murmured, in a back-handed attempt to force her exhausting stylist to be quiet.

It did not work. “Oh, he’ll look fine in whatever,” she replied, waving the comment away. “I do enjoy the matching colours, at least. It’s like your own little uniform! And you and your brother are going to match so beautifully. We won’t be able to separate you, just like I wanted.”

“Brilliant.” Sennen attempted politeness, but she was unable to stop the wave of sarcasm which crashed over it. Brianha, unfortunately, noticed.

“Oh?” she questioned, her false eyelashes widening her eyes more than Sennen believed possible. “Are you not allying with your brother?”

“No.”

There was a bitterness in her voice. Again, her stylist noticed it before shaking it off with a laugh. “That’s a shame, after all my hard work. Well, you’ll do just fine on your own, I suppose.”

Sennen found herself craving the opportunity to explain herself. She clenched her fists and unclenched them, desperate to feel tension that did not come from her head or her chest. Her stylist, for all her frivolity, seemed to care so little about the Games that she barely registered she was working with a tribute.

In the pocket of her dress, Brianha found a small, handheld mirror. She briefly held it up to her tribute, which allowed Sennen to see the colour drained from her face and the tension in her jaw. Then, she used it to retouch her lipstick with a gel from a strange-shaped tube and did not speak to her tribute again.

***

“I’m going to find Satin as soon as it begins,” announced Lucet, his voice echoing around the mostly empty room. It still smelled of sawdust and wet paint. In the corner, his stylist was sat on a folding chair and reading something from a screen on her wrist. She did not seem to hear him. He did not care. Lucet was speaking his plan aloud for himself. “I’m going to run as fast as I can and get something with water. I might get a knife.”

He bounced as he spoke, shaking his hands at his side. There was a chair for him. He refused to use it. Lucet was a bundle of nervous energy that would only spill through pacing and movement. He shook his head, his longer hair falling across his face. “I could get a knife,” he repeated, playing with his intonation. “I might need to get something else. I’ll grab whatever is nearest. If I can use it, I mean.”

“Sounds good to me, honey,” murmured the stylist, in a lazy drawl.

Lucet carefully judged his movement. He kept his back to the tube at all times and pretended that it was not in the room with him. “Then, I’m going to run,” he decided. “After Satin, if I can find her. I hope the arena is nice. I hope it doesn’t need me to swim. I can’t swim.”

Finally, the stylist looked up from her watch. “There is nothing in that outfit that suggests they’re sending you for a swim, baby.”

“Good.” Lucet almost sounded confident.

***

“Would you like something to eat?” offered the deep voice of a stylist. Chanté shook his head violently in response, before regretting the sudden movement and groaning below his breath.

His stomach was churning, beginning to feel like the dairy workers making butter. He had not eaten dinner. He had not stomached breakfast. He had finished a glass of water after his brief conversation with Iumenta in the middle of the night, before promptly throwing it up in his luxurious bathroom. If it did not change, he would be starving to death before he even entered the arena.

Managing to show a brief flash of concern, his stylist placed a sudden hand across his forehead. The cold felt nice, and Chanté leaned into it. The stylist held it there as he counted to ten, before removing it and wiping his hand on his jacket. “You’re warm, but nothing concerning,” he commented. He pulled on Chanté’s jacket. “You might want to take this off as soon as you get a chance in the arena. We don’t want you burning up if it’s too warm in there.”

“Thanks,” muttered Chanté. His mouth filled with saliva at the effort, and he desperately forced whatever left in his stomach to stay there.

The stylist shook his head. His green hair fell across his face. “It could be the consequence of not having a proper, nutritional diet,” he scolded. Then, his face softened. “Or you could just be nervous, I suppose.”

Chanté wrapped his hands tighter across his stomach. “I wonder why I might be nervous,” he managed. The stylist completely missed – or purposefully ignored – the sarcastic tone.

“I’d put my effort into getting something from the horn, or relying on a sponsor if you have any. You’re going to need to eat something simple, like bread or a soup. I wonder if they’ll have any of that in the arena this year.”

Chanté did not have the energy to wonder. He leaned forward to stop the cramping in his stomach and groaned into the soft fabric of his trousers.

***

Dakota did not remember the name of her stylist. She could not pick him out in a crowd. She knew nothing about him. However, she threw her arms around him when he produced a hipflask from the inner pocket of his silver jacket.

“I’m not supposed to be doing this,” he warned, unscrewing the lid, and handing it to his tribute. She grabbed it with both hands and lifted it to her mouth, not thinking to check what was inside. “It’s nothing strong. I don’t want to upset all the work you did this week, because going through that withdrawal again in the arena would be the worst thing I can imagine.”

Dakota finished the flask in three mouthfuls, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The waterproof material of her jacket did nothing but smear the clear liquid across her face. She reached down for her t-shirt instead, pulling the black cotton to her face. It took the edge off: the familiar burning in her throat was enough to begin a buzz, and she was certain that her hands stopped trembling. “Thanks,” she offered, voice hoarse.

“Don’t mention it,” replied the stylist, gruffly. He meant it: he did not want anyone to know he had offered, but he did not want to be facing his tribute alone and before the Games if she was not placated by alcohol.

Dakota was not violent, but she was shivering despite the jacket. There was a chair which they were ignoring, and her stylist stole a blanket which was draped across its back and placed it around her shoulders instead. She clasped at it and pulled it tighter. “You can’t take it with you,” he warned, and Dakota nodded. She knew.

It was if there was no arena above them. Dakota showed no sign of urgency. She did not accept food, or water. Her hand still trembled as she licked at her lips, trying to lap up the remaining liquor which sat on the cracked surface. Eventually, she collapsed into the chair and curled up underneath the blanket. It was as if she was a child about to fall asleep, rather than a tribute about to enter a fight to the death.

He wanted her to win, for some reason. “Look,” he began, unsure if Dakota was even listening to him. “You need to get a grip, especially if you want to last longer than a few minutes.”

Dakota nodded again. It was obvious that she was not listening.

***

Epona was particular in how she dressed. She stood behind a screen to change and folded her clothes neatly to be handed back to her stylist. Her cotton t-shirt was tucked in. Her trousers were belted as tight as would be comfortable. She fastened her jacket immediately. Then, she stepped from her brief privacy and spoke directly to her stylist.

“I would like to tie my hair back,” she asked, particularly.

Her stylist gestured to the empty parcel. “There was nothing provided, I’m afraid,” he apologised, but it did not sound as if he was slightly sorry. He practically laughed as he offered a shrug and an empty hand. “I’m certain that the audience will want to see you with that beautiful hair of yours. It’s curly, too. You’ll be a pretty picture on the screen.”

“I do not wish to be a pretty picture,” replied Epona. She spat the comment as if it was venomous, and the grin faded from her stylist’s face. “I wish to tie my hair back. I’m certain you’ll have what I need.”

Hesitantly, the stylist dug into the pocket of his tight, reflective trousers and retrieved two black hair ties. “I’ll style it for you,” he stated.

Epona replied by taking a single tie from his hand and scraping her hair back into a tight ponytail. It pulled her face back and gave her a severe expression, but she did relax with her hair tied away from her face. “Thank you.”

Glancing to the tube, Epona began to pace. She was not nervous; she was tired of waiting. It did not take long to prepare for an arena. She wanted the countdown to begin.

“You’re so calm,” the stylist spluttered into the silence, hesitantly explaining his reasoning when the volunteer stopped to stare at him. “For a tribute, I mean. I’ve been stylist for far too long and normally, it’s all panic down here.”

There was a rare expression from Epona: confusion. “Why would I need to panic?”

***

Amity pulled at her jacket in dismay. There was no pretty fabric or flowing dresses in her arena. Her hair, tied into a braid which had become a signature, seemed flat and limp.

“Chin up,” warned her stylist. The strange woman, with blue hair and skin flecked silver, was far too cheerful for the beginning of the Games. “You’re still your same, beautiful self. We just need to be a bit practical today!”

Amity scowled. This did not feel practical. The shirt felt too tight, pulling across her chest and emphasising what was there in a way that did not feel suited to a fight to the death. The trousers, at least, were tight fitting to prevent getting caught in anything.

The stylist tutted. “That expression is not doing anything for you. Come on, Amity. You don’t have to smile your way into the arena but I’m sure we could manage fierce!”

The silver woman mimicked an expression she thought would be appropriate. She bared her filed teeth, flashing the gems which were embedded into the enamel. They caught at her lip like the sneer of a tiger. To punctuate the look, she growled. Then, she broke back into her familiar, overly cheerful grin. “There. You try!”

To humour her, Amity did try. It would not hurt to be seen as menacing after being the twirling girl in pretty fabric. She did not have pointed teeth to bare. Instead, she furrowed her brow and tried to look knowing – as if she had a plan, when she did not.

The stylist clapped. It was an enthusiastic clap, where her hands were fixed to her chest and her arms barely moved. “That’s it!” she cheered, practically jumping up and down on the spot. “The arena is so much about looks. I think you could win this!”

***

Unable to remain still, Solar bounced on the balls of his feet as if he was about to run a race. He was, technically. However, if he lost then he was dead.

“Do you want a drink?” asked his stylist, but there was no sympathy in his voice. The understated man in his black unitard and heavy eyeliner seemed more annoyed, being dragged from his sketching by an inconvenient, anxious boy.

Solar shook his head – he had already drunk as much as he could that morning. He tried to stop moving. Somehow, he felt an ounce of sympathy for the man who was trying to sketch. He did not want sympathy from the Capitol anyway. If they were truly sympathetic, they would stop everything and let him go back to his home, and to his brother.

The stylist managed a handful of short, sharp strokes with his pencil before he looked back up from his sketchbook, peering at Solar as if he was an animal at a pleasure park. “You know,” he tried, finally managing a semblance of sympathy, “it might help if you try to think of a goal, or a place you want.”

Finally, Solar snapped still. “A place I want?” he repeated, incredulous when the stylist nodded. “I want first. I want to be the victor.”

“I know, honey, but there’s only going to be one victor. If you pick another place it might be more realistic-“

Solar interrupted, “the other places are dead.”

There was a gentle croon, as if the stylist was watching a puppy try to get a stick through a doorway which was too small. “I get that,” he continued, but he did not – people from the Capitol rarely did. “If you pick something achievable, you can die happy when you get there! Let’s see – why not aim for third?”

“I’m not aiming for third,” spat Solar. Somehow, the bloodbath at the cornucopia was beginning to seem preferable to the conversation. “I’m going to win.”

***

There seemed to be no oxygen in the room. Ilara gasped, her head spinning. Her chest hurt as she tried to take in air, but none seemed to fill her lungs. She tried again, quicker. When breathing through her nose did not work, she began to try with her mouth. Quickly, the small room became filled with her desperate attempt at getting air.

The smell of fresh paint burnt at her throat. The room began to spin. Her heart was pounding in her chest and threating to escape, unable to handle what was happening to her. Suddenly, she felt a tight grasp on her shoulder.

“Oh, honey,” cried her stylist, the voice forging its way through the panic. Ilara felt herself be shook gently, but it did nothing to help. “Come and sit. You need to breathe!”

Ilara felt herself forced into a metal folding chair. From there, her head was pushed between her knees. The tightness in her chest was made worse by the position, and she began to gulp desperately as the breathing was replaced by sobbing. The stylist rubbed comforting circles on her back. “There we go,” she crooned, barely audible over Ilara’s desperation. “Oh, you were so confident at the interview last night. What’s brought this on, eh?”

Even if she had an answer, Ilara would not have been able to give it. She pushed herself back up, sinking into the chair and covering her face from the flickering, fluorescent lights. There were tears beginning to stream down her face. Her chest ached with her effort. She found her nails digging into her skin, leaving angry red marks.

She could not breathe.

***

A clear, mechanical voice announced that it was time to step onto the pedestal. Eden’s breath caught in his throat at the warning. He disguised it with a carefully placed cough. “I guess this is it,” he said, trying to spur a smile through his anxious energy.

Faustus stepped forward, hovering his hands to ask for permission before touching his tribute. Eden nodded, and his stylist began to readjust the tribute uniform on Eden’s small shoulders. He twisted the left sleeve, so that the ‘thirteen’ was clearly visible.

“You don’t strike me as a tribute from Thirteen,” he muttered, tracing the number with his forefinger. Then, Faustus took his tribute in a steady hold on both shoulders. “You’re very unlike any tribute I’ve styled before, Eden. You have more to you.”

“I wonder what that could be,” he answered. Eden tried to hold his stylist’s gaze, but his eyes slowly slipped to the floor.

“I’m serious.” Faustus shook him gently. “We may disagree on…many, many aspects of our civilisation, but I’ve come to like you. I’d like to see you do well.”

The mechanical voice began again, giving Eden thirty seconds until he needed to be prepared. Faustus let go of his shoulders and picked the light, black jacket from a chair. He held Eden put it on, avoiding the sore scratches on his arms from his old handcuffs. “I’ll do my best,” reassured Eden. He tried to step to the pedestal, but Faustus still grabbed his arm.

“I know the Capitol…they might not seem the best to you, considering your current predicament,” he stressed, “but they will look after you if you win, and I would like to see that happen.”

Eden hesitated. The mechanical voice rang through the room again. He did not trust the Capitol. He did not trust the Peacekeepers. He did not trust anyone, but Faustus had been nothing but reasonable to him. Eden pulled himself away from his hold with a quickly murmured, “I’ll try.”

***

Satin stepped onto the metal podium with an air of confidence, clawed from desperation. She turned to face her stylist. “Thank you,” she said, finding the specific voice she had managed at the reaping.

Her stylist smiled in response. “You’re going to do great,” she replied, clasping her hands at her chest. “Cotton has prepared you so well for this. I can’t wait to be styling a victor next year!”

There was a whisper as the tube slid closed. Satin followed the enclosure closely, as it fell from the ceiling and locked into place at the floor with a quiet click. Suddenly, the air in the space felt stale and claustrophobic. She stumbled as the pedestal began to move.

Satin closed her eyes. She counted to five, taking a slow inhale and exhale on each number. Then, she recalled her brief training. Opening her eyes, she looked straight up into the sky and let the shining sun burn through the darkness.

At first, her eyes watered. She blinked away the sudden moisture and distantly, she hoped they would not be read as tears by the Capitol’s cameras. Then, the arena began to swim into view. Her small entrance into the unfamiliar world grew bigger as she grew closer. She could make out the distant clouds that began to obscure the sun. At a certain angle, there were creeping branches silhouetted across the sky.

Turning her head, Satin realised more came into view. She narrowed her eyes: it seemed as if twisting train tracks were dancing across the sky, disappearing into a distance she could not see.

She would have that advantage. She would be used to the light, and able to see the arena immediately. There would be other tributes without that luxury. Satin crouched as the podium reached the ground. It clicked into place with a small jolt, and Satin stood fully when there was no more risk of her falling onto the landmines which littered the ground.

Briefly, her predictions of the arena flashed through her mind. This was not a filthy landfill, or a petrol-soaked train yard. It was nothing which had been mentioned in any discussion. To her right, a black-haired boy was holding his hand above his eyes as he squinted in the sun. To her right, there was a girl with a blonde braid readying herself to run forward as the timer began to count down.

Satin steadied herself. She glanced around her. In front of her, the Games would begin.

Chapter Text

[32] Bloodbath

Sennen did not trust time. It sped through every moment she wanted to savour but dragged like syrup when she was uncomfortable. It stopped completely during danger, like when she was caught in a strong riptide and trying desperately to keep her head above water. In the arena, it was lightning fast. She felt each heavy second tick away at the same rhythm as her pounding heart.

She inhaled the fresh, pine-scented air as if she was drowning in her glass tube. It was cold, and it burned her throat with an acidic touch that she could not identify. There was a sweetness too, as if someone had burned sugar. There was no salty taste of an ocean, or the decaying smell of seaweed. There was nothing familiar at all.

Squinting, Sennen placed a hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright horizon. The metal plate beneath her feet clicked into position with a jolt, and she readjusted her footing so as to steady herself. The sun settled into speckled beams. The countdown began in a deep voice. Sennen began to identify shape, and then colour, and then the arena which stretched out in front of her.

The gilded horn sat in a paved clearing, calling tributes to its trap with tempting treasures. Behind it, there was a forest which stretched to the sky. The tall trees were decorated with vibrant moss, climbing icy and a lace of thick, trawling vines. There were huge, looping train tracks darting above the foliage.

Sennen shook her head quickly, trying to clear it of thought. There was no opportunity to ponder a railway in the sky. There were forty seconds left, and she was readying her feet to run. Her panicked eyes scanned the ground in front of her to find anything she could use to survive.

Beside the cornucopia, there was a bouquet of tridents strung together with netting. They grew from the cracked paving as if they had been planted. Sennen wanted them. She needed them. Trembling, she gasped on air as if she was a freshly caught fish.

Did she have competition? Sennen tore her eyes from the weaponry to glance to her left. The small boy from Seven was looking between a survival pack abandoned by his feet, and rugged red box waiting beside the horn. Then, Sennen looked to her right and her nervous anticipation swelled into sheer, cold dread.

Her heart stuttered, missing a beat. Cove was beside her, wide-eyed and shaking. He tried to survey the stretch in front of him but took nothing in. He did not even acknowledge her as his head swung from side to side.

Her brother was not competition. Sennen tried to push the thought to the back of her mind as she did not even want to consider her brother as competition in the Games, but she knew she was safe. She was the faster twin; her path to the tridents would be clear.

Cove noticed his sister shortly after she noticed him. He met her eye with the same trepidation he had worn on the reaping morning. With thirty seconds remaining, Sennen pulled herself from her twin and prepared to run.

***

There was a steady, rhythmic sound which vibrated across the paved floor. Alder was certain that it was the voice which counted down each second, but she did not know how long was left. The projected timer was on the opposite side of the golden horn. She was left to guess.

Her partner was almost opposite. Inari was slightly offset, which allowed Alder to see him clearly beyond the cornucopia. She fixed herself on him. She watched as he grinned at the familiar forest arena. She would not hear the gong. Instead, she would run when he did.

There could not be long left. Inari still did not seem rushed. Alder mimicked him as he surveyed the surrounding space, but she could not see beyond the thick forest. There were birds, at least. Their swooping shapes danced across the sky, and some perched on distant metal scaffolding which glinted in the sun. Alder decided they would be a good indicator of a cannon, if she lived long enough to see one.

Inari stopped staring into the trees. He turned to the horn, tucking his broken arm into the opening of his jacket. Alder mimicked his stance but when her partner charged forward, she turned and ran into the trees.

***

As the gong rang out, Leon leaped from his plate and landed on the cracked, white stone. He kicked up dust as he broke into a run. Around him, the other tributes surged forward like an unstoppable rockslide. He did not waste energy in watching them; he knew they were all moving to the same destination as him.

He could not stop. Leon pushed himself forward until his chest burned with the effort and his legs screamed in protest. It had been a long time since he had run but there was power in desperation, and he was desperate. There were people who wanted him dead, and he wanted them to know that he was a threat.

The reward for his effort was greater as he grew closer to the horn. As his feet skidded across the ground, Leon caught himself with his hands on the stone. He threw himself into the mouth of the cornucopia and whipped his head from side to side, looking. He was first. He grinned.

There was loud, rambunctious shouting as others came nearer. With no opportunity to gloat, Leon tore himself from his competition and scanned across the scattered supplies. He grabbed a backpack immediately – bright yellow, which he deemed unfortunate – and wrestled it over his shoulders.

Leon picked his way through the horn. It was full of impractical crates and barrels, all of which needed to be pried open. They blocked his search and his exit as pounding footsteps grew closer. Beyond the metal, an angered shout was accompanied by a shrill scream.

He found his reward. At the back of the horn, a metal weapon rack was hiding. A carefully crafted bow waited patiently for him, whilst a full quiver of arrows sat beside a box. It was a gift. It was an agreement between himself and the Gamemakers that he was to entertain the audience. He accepted their challenge.

However, the entertainment could wait. Leon used the shelter of the horn to claim his weapon. He loaded the bow with an arrow before slinging the quiver alongside his backpack. It was a useful defence – and an unspoken threat – as he jumped over a low crate to escape the cornucopia. He pushed through pain to keep his speed and begin the run into the forest. There were people who wanted him dead, and he was not going to make it easy for him.

***

Ferro growled. He pushed a crate out of his path with a kick of his foot. It caught the metal ledge of the cornucopia and tipped, scattering apples across the ground. He had found the traitor from Two before the gong but in the growing melee, he had lost him. There was no chance the boy reached the horn first, so where was he?

He raised his fist in defence as a figure appeared around the side of the horn but lowered it as he recognised his partner. Sparkle was catching her breath, leaning down to the ground to secure an axe in her hand. “They knew I was a threat, so they hid me around back,” she shouted, barely audible across the fighting and fear of the twenty-six other tributes around them. She nodded across the horn, pointing her partner to a large sword strung on a rack inside. “Grab that, and let’s go. I want Thirteen.”

“I was looking for Two,” yelled Ferro, as he jumped across spilled apples and pulled the sword from the metal wall. It was incredibly similar to his choice of weapon during training, and he tossed it from hand to hand to get a feel for the blade.

“Forget him,” replied Sparkle. Her voice was growing distant. “Epona’s probably found him. Just get as many as you can.”

The fighting was turning feral, as desperate tributes fought with tooth and nail before they found a weapon. Reluctantly, Ferro forgot his traitor.

He caught sight of a young girl, with a mass of black hair trailing behind her as she finished her run to the horn. There was a vicious glint in her eye as she looked for a weapon, although Ferro was certain she would not be able to wield it – judging by the embroidery on her jacket, she came from Twelve.

She would be enough.

When Ferro approached her with solid steps, she hissed like a feral cat. “Get off!” she yelled, punctuating the shout with curses that could barely be heard over the clashing of metal and shouts of combat. She stepped back and stumbled over an unopened sack, falling on her lower back. Her hand found a wooden staff on the floor as she scrambled to regain her footing.

Ferro swung his sword from his shoulder, but it was easily blocked by her newfound weapon. The girl stopped his attack once, twice, three times before she was fully pressed against the outside metal of the cornucopia. She tried to reach out and catch him in the stomach, but Ferro simply stepped aside.

Bored, he jumped on her ankle and revelled in her hoarse cry of pain. “Get off yourself,” he shouted back. The pain was surprise, allowing him to kick the staff from her hand. The girl’s shout echoed across the golden metal and above the sound of war and was suddenly cut off as Ferro’s sword cut through the skin of her chest.

***

Biting his tongue, Raven focused on the sudden taste of copper in his mouth. The distraction stopped the churning of his stomach as he stepped back, crouching in the dust and watching the scene in front of him play as if on a screen.

Flicker was dead. There was nothing he could do for her.

The brute from One pulled his sword from her chest and twirled it in the air, the blood dripping down on to the hilt. Flicker coughed and the same red liquid trailed down her chin, staining her lips. The sword was pushed back into her stomach.

Raven edged backwards in stiff, fearful movements. He pushed himself beside a crate and peered out, wide-eyed like a rabbit in the meadow. Flicker was still. Her body, still scowling, sat in a growing pool of blood which flooded from her wounds. It spread, staining packs and sacks of food that had not yet been claimed. The tribute who was responsible pulled his sword from her stomach and cleaned it on his own jacket.

Desperate, Raven pulled himself from view and pressed his back against the crate he was using as shelter. He stood no chance against a blade the length of his own arm, or a boy who knew how to wield it. In the white stone beneath him, he saw the scene play again and again with himself as the victim.

It was interrupted by a knife. The weapon skidded across the paving as if thrown, pulling Raven from his own mind. He still had the instinct to grab it before daring to look for the source.

Thirteen – Eden – was stood on an upturned barrel in front of him. His pale face was already splattered with blood, but it was not his own, and he looked sympathetic rather than competitive. There was no opportunity for comforting confirmation: Eden nodded to the corpse of Raven’s partner, and Raven acknowledged it with a shrug.

Suddenly, Eden was pulled away by a shout. He held a large knife which he waved as he jumped down, skirting across the front of her horn as an axe-wielding girl shouted after him. The fight was a brief distraction, but Raven knew it would not last. He did not wait. He ran.

***

The victorious grin fell from Sparkle’s face as her target disappeared into the fighting crowd. Her jacket was already damp with blood, but she was not responsible. “Thirteen!” she yelled, shrill. Her target did not appear. “Come here, Thirteen. Fight me like an equal!”

The wild-eyed boy with his sharp retorts was nowhere to be seen. Sparkle was wasting her time trekking bloodied footprints around the horn in search of him. Ferro called to her, but she pretended not to hear. She could not reach the first cannon without a kill of her own.

The cornucopia drew prey to it, turning them into easy targets as they stopped to gather food and supplies. Sparkle tucked the handle of her small axe into her belt. She wanted something more delicate.

In the chaos, the weaponry rack inside the cornucopia had been knocked over. Its gifts spilled from the mouth, offering an easy decision to any tribute brave enough to make it. Sparkle kicked a spear from the pile with her foot and crouched carefully to take it. With it in her hand, she had her pick of the fish in a barrel waiting to be shot.

There was a tribute rooting through a crate that he had wrenched open with a metal bar. He would check over each shoulder quickly as he searched, filling a red pack with the supplies he was finding. Sparkle did not mind him as her first target – he seemed bright, although his uniform labelled him as only being from District Eight.

The crowd was beginning to thin. The fearful tributes were taking off into the thick trees as soon as they had scavenged something from the edge. The others were scattering at the reality of combat or trying to hide amongst the mess. Sparkle was thankful. It gave her a clear shot.

She was too close to throw, if she thought about it. It would have been more effective to push forward and impale the spearhead through his chest or his back. However, there was an audience, and they deserved a show for her first kill. Sparkle aimed with practice and launched the spear with the full force of her right arm.

The boy looked up sooner than she anticipated, and his eyes widened like a lost deer when he saw her. She watched as he went to leave his crate, but it was too late. The spear forced its way through the side and straight into his chest.

He glanced down. He was not focused; he hardly took in the weapon impaled through his flesh as the colour drained from his face. He was still clutching the side of the crate. It steadied him as his knees buckled, throwing him against the splintered wood.

Sparkle pulled him away and let him fall to the floor. He landed on the spear which pushed back, allowing her to place both hands around the wooden handle. “I’ll be needing this,” she said, wrenching the spear from the small boy’s body. He was beyond hearing her, but the Capitol would be listening intently.

***

Chanté remained on his metal plate, hovering between running forward and running away. There was blood. He could smell death. There was a desperate fight in front of him, between people he no longer recognised.

The girl – a flurry of dark hair – kicked out with her boot and caught her attacker in his face, hard. It stunned him, and he stumbled back as he grabbed at his face. His nose began to stream with blood.

It was an injury. Chanté could help with an injury. It would need ice to reduce the swelling, and the boy would need to tip his head forward so as not to choke on the blood and-

Chanté stepped back. He could not help anyone. If he entered the melee, he became a player and needed to follow the rules. He could not do that. He could not kill. Chanté turned and ran into the trees.

***

Blood flooded Solar’s mouth, filling every space and brushing at his throat until he gagged. He could not be sick. He needed to watch. He needed to be ready to run. He needed to get his own back on that damn girl.

She was in the horn. Solar had been stunned by her kick but not blinded. She used her violent advantage to keep searching. He could see her, with a new backpack warn across only one shoulder as she rooted through the chaos for something else.

Solar did not think. He forgot it was a competition, or that his brother was watching. He moved under the influence of desperation.

Spitting the blood from his mouth to the floor, he stepped forward into the horn. His feet stuck to the floor, but Solar did not look down – his entire face was overcome by a dull ache, and he did not want to aggravate it. Hoping nothing was broken, he pushed behind the girl using the combat outside to cover his footsteps.

Solar grabbed the strap that was left. He wrenched it to him, pulling the girl backward. As she stumbled, he placed a kick at the back of her knee, so it buckled and threw her into the blood on the floor. The backpack was left in his hand, torn but serviceable. Solar took it and ran.

***

Mercy screamed. It did nothing. The boy still had her bag, and he was still running away from her. She could hear her father shouting at her to prioritise: if she focused on revenge, she would miss her opportunity for any supplies at all.

She placed her hand down to help her stand, before quickly pulling it back to her chest as it sunk into a warm liquid. She recognised blood. Breathing in shallow gasps, Mercy tried to show that it did not bother her as she pulled herself up using a crate instead.

In the horn, the provided supplies were inconvenient. Mercy sifted through open crates carefully, wary of what she might find in them. There was food, and water, and technology she did not recognise but nothing to carry it. She needed a pack, or a basket, or her usual prepared military rations filled with self-heating meals and hard, nutrition biscuits.

Mercy reminded herself that she was not a coward, and then hesitated until the reminder was drilled deep enough to disguise it. She edged to the mouth of the cornucopia and waited in the offered shadow, glancing left to right to see if the combat reached her. There was a gurgled scream to the side, but the combat was mainly concentrated in other spaces, leaving a clear path to the forest.

In the path, there was an overlooked bag. Mercy’s trained eyes spotted it against its backdrop of foliage, the speckled khaki hiding it well against bushes and leaves. She could run, steal it on the way, and still show Panem she was not a disappointment.

***

Satin wanted to hesitate. The air was thick with an acidic copper, and her head was filled with shouting. She forced herself forward to claw for whatever was left at the horn.

There was a scythe balanced against a barrel. It became her target. It was not her weapon of choice, but it was a weapon that was clearly in her sights. When it was in her hands, she would be in a far better position.

Her feet pounded across the paving. Satin was nearly there. The blade was almost within reach. There was no one else around to take it, and –

Suddenly, Satin was not alone.

There was another girl. Her blonde braid streamed behind her as she ran for the weapon, slowing as she glanced around in panic. Her eyes widened as they fell on Satin, and she began to push forward.

The burn of adrenaline forced Satin to keep running, but there was no speed left in her. The girl reached the scythe first. She wrapped her hand around the wooden shaft and desperately tried to pull it from the ground.

Satin slowed. She noticed something that the other tribute missed: the scythe’s handle was embedded deep in a crack in a paving stone.

The girl became frantic. She pulled harder but did not change anything in her motion. Satin returned to a run and pushed into her competition at full speed, pulling them both to the ground. The girl attempted to fight back with strong muscles and sharp nails. Satin was quick to return to her feet but was pulled back by her hair, landing on the stone ground.

She kicked out. Her only indication of contact was a sharp cry of pain. Satin sat up on her knees and gripped the scythe, twisting the handle free from the dirt. She used its length to pull herself back to her feet.

“Give it back!” yelled the girl, with the volume and violence of true desperation. Satin refused, wrenching it from the girl’s hands by placing a hard foot on her chest. She swung the scythe as a warning, forcing her competition to back against the cold metal of the horn. “Give it back! I need it!”

The girl was at the brink of sobbing. Her voice was high-pitched and unsteady as she screamed for the weapon she thought belonged to her. Satin closed her eyes.

This was the arena. There was nothing else she could do.

Satin pushed the scythe forward until the sharp, curved blade bit into the flesh of the girl’s neck. The girl took the weapon with both hands. Instead of pushing it away, she tried to pull it closer. Satin let the metal cut across the girl’s throat until it hit the metal wall behind her.

***

Familiar with a free-for-all, Isabel approached the cornucopia with the same trepidation as breakfast at the Community Home. She skirted the edge and searched for treasures which had been forgotten, deliberately avoiding the spreading combat in the centre. There was shrill screaming, and pained shouts. Isabel reminded herself that this was a fight to the death, and not a meal.

There was a small, plastic tarpaulin lying on the floor. Isabel reached to take it, scrunching it into a ball which fitted in the sleeve of her jacket. There was a thrill in winning something. It whispered to her to step forward, to take something more worthwhile. There were still several, smaller backpacks scattered between her and the horn. They were being completely ignored.

Hesitantly, Isabel looked side to side. She recognised no one: Azazel was nowhere to be seen, and every remaining tribute seemed engaged in a fight. She was ignored. She could rush forward and take something from under their noses, just like she did at the home.

She darted across the open clearing, falling to her knees beside a yellow rucksack. Her fingers scrambled in the dirt as she tried to get a strong hold on the canvas. She was too close to the fighting. The clashing metal filled her head. Panic began to run cold in her veins. Her hands shook. She dropped the bag.

Cursing, Isabel tried to get a purchase on the strap. The sun faded as she worked, blocked by a shadow. It was a warning, and she dodged to the side and lost the bag just as the sword came down.

The blade cut a long rip in the sleeve of her jacket. Isabel was left panting in the dirt, trying to find the next hit. The attacker’s face was indistinguishable in the shadow, but Isabel watched the figure lift the sword again as she tried to pull herself to her feet.

***

Epona anticipated her prey. As the young girl tried to stand, she kicked at her knee and used the braid in her hair to pull her back. She was thrown back against a crate where she hit her head, exhausting her of any remaining fight.

She grabbed the rip in the girl’s jacket, pulling her limp body back up before dropping her flat on the floor. She tried to pull away, but Epona stood on each wrist to keep her pinned. The girl began to beg, exposing familiar desperation in her fearful babbling.

It was easy to ignore. Epona aimed for her throat to put an end to the sound, slicing across it quickly with the tip of her sword before turning to hunt more prey.

***

“Issy?” yelled Azazel, picking his way slowly across the white paving. His shirt was stuck to his chest with blood – thankfully, not his own – and the thick, copper tinge hung in the air as a warning. His partner was nowhere to be seen, and his heartbeat refused to slow until he knew she was safe. He had watched her run to the horn. He desperately wanted to drag her out.

The unopened, unsearched supplies were tempting, but Azazel did not want to waste time. He clutched an empty, metal water bottle to his chest which had practically been lain at his feet. Instead of searching for more, he tried to shout again, but barely managed a whisper as he caught sight of a tall girl with a sword. He did not want to attract attention to himself. He tried to edge forward silently, wincing when a footstep resulted in a loud crack.

Suddenly, his partner was there. Azazel hurriedly stepped back, taking his weight from her limp wrist. Isabel lay on the floor with open eyes, but there was no life in them. Her hair was matted in a pool of blood with spilled from her neck, cleanly torn open.

He stopped. Forgetting the competition, Azazel fell to his knees beside her and shook her gently by the shoulders. Her head fell back, almost falling from her shoulders like a broken doll. She did not wake up.

“Issy,” he tried again, but there was no hope in his voice. Her blood was seeping into his trousers, staining them with the same pattern as his shirt. The unpleasant sensation reminded him of the fighting, and the threat, and the likelihood of Isabel’s killer stalking the clearing for a second victim.

Stomach churning, Azazel lowered his partner back to the ground. He reached to pull her eyes closed – he could do that, at least – before climbing back to his feet and taking off into the trees.

***

“You get anyone yet?” yelled Ferro, across the violent music echoing in the clearing. Cove lowered his trident – he had left the other for his sister – and shook his head. “Get it together, Four. Pull your weight.”

The long, wooden handle exposed the trembling of his hand. He did not trust his aim, with his heart pounding and his blood running around his body like a typhoon. He was worried about the alliance, about the other tributes, about his sister – there were endless rapids of adrenaline flooding through him.

He could not hide behind fear. They were watching him. Reluctant, Cove began to scout across the field for someone to target.

The Capitol seemed reasonable. After all, they were the reason he was there. The bright blue of the Capitol’s boy was visible against the white paving, as the younger boy tried to dart across the clearing to safety. He judged Cove to be a safe target and skirted near him, and Cove used the assumption to attack.

He threw himself into the boy’s path and pushed him over with his side, holding the trident over him. He tried to keep his hand steady. The boy did not move. He was fixated on the trident, making no attempt to escape. Cove had a clear, simple target in either head, neck or chest.

***

Azure braced for pain. He could not drag his eye from the trident, waiting to see it burst through his flesh. It never moved. Four’s boy, who was perfectly positioned to kill him, was frozen to the ground.

He began by curling his hand into a fist. The boy remained poised to kill but did not lunge, so Azure progressed to stretching out his arm. He began to grapple across the floor for something – anything – to defend himself.

Azure’s hand found a cold metal. He gripped it hard, finding a handle that settled into the ridges of his palm. With his remaining strength, he swung the item in front of him and caught the boy’s jacket with the newly found blade.

It did no damage, but the boy still blinked and stepped back. He shouted as if he had been hit. The sudden space gave Azure the opportunity to sit and crawl to a kneel, blocking the sudden onslaught of trident with his weapon. It was not a sword; the blade was thick and serrated, with a glinting, pointed edge. Azure’s wild, desperate swings easily blocked the precise and skilful attacks.

Eventually, metal bit into flesh. Azure’s machete cut into the boy’s thigh, sending him scattering backwards as he yelled in pain. The wound was shallow, but it left Azure with time to push to the tail of the horn.

***

Crouched to the ground, Vixen used the thick branches of bushes as cover. He did not enter the chaos at the cornucopia. Instead, he observed wide-eyed as blood splashed against dirt and lifeless bodies began to pile up amidst supplies. He covered his mouth with his jacket, trying to take deep gasps of fresh air through the scent of panic and pain.

He was slow. Vixen edged forward like a fox, keeping his chest low to the ground. The thorns on each bush tore at his skin and occasionally he stopped to wipe blood from his face. There were unfamiliar berries on each branch and brightly coloured flowers sprouting at the root, but Vixen did not stop to admire them.

He refused to be noticed. His movement was constant, but not jarring. There was no risk, and he was granted no reward. Vixen crawled slowly to the path indicated by the horn’s tail.

***

It was a toolkit.

Acacia stared at it, from his brief camp behind a thick pile of netting. The rigid, plastic casing and square shape was not typical of any survival kit. Instead, the thick handle reminded him of his box of wrenches from the garage. He was convinced it was meant for him

There was no one else who wanted it, but Acacia did not rush. He engineered a path with several quick, on-the-spot turns which would throw off a larger tribute. He noticed the hatchet buried in a broken stone beside it. He desperately tried to consider each eventuality and a plan for it so that as he ran into the melee, he was safe.

He ran. He took the hatchet first, pulling it out by the handle. Then, he picked up the toolkit. Despite the blood, the shouting and the fear, Acacia laughed. It was as if the Gamemakers wanted him to win.

The delirious joy was quickly knocked out of him by the force of another tribute. Acacia was pushed and pinned to the floor, still holding his hatchet but unable to swing it. The blonde attacker held a sharp knife between his teeth. His jacket was tied around his waist, offering a clear view of Thirteen’s seal stitched to his arm.

The boy spat out his weapon. It landed on Acacia’s chest, cutting shallowly through fabric and skin. He lifted a hand from a wrist to take it. “Nothing personal,” he muttered, as he secured the knife in his hand. He held the cold metal to Acacia’s throat. “Just the Games, you know?”

Acacia tried to push the boy from him. It upset his hand, but the pressure did not budge. Instead, Acacia used the force to launch the hatchet to his chest and grab the handle with his freed arm. He grabbed it by its blade and hit the boy across the face with the wooden handle.

Thirteen was startled. He dropped his knife with a loud shout and began fumbling for it in the dirt. Acacia took the hatchet in a correct grip and swung out as if attacking a tree. The head bit into Thirteen’s arm, where it took a great deal of force to pull it away from the skin.

With his hatchet and his toolkit, Acacia prepared himself to exploit his surprise. Before he ran, he turned to the bleeding boy on the floor. “Nothing personal,” he jeered.

***

Inari’s shallow breaths were a knife in his chest as he forced himself forward. The boy chasing him still pounded across the hard ground.

“Come face me, Eleven!” called the predator. “Turn around. Let’s fight fair.”

It was impossible to ignore the taunt. “Doesn’t seem fair!” yelled Inari into the wind. He was not prepared to die for the sake of fairness, and he did not want to face One’s sword. Instead, he dodged in between the heavier supplies. The crates, barrels and scattered weaponry piles were enough to slow down the larger boy as he gave chase. Inari simply flew between them like a bird.

In his usual manner, Inari wanted to be higher. He jumped on a crate and used it as a step to leap onto a pile of barrels. Once there, he threw the backpack he had claimed upwards and grasped the ridged side of the cornucopia’s horn. He began to pull himself up with his uninjured arm when he felt a strong pull on his leg.

“You coward!” shouted One’s boy, standing on the supply crate and trying to use his height to grab his prey. He did not think to reach with the sword. Inari laughed: his competition was an idiot.

“What, scared of heights?” he taunted, kicking out with his heavy boot and striking the boy in the face. He stumbled back and fell from the crate, sending it and himself tumbling to the ground.

Inari continued to climb. When he could sit on the edge, he kicked over his barrel to stop anyone trying to follow him.

The boy finally remembered to wave his sword, but he was too far down to reach. “You’ll have to come down eventually,” he yelled, before turning to hunt for the easier prey still scurrying across the ground. Inari tried to ignore him and continued his walk across the top of the horn, but the boy was right: he could not stay there forever.

The boy was pulling himself up from the floor, waving his sword. “You’ll have to come down eventually,” he yelled, before turning to hunt the prey that was still scurrying across the floor. Inari continued his ascent up the horn until he was running across it’s very top – the boy was right, and he could not stay up there forever.

The remaining combat was settled around the mouth of the horn. From his vantage point, Inari could see that the clearing was empty at the point of the tail. He slid down the metal and landed lightly on two feet.

***

The arena stank of blood. Iumenta tried to breathe through her mouth, avoiding the smell. It reminded her of her father’s shed, and of reaping morning. However, her allies were not skilled butchers, and the tributes were not livestock. The competition had begun.

There were corpses beginning to litter the ground. She had not contributed to them. Iumenta gripped the handle of her axe tighter. She walked in a circle around the horn to find a target, but people were beginning to scatter. In their wake, they left chaos. Iumenta picked a path through the broken crates, forgotten debris and ignored supplies.

Iumenta did not want to kill. She did not want to hurt anyone. However, she did not want her new alliance to change their mind and consider her a hindrance.

She continued to pace. There were handful of people hiding around the mouth of the horn, either scrambling for last-minute items or fighting tooth and nail. She caught a tribute in the space between a barrel and an open crate of tinned food. Iumenta watched as the girl took supplies from surrounding piles and placed them neatly in her bag, forgetting to check around her despite holding a knife between her teeth.

It was impossible to be silent. Instead, Iumenta hid her footsteps behind the shouts and crashes of her alliance. The girl did not notice her, and Iumenta was soon close enough to recognise the seal of District Six embroidered across her uniform. She was a step away and about to lift her axe when the tribute’s hand shout to her mouth to take the knife.

“Get off, you bitch,” hissed the girl. She tried to climb to her feet but needed to hold the crate to steady herself, almost falling over her bag as she stumbled forward. Iumenta could not see an injury as explanation; the girl’s reactions were simply rusted, like an old chain.

The girl attempted to fight. She swung her knife with wild abandon, and Iumenta was simply able to step to the side. She raised her axe again. As if butchering a chicken, Iumenta aimed for the neck.

***

As she wiped blood from her nose, Fern smeared it across her face and into her mouth. Her tongue recoiled at the sudden metallic taste, and she shook her hand away, aggravating the wound across her upper arm. Her t-shirt was already soaked, and the blood was beginning to pool in the waterproof lining of her jacket.

She edged around the horn, keeping her back pressed to the metal. It was an obvious hiding place, but Fern was prepared to kick, punch or pull her way into the trees beyond the clearing. She was unexpectedly quick – District Two produced strong fighters, but the girl had not anticipated needing to give chase.

“Epona!” echoed a distant shout. It came from the opposite side of her horn. Briefly, Fern risked a lean forward to catch a glimpse of her attacker. The girl – Epona – was distracted by the shout for a moment, and Fern only needed a moment.

Pushing forward like a sprinter, Fern braved the run past the girl and ran into the forest to the accompaniment of angry shouts.

***

“You idiot!” shouted a furious voice, close enough to send a cold shock through Saori’s spine. “I nearly had her!”

He tried to steady his own breathing, so that his panic did not rumble through the cavernous interior of the cornucopia. Outside the mouth, the traditional alliance was gathering and beginning to sort through the scattered mess of supplies. Saori pushed himself further behind his weaponry rack.

“We’ll get her later,” said a girl who was waiting on the edge of Saori’s view. At the argument, she stopped tidying a collection of spears and turned to face her ally. “Who was she – Five? Well, she won’t be that hard to catch in there.”

Five. Fern was alive.

Gritting his teeth, Saori edged further into the shadow. He pushed against the soft, heavy obstacle that lay beside his feet and moved it out of his way. He tried not to look at it. He knew it was a body, but he did not want to confirm it. He knew enough from the congealing blood which stuck his trousers to the metal floor.

“We would not need to catch her if I had killed her now,” argued a voice. It belonged to someone he could not see, but he was able to watch a blonde girl roll her eyes in response. She stormed away from her tidying to continue the argument and suddenly, Saori had an unobstructed view to the trees.

In the distance, a girl with two braids trailing behind her ran into thick foliage,

Saori pulled himself from the floor. He closed his eyes when he faced the body, edging his way around the weaponry rack. When he was free, he opened them again to look left and right from the mouth of the horn. There was no one lying in ambush or waiting for him. They did not seem to know he was there. It would be a risk to run, but it was stupid to hide amongst the spoils of their war.

He ran. Saori’s bloodied feet slipped on the metal as he began, but the paving offered grip. The alliance was too wrapped up in their own argument to notice him, and he was too focused on following Fern to care if they had.

***

The fighting was over. Serenity’s hands were still clean.

“Come on, Capitol!” complained Ferro, kicking a rucksack to their growing pile of supplies. “You scared you might break a nail or something?”

Slowly, Serenity scanned across the pile of swords, knives and other blades that they were beginning to collect. She frowned; there was nothing that stood out to her. She turned to express her predicament to Ferro, but he had already wandered off and no longer cared for her response.

She reluctantly picked up a long-handled knife by the blade. There were too many weapons that year, and most would never be used by a tribute. They would be auctioned off to viewers after the Games, and Serenity could envision the Gamemakers counting their profit from their deliberate excess.

Sparkle seemed to sense her uncertainty, as she stopped piling bottles of water and looked to the Capitol tribute with something that resembled sympathy. “I’m just glad it’s not all maces, or something like that,” she tried, “or something like Gem’s year, where they had to fight off the monkeys at the horn first.”

“I can use them,” reassured Serenity. She dropped the knife back to the pile. “I just prefer something else, and I thought…”

She trailed off. She thought her brother might have tipped them off that she would be better with something specific, but she could not say that to a watching audience.

“There’s still a few in there,” Sparkle offered, nodding to the horn. “I’d go check.”

Serenity took the offered permission and disappeared into the cornucopia. Her footsteps echoed on the metal which was already beginning to warm in the sun. Inside, a weaponry rack which had still not been raided waited for her.

There was a strange set of thick blades, each with an ornate handle of hard wood. Serenity recognised the weapon immediately and could not stop the smile which spread across her face: they were kukri. Her specialist blade was rarely included in the cornucopia horn but clearly, her brother had put his hand in where it was necessary. This was a gift to her. There was no other explanation.

She took each blade in her hand. The kukri were similar to the type she had practiced with during her time at the academy, and Serenity immediately felt at ease with them. She no longer wanted to leave the competition to everyone else. The other tributes were only from the districts – it was not as if anyone would miss them if she did demonstrate her prowess with the gift.

Serenity stepped from the horn. There was no one left. Her allies busied themselves with piling supplies together and inventorying their spoils, as Four and Ten desperately tried to count water bottles and packets of crackers between them. “Pull your weight,” ordered Epona, unimpressed. “Haven’t seen you move anything yet.”

In their eagerness to restore order, the alliance missed the last remaining shred of chaos. Serenity noticed the movement immediately, her sharp eye drawn to the space between a pile of rope and a sack of apples. There was somebody else. The figure’s skin was drained of colour, and they glanced around nervously, as if they wanted to run but did not want to be seen doing it.

It was too late. Serenity had seen them.

There was no opportunity for subtly. The audience would not want subtle anyway, and Serenity was willing to bend to their whim to secure their support. She tried to swing each kukri blade evenly as she walked, but they were too heavy to hold aloft for long. She settled for trying not to drag her gift on the floor, ignoring Epona’s clear instruction to approach her own treasure.

It was a girl, dressed in District Seven’s colouring. She was either oblivious or she did not care, as she did not try to run as Serenity approached.

“Looking for something?” asked Serenity, and the girl finally acknowledged her.

She screamed, falling backwards and tangling herself up in the rope. She began to stutter something which made no sense.

“Oh, save it,” interrupted Serenity. She poked the girl’s ankle with the blade of the kukri, taunting rather than hurting. “I’m certain your family won’t want to remember you as blubbering like an idiot.”

The girl tried to pull back, but there was no space. Serenity stood on her ankle. She whimpered in pain. “Don’t worry,” reassured Serenity. “I’ll make it quick.”

As Serenity raised the kukri, the young girl from Seven continued to bargain in a torrent of unintelligible words. She turned her head, closed her eyes and refused to watch the sharp blade pierce the flesh of her stomach. Serenity was true to her promise: it was quick.

***

District Twelve was burning with an unfamiliar feeling: hope.

Lizbeth Willow held her daughter tightly to her chest, as the screen showed an overhead view of the beginning aftermath. The gathered crowd was beginning to celebrate the survival of one of their own – Raven was uninjured, moving, and seemed to have a chance. They did not care for Flicker, who was still alone in the horn.

It was as if it was not real. The blood could be fake, and her friend could still get up and curse the camera. She did not. Lizbeth was unable to cry despite the sharp, stabbing ache which swelled in her chest.

Her boy pulled her closer. “It was quick,” he reassured quietly, but the comment offered no comfort. The crowd were beginning to move on as the fighting dragged to an end. It left them standing alone, alongside another couple who were both paler than the corpse on the large screen.

There was no sympathy in District Twelve. Lizbeth could not rush over and offer hollow condolences to Flicker’s mother and father. She would be brushed away with a stiff lip. The tradition was to bring food to funerals or offering to watch children during extra shifts.

Lizbeth handed her sleeping daughter to her husband. Her lip trembled as she made the short walk across uneven cobbles, to where the remaining members of the Ashbourne family were still glued to the screen.

“If you need an extra pair of hands to get your deliveries out, I’ll be available,” she offered. She raised her arm to rub at her shoulder nervously. “I can bring my daughter with me, so I can be there whenever you need me. If you do need me, of course.”

Flicker’s father wrapped an arm around his wife, who was still glaring at the screen. There was a pause. “Yes,” he murmured, eventually. “That would be helpful.”

***

The small room filled with howling. Enya Barrett was inconsolable, and her wailing overpowered her silent family. Her niece, Gwendolyn, tried to rub calming circles across her fragile shoulders but it was of little comfort. There was nothing that could comfort. District Nine were mourning with her.

“I’ll make us all some tea,” murmured Dagan, as he looked between his sister and daughter over a smoking pipe. He stood from his chair and headed for their small kitchen, before stopping. He paused. Then, he turned and wandered over to turn the screen off.

***

Kinnie McCarthy stared at the cracked screen in disbelief. The Community Home was drowned in loud sobbing, but it seemed like a distant noise echoing from a cave. She could barely hear it over the buzzing in her own ears.

She was vaguely aware of a weight on her shoulder. The House Mother’s arm was draped across her, although it was lifted often to dry the woman’s own tears.

“That poor girl,” she muttered over and over again, as if the phrase had any sort of power to change the outcome in the arena. Kinnie knew that there was no word with that power.

Isabel was dead. However, even as the truth echoed in her own head, it did not seem real until the cruel camera offered a close, in detail shot of her friend’s pallid corpse.

***

There was a distant hand dancing across Tartan Buckram’s shoulder. It could have been his mother. He did not turn and check. The screen was focused on his cousin, still vaguely twitching as he died alone beside the horn.

Tartan’s hands were clenched so hard they shook. He was fixated on the cruel view at the front of the gathered crowd.

“Poor kid,” murmured a voice. He did not know who it belonged to, and he did not know if they were talking about him or Lucet.

***

There was laughter. The warehouse was empty, except for the teenagers playing a quick game with an empty bottle. Volvo Cessna was crouched in the corner, hunched over a small, cracked screen and with no patience remaining. A gun lay on the floor beside him.

“Can you shut it?” he yelled across the empty space. The bottle clattered to a stop, leaving the space in silence. Volvo reached for another bottle – a full one – and placed it to his lips.

“Sorry,” murmured the youngest boy. “Did it kick off yet?”

“Sammie’s just bored of waiting,” added another. “How’s Koty?”

Volvo did not know. At her last sighting, he had sat and watched his partner be butchered with an axe blade. There had been no further mention of her. The audience did not even care for her enough to watch her die.

***

Sylvia Amandine pushed the pile of paper from the top of her piano. It scattered across the studio like confetti and carpeted the soft wooden floor. Her husband desperately tried to placate her. “I know you’re upset,” he managed, glancing nervously at the door. As the mayor, he was supposed to be supporting the crowd gathered outside. He was not supposed to be comforting his wife.

“Upset?” repeated Sylvia, in a shrill tone. “I’m not upset. I’m angry. This isn’t the Games.”

“Ilara was a great student-“ tried her husband.

“Ilara was the best.” Sylvia pulled the screen forward, tearing the wire from the wall. It flickered off. “They’re not supposed to take the best. They take the criminals. They take the rebels. They weren’t supposed to take her!”

The mayor gently took the screen from his wife before she could throw it to the floor amongst the paper. “She was the best,” he placated, but it added fuel to the fire.

“She deserved better,” cried his wife. “The Capitol can’t keep doing this.”

Chapter Text

[33] Escape

At the sight of the tree, Inari came to a sudden stop. His feet kicked up dust and moss, and his chest shook as he desperately tried to take in air. Glancing anxiously across his shoulder, he winced at the sounds echoing from the cornucopia: metal clashed against metal, and there were shouts of pain drifting on the wind. He needed to be putting distance between himself and every other tribute.

However, this tree was exactly what he hoped to find. It was the exception to the forest around it, stretching high above the thick cover of leaves. The sturdy branches stretched as if they were climbing to the sky, and they were each strong enough to hold the weight of a person.

Inari shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, tracing the height of the tree as he tilted his head back. He was too close. He knew that anyone could jump from the bushes and kill him there and then, but he craved height. It was a risk. If Inari trusted anyone’s instinct, he trusted his own.

There was no sling to secure his broken arm. Gritting his teeth, Inari dropped his pack by his feet and shrugged off his jacket. He used the sleeves to tie a quick, impromptu support which would keep it in place. He needed to be high. He was safe when he was high.

It was difficult to jump with a heavy backpack balanced precariously on one arm. Inari missed the branch on his first attempt. He cursed loudly before calming himself with a deep breath, stepping back for a running leap. Catching the lowest branch with the fingertips of his right hand, Inari grappled against the bark with his feet until he had a solid hold. He pulled himself into the tree and rested when he was safe on the lowest branch.

He managed nothing else but deep, quick breaths. He could not stop there.

Inari reached up again. He pulled himself through the thick foliage as easily as he could climb the rigging in his circus tent. His arm hardly slowed him although he approached each step with caution, noting the thickness of each branch as he climbed higher. They grew thinner, and the tree threatened to break under him. The bark groaned.

It did not matter. When he looked down, Inari could only see the thick, green leaves that kept him hidden from view. There was no ground; it had been swallowed by foliage.

If he looked ahead, Inari could peer through the branches and still see the golden horn. It glinted in the bright sunlight. The fighting had stopped. An alliance had gathered. Inari could see them, but they would never see him.

***

“Count the bodies,” ordered Sparkle, kicking a spear across the ground. Her alliance did not move. She turned and pointed directly at the two weakest cogs in their well-oiled machine. “Ten, Four – go and count the bodies, for Panem’s sake. We need to know who we got before they take them on the hovercraft.”

Cove stiffened at her harsh tone, pulling his bleeding leg away from Iumenta’s hand as if he was scared to be seen seeking help. Iumenta wrapped a hand around his ankle and gently pulled his wound closer. “We can’t go anywhere,” she replied, beginning to pull torn fabric away from his blood-soaked skin. “Cove can’t walk, and I’m going to bandage it up.”

“I can walk,” murmured Cove, wincing as Iumenta continued her work.

Sparkle folded her arms tightly across her chest. She looked at the recruited pairing as if they were children, throwing a tantrum and deliberately disobeying her. “What happened?”

“Capitol boy,” answered Iumenta. She began to pull Cove’s damaged trousers above his knee. “Machete.”

“Is that all?” asked Sparkle, almost immediately. She turned her back. “He’ll be fine. Go count.”

Iumenta began to protest, but Cove silenced her with a quick pull of her arm. She bit her tongue. Slowly, she helped her injured ally to his feet. He leaned on her as he limped around the horn, face draining to a cool pale.

The remaining tributes in the alliance sifted through scattered supplies and began to dig their preferred weaponry from the rubble. Sparkle’s growing collection of spears resembled a pile of firewood, and she claimed an axe in a leather case to wear across her chest. Ferro had more swords than any single tribute could ever use. He grumbled as he dropped them in a heap.

“What happened to you?” asked Sparkle, with a teasing tone that lacked the bite she used for the other allies.

Ferro did not return her friendly grin. “Kid from Eleven kicked me in the face,” he admitted, hissing through gritted teeth. He looked up from his swords and Sparkle tried not to wince at his swelling, bruising cheek. She was not successful, and Ferro’s face fell. “Is it really that bad?”

“No,” she lied. “It’ll clear up eventually, anyway. Makes you look tougher.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” interrupted Epona, as she walked behind the pair with footsteps as silent as the air. She glanced from ally to ally before brushing them both off with a shrug. “Did you find Two? I had my eye on him before the Games began but lost him in the melee. I can’t see his body anywhere.”

Ferro went to answer the question with a bitter growl, but he was interrupted by the stilted arrival of Iumenta and Cove. “Six,” called Cove, leaning heavily on the girl beside him as the rounded the mouth of the horn.

“Six?”

Cove nodded, before wincing at the sudden shout that escaped from Sparkle’s mouth. “It can’t be just six,” she yelled, loud enough to send birds scattering into the sky. “That’s not even a quarter of the others! I bet you just didn’t count it right.”

“They did,” added Serenity, as she swept around the horn at the opposite side. “Counted it myself in case they missed one. We got six.”

In disbelief, Sparkle began to count for herself. She yelled each number, her tone growing frustrated as she went higher and higher and then stopped suddenly. Kicking dust in the face of a corpse by her feet, she stormed around to try and catch sight of any other body until Epona grabbed her arm.

“We can count,” she offered, in her practical monotone. Pointing to the body that was taking the brunt of Sparkle’s dust-filled anger, she continued, “Three – that one was me. Who else?”

Serenity raised her hand as she joined the group. Her hair was already falling from her stylist’s elaborate up-do. “Seven,” she claimed, “and I watched Menta take the girl from Six.”

“Sparkle took the boy from Eight,” added Ferro, “and I got Twelve whilst you were killing all the babies. First kill of the Games, I think.”

Pacing in fury, Sparkle’s feet made a dull sound on the ground with each step. She roughly waved in the direction of the final body, draped across the metal of the horn. “Think that one’s Nine. Did you get her, Four?”

Cove shook his head. Iumenta elbowed him and muttered, “you should’ve said it was you anyway.”

There was a thick silence hovering across the alliance as the count came to an end. Sparkle’s face was growing red behind a splatter of blood which had settled there during her fight. “That’s it,” she settled, resigned. “It is just six. We didn’t even get Thirteen. Or your boy, Epona.”

There was no discernible emotion whipping across Epona’s face as she shrugged. Instead, she swiftly returned to gathering the claimed supplies into an organised pile. “We will,” she replied, simply.

***

Clutching his chest, Acacia ran through the trees. The pounding of his feet matched the pounding of his heart, and his throat burned with every breath he managed to snatch. The rough branches hit against his face, until his skin was red with scrapes and blood.

He needed to stop. His feet slowed before his lungs realised, and he suddenly choked on the sheer force of the air of a deep breath. Acacia attempted to muffle the sound in his jacket, but it was pointless. He fell still, clinging to the rough bark of a tree as he coughed and spluttered and vomited from the effort of his escape.

The wound on his chest began to bleed again. It spread across his t-shirt and his hand, staining everything he touched a startling crimson. Acacia’s eyes began to fill with tears, but he wiped them away on his jacket before the camera could catch them. He could not cry yet. He had not even heard the first cannon fire. This was the beginning.

Acacia began to bargain with himself. He was hidden in a thick forest, with the cornucopia far behind him. He could give himself the time to count to twenty.

He began. As he counted, Acacia readjusted his toolbox and hatchet until he could carry them in one hand. He wanted a drink. He did not have one. Instead, he pulled several pine needles from the branch above him and shoved them in his mouth to chew. He pulled a face; they were disgusting, but they were better than nothing.

Nineteen. Twenty.

Reluctantly, Acacia took a shaking step away from his tree. It felt as if he was the only person in the arena when he was among the trees, but he knew he was not. The others were willing to play. He could not close his eyes without seeing the boy from Thirteen stood over him with the cruel grin, taunting voice and sharp blade.

It did not matter. Acacia had wounded him too. There was blood on his hands. His stomach churned. He could not be sick again. There was nothing left in him.

Somewhere, there would be a spotless room filled with food and drink and technology. His mentor would be sat behind a screen, watching him. This was the same mentor who had reassured Acacia that he could win. The forest whispered that it was a lie.

***

At the whisper of a bird’s wing, Eden’s hand was on his weapon. He hissed at the pain in his arm which throbbed at the movement, and his face flooded with a burning blush when he realised that a blade was not necessary. The creature darted into the sky. It was not a threat to him.

Eden sighed, trying to calm the anxious energy which jolted through him at every sound. It was too loud. His eyes were struggling to focus on anything that was too far away or too colourful, and the expanse of the arena was one glistening, incomprehensible mass. It shot unfamiliar sounds at him and kept him constantly on edge.

The bird landed on a branch above him. Eden could see the black feathers with a flash of white on the wings sitting amongst the indistinguishable foliage. The bird was singing; he could hear the sweet music above the whispering of the wind, and he smiled. His heart was pounding but the accompaniment of distant birdsong was something he dreamed of in District Thirteen. Eden felt at home amongst it.

Suddenly, another loud noise sent Eden scrambling for his knife. The bird flew away and joined the others which scattered from the trees, filling the sky with a cacophony of flapping wings. The sound came again, and again. It was a steady rhythm of loud, rich explosions.

Cannons.

Eden gritted his teeth, trying to think amongst the overwhelming noise. His mentor had explained this to him, but it was difficult to recall when his mentor seemed so far away. He finally remembered at the sound of the fourth cannon.

It was the dead tributes. The strange, echoing cannon fire was another rendition of sweet music.

Eden counted to six before the sky fell silent. He was six corpses closer to freedom.

Keeping his knife in his uninjured arm, Eden continued to move. He was light-footed on the broken stone path, comforted by his own regular footsteps. He counted six steps before beginning again, running over each familiar face in his head and wondering who was being represented by the cannon fire.

He stopped at a flash of yellow in the stone. Eden laughed aloud, finding a friend in the bright petals of the dandelion. The hardy plant was sprouting in the adversity of the path, before Eden traced a finger across its soft petals and plucked it from the ground.

What had his Pa taught him, before disappearing?

The dandelion was good fortune. Eden placed it as a decoration behind his ear, brushing his hair from his face. It was a sign of water. It was edible. It was proof that you could flourish in the hardest of circumstances. Panem considered them to be an ugly weed, but they grew unburdened in the forests beyond the country’s control.

***

Mercy perfected the illusion of control, hiding the trembling of her hands in the slow, deliberate sorting of her supplies. She had skirted the melee and claimed a fluorescent green backpack, offering her a lifeline: a coil of rope, a full water bottle, a box of matches, and a packet of crackers.

She sat amongst broken wood. Her path had been interrupted by a small market stall, although the wooden beams had long collapsed, and the awning was no more than scraps. It had seemed a safe place to count cannons and take stock of supplies, but Mercy had found herself taking stock of the cornucopia instead. She saw the reflection of the bloodshed in her water bottle, could make out the faces of corpses in her crackers and heard the screams of pain in the rustle of the rope.

Desperately trying to repack her supplies in an organised fashion, Mercy gritted her teeth as she stumbled across the movement. The rope uncoiled. The water bottle spilled. The matches rattled.

She was alive. She was uninjured. Why did she care?

Mercy stopped. She could feel her father’s disapproving gaze as he watched the mess she found herself in. Mercy slid down the broken beam she was using as a perch and settled into the dust on the ground. She took a single, deep breath. She took another. Mercy placed her hands beneath her legs and sat on them until they decided to stop trembling.

***

Solar pushed through each tree as it stretched over the path, scattering drying pine needles across the paved ground. They covered any footprint that he left in the dust and muffled any footstep he happened to make. Armed with a dagger, he also carried a backpack that, despite his desperate theft, was empty. That was all he had. It was not enough.

As he walked, he seethed. He felt alone enough to be angry, shouldering the empty pack and refusing to give it up out of principal. He would find something to put in it. He would earn a sponsor. He would do well. He wanted Fern.

He needed to be comforted – even in the daylight, the expanse of the arena stretched endlessly with no one to shared it with – but there was no comfort in company. At the gentle sound of another’s footsteps, Solar took a deep breath and held it until his chest screamed. He counted the seconds between each sound as if it was an approaching storm, readying the dagger in his hand and prepared to use it.

The figure broke through the bushes, carefully pushing through in the same manner as Solar. He clearly had not heard anything, as his face betrayed shock when his eyes fell on the other tribute.

Solar recognised him as the boy from Three. His odds had been unusually high, but a polite boy with a pretty face could often trick a gullible crowd. However, Solar did not believe the boy was that likely to win and his mentor – his real mentor, who offered him real help – said to only attack those who posed a threat. He was not going to risk it all by attacking first.

The boy backed away, but he did not retreat fully into the foliage. His head turned as he looked Solar over from his feet to his face. Then, he broached a cautious, “hi.”

Returning the glare, Solar noted that there was no weapon in his hand or in his belt. The rucksack on the boy’s back seemed far fuller than his own and he briefly considered fighting for it. He decided it would be too dangerous – a full bag of supplies would be no use to a corpse.

“Hello,” he replied, raising his dagger as a warning. Solar almost did not recognise his own hand when it held a blade. “You uninjured?”

Slowly, the boy looked down to each of his limbs. There was no colour to his face. “Somehow,” he answered, slowly. “Yourself?”

Solar paused. At the cornucopia, there were people lying dead in their own blood, yet he seemed to be trapped in a cycle of small talk. “I’m alright,” he offered, but he could feel the audience’s boredom growing at their casual conversation. There was no bloodshed in pleasantries. To appease and to intimidate, he nodded to his dagger. “If you want to stay that way, I suggest you keep moving.”

“Noted.” The boy readjusted the pack on his shoulders. He slipped on the pine needles as he took a step back. “See you around. Or not. I’d rather not, I suppose.”

Driven by a longing for normalcy, Solar waved goodbye.

***

“I’m going to head in the direction of the horn’s tail.”

Vixen looked back over his shoulder, not entirely sure if he was still heading in the right direction. It was difficult to tell beyond the clearing where the cornucopia sat, surrounded by overgrown plants and trees that encroached over the path. He followed the paving as if it were a lifeline, but it twisted and turned around dilapidated piles of plastic and Vixen had no way of knowing if it was correct.

There were no footprints in the dust. Vixen kept his eyes on the floor, looking for any disturbances that may have alerted him to friend or foe. The adrenaline following the bloodbath still coursed through his veins and he jumped at each noise, hesitated at each movement and was ready to run at a moment’s notice. He was armed with nothing except the reputation that he had somehow survived the bloodbath.

Vixen clutched his wrist in his hand, muffling the endless rattling of Panko’s collar on his arm. He did not want to give up the comfort or the reminder, but the charm – which he had paid his pocket money for someone to engrave specially – was an impractical addition to his arsenal. Still, it made him feel less alone.

He did not want to be alone. He wanted Panko. He wanted Kit. He wanted his grandmother. He wanted anyone, and it was that endless longing that sent him on the path he hoped was shared by the strange, blue-haired boy.

***

Alder counted as she walked. With every ten steps, she glanced behind her through the trees. The forest remained mercifully empty. The cornucopia – and its bloodshed – seemed a long way away.

She stepped again. The thick branches seemed familiar, although the erratic pattern of trunks and leaves were not like an orchard. There were birds she did not recognise swooping through the sky. Alder imagined there was birdsong she could not hear, and the effect was almost peaceful.

Looking behind her again, Alder finally paused for breath. There was nothing on her back, or in her hands. She had run as fast as she could into the thick foliage and had no food, and no water, and likely no sponsors who would provide either.

Tears began to claw at her eyes, but she knew she did not have the luxury of crying. She needed water. As her deep breaths caught in her chest, she knew she needed water soon.

Alder was familiar with a rusty standpipe in every orchard. In hot weather, they were even given time to hold their hands beneath the tap and drink thirstily before resuming work. There was no standpipe in the arena. Alder frowned. There did not seem to be any river, lake, brook, stream or puddle either.

With great effort, Alder restarted her pattern of walking and watching. There were so many trees, so much moss and so many green plants that somewhere, there was water. She just needed to find it.

***

The forest was interrupted. Fern stood and watched it as if it was going to bite her.

There was a strange contraption sitting amongst the trees. The pastel-coloured roof was dilapidated and half-fallen onto the structure below, but the overall theme was still visible. The circular, metal floor was home to twelve round vehicles. Fern narrowed her eyes, unsure why each one looked as if it belonged in the set of best china in her kitchen cupboards.

Twisting her knife in her hand, Fern circled the machine. They were teacups – each had a handle attached to the side, although their cheerful paint was peeling and stained. They sat amongst undisturbed dust and rotten wood. Fern was the first visitor to the oversized tea party in a very long time.

She climbed tentatively onto the podium, stumbling as the debris shifted beneath her. The remains of the roof offered some shelter. As she got closer, Fern could see that each large teacup held a precarious plastic bench. The space was tight, but it was hidden. She was tempted – the day was beginning to stretch into sunset, and she could sleep without watching her back.

The shelter was as good as any other. Fern circled the platform again to choose her bed, settling on a polka-dot teacup in pastel blue. She needed to open a metal gate to reach the seat, but it fell off the hinges and into her hands as it creaked. Fern threw it into the growing pile of debris and took a seat on her new, plastic throne.

It was empty. She had nothing, besides the clothes on her back and the knife in her hand. Fern placed the weapon carefully beside her on the seat so that could she lean over and retie the shoelaces on her boots. The day was endless, the day was endless, and she was still stained with the blood of other people, but she felt happier with tighter shoes.

In the privacy on her shelter, Fern discovered a tear running down her cheek. She wiped it away as she sat back up – there was no privacy in the Hunger Games – and tried to distract herself by thinking practically. She could light a fire. The temperature would drop with the sun, and there was enough wood to gather.

No. That was stupid. Fern kicked herself for even considering it: the smoke and light would both be a beacon to her location as the night grew. Sunnie had told her that many, many times.

At the thought of her sister, Fern reached her sleeve to her face. It came back damp.

***

“I think I’m going mad,” announced Azazel. His voice echoed on the rough bark of the tree trunk and a nearby creature scampered into the leaves.

That was stupid.

“I know it was stupid,” Azazel mumbled in response, taking care to keep quiet. If he wanted to be safe, he could not go around shouting in the trees. It was the easiest rule in the arena; even the smallest, wimpiest twelve-year-old could do it.

He stopped. Without the sound of his walking to fill it, the forest felt hollow. Azazel wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand – the evening was gathering in, but the burning midday sun still lingered in the air. Immediately, he checked to see if he had smudged the branding on the back of his hand. He had not: Tesla was still proudly etched on his skin, large enough to be noticed on a screen.

It'll come off eventually, you know.

Tesla would flourish in an arena. As he realised, Azazel scowled at the thought. His boy’s bright, simpering grin would attract gifts from the audience, and his quick mind would see through each trap. He would not be stupid. He could win. In comparison, Azazel was floundering like a flickering bulb amongst the branches.

As Azazel began to walk again, his footsteps filled the space between each tree. They began to echo and multiply. His own mind tricked him and told him that he was being followed, and Azazel turned his neck to check the shadows behind him again. He ached from the repetitive movement.

There’s no one there. You need to keep moving, you dumbass.

“I missed the boy from Five,” muttered Azazel, indignantly. “We were lucky then. I don’t think the next tribute we meet is going to be that kind.”

Then keep moving.

Reluctantly, Azazel agreed. The wind whispered through tall branches, beginning to sound like the mutterings of an alliance hiding in the foliage. He shook his head to clear the thought. He was already seeing faces. He could not settle for hearing voices too.

He saw his partner in the patterns on the tree trunks, and in the arrangement of the growing leaves. Azazel was certain that the forest was watching him with her bright, knowing smile or her worried scowl. Mostly, he saw the bloodied image of her head nearly falling from her body as he screamed for her to wake up with a voice that never seemed loud enough.

The scream began to sound like a shout. Azazel turned and checked behind him. There was no one there. There was never anyone there.

Azazel firmly fixed his head forward. “I am going mad,” he muttered.

***

The sun was falling beyond the horizon, and it offered a burning glow across the sky as a farewell. Leon wanted to admire the beauty – he had not seen a sunset like it since becoming part of District Two – but it was too bright. Instead, he sheltered his eyes with a flat hand and squinted at the contraption that was waiting for him in the forest clearing.

It was similar to the mining machinery that carted stone from a quarry. However, the suspended bins were strung up in a circle and had once been painted bright colours. The contraption stood proudly on a carpet of discard leaves, surrounded by collapsed red rope and metal fence posts. In the wind, it creaked.

Leon did not know much about manmade machinery. He scowled at the interruption to his forest. He understood that it would need a large amount of oil to be considered safe again, but that was it. Still, he approached the base and began to see if there was any purpose.

The metal wheel was larger than any machine he had seen, and the coloured carts were held to the metal with rusted spokes. It had once been painted white, but grey metal with flashes of orange was becoming visible where paint chipped away. There was a large, rectangular box littered with brightly coloured buttons waiting at the base.

Curious rather than cautious, Leon pressed his pale on a red button and hoped for the scattered lights to begin flashing. They did not. The wheel was steadfast, moving only when forced by the breeze.

The sun disappeared, and the only source of light was the orange-streaked sky. Leon glanced upwards again. The wheel was old and rusted, but the thick metal would still hold him. It was a tempting risk when each swinging carriage offered shelter that was so far off the ground, no one would be able to reach him.

With the idea planted in his head, Leon could not rest until he tried to see it through. He tied the dangling straps of his backpack into a knot at his waist the secure them, before pulling the bow over his neck and wearing it like a strange accessory. He was weighed down like the pack mules they sometimes used at smaller quarries, with his backpack and his bow and his quiver all strung across his shoulders. However, his hands were free.

He spat on each hand. Leon did not know if it helped, but he had watched his father do it each time he climbed a tall tree. Then, Leon grabbed the nearest metal bar above his head and begun a long climb up his new, strange ladder.

He could stomach height, but he did not look down. He closed his eyes and held tighter at a particularly strong gust of wind, regretting his decision as the wheel lurched to the left. However, it creaked and settled back on a steady axis as soon as the breeze faded. Leon climbed high enough to see the sun above the horizon again.

He glanced down. His palms flooded with sweat. His knees turned to pudding. This was enough.

With a dry mouth, Leon edged carefully across a thinner spoke. He reached the swinging carriage at a panicked pace and pulled himself over the low wall, settling into the tight space and beginning to feel seasick with the movement. He pulled off his bow and placed it on the floor. He rested his backpack against the brittle plastic. He even dropped his quiver and watched the arrows scatter across the floor. It did not seem to matter, when he was so high above the world that no one would be able to find him.

If he had food and water, it was perfect.

Leon dropped to his knees, beginning to dig through what hid in his backpack. There was a soft, buzzing noise that was too mechanical to be an insect. Leon glanced up, meeting the eye of a watching camera that was trying to focus on its new arrival. Panem was watching. Leon decided to give them a show.

He had a full bottle of water with a secure, metal cap. Leon grinned as he took a thirsty sip, showing the country that he had enough self-control to ration the rest. There was a sealed packet of crackers, and another plastic bag with strips of dried meat. He did not eat. He could wait. Leon did try on the pair of sunglasses hidden inside an inner pocket, but the world became a fractured mess when he wore them. He left them in the backpack.

Finally, there was a small, plastic box. Leon pulled it open with his teeth, hesitating that the strange contents: eight squares of different colours, from a mud orange to a dark green to a stark white.

Confused, Leon rubbed a finger against the dark brown. The material transferred to his skin. He wiped the substance on the back of his hand, and it stayed, hiding the colour of his skin beneath it.

Paint.

It was a camouflage set. Leon could no longer hide his excitement. He was not good at camouflage – at least, not in the same way as his father who used to create wonderful illusions with mud and berry juice. However, the creations of the Capitol were often good at making a difficult task easier.

Leon used the paint to try and hide the fluorescent yellow of his backpack. There was no point in camouflaging himself, but he painted a handful of artistic stripes across his cheeks for the benefit of the camera.

He continued to perform for them as the night drew in. Leon drank his water in measured sips. He sorted his meat and cracks into carefully rationed portions. He counted each supply out loud, reminding the audience that he could survive for three days with their wonderful generosity. Leon was determined to prove that he was very, very capable.

***

At the initial booming chord of the anthem, Raven instinctively reached for the knife in his belt. His heart was fluttering in his chest like an insect. It was not an unfamiliar sensation – the nerves gathered there when he was gasping after a long chest or waiting in the rafters when he had been noticed taking something that was not his. However, it was constant in the arena. It could not be eased with time, or sleep, or reassurance from his brother. His brother was nowhere nearby. His brother was hiding alone in the Hob and watching through his fingers, if he could even see a screen.

He realised the sound was the simple evening ceremony, and was grateful that the night would hide the embarrassed heat in his cheeks. Raven lay back on the bare dirt, his hands acting as a pillow for his racing head and peered through the trees to see the sky. District Three’s girl stared back from the sky.

Raven frowned. Her picture was confirmation that One and Two had survived the day.

There were no names. In the anthem, each tribute was only offered their district number. Raven was grateful as he did not recognise the face of the girl from Six, or the girl from Seven. Then, he felt a painful pang in his chest. He should remember them. After all, they were dead.

There was a face that Raven recognised. He expected it, but it still hurt.

Somehow, Flicker’s picture captured a smile. It travelled to her eyes as they narrowed in the grin, her teeth barely showing behind her lips. Her face was softened by a strand of hair falling across her cheek. She seemed kinder, younger and alive.

She was not alive. She was gone. The anthem ended with a flourish, and Raven was alone.

He shivered, despite the warm evening. Flicker’s death was not a surprise to him – his clothing was still covered in her dried blood – but the anthem was a cruel reminder. She was packed into a wooden box and might already be on her way home.

Raven buckled under a sudden, painful ache of homesickness. District Twelve were not fond of him, and he did not particularly like them either. The Hob was hardly a house, and the traders there were hardly a family. However, the arena blanketed him in memories. He wore his home on his sleeve. He was dressed in their colours. He was the last tribute alive who understood District Twelve.

He did not cry. He learned to keep himself together for his brother and had long forgotten how to produce tears. Instead, he chewed his bottom lip until the skin was raw and dug his nails into his palms until they bled. Raven could not stop, despite knowing that a camera would capture his every faltering move.

A sudden noise rang out. Raven jumped again, immediately returning to the heart-pounding adrenaline that was beginning to make him feel sick. It was not a bird, or a shout, or a footstep: a soft, twinkling sound filled the air and sang him a lullaby.

There was a parachute.

Raven did not recognise the silhouette at first. When he did, he jumped to his feet and reached for it like a toddler reaching up for the stars. His fingers caught the silver material first, and Raven clutched it to his chest as if someone would take it from him. He clawed through the parachute, pried open the capsule and pulled out his precious gift.

There was a mug, secured with a fixed lid. Raven pulled it off with his teeth and was greeted with a thin broth. The scent of rich chicken filled the air around him, steaming through the night sky.

People believed in him. People cared about him. Outside the arena, people were spending their hard-earned money on sending him food. Raven lifted the mug to his mouth and took a sip. The brother burnt his lips and his tongue, but he relished in the pain and rushed to take another mouthful. His homesickness – and his partner – were forgotten.

Chapter Text

[34] Principle

The sky was empty without the anthem to fill it. To distract herself from the silence, Sennen found herself humming the formal tune. She decided she hated hearing it. Biting her tongue, she fell into an overwhelming silence and her mind filled with pictures that she would rather not see.

Instead, Sennen began to whistle another tune: a sea shanty, which she had heard amongst the workers on the docks. They would warble it as they carted crates through the tone and to the market, often greeting Sennen and Cove on their way to the schoolhouse. They were never their names. They were always together, and always the twins.

She saw the picture again. In her mind, she kept replaying the anthem broadcast with her own brother’s face. It was not true. She knew that.

Sennen sat down on the floor with a force that dented the ground. She forced a handful of grass from the dirt and settled into the calming, rhythmic motion of cleaning her trident. It was not dirty – she hoped it never would be – but it reminded her of home. The rustling of thick leaves almost sounded like the rushing of waves.

Her brother had a trident. Sennen saw him take it before he ran to his new alliance, although he left another in the ground.

For her, she thought as the grass twisted around the teeth. It caught and broke as she pulled. She could not be certain that it was a gift. Sennen was proud of her solitude and would not rely on another’s handout.

However, it still felt as if soft breathing or frustrated muttering or matching footsteps was missing.

***

Trembling, Satin could not bring herself to make her final mark. The twig fell from her hand and sent the purple berry juice splattering across her leg. It did not matter to her: her hands and clothes were already filthy from the mud she had used to try and disguise the bright white of her backpack. It was not effective, and the blinding colour was still visible, but the pack was too valuable to leave.

A tear fell. It traced a trail in the dirt on her face, and Satin tried to wipe it away. She only succeeded in smearing mud from her eye to her ear.

The vibrant juice stained the white fabric of her backpack with ease. Satin used it as an improvised ink, carefully making marks to count which tributes had already been lost. However, she could not cross out her final person. She stared at the inked ‘8M’ instead. The small make did not fully summarise who her partner was: vibrant, full of life, kind and bright and with a sense of humour that made their stay in the Capitol easier. He had begged her for an alliance. Satin had barely had the courage to say no.

She made the move. Using a smudge of berry juice on her finger, Satin crossed out her partner from her list. She did not know who had killed him. She did not know who she should be angry with and in the absence of a target, it collapsed on to her. Satin knew she could protect if, she had had tried. Now, he was dead.

Standing, Satin stepped on her stick and snapped it in two. She ground the pieces into the dirt with her foot. Instead of eating the berries, she threw them into the bramble for the birds. They fruit disappeared into the darkness as they arched. The only light was the cold, judgemental moon.

She briefly considered using her backpack as a pillow, but Satin decided she did not deserve one. She kicked the pack into the thick undergrowth and crouched down to join it, cradling herself between a bush with large thorns and a plant with curved leaves. No one would find her there. No one would stumble across her and kill her as she slept. Satin was comforted by that – for some reason, she still wanted to live.

***

Pacing anxiously, Serenity readjusted the curved blade in her hold. The sky was already accented by the harsh moon. The cool light would help them hunt, but it did not seem as if the fractured alliance wanted to move.

“There’ll be no one nearby,” pressed Sparkle. There were no more sultry whispers or winks to the audience. Instead, she was argumentative and unlikeable in her search for success. Serenity did not understand it: there were still sponsors waving money at their screens, after all.

Epona took a deep, steadied breath before she spoke. “Sparkle,” she answered, in a measured monotone. Serenity admired her impeccable patience. “I do not feel comfortable leaving the entirety of our supplies without someone on watch. We do need to hunt, so someone should stay here.”

“We’d hunt better with more hands.”

“We’ll survive longer with more supplies.”

The argument caught like fire. Ferro walked in to extinguish it, placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “I’ll say,” he told her, “if it means that you two don’t end up in a fight before we’re even halfway.”

Sparkle shook her head. “I want you with us. We don’t need anyone to stay.”

With an audible groan, Serenity took herself away from the conversation. She collapsed amongst crates, where they had already arranged sleeping packs and tents. The disagreeing voices still rang through the air but in the camp, they were interrupted by a sharp hiss of pain.

“Shut up,” ordered a voice. “You’re being a wimp.”

Serenity turned. In the tent behind her, Iumenta was liberally dousing Cove’s wound with a bottle of liquid found in a medical kit. He bit down on his lip to try and stop any noise. It failed. He hissed again, before mumbling, “it hurts, Menta.”

“It will.” Iumenta took a clean bandage and used it to wipe away the excess liquid. It came away red. “You’re going to be alright, though.”

She pulled another package from the kit, tearing open the new bandage with her teeth. With care, Iumenta began to wrap it tightly around the deep wound.

“You know what to do with wounds?” asked Serenity, alerting both to her presence. Cove jumped, but Iumenta simply nodded through gritted teeth.

“I do.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

Iumenta paused, bandages still in her hand. “My partner,” she answered, eventually. “Chanté.”

Whimpering, Cove turned his head so that he did not need to watch. His pained noise gave Serenity an idea.

“Hey!” she called, climbing back to her feet. Her sudden shout captured the attention of her alliance, and a flushed-red Sparkle rolled her eyes at the interruption. Serenity pointed to the pair in the tent. “Four can’t walk anyway. We can leave him here.”

“I can walk,” stressed Cove, but the colour draining from his face suggested otherwise.

Pouncing on the idea as if it was a mouse and she was a vicious, hungry cat, Sparkle clicked her fingers. “Yes!” she answered. “Four can stay. He can only throw a trident, anyway. I can do just as much damage with a spear.”

“What if he takes it all and runs off?” asked Epona, unconvinced.

Sparkle was already beginning to gather weaponry and pick her pack from the floor. “He’s a volunteer, anyway,” she replied, half-listening. “He’s as trustworthy as you. Ten, on the other hand – you can come with us.”

“Oh, brilliant,” cheered Iumenta, sarcastically. She ignored the scowl she was gifted, finishing tying the bandage with a neat knot. “Keep it clean. I’ll change your bandages in the morning.”

Cove replied with nothing more than a sympathetic expression.

As she scanned the surrounding forest, Epona turned on her spot. She noticed Serenity watching her and stopped. “What?” she asked, scowling at Serenity’s half-hearted shrug. “Well, there’s always one tribute who’s stupid enough to light a fire on their first night. I thought we could follow the smoke.”

The sky was completely clear. Serenity smirked, nudging Epona in her side. “Seems like they’re too smart for us this year, then.”

The comment was designed to force another fury, but Epona seemed not to hear it. She shrugged off the touch and pointed vaguely to a dark path. “We can stick to that. I’m sure another tribute will have taken it, and we’ll find them soon enough if they’re sleeping.”

Sparkle nodded in rare agreement. “And if it’s Two or Thirteen,” she added, “we can celebrate when we get back.”

“Then it’s settled, finally,” finished Serenity, stretching out the final syllable to stress her annoyance. She turned to wave a sarcastic goodbye to their guard. Cove was still sat on the floor. “Don’t die whilst we’re gone, Four.”

***

The stupid girl slept with her knife beside her.

The corners of Saori’s mouth twisted up in amusement. If he wanted to, he could lean over Fern and kill her with her own weapon. She would not even have chance to scream. Briefly, he considered it – it was the Hunger Games, after all – but Saori decided he was better than that. He had complained enough when the same was done to his brother.

The moon was high, dancing amongst stars and illuminating the old children’s ride that served as a shelter. At least, Saori thought it was a children’s ride. The teacup carriages reminded him of the creaking carnival ride that District Six dragged out every victory tour. Saori was never allowed to ride it as it was for merchant children, but he watched from a distance.

He was still trying to identify the arena. The forest was filled with contraptions that Saori almost recognised, as if their images were glistening like a mirage on the outskirts of his memory. It did seem like a carnival that he had always wanted to explore as a child, but every part was much larger.

And there were people trying to kill him, which was a definite disadvantage.

Saori considered taking Fern’s knife to teach her a lesson about falling asleep in a fight to the death. She would panic if she woke up and found it gone, and he liked the idea of instilling that pure, cold fear in her.

In sleep, Fern’s breathing caught in her chest. The silver tear trails across her cheeks glowed in the moonlight, and her eyelashes were still damp. Saori would achieve nothing tangible by taking her weapon. It would be cruel, like pulling the wings from a fly.

Shrugging his rucksack from his back to his hands, he clambered across the debris until he reached his own teacup. Saori contorted himself around the strange metal bar rather than settling on the seat. The pastel yellow plastic was insultingly cheerful, but it was a high wall, and it offered him the safety to finally – finally – see what he had risked his life for at the cornucopia.

The sharp sound of the zip echoed through the silent night. He heard Fern turn in her own bed, but she did not wake. Saori hardly concerned himself with her; he was hidden from view. Instead, he focused on the contents of his rucksack: a single bread roll, a metal pot with a lid, a tube of antiseptic cream, and an empty water bottle.

He turned the bag upside down. Nothing fell out. He rustled through each pocket. There was nothing hidden. He wanted to scream. He did not. That would be stupid.

Saori did not even have a sip of water.

He tunnelled his frustration at the meagre hall into the bread, tearing it into four rough pieces. Using his last stretch of self-control, he hid three pieces in the metal pot and placed them back in his bag. He chewed the remaining chunk, but the dense crumb stole all moisture in his mouth, leaving him uncomfortable and very, very angry.

***

Shivering, Azure pulled his arms tighter across his chest. He retreated into his jacket like a turtle in an aquarium, hiding in its shell to avoid the spectators. He wanted a fire. If he knew how to light one, he would collect wood there and then to build a pyre of warmth. However, he could not do that. He was useless.

He leaned back against the thick, wooden log he had claimed for the night. It was not a tree – there were no branches or leaves, and the base had been sanded smooth. It sat several metres from a cleared path, stretching to the sky. There were planks of wood nailed to it but most were broken, rotted or covered in moss. It may have once been something important, but it was now a pillar to lean against as Azure tried to escape the cold, creeping fingers of the night.

Silently begging for sleep, Azure closed his eyes. He was no stranger to sleeping on a floor – often, rest was snatched on the hard wood of a practice studio when his trainer forbade him to leave – but the arena ground seemed different. It sucked any hope, or light, or warmth from him as he tried to rest.

He clutched his weapon like a child with a small toy. There was still blood dried against the silver, where blade met handle. Azure felt faint reassurance when the boy he attacked did not appear in the sky during the anthem, but then he remembered that he was supposed to want the other tributes to be dead. He had failed at that, too. He could not even clean his machete properly.

Sleep would not come. He resigned himself to exhaustion – he could handle that, at least – and opened his burning eyes. The moonlight was battling against thick foliage. Azure looked up, trying to find any clearing where the glow was bright enough to finish cleaning his weapon. The moon was not the only thing which greeted him in the sky.

Azure gasped. In the dark, there were hundreds upon hundreds of twinkling lights. They frolicked with the moon and waved to him on the ground.

Were they stars?

He had heard of stars. They formed strange patterns in a clear night sky, but not in the Capitol – there were too many other important lights which needed to shine in the city. Instead, they strung twinkling, plastic decorations which were said to be far prettier than stars. You could get them in every colour!

However, Azure knew they were a story in the districts. Tributes would sometimes reference them during the Games and in some places, they could even navigate by them.

That seemed impossible. Azure did not believe it, staring at the sky wide-eyed. The pattern was too erratic and too messy to mean anything. It was not a tool. It was art. The stars were too delicate and too beautiful to have been woven in the districts and yet, the Capitol had hidden them from him.

***

“Over here!”

The shout pierced through the dark shadows, echoing against each tree. Iumenta started at the noise. The torch trembled in her gasp. She could not keep the beam of light steady and it danced through the silhouetted foliage. The forest filled the with unmistakable sound of skin against skin; the desperate serenade of a fighter.

“Come on!” called Sparkle, again. “We got one!”

“Wonder who it is,” murmured Serenity, from her position beside the trembling tribute from Ten. She spoke in a knowing manner, as if she already had the answer. “We better go help them.”

Iumenta cautiously followed the shout, as her own footsteps joined the scattered scrambling of her alliance. There was a small clearing between the trees where a concrete circle interrupted the forest floor, surrounded by bright paper leaflets littered amongst the leaves. They were already stained with blood.

“Get that torch over here,” ordered Ferro, snarling as Iumenta desperately tried to give him the light he demanded. He was holding his cheek with a red hand and trying to steam bleeding from his nose. “The bastard punched me.”

Iumenta hardly recognised her ally. He was no longer the laughing, joking boy who teased his partner during the day – his blade was already stained, and he swung it with practice. Iumenta jumped, but the sword only gestured to the slumped heap on the ground. In the torch light, Sparkle held the arms of another tribute in a tight grasp. There was no struggle.

The prisoner stirred at the sudden light. His face was bleeding from an open gash along his cheek, and his jacket was torn at the arm. Iumenta knew the colour of his shirt. She knew the sandy colour of his hair. She knew him.

“Chanté,” she gasped, trying to hold the torch steady to look at his injured face. At his name, he lifted his face to the light. His eyes were watering, but his mouth turned into a slight smile.

“Hi, Menta,” he greeted, earning a twist of his arm that caused him to yelp.

Iumenta could remember how to bandage a wound. She could stitch his cheek together, if she needed to. They still had disinfectant at the cornucopia. His arm would be more difficult – from the angle, she was certain it was broken – but Chanté would be able to talk her through it if they just-

“Shut it,” ordered Sparkle, in a hiss, “or we’ll break your other arm and leave you for the mutts.”

With her arms folded, Epona watched the confrontation. She turned away. “You know him, Ten?”

“Obviously,” answered Serenity, before Iumenta had the opportunity. “He’s her partner.”

Ferro scoffed. “He’s a threat. Let’s kill him now.”

Chanté. Threat. It did not join together in Iumenta’s mind, leaving her staring at her partner with an open mouth as she tried to find something to say. Chanté stared back, almost laughing.

“That’s me,” he taunted, faintly. It earned him another twist of his arm but he hardly made a sound. “Vicious killer, right, Menta? Just like you wanted to teach me.”

As they waited, the night sang with the voices of crickets and the rustling of leaves. The alliance made no rush to attack. Chanté made no attempt to escape. It was a stalemate.

“Let’s get this over with,” stated Epona, eventually. She pulled a knife from her belt. It had a long, sharp blade that was perfect for carving.

“Over with?” repeated Sparkle. “I thought you’d be all over the first real kill, Two.”

Epona’s face narrowed as her eyebrows knitted together. “Death is messy,” she replied, twirling the blade in her hand. “Who’s taking him?”

“I’ll do it,” declared Ferro, taking his hand from his bruised cheek to raise his sword. Chanté hunched over, bracing himself for the impact. If there had been a fight in him, it had melted away.

Sparkle pulled him from Ferro’s swing, and Chanté whimpered softly. “Ten can do it. Prove herself.”

In the dark, Ferro agreed with a loud shout. Serenity took a step away with a mocking grin, and Epona accepted the judgement of the group. “Alright,” she replied, putting her knife away. “Ten. You do it.”

Iumenta looked at her hands. She held a torch, and an axe. Epona reached out and took the torch, leaving only the weapon. It was familiar. Iumenta could wield it as if it was an extension of her own arm if her target was a pig, or a lamb, or a chicken. She had never used it on a boy.

“Do it quick, Menta,” murmured Chanté. He closed his eyes tightly. “I don’t like blood.”

She did not move. “No.”

Sparkle laughed, but the smile quickly fell when she realised her recruited ally was serious. She dropped Chanté into a heap on the floor. Ferro took over the hold as she took a step closer, pointing a finger directly in Iumenta’s face. “Let me make this very clear,” she stressed, her skin glowing in the harsh torchlight. “You are going to kill him, or we are going to kill you. Which is it going to be, Ten?”

Iumenta pressed her axe against her back, hiding it from view. From the floor, Chanté groaned. “Don’t be stupid, Menta,” he mumbled.

“Listen to your boy,” continued Sparkle. Her voice was venom, like the rat poison in Iumenta’s garden at home.

In the night, something howled. Her hands finally stopped trembling. Iumenta was steadfast. “No,” she repeated, “because he’s my partner, and you can’t ask me to do that. No one would do it.”

“I would,” interrupted Serenity, immediately. “Wouldn’t think twice about it. We’re out hunting for Two’s partner. It’s the Games, Ten. You or him.”

“Make your choice, Ten,” ordered Sparkle.

Iumenta made her choice. She dropped her axe. It made a soft, dull sound as the metal head landed on the cracked concrete. “I’m not doing it. He won’t hurt anything. He’s a healer, for Panem’s sake. Let him go.”

“Menta,” warned Chanté, in a shaking voice.

There was no discussion. Serenity stepped forward, kicking the axe across the ground and taking a tight hold on Iumenta’s arms. She tried to pull away. She could not. Sparkle reached out with a cruel hand and took hold of Iumenta’s hair, pulling it until the tribute girl yelped.

“Sounds like we’re killing both of you,” hissed Sparkle. “Who’s going first?”

“Let’s kill him first, and make that traitor watch,” cried Ferro.

Iumenta felt the grip on her arms tighten. Her heart went wild in her chest, yelling like a lamb separated from its mother. “No,” she tried, voice exploding from her with the force of a cannon. “No! We can…I mean…”

“Too late,” interrupted Sparkle. She kicked Chanté in his lower back, sending the whimpering boy into a harsh landing on the concrete. Ferro raised his sword and struck down before Chanté could scramble away.

There was the sound of metal biting at flesh. The blade entered Chanté’s back and emerged through his chest, interrupted by a low groan of pain as the boy slumped forward through the weapon. There was blood. Iumenta recognised the scent as it filled the clearing with an acidic burn of copper. Her stomach turned and she retched but the strong arm of her former ally kept her upright.

Ferro twisted his sword through Chanté’s body, pulling the blade back and raising it as it dripped across the ground. Chanté coughed weakly. Blood sprayed across the grey concrete. He fell forward, limp. Iumenta watched his eyes lose their bright spark. She had seen it before in chickens and pigs and lambs, but she had never seen it in a friend.

Accompanied by jeering from the alliance, the cannon fired. Ferro kicked the corpse for good measure as Sparkle reached down and retrieved the forgotten axe. She advanced on Iumenta, who tried to stare in defiance but trembled like a newborn lamb.

“I’m going to kill you with your own blade,” mocked Sparkle, competently taking the axe in her grasp, “and then you can go join your precious little partner. Where you both belong, I reckon.”

Serenity released her hold. As if choreographed, she tossed Iumenta forward like a rag doll and she stumbled into the weapon. She yelled as a searing, burning pain appeared in the side of her stomach.

“We warned you,” teased Sparkle with a grin, kicking her former ally in the back of her knees and sending her tumbling beside the corpse of her partner. She raised the axe again and brough the head down on Iumenta’s skull, filling the clearing with a dull, sickening crack.

“That was too quick,” complained Ferro, his statement being lost beneath the firing of a cannon. He wiped his sword clean on the moss around the base of a tree. “We could have had some fun with her, Sparkle.”

Shrugging, Sparkle threw the axe down on to the concrete. She did not need it. She had her own. “Death is messy,” she repeated, and Epona nodded to agree. “We don’t have the time to mess around right now.”

***

Casco Senner swept the scattered papers across his desk and to the floor with a yell. The single candle set their shadows flickering across the dark room. The floor was already carpeted in glass from the screen, knocked from the shelf and forgotten on the floor.

“Why didn’t he fight back?” he begged, between sobs. He was alone; his wife had taken her herb-gathering bag and disappeared after the first punch was thrown.

There was ink smudged across his desk, and his hands, and his shirt. His written remedies were useless. There were a thousand different treatments for a wound like his son received: pressure, antiseptic cream, healing herbs, sterilised bandages. He would have done whatever he could. Instead, he could do nothing but watch.  

“Why didn’t he fight back?” he repeated, burying his face in his stained hands. “Why didn’t he hurt every single one of them?”

***

Kasabian Blanchard was alone. Accompanied by the bleating of late, summer lambs, he ran through the dirt road barefoot and in his nightclothes. He could not stay in the house anymore, full of shock and silence and sadness. He did not know where he was going. He simply needed to be somewhere else.

As he ran, his mind chanted alongside each thunderous footstep – his sister was dead, his sister was dead, his sister was dead, and she had accepted it to try and save the stupid healer’s boy. He tried to silence the voice but not even the bite of the cold night air could distract him. He ran until his lungs burned, until his feet ached and until his chest pounded with a desperate heartbeat.

His panicked run took him to the merchant street. It was empty; there was not even a shop with a light on. Instead, the road was illuminated by a large screen erected on the side of the bakery so that people could watch the Games as they shopped. There was nothing else happening at night: the broadcast showed a painfully slow replay to remind Kasabian exactly what had happened to Iumenta, as if he could forget.

Chapter Text

[35] Surprise

When he awoke, Leon did not know where he was. He blinked the blurry, swinging carriage into existence and shielded his eyes from the morning sun. It was already beginning to warm. Stretching, he reached out and stumbled across his quiver. He found his bow. He remembered.

He was in the arena, and he was still alive.

“I can’t believe she was begging,” cried the voice which woke him. It was shrill, tinged with a mocking laugh that mimicked a cry for help. “She wouldn’t even kill him. I can’t believe we thought she’d be useful.”

Leon frowned. There was a death, and he slept through the cannon. He needed to be more careful.

“We need to go back,” ordered a familiar voice.

He began to pay particular attention. Leon recognised the cold, practical voice of his partner. It was her alliance: the one that rejected him, the one that had the majority of the supplies, and the one he was supposed to be targeting. Trying not to rock his carriage, Leon pulled himself to his knees and peered over the plastic side.

There was a sneering, blonde girl leading the way with an axe in her hand. She turned to her allies and beckoned them with the weapon. “Why?” she called, not caring if there was anyone to hear her. “Why do we need to go back?”

She did not look up. Leon scoffed. She was probably too confident to consider it.

Epona was not as carefree. “I don’t trust that brat from Four with our supplies,” she stated, simply. “He has his sister. He could run off with her.”

“He’s not running anywhere,” scoffed the Capitol girl. “He can barely walk, Epona.”

Leon could imagine the tight frown on his partner’s face, but he was too far away to see it clearly. “I still think we should go back,” she called, and she stopped at the base of the wheel.

Sinking back behind the plastic barrier, Leon reached across the floor for his bow. This alliance was his target. It was easier to shoot from height.

“Fine,” interrupted a male voice, before a fight could break out amongst the alliance. “We can do both. You can go back to the camp and check that it’s okay, and Sparkle and I can keep searching. We’ll be back by midday, and then you two can hunt instead. We’ll find Two or Thirteen eventually.”

Pulling his quiver closer, Leon considered his options. The alliance would be on him before he had the opportunity to shoot all of them.

“I think that’s a reasonable idea,” replied Epona. Her arms would be folded tightly across her chest; Leon could almost hear it in her voice. “Come on, Serenity.”

They were beginning to head back into the trees. Leon could hear their footsteps on the paved path he had followed from the cornucopia, before they were drowned out by the incessant giggling of the remaining blonde pair.

He might be able to handle two. Securing the arrow against his bow string, Leon waited for his opportunity.

“I’m so glad they’re gone,” said the girl. Her voice grated against Leon’s ears like a pickaxe on stone. “We’ll be better at hunting without them stomping along after us.”

It seemed as if the alliance was slowly collapsing without his interference. Leon stifled a laugh at the thought, almost tempted to wait and see how long it would take them to implode. However, this opportunity was handed to him on a gilded, silver platter. He could not waste it.

It was a difficult decision: the boy, or the girl? Leon readjusted his loaded bow to hang at his side as he peered back over to the clearing where the pair were beginning to leave. The girl hung sickeningly on the boy’s arm, leaning a head on his shoulder. Leon wanted them dead.

The girl can’t climb.

The thought formed in his head like a cannon. Leon found himself shocked at the sudden speed, but his memory did not fail him. He had clung on to the edge of the alliance as training began, when District One’s girl needed to squeeze her eyes shut to complete a simple climbing course.

She would not make it to his carriage. If he killed the boy, she would need to find her alliance again before she could attack. That would give plenty of time for Leon to scamper back to the floor and disappear into the trees.

That decided it. He would kill the boy.

Leon climbed to his feet, standing as still as he could manage in the swinging carriage. He had not fired since training. He hoped he still remembered how to aim.

As he pulled the bow string back to his ear, his muscles shook. Leon closed one eye and lined the head of the arrow up with the head of his target. He took a deep breath. As he breathed out, he fired.

The arrow missed his head. It pierced straight through the boy’s chest, tearing through his jacket and t-shirt before staining both red. He stumbled.

“Ferro?” asked the girl, her voice creeping higher in panic. She pulled away and the boy fell to his knees. “Ferro, stop being stupid!”

Leon crouched and hid himself in the carriage, unable to stop the grin which spread across his face. There was no dramatic end - no gasped declarations of love, or long and winding final words. The cannon fired. Leon heard it and relished it, practically dancing to the accompaniment of a scream in the world below.

“Ferro!” cried the girl again. Her voice was still painfully shrill, but it was with worry rather than mockery. She did not cry properly. Instead, she mourned with a combination of yelling and sobbing as she tried to wake her partner up.

Eventually, the difficult sound faded into the forest. Leon did not watch, but he assumed his assumption was correct: the girl was too smart to miss where the arrow had come from, but she wanted someone else to brave climbing the wheel. Cautiously, he peered back over the carriage. The body was waiting alone.

There was no hovercraft yet. Leon assumed he was still too close, despite being in the air. He had watched the Games enough to know they never retrieved the body when a tribute was still able to grab hold and attempt an escape, but he did not want to escape. There was something rewarding about picking off the violent, backward children of Panem one by one. It was no different to shooting a deer, or a goose. The boy was as bright as an animal, anyway.

Leon counted to one hundred in his native tongue before he moved again. He did not want to face a furious, revenge-driven tribute until he absolutely needed to. The camera whirred and reminded him that he was still being watched. Leon caught his own reflection in the glass lens.

What else did Panem want from him?

The audience probably did not want him comparing their favourite tribute to a dumb forest animal – Leon was relieved he had not voice that thought aloud. He strained his mind, thinking back to the previous broadcasts he had watched during his stay in the city. There was a strange conflict in the annual victory, where the Capitol craved a bloodthirsty tribute who still showed a shred of humanity.

He could show respect to the dead. It would show humility alongside his talent, and Leon would practically hear the audience crooning at his wonderful manners and charming personality if he could do it correctly. He had seen a single funeral during his time amongst stone and quarries – how did District Two honour their dead?

Food. They scattered crumbs. He remembered standing beside the ceremony and thinking, what a waste of a perfectly good meal.

Leon did not have any bread, but he knew that Panem would not understand him if he did not speak in their language of tradition. He reached into his backpack and opened the packet of crackers, crumbling on in the palm of his hand. He leaned out of the carriage to scatter them in the wind. They floated down like the colourful, explosive sparks that filled the sky during the opening parade.

There – he was sorry. The boy had food for his journey home in a wooden box, and Leon had one less cracker to sustain him in the arena. Panem was placated.

***

Instinctively, Alyssa Revere defaulted to keeping up her appearance. She brushed the creases from her uniform skirt as she stared at the screen, watching her brother’s killer begin the long climb to the ground. It was supposed to be a quick appearance in the crowd before her class. It was supposed to be a chance to celebrate her brother on camera. It was supposed to be alright.

The cannon still rung in her head, over and over. There was a snake-like arm coiled around her, taking hold of her shoulder in a tight, venomous grip. It did not let her pull away.

“This is such a shame,” crooned Decadence Lustre, speaking loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear her. They murmured as if they were comforting Alyssa through a broken toy or a lost pet. “I am certain that my Sparkle will find his killer and avenge him and when she is a victor, she will honour him by-“

“Shut up!” screamed Alyssa, no longer caring how people saw her. It did not matter – her brother was dead, and the poisonous woman was stealing the opportunity to remind the country that her family was better. Alyssa wrenched herself from the grip and stared back, ignoring loud gasps and hurried whispers. “I don’t give a damn about Sparkle. I hope she dies too! I hope the boy from Two finds her and pins her down and cuts her pretty little face with-“

Alyssa was pulled away from the crowd before she could bring further shame to her family.

***

“How long do you think it’ll be before she snaps and kills him?” asked Serenity, as the unlikely pair continued to push through the overgrown forest.

Epona insisted on avoiding the path in the hope of sneaking back to their camp before any would-be thief noticed they were coming. She used her sword to cut through the overhanging foliage. “Who?” she asked, simply.

“Sparkle,” replied Serenity, as if she was trading gossip with a friend. “You don’t think she really likes him, do you?”

“Ferro?”

“Obviously.”

Stopping, Epona hid an opportunity to rest behind feigned thinking. “She seems to like him,” she said, “but I’m not sure why they’d both volunteer if they were together.”

Serenity was not satisfied. She continued as if her partner had not replied. “I think Ferro is head over heels with her, but I don’t think she cares as much. She’ll throw him away if it means she can win, so I think we’ll probably have three days as an alliance before she panics and takes him out.”

There was a cannon. Serenity took it as an opportunity to be smug, continuing forward to push past Epona and take the lead. “Told you,” she murmured, as she moved past.

The opportunity for argument was overshadowed by the familiar scream. The triumphant look fell sharply from Serenity’s face as it sent a bird scattering to the sky. Their allies name – Ferro – pierced through the air.

“We should go back,” ordered Epona, hurriedly. She turned to retrace their steps. Serenity stayed where she stood.

“Why?” she asked. “We don’t want to get involved in something that isn’t our fight.”

“We’re in an alliance.”

Serenity shrugged.

It did not matter. Before they could argue, the fight came to them.

Sparkle flew through the trees like a ghost. Her face, which had been deemed beautiful at the interview, was red and rubbed raw from the tears which continued to stream down her cheeks. “Ferro!” she called, breathless and shrill. “There was…someone shot Ferro!”

“And you killed them?” asked Epona, prepared to return and administer any treatment necessary.

Wildly, Sparkle shook her head. “No,” she gasped, “they were…they shot him from that wheel…they were high up.”

“Who was it?”

There was no answer. She did not know.

Serenity found a comforting arm and draped it across Sparkle’s heaving shoulders. “We’ll get them,” she reassured, although they had no target. “They’re a pretty good shot if they got him from there. Don’t remember anyone shooting in training.”

“Leon,” said Epona, suddenly.

The accusation was a distraction from the crying girl. Serenity absent-mindedly comforted her one ally, but she focused on the name shot from the mouth of the other. “Leon?”

“It would explain his high score.” Epona raised her sword, turning to where the wheel had towered above them. “I can’t see why he would be able to, but we can’t miss the opportunity if it is.”

Torn, she moved her head between the path to the wheel and her path to the camp. Her indecision was evident in her panicked glances, and Serenity picked up on it immediately.

“You should go and hunt him down,” she ordered, practically throwing Sparkle in Epona’s direction and nodding in the direction of the wheel. “You’ve got your spear, One, so you can go for it from a distance if they have a bow. I’ll sprint back to the camp and check our supplies are safe, and then I’ll bring Four.”

Sparkle sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She was a different person to the poised, polite performer she had managed on the night of the interview. “Four?” she asked, hesitantly.

“He can throw a trident. If this person has a bow, you’ll be struggling to get near him with a sword.”

With determination clouding her face, Epona looked ready to try anyway. “Fine,” she agreed, taking Sparkle by the sleeve and pulling her back through the trample forest. “Be as quick as you can, Serenity. Kill Four if he’s taken anything.”

Serenity watched her allies disappear into the overgrown foliage, shouting after them, “gladly!”

***

Inari was dragged from this half-slumber by a sudden shout. It was impossible to sleep in either a tree or an arena, but he had managed a cold evening drifting in and out of a brief rest. He was too close to the alliance’s camp to fall into anything too deep.

There was someone beneath him. He could see the movement of a figure between his shelter of thick, leafed branches.

“Cove!” called the figure again, pushing through to the cornucopia’s clearing. Inari curled in on himself and made him as small as he could, willing the person beneath him to not look up. She cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting again. “Cove, come on! Bring your trident!”

Inari glanced across the top of the tree to see the alliance’s remaining guard attempt to jump to his feet. The boy stumbled, leaning on his trident to stagger across the open space. “Serenity?” he shouted, his voice distant.

“Come on!” yelled the girl, and the boy tried to speed up. She waited for the injured boy beneath the tree.

Gritting his teeth, Inari considered climbing higher, but the branches were already becoming whisps – he was daring, but he was not stupid. Instead, he curled himself against the thinning trunk and begged the leaves to help him.

The boy hobbled to his ally, eventually. “Where’s the others?” he asked as he drew closer, his voice floating through the foliage. “The cannons-“

“Ten’s dead,” answered the girl, almost smiling. “Her own fault. That’s what happens when you don’t follow instructions, Cove.”

“Iu-Iumenta’s dead?” clarified the boy, stuttering in the same way he stumbled across the forest floor.

“Ferro, too. There’s someone who can shoot, so we need you to be there with your trident in case it gets messy. Come on!”

Their voices faded into a distant blur as they left the clearing. Finally, Inari took a breath. He stretched himself back across the branch, pushing and pulling each muscle until he was loose enough to move. It took him a minute but when he felt safe, he stood on the branch and peered across to the cornucopia.

It glinted in the morning sunlight. There was no one there.

Inari grinned. His leap of faith had paid off: the alliance had left their hoard for the taking at the golden horn.

It was easier to scramble down the tree than it had been to climb up. Inari practically threw himself to the ground, bending his knees and rolling onto his uninjured arm to soften the landing. He dusted himself off as he climbed back to his feet and set off to the horn at a run.

He hesitated in the thick woodland which ringed the clearing, crouched to the floor. The sudden break in the trees made him peer into the mouth of the cornucopia for a hidden guard. Slowly, he crawled out and began to make a break for the supplies. No one emerged when he did. Inari relaxed – the alliance really had been that stupid.

Inari spurned the strong, packaged supplies hidden amongst the crates and barrels; he did not want to waste time in the arena pitching a tent. Instead, he searched the smaller items in the same manner her used at a market. He stole a muted green backpack which would join him in the trees and filled it with two full bottles of water, two packets of dried meat, and two packets of crackers. There was a small, foldable metal pot waiting by the fire, so he threw that in as well.

Briefly, he tested the weight of an unlabelled tin can in his hand. It was too heavy to cart along with him. He settled for some fresh apples and decided that he also wanted the waterproof sheeting that they rested on. Inari leaned over an open crate to purloin the plastic before gasping at what waited inside.

The alliance had three pairs of the night glasses which were sometimes passed around the treetops in Eleven. With them, he would be able to see through the night whilst avoiding anyone who might see him. He hurriedly snatched a pair before hesitating at what remained. He did not want the alliance to have same the same advantage.

Was it worth taking another pair? They were fragile – Inari remembered that the glasses tended to break in two if they were dropped from a tree.

The memory gave him an idea.

Inari reached back into the crate, took a pair of the glasses and snapped them in half across the frame. It exposed the wiring, so he put a plastic piece in his mouth and pulled until the shattered segments were completely separate. He did the same to the other pair. He did not want to stop there. If he could steal this advantage from the alliance, what else could he do?

With a glance across his shoulder, Inari found a sharp knife in a pile of forgotten weaponry. He used the blade to slash holes in every tent pack. He cut the arms from jackets. He drained the contents of metal cans across the floor, and emptied water bottles across fabric blankets. He smashed crackers to a pulp. He trod bread into the dirt. He cut bowstrings, broke spear handles and bent the blade of every weapon he could manage.

He left carnage in the camp and ran away laughing.

***

It was a sawmill.

Beneath him, Acacia felt the ground underfoot fade from a cracked, stone pavement to soft undergrowth. He did not look down. Instead, he stumbled across the thick brambles as he kept his sight fixed on the strange building. The roof had caved in; it was likely no longer usable as a shelter, but a rusted track still emerged from the rubble and began a long climb up a steep hill.

However, the track ran into a constructed canal. It sent the water tumbling down into a contained reservoir, where the stagnant water was greener than the ground. It seeped through the old wood and helped the surrounding floor flourish with new flowers. It was a sawmill. There were still logs floating through the water.

Acacia edged closer to the construction. He was too short to see entirely over the wooden barricade. Instead, he climbed on wooden beams from the broken building to peer inside and see what remained.

They were not logs. They were bright orange on the inside, with carved seats that were slowly being eaten by the elements. Acacia reached out to pull one closer and felt the cold chill of the material: they were plastic.

The smell was strong, like engine oil mixed with rotting meat. Acacia’s stomach began to churn again. He could not drink this water, no matter how desperate he was. The nausea began to blend with confusion and left him feeling light-headed on his perch.

He did not understand the Capitol. There was a factory in their forest, filled with plastic rather than pine. The mechanisms were not designed for the elements: the metal chains were rusted beyond use, the engine was falling apart, and the piping-

The piping was pristine.

Acacia looked closer, almost putting his face in the water. The mechanisms which transported the water were all in perfect condition and when he followed them, he found they converged in a machine beneath the foundation of the collapsed hut. It sat beneath a metal podium, adorned with brightly coloured buttons.

Picking his way across the debris, Acacia watched the dust dancing in the beams of the midday sun. He was correct: the collapsed building held the control panel for the strange sawmill. He tried to discern the pattern of red, blue and yellow with peeling labels that were no longer legible. Acacia pressed a handful to see if they did anything. He was not surprised when they did not.

That did not matter. He had his toolkit.

Acacia sat on a rotting beam to unpack what he had claimed. There were several specialist screwdrivers and a pair of sharp wire cutters, but he returned to his favourite: the hammer. He was determined to do something spectacular with it.

He used the end to pry a metal panel from the unfamiliar podium. Inside, there was a tangled mess of wiring. The red wiring criss-crossed with the blue and scattered itself amongst the yellow. Acacia scowled – it was impressive in the training centre’s gymnasium, but he did not want to start a fire there.

Carefully, he placed his thumb and forefinger on the red wire and tried to trace it through the knotting. It led to a machine beyond the crumbling wall which seemed connected to the rusted chain on the track. That did not help. The yellow wiring simply became lost in an endless, repeating circle. That did not help either.

The plastic-coated maze of the blue wire took Acacia straight to the cabin’s floor, where it was attached to a specialist socket. There was an indicator light on the mechanism. It was off.

Power. That would make sense.

Acacia skirted around the dilapidated flooring and clambered through the remains of a window. There was no solar panel on the roof or a coal chute to fill, but he immediately noticed a dirty read machine hidden amongst overgrown vines. He pushed the plant life away, not caring for the scratches it made on his arm.

It was a generator. Acacia gave it a kick with his foot, determining it was heavy enough to probably still hold fuel. Deciding it was not a smart idea to mock the Capitol for making it too easy, he held his breath as he flicked the switch and felt his way back to the panel through thick, black smoke.

When Acacia climbed back into the building, the wall was scattered blue with the light from the panel. It was impossible to tell what each one did, so he followed the only idea he thought was sensible: he pressed each button at once with an outstretched hand.

It worked. Immediately, the sawmill outside began to stir with the hum of electrical work. When Acacia peered out the window to admire his handiwork, the dead leaves were swimming about on the surface as the water was agitated by the wiring beneath.

The pump took in the brown, sludge-filled water and cycled it through a visible filtration system. The larger pieces of debris were caught by a grate, which Acacia could easily reach and clear out as the machinery continued. It would take time, but the strange pool would be filled with cleaned, filtered water.

The toolkit was not food, or shelter. However, Acacia had turned it into something far more useful and he hoped the Capitol was watching.

***

The snap of a twig was as loud as a cannon. Raven’s hand scrambled across the dirt until he found the handle of his knife. It was tangled around the silver strings of his parachute, and the brief delay set his hard pounding. He looked down, desperately trying to free his blade. Once it was free and in his hand, he let out a breath and glanced back up.

He could not see a source for the sound. Raven frowned. He could not have imagined it. He was not going crazy that quickly, surely. Then, the thief’s sharp eyes noted the brown leather of a hunting boot peeking from behind a tree.

Raven moved silently. He did not let on that he had noticed, other than rising to his feet and readying the knife in his hand just in case. He edged forward, slowly making it to the tree where the other tribute was hiding.

The boot disappeared. There was a rustle of branches, and the figure became a shadow in the trees. Raven cursed under his breath and lowered the knife to his side.

The safety could be an illusion. Raven cautiously poked his head around the tree, ensuring that he was completely alone again. There was no one there. There was no indication that anyone had been there: there were no footprints in the dust, or fabric caught on a branch, or leaves bent out of shape.

He was tackled to the ground.

Raven’s head hit against the dust as he desperately grappled for the weight that now sat on his stomach. His hand was pinned against the root of a tree, and someone else leaned and stole the knife straight from his fingers.

Clenching a fist, Raven struck wildly into the chaos and hit into someone’s chin. There was a grunt of pain, a lapse in the strength, and the sudden adrenaline gave Raven the opportunity to sit up and throw the attacker back onto the ground.

He prepared to fight again, baring his teeth and prepared to go in with fists. The other tribute was ready too. They both hesitated, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The boy’s face was already injured. The skin around his left eye was purpled with bruising, and there was dried blood staining beneath his swollen nose. Wild, he snarled with the stolen knife in his hand as he waited. Raven knew that he was not. He tried not to, but Raven looked at the boy and could only see the smiling boy from Five who had spent his whole interview talking about his brother and betting strategies.

“Give me my knife,” ordered Raven, edging backwards to show he did not want to fight.

“No,” spat the boy, and that left Raven with no choice. He sprung forward like a wild cat, tackling the boy to the ground with the advantage of surprise. His fist hit his face, bruising the boy’s other eye. Then, Raven pinned the boy’s neck down to the ground and tightened his hold.

“Give me my knife,” he repeated, low and authoritarian.

There was a sharp stabbing pain in his side.

Raven hissed, pulling away and feeling the knife’s blade peel out of his stomach. The wound immediately began to bleed and he could feel the fabric of his t-shirt and his jacket sticking to his side. Immediately, he took both hands and pressed them on the wound through his clothing. He cried out. It burnt.

The boy offered no reprieve. He pushed Raven back onto the ground and took off into the trees, knife still in his hand. Raven had no opportunity to follow. Instead, he let the pain of the wound consume his as he bit his lip and tried not to cry out. He curled up on the ground.

His bag.

He could not lose his bag. Still trying to apply pressure to his side, Raven began the slow crawl back into his small clearing. His vision was swimming, but he could still see his backpack leaning against a rock. The boy had not taken that. He only took the knife.

Desperate, Raven collapsed beside his bag and used the rucksack as a pillow. He tried to collect swirling thoughts, each of which culminated in the overwhelming, burning pain growing from the wound in his stomach. He had the bag, but there was nothing in it which would help.

Raven was thrown over his bag by a heaving in his chest, spluttering blood over the canvas as he coughed. Then, he looked at the crimson stains with panicked, wide eyes.

***

In the midday sun, Satin’s neck and back were soaked in sweat from the heat of her hair and her pack. She panted, holding a half-empty bottle of water and not daring to take another sip until she found a pond, or a stream. Her skin was burning. She kept her jacket tied around her waist to prevent succumbing to something as simple as heat stroke.

Staring, she stood on the soft underfoot of the overgrowth. The sign in front of her stared back: two wooden posts suspending a large plaque that had once been adorned but was now plain. Satin rested her scythe on the floor to free her hand and reached out to trace the wooden grain. There were remnants of paper and paint clinging to the surface, survivors of where someone had clearly torn away the decoration.

In the corner, Satin could make out the cheerful blue of a sky. There were curves of green, and colourful squares that indicated different things is she was to believe the scrap of a list that remained. It ended suddenly in a torn strip. Her hand became a fist, and she hit against the sign, smothering her cry with the dull thud.

It was a map. She recognised the key and the colouring from brief lessons at school. The arena, like she suspected, was a Capitol attraction and the visitors needed to know where to go. However, Satin was not a visitor. She was a prisoner. She did not get that luxury.

She hit the sign again, but the damage was done to her hand rather than to the construction. Satin stopped. It was not fair. Exhausted, she fell to her knees.

It was not fair.

The city wanted her to suffer. They made each decision to upset her and watched her with grins on their stupid faces and drinks in their bloodied hands. In the arena, they removed anything which could help. When styling her to fight, they decided it was more important for her to be pretty. It was torture, and they would be patting themselves on the back for it.

She could not cry properly – there was not enough water for her to do that – but she tensed her face as if she was about to. Instead, Satin sobbed. The sudden gasp of air brought a strand of hair into her mouth and made her choke. She pulled it from her face as she coughed, trying not to be sick beneath the ruined sign.

It was too much effort to suffer. Her chest ached from the effort. Satin wanted to curl onto the floor and give in. She tried to move, and the knife she stuck in her belt reminded her it was there by poking her in the thigh.

Satin grabbed it and began to throw it to the floor, before stopping herself. The blade was sharp. It could cut through anything, if she needed it to, and she had something which desperately needed cutting.

It would be her choice. It would be her rebellion. If the Capitol would not make it easier, Satin decided to take that challenge herself.

Taking a calming breath, Satin gathered her blonde hair into her one hand and held it taut, away from her head. She began to cut through the strands with the knife, sawing when slicing became too much. There was no smooth motion. There were only jagged, desperate chunks of hair falling from her head and to the dusty ground.

***

Fern hit her head as she awoke in her camp. It was a shallow rest; the night had been interspersed with dreams of being chased, and she woke in a flurry of movement as she attempted to attack shadows that did not exist in the waking world. Her breathing steadied as she found her knife and readied it in her hand. Then, Fern realised she had become the sort of person who was calmer with a weapon and her breathing began to quicken again.

Instinctively, her hand ran across the cut in her jacket where the skin of her arm was beginning to knit together. The cut had been violent but shallow, and it did not feel hot to the touch. The ache in her head was dull but mild; when Fern reached a hand to trace that wound, she could tell it was beginning to bruise. Her injuries were only mild inconveniences. She was grateful.

Rubbing her head, Fern stretched out as much as she could in her cramped teacup. It was impossible to tell the specific time, but Fern glanced to the sky to see where the sun was. In that movement, she caught sight of the black-haired boy resting in his own vehicle.

He grinned as he saw her, and grinned wider when she scowled. His own feet were kicked up on the plastic with his arms draping lazily across the teacup’s edge. Fern did not like it; how dare this boy look as if he was enjoying himself in this damned arena.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice as clear as the songbird which accompanied them from a nearby tree. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up, you know.”

Fern’s grip tightened on her knife. Her knuckles began to turn white against the cheerful yellow of her shelter. The boy lifted his arms in the air and waved them to show that he was not holding a weapon, but she could see a backpack sat on his lap.

“What do you want, Saori?” called Fern, bitterly. She lifted the knife so that he could see she held it.

He raised an eyebrow at the blade. Standing, Saori he acknowledged the weapon by leaning over the side of his own teacup. “An alliance,” he answered, “like I asked for in the training centre.”

“Don’t come any closer than that,” warned Fern. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

The tributes stared at each other. Fern did not like how the glint of the sun obscured exactly what the boy was looking at, but the movement of his head made it clear. He scanned across her figure and the world around her to take stock of every supply she had. “No bag?” he asked, but he did not seem surprised. “No food? Water?”

His criticism bred envy, as he pointedly swung his own backpack over his shoulder. Fern stared at it rather than him. She enjoyed being able to move quickly and unencumbered, but the bright morning light simply illuminated how difficult a second day without food or water would be.

“I wanted a weapon,” she answered, eventually. She twisted the knife as if to emphasise and as if to threaten.  “Felt most important.”

“Looks like you picked up an injury to get it,” replied Saori, nodding at the healing wound on her arm. “I have a cream for that. You can have some, if you’d like.”

The boy began to lean round and unzip his backpack. He stopped still when Fern asked, “but no weapon?”

Slowly, Saori shook his head.

“Seems stupid.”

Fern lowered her knife and stepped from her teacup. The tributes met on level ground, surrounded by comically oversized china and whistling trees. This time, Fern did not complain as Saori risked a step forward. “I hid in the mouth of the cornucopia and ended up soaked in someone else’s blood,” he replied, “so I feel quite lucky to be alive as it is.”

“Didn’t your mentor tell you not to go into the bloodbath?” asked Fern, slowly. “I hear that it’s practically a guaranteed death.”

Saori scoffed. “I knew you must have found that knife growing on a tree.”

The sarcasm grew into a brief truce. Fern was comfortable with the boy taking a further three steps forward, until they were face to face. “What’s in it for me?” she muttered, when he was close enough to hear. She knew that there was the offered cream for her wound, and an ally would give a safe night’s rest and a conversation, but she wanted to hear exactly what plan she was following. “If we team up, I mean. We’ve both seen how alliances end.”

“And if I wanted to kill you in your sleep, I’d have done it with your own knife when I found you last night,” said Saori. “I get that you’re not the same person as your sibling, but neither am I. Let’s give them some unity for once. We can share supplies, and sleep on shifts.”

He edged closer. Fern was almost convinced he was going to pull her into a hug and began to raise her knife, but Saori stopped short. He barely moved his mouth as he whispered, “and think of all the sponsor gifts we can pull out of the suckers that liked Xico and Sunnie.”

Fern stepped backwards. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but his hushed comment was correct. His brother had survived long enough to receive a knife from a sponsor, and Sunnie had received her fair share of food and medical supplies descending on silver parachutes. They kept her alive. These same people were probably piling money aside to help Fern and Saori and together, they may never need to worry about food or water in the arena again.

“You’re seeing the potential, aren’t you?” pushed Saori, as he noticed the light in Fern’s face grow at the prospect of sponsors. “We should team together until the final eight, where we can go our separate ways. Then, there doesn’t need to be any sort of worry that we’ll have to kill each other at the end, and we won’t be on edge like Xico and Sunnie were. We should do it for their sake.”

Saori did not need a weapon; he crafted each word carefully to twist into Fern’s chest as well as any blade. “What if I don’t trust you?” she asked, quietly.

“Then you should have stabbed me about twenty seconds ago.”

Saori smirked, straightening the backpack on his shoulders. His smile was dangerous, like a vat of boiling sugar. It seemed to stick. It would burn. Still, Fern could not look away from it.

“Come on,” he urged, practically grabbing her hand and pulling her along with him as he set off back into the forest. “We’re going to need to find water if we want to make it past sundown.”

Fern pulled her hand away. “You said you had supplies!”

“I didn’t say which supplies.”

 Saori looked over his shoulder, and Fern fell into his smile again.

***

The twenty-eight abandoned podiums waited equidistant from the golden horn, and Cove’s stomach fell when he stumbled upon them. His instinct was to run. He dug his feet into the dirt and forced himself to stay. It was not a fight filled with blood and agony – at least, not anymore.

Sparkle sulked into the space beside him. Whilst one arm was crossed across her chest, the other dangled limply with a clean spear. There was no command in her voice. Instead, she watched and obeyed as Epona and Serenity bickered for leadership.

Cove edged to the side. He had decided it was safest to stay away from each of them.

The horn was reflecting the sun in bright, blinding rays. Cove placed his hand across his face, like he did when the water bounced on the ocean in Four. The shadow cast across his sight suddenly allowed him to see what was waiting.

Carnage.

“What?” muttered Sparkle, having watch her ally’s face fall. She narrowed her own eyes until the camp swam into focus.

The wooden crates and barrels which held their supplies in neat piles were strewn across the floor, emptied and splintered. Beneath emptied bottles, there were puddles of mud with crumbs from bread and crackers adorning the mess. The debris was punctuated with colourful flags of ripped tent canvas.

“What?” asked Serenity, pushing through the foliage with Epona. At the sudden sight, her tone lowered as she added, “it was not like that when we left it.”

Sparkle cursed with volume loud enough to scatter birds. Cove winced; his ally had the mouth of a sailor, and the temper to match. There was no longer a smile or a sob to distract her. She was fury and anger, storming forward to kick open a scattered crate. “Who did this, then?” she yelled, her voice cracking with the effort.

“It’s impossible to tell,” replied Epona, in a measured tone that attempted to be reasonable. “If it was done since Serenity and Cove left, someone must have been watching it. Did you see anyone, Cove?”

Initially, Cove did not hear the comment aimed in his direction. The voices sounded like the indistinguishable rumble of thunder over a crashing sea. Serenity nudged him in his back and his brain whirred back into the conversation.

“W-what?” he stuttered, as the sentence settled in his head. Then, he added, “there was no one here when I was on watch.”

“He could be lying,” attacked Sparkle, immediately. “He could have done it to give him a better chance.”

Cove took a step back, placing himself near Epona – she was not a comforting character, but she was preferable to the wild girl with the spear. Epona shot him a look of contempt but continued to defend him. “When?” she asked. “He’s been with us all morning.”

“Well, maybe he should have been keeping guard instead!” countered Sparkle.

It was Serenity’s turn to choose her side and move. Cove was surprised when she joined him. “We all agreed that it would be more useful to have him,” she reminded, cold, “though I suppose it’s not entirely impossible that he worked with someone else to do it.”

Epona turned her head, eyeing Cove like a small fish on a market stall. “Who else would want to work with him?”

“I’m not working with my sister,” interrupted Cove, hurriedly. He could see the argument forming and deciding to dodge before it could be thrown at him. “I’m not! She…we’re not talking, alright?”

Scowling, Sparkle kicked another splintered plank across their destroyed camp. The expression was becoming more familiar than her smile. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

Cove tried to hide the pounding of his heart behind his protest. He had been told what had happened to the other ally they decided was no longer needed. He did not want to witness it. “Did they take anything?” he asked, gesturing to the chaos of their camp. “If I was working with Sennen, we’d take two of everything.”

There was a boiling anger as Sparkle lifted her spear. However, she paused at Epona’s strange and gentle stroll across to one of the damaged crates.

“We had three pairs of glasses,” explained Epona, finding her target. She fished around the debris inside the box, scowling at the remains before retrieving the snapped, broken frames. Waving them in the air, she turned to Sparkle. “There’s two left. They’re broken, but whoever it was only took one.”

“See!” added Cove, jumping on Epona’s reasoning.

“This still doesn’t prove anything,” mumbled Sparkle, disgruntled. She lowered her spear, pointing from her own eyes to her ally. “I’m watching you very closely,” she warned, before dragging her hand across her neck. “If I catch you doing anything I’m not happy with, you’re dead. Clear?”

Cove swallowed, trying to clear a lump in his throat. “Crystal.”

***

Azazel managed to restrain himself: he cupped his hand rather than plunging his face straight into the pool at the base of the cracked fountain. The brickwork was outlined in a delicate lace spun of moss and there were dead leaves floating like boats on the surface of the water, but it seemed clear enough against his skin.

Do you honestly think it’s safe?

It was the second day in the arena, and Azazel was beginning to feel the dehydration clawing at the back of his throat and at the edges of his mind. He pushed away the voice, ignoring any warning of what could be lurking in unpurified water. He needed it.

You’re better than this, Zel. You look desperate.

Azazel did not care. He forgot manners, slurping the water from his hand noisily as it dripped through his fingers and onto his t-shirt. He sighed in relief as the moisture eased the pain in his cracking lips. It was barely a mouthful. Hungrily, he reached his hand back in.

He did manage to claim one thing from the cornucopia, besides the haunting memory of his partner’s glass-like eyes. Azazel still wore the metal water bottle over his shoulder like a bag. Shrugging it off, he pulled the lid off with his teeth and plunged it into the cool water of the fountain.

In the pool, the writing on his hand seemed magnified. It taunted him from below the surface.

The bottle filled quickly. When he brought his hand from the water, he could see the damage that was already done to his message from just one night in the wretched arena. The ink spread across his skin like poison in some places, and it chipped away in noticeable flakes in others.

There. I bet you feel stupid now.

Gritting his teeth, Azazel noticed how the skin on his hand twisted as he replaced the lid on the bottle. It would be impossible to not use his hand - he would be harming nobody but himself with that – but anything he did was pulling his boy further away from him.

It was fine. He could bear it. Tesla had probably already seen it.

I know you love me anyway.

It was not his boy he needed to convince. It was District Three, and they likely needed something more permanent. Azazel began wishing for a knife. That would carve through his skin easily. He could watch the blood bubble through his flesh before wiping it away under the fountain. It would heal, but it would leave an angry red mark that would taint his hand through the remainder of the Games. Then, it would fade to a scar. It would be there forever.

Zel…

Azazel shook his head to free himself from his stupor. That was crazy. He was crazy. He decided to wait longer before completely losing his mind and settled down to drink his fill of water.

***

Vixen had a talent for going unnoticed. Instinctively, he took each step into footprints which were already embedded in the soft ground. His hand clamped across his wrist to muffle the incessant ringing of his beloved charm and noise still roared in his head and ears, but his adrenaline had subsided. There was no audience in the arena. He had finally begun to calm.

Instead, he saw animals. Vixen did not mind watching a mouse scurry across the path in front of him or seeing a brightly coloured bird streak across the sky. He even saw signs of foxes, like the ones which snuck into gardens in Nine and stole the food from their bins. His grandmother hated them, but he liked seeing their flashes of orange across the garden path in the early morning. The creatures were comforting. They reminded him of home.

It was growing dark. There was no sense of time in the arena beyond the sun and the anthem. Vixen knew that the sky would show three faces – he had heard three cannons – and he was not looking forward to finding out who they were, but it did seem an opportunity to begin to rest. It was almost like the rattle that they would sound in the field during harvest, signifying the end of the day.

Vixen stopped in the footprints of another. He looked for a tree he could pull himself up into. There would not be much sleep to be found in the branches, but it was safer than being a sitting mouse on the floor. He was strong and nimble to scramble out of reach and that was all he needed.

There was a strange, half-grown tree which sprouted branches as straight as a ladder. Vixen chose this one, scampering across the soft ground to run and take hold of the lowest rung. He would not be disguised by thick leaves, but it would be dark.

There was a flash of blue through the bare branch.

Vixen knew he could not hold on forever; his arms already ached at the pull of clambering higher. As quietly as he could, he continued to push himself forward until he could settle on his knees in the crook of a thick branch. He edged himself out as far as he dared, just to see.

The anthem began with a sudden flourish, lighting the arena beneath it and offering Vixen a chance to catch the creature beneath his tree. It was not a mutt, or a strange animal. In the small space between trees, there was another tribute. He sat on the remaining stump from where a young tree had fallen, clutching a sharp blade.

The tribute looked to the sky, waiting for the haunting faces to appear. It was Azure. Vixen was certain of it. There was no one else like the blue-haired boy in the arena. Trying to avoid being seen, Vixen pulled himself closer to the trunk of his tree

***

In the light of the anthem, Mercy tried to imagine the television broadcast. She frowned at the brief, childish sketch that she managed with a stick in the dirt. They were nothing more than an embarrassment. It would be better if she had paper – but then, she remembered the patterns and pictures doodled in the margins of her notes which disappointed her father anyway. It seemed that, no matter what she did, Mercy was born to be a disappoint and-

No, she urged herself. Think.

She drew a third crude stick figure. At home, they would be watching a detailed replay of each death. They were only given faces in the arena, but she could try to guess what had killed the people appearing in the sky. If she was correct, she understood the narrative of the Games. She could play to it. She would not be boring.

Mercy labelled each figure in the dust: District One, District Ten, and District Ten. She used the cannons to her advantage. There had been two in the dark morning, and one as the sun began to streak across the sky. That was all she knew.

Biting her lip, she drew a line from the first figure to the third. The anthem finished and plunged her project into dark. Mercy threw her stick to the floor in frustration and held her head in her hand as she tried not to scream.

It was possible that District Ten had been allies and had been caught out by someone else. No – that did not seem right. It was more likely that the alliance, the inner-district one, had jumped on someone. They could still lose someone in a fight, and that would explain District One.

Mercy’s head began to ache as each thought screamed at once. There was no one barking orders at her here. The audience was not tangible, cheering for what they wanted to see and hear.

What did the Gamemakers want her to do? Did they want a courageous fighter, taking down the large alliance whilst they were already weakened? Or, did they want her to seek out her partner and take on the arena as a dynamic pairing?

That seemed unlikely, at least. Mercy was perfectly happy to be left alone with her headache and her hunger and her stick figures in the dirt. However, it did not feel as if the audience wanted that. Or, did they?

She could not compete, or survive, or function without the rigid instructions that the arena was refusing to give her. Mercy could not play the game if she did not understand the rules.

Chapter Text

[36] Break

The sky was empty on the second night. Azure strained to see through the trees, but he was left disappointed: the night was obscured by low clouds. Without the moon and stars, he was left with only fear, uncertainty and the chance of rain.

He lay back in the dirt, hiding his crestfallen face in the crook of his arm. The ground was uncomfortable, but he was familiar with that. His stomach growled in a hollow hunger, but he was familiar with that too. Azure was instead overcome with the feeling that somebody was following him.

It was the arena, he decided. It was designed to play this game with him. If he was being followed, he would have been attacked by now.

Azure settled as if he might sleep. He knew it was impossible, but it was important to show the audience that he was happy. He had not slept the previous night, or the night before the arena. It did not matter. He had survived on remnants of snatched sleep before. He could convince the audience he was well-rested.

Was that it? Azure turned over, tucking his face into the shadow of his jacket so the audience would not see clearly. It must be that he felt he was being watched because the entire country was following him through hidden cameras.

No. This felt different. This felt urgent.

Azure’s heartrate quickened despite the feigned rest. With each rustle of the tree branches, he was certain he missed the sound of a footstep. There was an animal snuffling through the dirt. There was the distant whisper of a strong wind. There was noise after noise after noise, and he could not tell which were real and which were his mind being cruel to him.

His eyes fluttered between open and shut, resting and alert, fearful and frightened. He should have anticipated this. He was useless at everything he tried. Azure scratched his fingers across the dirt until he found his machete, just in case.

The moving clouds offered intermittent moonlight. It made the shadows dance. However, there was a steady dark shape in a tree. Azure sat up, letting the jacket fall from his face. It was too large to be an animal. It was too dense to be leaves. It was too still to be a camera.

It had to be a person

The light flickered again. It reflected in a pair of fearful, blue eyes.

“Vixen!” cried Azure, before he could stop himself. He was too loud. He was too reckless. Panicked, he threw his hands across his mouth.

Vixen jumped at the loud shout, but he steadied himself on his branch. He was no longer hunched over, trying to evade attention. Azure hardly recognised him without his shoulders clenched to his ears.

“Have you been following me?” asked Azure. There was a beat of hesitation, but Vixen nodded. There – Azure was not going crazy. “Since yesterday?”

There was another nod.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

It was difficult to see the smaller boy in the night, but Azure recognised his shadow hunching further over. This could not be answered with a nod. Vixen found his voice. “Didn’t know if you still wanted me,” he whispered, hoarse.

Azure wanted the boy desperately. He was far smarter, and far quieter. The audience probably liked him more. Azure would be the liability that got them both killed. However, he forced the forming guilt aside to make room for his dislike of solitude. “I want you,” he reassured, anxiously tracing a pattern in the dirt with his spare hand. “If you want me, I mean.”

The charm on Vixen’s wrist jingled as he climbed down from the tree.

***

Alder sat on her knees in the dirt, desperately clawing through the bush. There were ripe, red berries on each branch. She ignored the thorns, and the scratches littering her arms, and the fact that someone could be sneaking up on her. She cared only for the fruit.

With each rustle of the plant, more berries fell to the ground. Alder scrambled to collect them. Her skin was stained purple, and the air was decorated with a sweet scene, like a blackberry stewing with sugar before becoming a jam.

They were not blackberries. Alder did not recognise the berry or the leaf. She did not see it as either edible or poisonous. Instead, she saw that they were ripe with juice, and she was willing to risk it as her mouth cried out for water. She would stop if her lips began to burn.

Alder took a handful of the scavenged berries and crushed them to a pulp in her fist. They were filled with small, hard seeds but they swum in juice. She desperately began to lick the liquid from her hand as it ran down her wrist, staining her t-shirt.

The seeds stuck between her teeth. Her mouth no longer felt like cotton, but the sweetness of the berries left a strange film across her tongue and teeth. It made her crave water even more. She did not have water. Alder had berries, and determination.

As the collection dwindled, Alder turned to eating each berry one by one. She broke the fruit open with her teeth, sucking out the juice until she was left with a limp skin clinging to her fingertips. When it was a shrivelled husk, she chewed through the skin and seeds for whatever sustenance was left.

It did not burn but, after the feast, her stomach began to hurt. Alder recognised the familiar pain as simply eating too much fruit on an empty stomach. In District Eleven, they called it Orchard Ache – it was familiar amongst young children who would sometimes be allowed to scavenge rotting fruit from the market floor. Alder did not care. She did not stop.

With the bush emptied, Alder looked as if she had entered and lost the arena’s bloodbath. Her chest and stomach were covered in the spilled juice, which also settled around her mouth and in the creases of her smile. It stained her chapped lips. Hungrily, she licked around her face for more.

It did not help. There was nothing which would ease the burning, foggy feeling in her head except for water. It seemed impossible to find. Alder looked to the sky. The arena would not even bless her with rain.

However, water could fall from the sky.

Alder scowled. As she waited for rain, she remembered that there was another way to find water: on a silver parachute. Surely, there was enough money between herself and her partner to spare for a sip. The audience must not realise how thirsty she was.

She could not tell them. She could not find a camera – Alder was certain that they must make a noise as they moved, but there was no chance of feeling it in the bark of the trees or the dust on the ground.

Desperate, Alder pointed to her throat. She pointed to her mouth. She made a cup with her hands and mimed taking a drink. There was no one watching.

***

Eden was desperate for a fight. He attacked the bark of the tree with his knife again, kicking it in the trunk for good measure. It provided him with nothing but a scratched knife, an ache in his foot and an accidental pile of shavings from the pine tree. Eden allowed himself to collapse to the floor with a deep huff, letting his knife bounce across the ground.

Why was this so hard?

The overwhelming scent of damaged pine filled the air, holding steady against the breeze. It was edible, at least. Eden sifted through the pile like he had once done with his father, sorting out the softer shavings of the bark which would be easier to chew. He shovelled them into his mouth as if he was starving. He was not – this was the most well-fed he had been in many years.

With a mouth full of bark, he placed the back of his hand against the wound in his arm. It was a nasty bite from a hatchet from the stupid brat from Seven, but it did seem like it was healing. He felt it periodically, waiting for the tell-tale heat of an infection to creep through his decaying flesh. Eden did not know what he would do if any infection did rear up. He refused to beg to the Capitol.

Why didn’t he kill him?

It was harder to heal the swelling across his face, but he was familiar with the feeling. Eden had become well acquainted with dull aching across his nose and throbbing pain across his eye since being dragged into District Thirteen. The arena did not have his usual treatment: a cold, metal wall to rest his head against.

Why did he hesitate?

The fight replayed in his mind more than it likely did on television sets across Panem. Eden made an indistinguishable noise of anger as he hit the ground with his fists, watching himself hesitate over and over again. He could kill. He had been told how. He had been prepared when it was a Peacekeeper and a bullet, but it was different when it was a boy and a knife.

He blamed his inactivity on injury. District Thirteen would understand – they would never send an injured soldier on patrol, and so Eden waiting for his arm to heal would seem sensible. However, Eden was growing more frustrated with the truth. He was not hunting because he did not want to fight anyone, and this was an unusual, tearing feeling in his chest. This was not who Eden was trained to be, expected to be, or wanted to be.

***

When Sennen glanced to the ground, her stomach churned with the ferocity of a storming sea. She was not familiar with height. Her climbing experience consisted of scrambling along a cliff face and yet, she found herself amongst the birds.

She gritted her teeth. Sennen could feel her palms becoming damp and tried to clutch the strange ladder tighter. It had been an impulsive idea to climb the train track which swept into the sky but she refused to admit to regret. She was safe from any other tribute, at least.

Sennen’s hand faltered. She lost her grip and fell from the track.

Her leg hit the structure first. As she fell and flailed, her left ankle hit a support of the track. The panic immediately concentrated itself into an epicentre of pain, but Sennen still screamed. She tried to kick in the sky as she did in the sea. It was impossible. The wind roared in her ears until she could not hear her own voice.

She landed on her back, in a patch of wet mud and soft grass. The backpack sheltered her from most of the fall. She rolled away from the track in an attempt to minimise her impact, but the movement alerted her to a dull pain in her arm and her back. The sky spun. The earth rumbled.

Immediately, Sennen wanted to be sick.

She twisted her chest to the side and retched into the overgrown ground. There was nothing in her stomach to bring up, but it did not stop her body trying. The pain in her leg merged with the pain in her stomach until her entire being was a sharp, throbbing ache that brought tears to her eyes. They ran in streams down her cheeks as she choked up bile.

Trembling, Sennen shrugged the backpack off and pulled it to her front. Her hands were shaking too much; it took several attempts to grab the zip and pull the compartment open. She wanted water. Her bottle was still half-full, but she sipped carefully. The liquid hitting her empty stomach was almost too much and she covered more heaving with a coughing fit instead.

It calmed eventually. She was able to rest in the grass and truly try to document the injuries she had sustained. Her head was fine: there was a dull ache from lack of food and water, but nothing physical. She could move and twist and feel each limb so there was luckily no damage to her back. There was a constant, biting ache in her chest and lower waist, and then there was the intense, stabbing pain in her left ankle.

Sennen had not looked at her ankle. It had been covered by her dropped jacket following the fall. She thought it was likely bruised from the impact against the metal and worsened by the adrenaline of falling – at least, she hoped it was. Sennen did not want to imagine any alternative.

She would need to elevate it. She could find a camera and beg a sponsor for ice, or a constricting bandage, or a cream. The treatment was mundane despite the dramatic fall. However, she would need to see the injury to treat it. Sennen whipped the jacket from her injured limb.

It was not a bruise.

Sennen’s ankle was bent further than an ankle should be, at an angle that indicated serious damage to the bone. Her sturdy hunting boot was ripped and hanging limply from the remainder of her leg. Her sock was soaked in blood which stained up her calf and her shin. The wound came from the inside of her ankle, where the skin had been ripped by the fractured bone.

She could see the bone.

It was splintered, broken so sharply that it poked through her skin.

***

When the sun showed midday, Inari allowed himself to stop. He could no longer feel his legs. They were like a liquid, trembling and unsteady until they cramped when he lowered himself to sit on a fallen tree. His feet were rubbed raw by the boots, swollen. He had not stopped. He had run since his destruction of the camp and finally – finally – he allowed himself to rest.

They had not come after him. He was free, with supplies, and he had left the alliance with nothing.

His brief respite of pride was quickly interrupted by his body screaming about the overnight run. He had allowed himself water, but now his stomach rumbled for food and his eyes burned for sleep. He could easily tear into every packet and eat every single thing in his backpack, but he stopped himself.

Hands trembling, Inari chose one packet of jerky. He pulled it open with his teeth and counted three pieces. Then, he returned the packet to his bag. The meat would take time to eat. It would be filling. He took his first bite and began to chew.

There was a strange but not unwelcome heat as he tore through each strip. They were barely chewed when he swallowed, his stomach seeming to suck the food in like a whirlpool. It was not home cooking full of sweet vegetables and rich gravy, but it was something. It was enough to survive.

His jaw ached by the time he finished, but his stomach no longer growled. Inari ignored the midday sun and chose a tall, sturdy tree to pull himself into. It was trickier to pull himself up a trunk with a single working arm, but he improvised like a true performer. He found a solid fork where he could rest, with a bend in the bark for his bag like a pillow. He pulled his t-shirt over his face to try and trick his brain into thinking it was dark and he fell asleep with a smile.

***

“Obviously, people place bets,” replied Serenity, with the tone of a parent explaining an obvious answer to a small child. She smiled as if she was slowly patting her ally on the back.

Epona scowled. There was no betting in District Two. There was honour in winning, but not in picking who would win. “You are likely to lose two of your own,” she scolded, still surprised at the answer. “I can’t see why you would celebrate that. You should honour them.”

“There have been competitions throughout all of human history,” explained Serenity, with a sigh. “People celebrate the winner and forget the loser. Now, we know that consequences are the best way to learn so it’s not enough to just lose. If the losers die, we’ll have a stronger population!”

“Do you believe that?” asked Epona, but the Capitol girl did not dignify her with a response.

The alliance was an overhanging rock. Epona could see it crumbling and knew it would be safer to keep her distance. Sparkle was no more than a pretty face with an axe, swinging from irritatingly upset to dangerously angry in the snap of a finger. Serenity was rude and keeping her knowledge of the arena to herself. Cove – well, Epona barely considered him to be an ally.

She was unfamiliar with uncertainty. Epona chewed on her lip as she thought, trying to prepare for any eventuality but knowing there were too many to consider. Her training relied on individual skill supported by a group: sleeping in shifts, sharing rations and working together to hunt.

No one wanted to hunt, there were no rations to share, and Epona did not trust her own allies to watch as she slept. It would be comforting to slit Sparkle’s throat in her sleep, take Serenity in a fight she would lose, and leave nature to take care of Cove. However, that was not what was expected of her. It was not honourable.

Instead, she waited for the moment she could attack her allies face to face.

***

The dawn was beginning to break, and Solar was beginning to see the cracks. He dunked his t-shirt back into the cold water of a fountain, pushing it through a floating mess of old leaves and pine needles.

What were the odds that he survived the day?

He frowned, wincing at the tight movement in his aching face. Wringing out his shirt, he placed the fabric on his injured eye. The droplets of cold water traced their way down his neck and onto his bare chest. Solar sighed in the brief relief from the cold compress.

His odds were good. His face was heavily swollen and the vision in his left eye was hazy, but it was reducing slowly. Solar had already cleaned the dry blood from his face. He had washed his jacket as best he could. He almost felt human again.

He was human.

Solar gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. There was no cannon. The boy was not dead. He was not a murderer. Yet.

He pushed the thought from his mind by applying more pressure with his damp t-shirt, relishing in the aching pain that came with it. He deserved that. However, the fight would keep the audience entertained and it meant her had a knife. It was worth the pain and the guilt to improve his own odds.

As the dawn stretched on, Solar really hoped that it was not going to be the day he became a murderer.

***

Raven coughed again, and the painfully familiar taste of blood filled his mouth. He lacked the energy to spit it out on the dusty ground and instead let it trickle and pool from the corner of his mouth. He was not dead yet. The pain was enough of a reminder.

During the strange lull between asleep, awake, and unconscious, Raven kept his hand pressed against the wound in his side. He peeled his hand away from the jacket and tried to wipe the stale blood away on his trousers. It did not work. Instead, it streaked the blood further up his arm. He grimaced. It was still early morning, judging by the sun. He hoped Jackdaw was not watching.

Wincing, he pulled the jacket away from the wound. The waterproof lining was clinging to his reddened skin and made an irritating sound as it fell away, allowing him to shrug it to the ground. The cut fibres of his t-shirt were mixed in with whatever was leaking from the wound. He could cut the fabric if he had a knife but no, some brat from Five had stolen it and when he got hold of him, he’d-

Raven stopped. There was no productivity in revenge. That anger had killed his partner.

He channelled his fury into tearing the fabric, ripping it at the seams and freeing his t-shirt from the healing wound. He briefly hesitated at the thought of being shirtless in front of Panem, but then stopped – it was nothing they had not seen after that damned chariot outfit, anyway. He took the opportunity to look at his side and try to decide the best course of action.

He was pleasantly surprised. It did not look too bad.

Raven’s skin was raw and rubbed red by the fabric, but the actual wound was knitting itself together easily. There was no heat when he pressed the back of his hand against it, and no sign of any infection around the new scabbing. It was still fresh – Raven was certain he could reopen it if he stood up – but otherwise, it seemed calm.

So, why was he coughing blood?

Raven’s hand shook slightly as he traced the new wound in his side. Was he bleeding inside, or was something damaged that he could not see? He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth as he thought, catching his teeth on a swelling.

He stopped. He retraced the path his tongue took.

There was another wound in his mouth. Across the top of his tongue, there was a large, swollen indent constructed of ridges and cuts. The pain was masked by the pain in his side but as he touched and probed, the pain returned in his mouth too. He took a hand, choosing the one which was not caked in old blood, and poked at his tongue with his finger.

There was definitely a wound. When he removed his hand, it was red. He was bleeding. He was not coughing blood. Instead, his mouth was simply filling with it.

Raven laughed, confused by the strange mixture of pain and relief. The sound burnt in his stomach, and he felt his skin rip apart again, so he gritted his teeth and stopped. That movement sent another surge of pain across his mouth. There was no reprieve, but he was alive.

You’ll have to try harder than that, Five, he screamed, in his head. He did not want to bring anyone closer before he was ready to fight them.

***

There was a gentle sound floating on the breeze. Instinctively, each member of the exhausted alliance reached out across the dirt for a weapon. Sparkle was on her feet and poised to throw before noticed the silver parachute descending gently in the orange-streaked sky.

“There!” she cried, replacing her spear in the air with a pointing finger. “I knew they’d be sending us things once they saw that our supplies were destroyed.”

“Better say thank you, then,” scolded Serenity. She gently placed her kukri blade on the dirt and went to lying back on the ground. She closed her eyes. “I don’t think the people out there are going to take to kindly if you just assume they will send us gifts.”

Slowly, Epona stretched to her feet and joined Sparkle in waiting for the parachute to descend. There was a glinting capsule on its strings.

Remaining on the ground, Cove picked at the edges of his stained bandage. There was no one to help him change it. With his trident back in his hand, the healing wound on his leg throbbed and his brain ran wild with all sorts of thoughts. The parachute was of little concern to him. He would probably have to beg for scraps like a dog.

“There’ll be a number to show who it’s for,” explained Serenity, as if it were knowledge everyone should know. She did not open her eyes. “You might have to look carefully. We can share whatever it is, though.”

Cove did not feel as if the recipient would share. He did not want to put his trident down if the trio were about to fight for whatever feast was slowly falling.

When reaching on her tiptoe was not enough, Sparkle reached out and knocked the present from the sky with the wooden handle of her spear. The parachute became tangled around the capsule, and she lost herself in the strings trying to reveal it.

“So, who’s it for?” asked Serenity, oblivious to the struggle.

Cove did begin to pay attention when the alliance’s leader fell silent. He watched Sparkle rub the metal as if it would change the label. She frowned, her eyebrow furrowing in an unattractive manner.

“Who?” repeated Serenity, sitting up as she grew tired of waiting.

“Four,” replied Sparkle, disappointed and plain. She threw the capsule towards Cove, but made no attempt to make sure he could catch it. It fell in the dust and rolled to his feet as he watched it in shock.

“I’m- I’m sure it’s not,” he stuttered, reaching out and grabbing the capsule for himself. It made no sense; he was certain he had no sponsorship money at all. However, it was there, and it was clear – there was a ring of engraved ‘fours’ across the middle of the capsule.

“Won’t be anything useful if it’s yours,” spat Sparkle, and Cove was inclined to agree. However, she still sat herself back in the dirt near him. She grew impatient too quickly. “Well, open it then!”

Cove hesitated. If this was about to be a battle, he did not want to be the epicentre. However, the capsule was tiny and seemed unlikely to hold anything of value. His leader was right.

He edged broken, jagged nails across the centre seam and prised open the capsule. Immediately, Cove was transported to the living room they shared in his cottage. He could hear the sea crashing outside the window. He could see the evening sun streaming through the gaps in the curtains. He could smell his brother taking fresh bread rolls from the oven.

Cove glanced down. In his capsule, there were four beautiful bread rolls studded with seaweed – just like his brother made. They were tinged green and crusted with salt still warm. The heat hit his face as he peered over to look.

“Well,” urged Sparkle, impatiently. She pulled herself over to look and her eyes rolled with disappointment. “It’s just bread. That is nothing.”

Epona walked over and peered in as well. “It’s green,” she stated. “Have you been sent stale bread, Cove?”

“It’s from Four,” he explained, hurriedly trying to justify his home before realising he was under no obligation to do so. Still, he did not want his new friends thinking District Four was backward. He composed himself, swallowed, and tried to talk slower. “We put seaweed in the bread. That’s why it’s green, but it also makes it salty and chewy and it’s delicious when it’s warm. Best with soup, but we don’t have any.”

Suddenly, Cove was filled with longing for his brother’s fish stew – it was always too salty and scalded his mouth, but it was home.

He unfurled the parachute and unpacked the four bread rolls, laying them on the fabric rather than the dirt. Serenity watched him closely. She was the politest of the alliance, even if it was just for show. Cove held a roll to her first, and she edged over in the dust to take it.

“Thank you,” she replied, with a smile. She tore the bread in half and inhaled the scent, seeming genuinely curious. “There’s a bakery near the academy that tries to recreate the different district breads for each month of the year. I never thought Four’s seemed quite right.”

She took a large bite. It was tough and Cove could see that it took her by surprise, but her eyes widened, and she made a noise of enjoyment.

Reluctantly, Cove offered a roll to Sparkle. “No thanks,” she spurned, turning away. Epona also refused.

It was fine. Cove wanted to shove all three into his mouth and fall asleep with the taste of home on his tongue, but he did not. He put them back into their capsule and saved them for breakfast instead. “There’s four of them,” he reminded, in case anyone wanted to change their mind. “It’s kind that they sent one for each of us.”

“It’s very specific,” added Serenity, through a mouthful of bread. She swallowed before continuing. “I’ve seen the sponsor catalogues. You can get district bread, or you can get normal bread, and they come in a set of either six, twelve, or twenty-four. If you want a specific number, I think you need to request it. It’s more expensive to send four than it is to send a set amount.”

Cove considered this briefly as he chewed his own bread. It did not make sense; he was never someone who was gifted with numbers, but it was silly to spend more money on less product. There was no real reason for it. “One for each of us,” he repeated, as if his vague justification explained what seemed to be a strange use of his limited sponsorship funds.

After a pause, Serenity nodded. “Probably,” she relented, before taking another bite.

Chapter Text

[37] Message

Azazel desperately tried to steal a moment of sleep as a bird began its dawn chorus. He curled his knees into his stomach, groaning as another wave of sharp, stabbing pain spread from the put of his stomach and up into his back. The position eased the pain slightly, but he still rocked in a cold sweat on the forest floor.

Briefly, he considered food. Azazel craved something which would settle the churning in his stomach, despite the crashing tide of nausea that threatened the back of his throat. He could beg a sponsor to send him something simple like a cracker, or bread, or a thin soup. There was a comforting stew from Three which he began to crave: a rich, salty broth with roughly cut vegetables that he would purchase from an early morning market stall and share with his boy. Instead, Azazel had nothing but water.

Rolling over to his back, he groaned as the pain continued. Sleep continued to evade him. The morning sun was already stretching across the sky. Azazel knew that he needed to grit his teeth and get up. He needed to keep moving.

You’re letting a little tummy ache stop you, teased Tesla with a laugh. Azazel hid his sweating face behind an arm. The loveable judgement was enough to pull him into a sitting position.

Azazel’s water bottle had rolled across the clearing as he tried to sleep. He dusted it off, struggling to undo the lid with his weak grasp. Eventually, he was able to put the bottle to his lips and drink the water he had gathered from the fountain. It still had the unpleasant, earthy tang of the debris that had been scattered in it. His stomach continued to cramp as he finished the bottle.

***

The alliance was heard before they were seen. Acacia was trapped in the strange, surreal land between asleep and awake, and the cocky jeering worked its way into his dreaming. He woke fully with his heart pounding, bolting upright to see if the sound was real. It was.

He cursed out loud, scrabbling across the debris-ridden floor to gather his toolbox together. There was no opportunity to organise his supplies; Acacia tossed each tool into the plastic case and forced it shut. He grabbed his knife, stuck it in his belt, and took flight.

Tripping as he tried to navigate a fallen beam, he was grateful for the gentle humming of the water pump which covered his scattered footsteps. The alliance was shouting near the door. Acacia took himself to a window and climbed from the splintered wood, pushing himself against the outside wall.

“There!” cried a voice, as Acacia took off from his hiding place. He was quickly pursued by a rumbling collection of footsteps. He did not stop to see how many people were following him.

It would be a risk to push forward. Hesitantly, Acacia glanced upwards as he reached the thick barrier of trees. What had Ilara taught him? She might be dead, but her persistent tuition in tree climbing remained – if Acacia could remember it.

He needed three points of contact with the tree at all times. Acacia pushed his toolbox into his mouth, holding the thick handle with his teeth as he reached up and began with two hands. He kicked at the trunk with his feet. The branches were thick and staggered like the rungs of a ladder, but they still bent precariously as he scrambled higher.

The alliance gathered beneath him. Their silence was almost as heavy as their footsteps. Acacia took a seat on a branch he believed to be out of reach and finally looked to the ground. Resting the toolbox in a fork of the branch, he ignored the people to focus on the weapons that they held.

“Thought you’d be better at climbing,” called the cocky, blonde-haired girl from One. She held a spear and yet still managed to fold her arms, “since, you know, you’re Seven.”

In the absence of anything sharp, Acacia decided his tongue would suffice. He tried to think of a witty response. The Capitol’s girl spoke before him.

“That’s interesting coming from you, Sparkle,” she taunted, loud enough to be heard in the tree. “Are you going to climb up there and get him?”

Acacia could see the red flush grown on the girl’s – Sparkle’s face – even though he sat in the air. She was ignoring him in favour of glaring at her ally. “There’s no point climbing up if he has a weapon,” she argued, “because he’ll just throw it at us.”

“Let’s see,” continued the girl from the Capitol. “You got a weapon, Seven?”

Hesitating, Acacia considered the opportunity. He had an advantage, and they recognised it. The truth seemed most likely to keep them on the ground.

“I have a knife,” he admitted, pointing to the weapon which poked him uncomfortably in the thigh. He paused to think before adding, “and a hammer.”

“What are you doing with a hammer?”

This was the opportunity for a secret. He could still hear the humming of the water pump in the distance and hoped it was not noticeable. “Not much,” he lied.

“So, what have you been up to?”

Acacia was taken aback by the casual nature of the conversation. He was cowering above them, as they held weaponry, as they all fought to the death and yet, they sounded like the merchant wives ambling around the monthly fabric market. “Trying to avoid you, mostly,” he replied.

It was not enough. In that instant, it became clear why the Capitol’s girl was training to be a Gamemaker – she was relentless in her search for more information, for more discussion, and for more entertainment.

“How’s that going?” she asked, practically standing on her toes in her eagerness.

There would be a camera. Acacia grinned; she was playing up to it and giving the audience an interaction before they watched a fight. Except, there would be no fight: Acacia had the high ground, and the inner-district alliance were well aware there was nothing they could do.

He decided he could play too. With a confident lilt, Acacia shouted back, “seems to be going well.”

***

“This is a waste of time,” snapped Sparkle, as her tone cut through the indecision. “He’s hardly a threat. Let’s just go.”

Keeping her head still, Epona glanced upwards and watched the boy as his branch swayed dangerously in the breeze. He returned the favour by staring her down. Eventually, she looked back to her angered ally. “He does not have a bow, but he is still a tribute.”

“We do have to kill all of them,” reminded Serenity. At the patronising tone, Sparkle raised her spear as a reminder that she still held it. Serenity stood her ground.

Cove trembled on the edge of the conversation. His attention swung between the team and the target, his eyes occasionally flickering to the weapon in his own hand. “I could throw my trident,” he offered, in the voice of a mouse.

“No,” said Sparkle, and he sank back in visible relief. Sparkle rolled her eyes; it was clear from his anxious glancing to the sky that Cove was too weak to want to help. “You’d probably lose it in the branches. We can’t climb after him. He’ll hit us with his stupid hammer before we can do any damage.”

“That’s nothing to do with the height at all, is it?” asked Serenity, slyly.

Biting her burning tongue, Sparkle ignored her. “We’re down two people in this alliance already. We should be taking on stronger tributes whilst we still can.”

“Are you implying that we could not take a stronger tribute by ourselves?”

Epona crossed her arms as she spoke, with a furnace roaring in her yes. The comment sat heavy in the air between them. Sparkle shook her head. She offered no verbal explanation.

Reluctantly, the alliance accepted the will of their leader. There was no willing volunteer to scramble up the tall tree, and no desire for revenge on the scrawny boy who perched in its leaves. Sparkle made the initial move by lowering her spear and turning her back, hoping to find prey closer to the ground.

***

Sennen waded between lucidity and sleep. The pain did not ease. It travelled in waves, rippling up through her body from the break in her ankle. She could not look at it. It was covered by her jacket again, with the sleeves knotted tightly around her calf so that it did not come loose.

She tried to drink. She was sick each time something found her stomach, so she settled for spreading water across her chapped lips and sucking drops from her fingers like a newborn babe. She needed the water. The day had been warm, and she had been in the grass throughout the harsh sun, dozing in and out of consciousness. Her skin was burnt. Her body was aching. Her mind wanted to give up.

The sudden relief of a cooler evening stirred something in her. She sat up, steadying herself with her hands as the arena continued spinning. Sennen did not want to wait to be found in the grass - it offered no shelter from weather or warrior. Her trident was still in one piece. She could see the metal glinting in the long evening sun. She was broken, but she was not beaten.

Sennen planted each hand in the grass and slowly – painfully – used her arms to drag herself across the floor. The movement reignited the pain in her ankle like a tsunami, but it worked; Sennen inched towards her lost trident. It was a slow process. There were several breaks to pant and sweat and close her eyes. It demonstrated how useless she would be if anyone did find her, which spurred her own more.

The sun was dropping beyond the horizon when she reached her goal. Sennen reached out and grabbed the trident, raising it above her head in triumph although there was no one to celebrate with her. Her arms trembled with the effort. Her ankle screamed. She could not stop.

She needed shelter. She needed food. She needed water. Sennen grimaced – survival did not stop simply because she was injured. If anything, it intensified.

She was above the forest, on a hill without trees. Instead, the metal structure stretched above her and soared through the sky, taunting her. The track offered no shade but there were bushes and patches of long grass by the support that would hide her well whilst she healed.

If she healed.

***

The anthem was empty. Fern frowned as the hollow tune echoed through the sky. The bright, Capitol seal faded into many stars which seemed to taunt her, changing no one died over and over again until she began to feel sick. Then, she realised that she wanted people to die and that made her feel worse.

“You can’t change it by staring at the sky,” said Saori, taunting her in the knowing way that Fern was becoming familiar with. She knew that he would accompany the comment with a laugh, and then grin as if he expected her to laugh too. True to her prediction, Saori’s laugh twinkled through the darkness like the stars. It faded when she did not join in. “Fern?”

“The audience will be getting bored,” replied Fern, quietly. She tried to laugh. It fell flat.

“It’s the third day,” he reassured, “and there’s always a lull whilst people spread out and start figuring out the hiding places and the weather patterns. I’m sure the big alliance will be hunting tonight and-“

“Can we talk about something else?” interrupted Fern.

Saori raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he offered, slowly. “What would you like to talk about?”

Hesitating, Fern tried to pull a new topic of conversation from the uninspiring night. She shared very little with her new ally, apart from a sibling and a story. He had shared his first aid cream as he promised but, on the whole, they moved in silence. She worked in a sweet shop. He was a student. What did they have to talk about?

“You went to a special school, right?” she tried, eventually. Her brain clung on to the information from when the screens aired nothing but tribute talk. It was true; Saori nodded. “Can you handle numbers?”

Sighing, Saori tilted his head to one side. “I prefer literature and ancient history,” he replied, dragging out the answer as if he was tired of giving it. “I can do mathematics if I need to. Why?”

“What are the odds that we were both called?”

It was asked before Fern realised what it meant. She blushed, but the darkness hid it from her ally and from any camera. She did not regret it – she was curious, after all – but the answer was already set. They both understood that it was not likely, but neither could say it out loud.

“You know, there used to be a civilisation called Rome,” said Saori, as if Fern had not asked him a question. She still listened as if it was an answer. “This is before Panem, I mean. I learned about it in my ancient history class. They had something called a colosseum, and they had gladiators. They used to fight to the death for the emperor. That was like their president”

“Like us?” asked Fern, flatly.

Saori shook his head. “There used to be a large crowd cheering for them, and there was nowhere for them to hide. Sometimes, they would have to fight wild animals too. They used lions, and rhinoceroses.”

“Mutts?”

“No! They just used to take them from their home and ship them all the way to the colosseum for the gladiators. It used to be a proper job, to be a gladiator. They couldn’t kill anyone without the emperor’s permission, though. They would stand over the loser and wait for the emperor to give them a signal. If he was entertained, the emperor would give a thumbs-up and the losing gladiator would get to live. If not…”

He trailed off, and left the final point unsaid. Fern did not need it. There had been no deaths. They were not being given a thumbs-up by their emperor.

“We should sleep whilst it’s quiet,” ordered Saori, acting as if his tale of fallen civilisation had simply been a bedtime story. “Here – we can use the backpack as a pillow. I’ll take first watch.”

He slowly – deliberately – edged across the grass to deliver the backpack to Fern. As he handed it over, their hands brushed lightly against each other and his face whispered against her ear. He hid his mouth from a camera in the movement and hissed, “don’t talk about our reaping unless you want a mutt set on you.”

***

Mercy heard the beat of her own heart as a buzz in her ear. The lullaby of the evening was the chirping of a distant bug, accompanied by the flutter of a bird flying home for the night. It was peaceful. She frowned. It was too peaceful.

The anthem confirmed that the competition was already beginning to slow. Mercy counted each day and night on one hand, hesitating as she reached three and realised that the eternity had hardly been a weekend. She clenched it to a fist as if she was holding a knife, but she had no weapon.

Briefly, Mercy glanced up at the night sky as if she expected to see a blade descending on a silver parachute. Panem would need to pay for a fight if they wanted one. There was nothing but silhouetted tree branches against the moonlight. She knew, deep down, that a gift was incredibly unlikely. The audience did not like her. District Thirteen were boring.

Unless you were Eden. He was something different. He was playing the city like an instrument.

Mercy stood in one fluid movement, pulling her rucksack over her shoulder. She did not feel tired despite the night stretching out around her. The beginning of a plan was growing in the very back of her mind. It barked orders at her in the same tone as her father. She did not have a weapon, and she did not have sponsors, but she had an entire arena at her disposal.

There would still be a large pile of weaponry at the cornucopia and whilst it would be guarded, the alliance would be hunting through the night. She was capable of taking on one person with just her fists. At least, that is what her father would tell her if she showed hesitation. She had the opportunity to be exciting. He would not let her waste it.

***

They don’t see us as a threat. They see us as one of them, which means that we can get close and…

The memory trailed away, and Leon mourned the loss of his father’s voice. The crackling of his daring fire was enough to remind him of the long evenings they spent together in the forests between boat trips. There, the preys had grown up without anyone around them. They had not learned to fear him. He hardly needed to shoot; he could approach the curious prey and take them with a knife.

It was like the arena, and the strange children of Panem. They did not see him as a threat. They were as easy to pick off as trusting mice.

There was a piercing crack in the silent night.

Immediately, Leon had one hand on his bow and another pulling an arrow from his quiver. He waited. There was nothing to shoot. In the dancing light of his fire, he could see only the shimmering bark of nearby trees.

Leon did not lower his bow. Instead, he released the tension in the string and peered closer into the shadows. It was possible the crack came from the flames licking at his firewood – except, he was so certain that the sound came from the trees.

Was he tempting fate with a fire after the anthem? He knew that it was stupid. The tributes would flock to it, but he dared them too. He could handle anyone that came to him. He would shoot them before they knew what had happened and if he missed, he had a knife.

Eventually, Leon lowered the bow. The only cracking was his fire as it died slowly, becoming embers and soot on the forest floor. His mind was playing tricks on him and making sure he was still alert. It was a test. Leon smiled to himself. He had passed.

***

Eden pressed himself against the trunk of the tree. His hand was wrapped around the branch beside him as he prepared to snap it again, but the boy beneath him lowered his bow and returned to poling his fire with a long stick. He laughed to himself, settling back into his makeshift camp.

He was armed with weaponry and had charms that would set sponsor gifts raining from the sky. He was also confident enough to start a fire. It was stupid. He could be seen from a mile away and yet he did not care. Eden detested him.

The hatred did not extend to confidence. Eden retreated further along his branch. He did not mind snapping branches and throwing fruit from the tree to divert attention, but he could not make any sound of his own. It would send an arrow flying in his direction; the boy seemed as trained with his bow as Eden was with a gun.

It was a shame he could not find a firearm. The Games would be over in a matter of hours.

Eden did not want to stay in the tree longer than he needed to. It had been a long time since he had been amongst plants, and even longer since he perched amongst leaves. He was unsteady in the branches. The height and the distance made him dizzy. Still, he could not climb down. Not whilst the boy from Two was there. Not whilst he was awake.

***

Satin was desperate for rest. At the sight of a seat, her sore feet pounded across the cracked concrete and clambered over fallen fences. She took a seat on the swinging chair and let her sore feet fly freely in the air, sighing deeply in the relief. It rocked gently. The rattling chains filled the still night air.

It was an unfamiliar building. Satin twisted until the cold, hard metal bit into her aching back. There were many swinging chairs each suspended from a striped canopy, held by a series of mechanisms that she could not decipher. The roof was filled with the rusting green of moss and ivy. It did not matter. It was a chance to rest. Satin enjoyed finally taking her weight from her feet and feeling as if she was about to fly.

Satin recognised the contraption as a ride. The strange machines would sometimes appear on their screen between mandatory broadcasts. They were often accompanied by children screaming in delight as they whirled around. There was no delight in the arena – only screaming.

There was no water, either. There was no food. Satin chewed on her lip, feeling the skin swell as she travelled through relentless thoughts. It was easy to swing on a chair in the quiet night, but it was not a simple summer’s evening. There could be somebody in the trees. There could be somebody watching her. There could be someone sneaking up behind her, hiding their footsteps under the grunting of the chain.

Satin turned. There was no one behind her.

During her brief training, Cotton told her that the hardest part of the arena was to keep moving. You could not give in to the fear. You could not give up. Satin gently rocked her chair, walking the fine line between comfort and nausea. She focused on the pain in her mouth, and the dryness in her throat, and the hollow feeling in her stomach. She knew she could not cry.

The rusting chains twisted into a twinkling sound that began in the clouds and floated through the sky. Satin glanced up, wondering if the Capitol had engineered their stars to sing. There was nothing but dying plants and the cold, plastic roof.

Reluctantly, Satin left her swinging chair. It was a short walk back into the moon’s light, where the constellations were interrupted by a silver parachute.

A gift. For her.

Satin thanked the sky before the gift even landed in her hands. She grabbed the parachute from the air as if she was trying to catch a shooting star. The material was as soft as her name, leading to the small bag hanging by strong, silver strings. It was not a big gift, but it was hers. It meant people wanted her to win. It meant that she could.

She pulled the parachute from the present and stored the material in a pocket. Tearing open the bag, Satin found two plastic bottles which were each filled to the brim with water. “Thank you,” she said again, as loud as she dared into the night sky. A cloud was rolling in and beginning to hide the stars, but she knew people were still watching. The strange ride creaked in response.

***

Azure watched in fascination as his ally scanned the roof of foliage above them. The moon offered a surprising amount of light and Vixen’s t-shirt was filled with scavenged roots; when he spotted the outline of a familiar leaf, he would dig at the base of the trunk and scavenge the root of a weed that he expected to grow there.

“Do you have many trees in Nine, then?” asked Azure, noticing the familiarity. He was not used to companionship without conversation.

Vixen, on the other hand, did not mind silence. He shrugged and kicked at the dirt with his shoe to find another root. “Not really,” he elaborated, when it became clear that his ally wanted an answer. “Use these to line fields.”

“And they grow the roots?”

“No.” Vixen shook his head. He took a deep breath, as if talking took a great effort. “They grow by roads. Don’t know why they’re under trees here.”

Azure was not particularly interested in the arena’s plant life. Instead, he focused on the conversation that he did not expect to have. Vixen’s speech was stilted, slow and quiet but it was full sentences, and that was unusual. “You seem calmer,” commented Azure. Then, repeated the comment in his head and bit his tongue at how it sounded. He was useless unless he was told what to say by someone else.

Clutching his t-shirt to hold his forage, Vixen hesitated. He looked to Azure, examining the blush which spread across the boy’s cheeks. Azure could not meet his eye. Despite it, Vixen laughed.

The sound was similar to the clinking sound of the charm on the collar around his wrist. Vixen’s smile spread to his eyes and lit up his face. “Calmer,” he repeated, looking away, “in the arena.”

“I’m sorry,” said Azure, folding his arms protectively across his chest. “I know that’s stupid. I didn’t think. I…I…”

“No people here,” admitted Vixen. He distracted himself by digging his foot into the dirt again, exposing another root. “It’s not like the Capitol.”

“There are people here.”

“Yes, but I don’t have to speak to them.”

Vixen took his turn to blush. He disguised it by digging another root and adding it to his pile, wiping the dirt from his hand on his jacket. “We might need to cook these,” he said, changing the subject. “Need a fire.”

“We should wait until it’s light then,” replied Azure. The flickering firelight would be a beacon, screaming to the other tributes that they were there. He also did not like the idea of the smoke hiding the stars that he was catching sight of between branches. “Can you carry them?”

Looking down at the pile in his shirt, Vixen scrunched his face at the sight. The gathered roots were threatening to spill from the fabric, staining his skin and his clothing with dirt. “Not really,” he replied.

“We can camp here, then. Start a fire in the morning.”

“Sure?”

Azure was confident there was nobody following them. If there was, there had been plenty of opportunities to attack them. He held up the machete as if it was threatening. “I’m sure,” he answered, ignoring Vixen’s smirk at his attempt to look like a threat. “I’ll take first watch if you need to sleep.”

“Okay,” said Vixen, quietly. He dropped the roots into a pile at the base of a tree and sat beside them. “Wake me when you’re tired.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

Azure had no plan to wake his ally. He wanted to spend the night counting the stars whilst he had the chance.

***

The comforting taste of the bread turned sour in Cove’s mouth. He tried to scrape it away with his teeth, rubbing his tongue raw. The bread did not fade. It did not taste of home anymore. It tasted broken, and rotten, and wrong.

The pile of supplies in the horn was smaller now, but Serenity had found a handful of bags and stuffed them with fabric scraps to make pillows. Cove buried his face into his, wincing as the metal zip caught him in the cheek. The pain did not distract him from the endless, unanswered questions whirring in his head.

Why did they send him four bread rolls?

It twisted round and round in his find, forming different shapes and reaching into every crack and crevice. It must have been deliberate. Cove rolled on to his back and looked up at the sky. The constellations blurred through forced tears which he desperately blinked away.

There was a soft snore to his left, echoing on the metal of the cornucopia’s horn. Sparkle was supposed to be on guard and would wake them at moon-high to go hunting, but it sounded as if she had fallen asleep. Cove did not mind that. He felt alone anyway; somehow, it was comforting to know that he was.

He tried to decipher the stars. In District Four, he could name each pattern. His father could navigate by them. In the arena, they swirled together into one, indistinguishable mess. He frowned, lip trembling. Sennen would be able to explain them, if she were here.

Had she received bread? Cove tried to unscramble each number. Maybe, it was possible to share a gift between tributes –a set of eight could have been purchased and sent as halves. He did not mind if it was true; Cove and Sennen had been sharing things for their entire life in District Four.

It was strange that he had received four bread rolls. It matched with his home.

Cove sat him. His stomach churned, the seaweed rolling like a tide. The bread was from District Four, and there were four portions. It called him home. It was a sign to go home. There was only one relic of home left inside the arena.

Sennen was in trouble.

Cove wiped his face with his sleeve. He bit his lip so hard it bled. He had been so stupid – the parachute had been a message the entire time. His mentor was telling him that he needed to find his sister, and that she needed him. He could be helpful for once. It was why he volunteered.

He needed to leave whilst their guard was asleep, and whilst he had the cover of darkness. He only needed his trident. It was going to be fine.

Cove took his trident from their pile of weaponry and began to steady, silent walk to the beginning of the forest. Sparkle stirred briefly and he stopped, poised to take another step. After a pause, she continued snoring, and Cove continued his cautious stroll across the clearing.

“Where are you going?”

The question was hissed in a harsh whisper. Cove gripped his trident to his chest, caught like a child with their hand in a biscuit tin.

Serenity sat up, resting on her own backpack. There was no trace of sleep in her eyes or any exhaustion in her face. She was sharp. She was alert. She raised her eyebrow for an answer.

Cove swallowed. “I heard a noise,” he lied, but he did not even convince himself. He began to flounder, stumbling across his excuses.

“You’re running off to your sister, aren’t you?” asked Serenity. Mercifully, she kept her accusation to a whisper. Cove could not lie fast enough, and the answer must have shown on his face, as Serenity laughed in a short breath. “You’re so predictable. I’m amazed you figured out the message. You didn’t seem to have a clue earlier.”

“What message?” Cove turned fully as he spoke. Trembling, he lowered his trident. He held it in case he needed to fight her, but he wanted to avoid it as long as possible.

Serenity did not seem to register the weapon. “The bread,” she answered, as if it were obvious. “There were four portions of District Four bread, each studded with four pieces of seaweed. It was practically screaming to you.”

Cove’s blood ran cold, like winter’s salt water. Serenity had guessed. Serenity had waited up for him to finally leave. Serenity knew he would abandon them.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he urged, suddenly. In a quick glance, he checked that her curved blades were amongst the other weapons. He put himself between the kukri and the girl. “You can just let me go. No one needs to know.”

“Did you take anything?” asked Serenity. “Food? Water?”

Shaking his head, Cove replied, “just my trident, I swear.”

Serenity rolled her eyes. “I swear, you district people are so stupid,” she murmured, before climbing to her feet. Cove edged backwards, defending the weaponry. “You can’t even run away correctly.”

The tribute did not go to the weaponry. Cove was left standing, limp, as Serenity moved to the meagre pile of remaining supplies. She kicked his improvised pillow on the way, before picking it up, unzipping it, and scattering the remnants of fabric inside into the wind. “You have a weapon, but you’ll probably want a knife,” she muttered to herself, perusing the supply pile as if she was shopping for a new outfit. Serenity chose a knife with a slightly damaged blade and dropped it in her bag. “I’ll give you an empty water bottle. You’ll have to fill it yourself. I don’t think we have food to spare, but you can take your bread.”

There was no fight in Cove; it had left to make way for the confusion. He barely registered as Serenity held the bag to him, and she had to hiss his name before he reached out to take it. “Thanks,” he mumbled, unsure what to do with it. He settled for closing it and placing it across his back.

Serenity had her hand to her mouth, biting a nail. “There’s something you’re missing,” she whispered, before looking as bright as the morning sun on the sea. “That’s it! If there’s something wrong with your sister, you’ll need one of these.”

She dug through the pile again. This time, she retrieved a small, green pouch with a white cross painted below the zip. “It’s a basic set, but it’ll do.” Serenity held it out, before dragging it from Cove’s reach with suspicion. “You can use it, can’t you?”

They learned basic first aid in District Four. Cove nodded.

“Good.” Serenity handed him the kit. “You’re all set. We will kill you though, if we find you. You’re abandoning us and taking our supplies.”

Cove chewed his bottom lip. Sennen was far more important than him. “Yes. I know.”

“And I won’t hesitate to kill you if they ask me too.”

He nodded.

“Good. We’re all on the same page, then!”

As usual, Serenity’s smile did not suit the situation. She was practically ushering him out the door with a wave and a parcel of supplies. It did not make sense. Before he could leave, Cove needed to know. He took a few steps before stopping to turn. “Why?” he asked.

“Why?” repeated Serenity, confused.

“Why are you letting me go?”

The smile turned knowing. Serenity had been expecting this question. She seemed proud that he had thought to ask it. “The audience will have been waiting for you to get over this silly fight with your sister since you arrived,” she explained. “The ratings for your reunion will be immense. We should give them what they want.”

“Oh.” The answer was reasonable, even if Cove did not fully understand it. “Thanks.”

He turned to walk again. He made it to the edge of their camp before Serenity hissed out again.

“Cove!” she called, in a surprisingly loud whisper. She was looking to the floor. “I hope she’s okay when you find her. Good luck.”

Cove nodded. There was nothing else he could say, except, “you too.”

***

Alder continued her stumbling in a wide, swooping circle. She barely felt the branches brushing across her face, despite the rough bark scraping and breaking her skin. Blood began to run down her cheek, and Alder’s tongue eagerly flicked out to catch any drop of liquid. It recoiled at the salty, metallic taste.

She did not cry. There was nothing left in her for tears. Alder’s mouth begged for moisture, and she begged to the sky for either rain or a parachute. She no longer cared about her echoing footsteps or the thrashing of her limbs. She hardly had capacity to care about anything.

Nothing fell. Her tongue felt like rough sandpaper and her head throbbed with her heart. She stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell to her knees in the dirt. As she collapsed, her head hit against a rock on the floor.

Alder’s eyes fluttered closed. She did not have the energy to open them again.

***

Suzette Tarragon huddled beside her small screen with a threadbare blanket, pulling it around her as if it might offer some comfort. Her son, Thatch, slept peacefully in the wooden cot she had dragged into the kitchen. He rested between unwashed plates, uncooked food and forgotten laundry.

She did not want to wake him. Suzette did not want her son looking at the screen, asking for his sister and wondering why she was sleeping so far away.

Chapter Text

[38] Honour

It was a stupid mistake.

Mercy paced with no set path, hoping that aimless movement would be perceived as action by the watching audience. The midday sun was beating down with a relentless heat and her shirt was drenched beneath her pack. She was thirsty, burning, and careless.

She did not care that trampling the undergrowth sent birds scattering to the sky. She did not listen for the movement of anyone else around her. She did not hear the alliance approaching until they were practically upon her.

“Who’s this?” asked a clipped voice through the foliage, before Mercy even noticed that somebody was there. “Have we found our traitor?”

Mercy finally looked up from her feet and to the enemy in front of her. Her heart dropped, like a lift down the shaft of an old graphite mine. She felt the sudden pulse flooding her ears and her chest. Mercy tightened her fist but there was nothing to hold, desperately fighting to keep the panic from her face.

Was her father watching?

“Not Four,” said another. She held an axe as a silent threat and wore a wild look in her eyes as a warning. “Thirteen, I reckon.”

“It is Thirteen,” confirmed a final voice. Mercy recognised the tall, harsh girl who spoke – she had wanted to spar during training. It seemed as if the girl also remembered the moment. “She chose not to fight with me when I asked in the gymnasium.”

“That’s not true,” mumbled Mercy, in an attempt to stand her ground.

The alliance sneered at her attempt to speak. “What was that?” announced the blonde girl, resting her hand behind her ear in a pantomime. “We can’t hear you whilst you’re trembling like that.”

“That’s not true!” repeated Mercy. She was loud enough to surprise herself, trying to take a step away from her own voice. She did not argue back like this. However, there was no rank in the arena, so Mercy steeled herself to speak again. “The trainer said it wasn’t allowed.”

“It’s allowed now.”

Mercy turned instinctively, looking for an escape before she was trapped in a corner. There was nothing; the alliance had encompassed her, leaving her with nowhere to run.

The fierce, fighting girl continued with her proposition, raising a sword. “We can fight now, where no one can stop us. It should be one on one, to the death. It could even be a fair fight, if you’re as good as you were in the training centre.”

It was the mindset of a coward, looking for an escape or an excuse. Mercy still desperately searched for either, no longer caring for her father’s judgement against her own life. She found her answer in her empty hand.

“I don’t have a weapon,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. It was an embarrassing admission, and her face burnt with the comment. She could not hide it. “It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

“Well, I’m sure we can lend you one,” replied the girl, as if it was a simple answer. She planted her sword in the ground, shrugged off her jacket, and folded it neatly. “You could take mine, if you’d like. I don’t mind fighting with a knife.”

Mercy caught sight of the seal on the girl’s shirt and swallowed a whimper at the emblem of District Two. They trained in every weapon with a blade and were experts in hand-to-hand, even if no one was allowed to discuss it. Her peacekeeper training paled in comparison.

She could not back down. She heard her father’s voice in her head, shouting at her as he did during drill routines. Mercy shook her head at the offer. “The knife is fine.”

At the idea of a fight, the girl from Two seemed to brighten. “I’ll take a knife too.”

The girl handed her sword to another, exchanging it for a long, serrated blade. She nodded to the Capitol’s girl, who sighed as she unhooked a knife from her belt and held it out for Mercy to take. “They’re not quite equal, but yours is sharper,” she reassured, winking. “You might need it.”

“We’ll countdown to begin,” instructed Two, taking her position beneath the rustling trees. “It’s a fight to the death. My alliance will let you go if you beat me. I trust them to do that.”

Mercy twisted the unfamiliar knife in her hand. The presence of a weapon comforted her, even if she was not familiar with it. Slowly, she took her position across from her opponent. “And if I don’t beat you?” she asked, in a small voice.

“You won’t be worrying about it for very long.”

Desperately, Mercy tried to turn the bloodstained forest into her familiar classroom. It was a simple disarming procedure. It was something that she had practiced over and over with her father barking instructions from the door. There was still hope.

She took a deep, staggered, shaking breath. Her father would be proud of her if she chose combat. She would be exciting. “Alright,” agreed Mercy, reluctance dripping from her tone, “on the count of three.”

In a final display of honour, they counted together.

It was fast. Mercy felt the air forced from her lungs as she darted to the floor, dodging an onslaught that seemed quicker than a train. She stumbled in the turn as she scrambled back to her feet, but the other girl was already pouncing again. Relentless, Mercy turned her side and tried to barrel into the oncoming attack with her shoulder. It sent the knife away from its target, but she was left pained and unsteady.

This was not the angry attack of a caught criminal, fighting for an escape. This girl wanted her dead. There was no opportunity to exhaust her.

Mercy faced the next push head on, throwing her body weight at the attacking girl and knocking her from her solid stance. She grabbed the girl’s wrist and tried to fight against her power, twisting the arm until she dropped the knife. It was impossible – the girl from Two was sheer muscle and pushed against Mercy’s attempt with ease.

She dropped her. Mercy twisted. She tried to attack the back of her opponent’s legs, but she was too slow. There was no opportunity for the skill she understood. Instead, she weaved through a constant barrage of attack.

Occasionally, her wild knife made contact through desperation. The girl would hiss with pain, but she would not slow. The bloodshed seemed to fuel her. She did not tire. She did not relent.

Mercy could not keep up. She dodged but slipped in the dust. She flailed but made no contact. She desperately – desperately – tried to pull her to the ground, but never quite took hold. Eventually, she misjudged, and the girl from Two took her arm, wrenched it behind her, and pulled it to the ground.

It was not like her training, with flooring built for grip and an opponent who knew where to put their arms to be pinned. Mercy yelped in pain as her face was ground down in the dirt. She rolled at the whistling as a moving knife filled the air, but it only served to prolong the pain as the blade pierced the deepest muscle of her arm. She yelled, kicking out with her legs but making no contact.

The tribute from District Two stepped on her jacket, preventing any further movement. There was no escape. Mercy closed her eyes. She was a coward.

***

Commander Hugo Severen did not make a sound. He stood to attention beside the mayor, who was hesitant in her attempt to find the correct thing to say. It was a formal, scheduled meeting but there was a large screen on the wall of her office. The mandatory broadcast was showing. It was impossible to miss.

She did not know how to comfort and so returned to practicality, as District Thirteen often did.

“I have it on good authority that we have nothing to worry about,” she murmured. The mayor did not insist that the Head Peacekeeper looked at her as she spoke. He was still fixed to the screen. “The Capitol are aware of his history. They are trying to ensure that he will not win but cannot do anything that would have the audience asking questions.”

Commander Severen did not answer. On the screen, there was a short replay of Mercy’s time in the arena. There was not much to show.

Duty could wait. The mayor placed a hand on his uniformed shoulder, and Hugo snapped from his trance. “Are you sure you are ready to return to work?” she asked, concerned.

Without hesitation, Commander Severen nodded. “I wanted an honourable death for her,” he answered, quietly. “I just can’t believe he is still alive.”

***

The cannon was loud.

Vixen jumped, dropping his stick into the fire. There were several skewered roots roasting above the flames. They began to blacken. Azure reached over and help lift their breakfast from the fire, protecting his hand with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Sorry,” murmured Vixen. He took the burnt skewer from his ally, waving it in the air to cool it down. The air danced with acrid smoke.

Azure shook his head. “Don’t be,” he replied, softly. “I hate them too.”

There was no response beyond a small smile. Vixen shrugged off his jacket and curled it into a nest on the floor. Carefully, he began to edge the burnt roots from their skewer into the inner lining to keep them safe from the dirt. “They’re cooling,” he announced, braving the heat to pick one up and nibble the edge. He pulled a face; it was bitter and chalky in his mouth, but it tasted of home.

Vixen separated the meagre meal into two equal piles. He pushed one closer to Azure, who simply shook his head and pushed his portion back. Frowning, Vixen looked up from the food to his friend.  “You’re not hungry again?”

Azure shrugged.

“You never seem to be hungry.” Vixen took a larger bite of the root, hissing through his teeth as it burnt the roof of his mouth. “When I heard you were famous, I thought you’d be rich but you don’t eat anything.”

“Rich?” repeated Azure, confused.

Vixen blew on his food to cool it. “Yeah,” he said, his face becoming tighter as he remembered his home. “In Nine, the rich people eat a lot. It’s not just bread. They have cake, and meat. I don’t think they ever stop eating. Then, it was the same in the Capitol. There was food everywhere. I thought you’d be like that.”

Pausing, Azure lifted a hand to his mouth and began to chew on the calloused skin around his thumb. He could have been like that, if his mother had not taught him discipline.

“You should eat,” continued Vixen. He nudged the meagre meal back to his ally, who was left with no opportunity to say no. “You didn’t eat your cake on interview night, and I haven’t seen you really eat anything since.”

He should eat.

It would be alright, Azure told himself. He was in control. He was still walking a lot, even if he was missing his regular practice. It would stop Vixen from asking anything else. They could stop talking about food. Heart pounding, Azure took a small bite. The food tasted like paper.

***

It was important to look down. Leon laughed as he rested a knee on the cracked pathing. He was following a coloured stone which had faded with age. It was spongy underfoot and held the dust as if it did not want to let go. Leon did not care. He knew how to use it.

There were footprints resting in the dirt, tracing the line of the path.

Leon knew it would be impossible to discern who they belonged to, but he was still determined to try. He followed the intricate patterning of the sole with an outstretched finger before sitting down to inspect his own shoe. It did not help – the tread on his shoe matched the footprint, which meant it was likely shared amongst the tributes.

Instead, he began to measure. He placed his own foot alongside the mark. The person he was following had larger feet than his. It narrowed the choice slightly.

It did not matter. Leon was going to kill them anyway.

He pulled himself to his feet, bringing a handful of dust with him. Leon scattered it and noting the direction of the wind. His father had taught him to track and although it did not help with hunting a person, it felt so similar that he simply fell into the routine of the hunt. Panem’s children were no different than scared prey animals, anyway.

The footprint entertained him, but there was no time to laugh. Leon notched an arrow on his bow in case his target was closer than he assumed. He had a task to complete. He was going to win.

***

Inari held his breath until his chest burned and the world around him began to fade to black. He was forced to gasp, disguising it beneath the creak of a branch in the strong breeze. The tree would betray him if he was not careful. He pushed himself closer against the trunk.

There was a laugh beneath him, and Inari gritted his teeth in frustration. The boy was finding this fun.

Carefully, Inari tilted his head until he could see the ground. He had scampered up the tree at the sound of rustling behind him, although he had been careless to leave a footprint on the path. It was a beacon to the boy from Two, who was sat on the path and playing with his shoes.

He did not look like the charming boy from his interview anymore. His tanned skin was painted a myriad of colour, with each one streaked untidily from cheek to nose. The dark green smudged into the yellow, which suggested camouflage but did not match the arena around him, which was a dense forest filled with strange, metal contraptions. He had the look of a wild dog in his eyes, and a bow that he clearly knew how to fire.

Inari swallowed, scared that the slight crackling in his ear would be audible to the hunter on the floor. He stood, and Inari was certain that he would glance into the tree and see him. He did not. The tribute followed the direction of the wind, tracked the direction of the footprint, and began to follow the direction he assumed Inari had gone.

In relief, Inari relaxed the tension across his body and accidentally sent a jolt of pain through his arm. He hardly noticed it. He was still fixated on the bow in the boy’s hand – if he could use it, then height was no longer the escape that Inari hoped for.

***

Cove hesitated, trident in hand, as the forest faded out like a lapping ocean. His breathing was heavy from the hill he had pulled himself up. His leg was bleeding again and screamed with his weight, but this had to be the right way – his sister would rely on high ground, and there was nowhere higher than where he stood.

Hesitantly, he followed a curving path until it broke away under a dilapidated sign. Rotting fences covered a large portion of the hilltop in a strange maze before stopping at a metal staircase. It seemed to lead to the track which Cove could see swimming amongst the clouds. He scowled at the strange twists and turns. He did not like what he did not know.

The strong supports stretched deep into the earth, decorated with moss and ivy. The plants stretched out like a fishing net strewn across a pier to dry. There were bushes and shrubs at their base, but they did nothing to hide the camp built amongst their leaves.

Cove stuttered forward. It was not a camp. At the base of a beam, there was a person. Their leg was outstretched, and their back was to the arena, but it could be his sister.

Breathe, he told himself. He readjusted the trident in his hand. He did not want to, but he had the advantage of distance if this was not who he wanted it to be.

“Sennen?” he called in a brackish mixture of a shout and a whisper. His voice travelled on the heavy breeze. The figure did not move. Cove risked a second, louder shout. “Sennen, is that you?”

The figure stirred. Carefully, it reached a hand to a steady strand of ivy and pulled itself into a sitting position. It leaned against the metal support as it turned, clutching a backpack to their chest.

It was Sennen.

At least, it had been Sennen. Cove hardly recognised his sister as she turned to him: her hair was a bedraggled nest, her clothing was stained with blood and her eyes were hollow. Instead of a glistening tan, her face was burned red by the bright sunlight.

“Cove?” she replied, voice cracking as she tried to form her brother’s name.

“Sennen!” cried Cove. He rushed forward as fast as he could, falling to his knees at her side and trying not to wince at his own wound. He tried to push her hair from her face. “Sennen, I’m so glad I found you. Are you hurt? I can help. I have-“

“Where are your friends?” interrupted Sennen, weakly. She brushed her brother’s hands away.

Immediately, Cove fell apart like a crumbling cliff. He had a thousand things to say but none would organise themselves into words, stuttering into the start of a sentence before fading away. He let his sister pull her hand away from his.

“Are they coming?” she stressed, demanding an answer.

Her panic woke Cove from his own. “No,” he clarified. “No, they’re not. I left them. I thought you were hurt.”

Sennen did not seem certain. She kept glancing over her brother’s shoulder, although her eyes struggled to focus on the distance. “You left them?”

“They don’t know,” pushed Cove. When he reached to brush Sennen’s hair from her eyes, she did not stop him. “I…got a sponsor gift, with bread from home. It made me think of you, and I started feeling like you were hurt.”

Behind her hair, the shadows beneath Sennen’s eyes were vibrant. The skin was peeling across her nose. She tried to smile, catching her own fingers against her brother’s. “That’s our old twin telepathy, huh?”

Cove’s face fell. “You are hurt?”

“You could say.”

He scanned across her bare arms, looking for a mark. There was nothing. Her clothing was not damaged, and the blood came in splatters rather than pools. Cove’s eye caught the jacket tied across her ankle.

“Your leg,” he guessed, looking back to her face to gauge the reaction.

Sennen sighed and nodded. “You don’t want to look at it,” she warned. “I’ll be fine. It’s not infected.”

“Yet.” Biting his lip to keep himself grounded, Cove shrugged off his backpack and fished around for his stolen first aid kit. Sennen eyed it with distrust, but did not speak. Edging through the grass, Cove steeled himself as he untied the arms on Sennen’s jacket. The coat fell from her ankle. Cove cursed at the sight.

“Bad, huh?” she announced, quietly. She almost laughed. The sound was empty.

Cove tried to reply, but it was difficult to find something to say. The ankle sat at an incomprehensible angle. The shattered bone pierced her skin, decorated with dried blood across the exposed flesh. The bruising was darker than a storming ocean.

With a deep breath, he tried to hide his shock. “Who did this to you?” Cove asked, unzipping the kit to dig through the supplies and find something which could handle such an injury. There were a selection of medical wipes, each contained in a silver foil which he needed to tear open with his teeth.

“Me,” replied Sennen, half-heartedly. She winced as her brother began to wipe away the dried blood, exposing swollen and inflamed skin. “I was trying to climb the track. Fell. Dumb, really.”

“Not dumb.” Cove tried to breathe through his mouth, distracting his churning stomach from the stench of raw flesh. He needed to do this. He needed to help her.

The injury was not any more manageable when it was clean. He could not bandage it with the exposed bone. He could not do anything and between them, the conversation faded into a shared anxiety.

“I know you can’t do anything with it,” reassured Sennen, whilst her brother stared at her wound. Quietly, she added, “I’m not worth keeping around anymore.”

“I’m not leaving you,” argued Cove, immediately. The colour had drained from his own face. “I’ll find some way that we can fix this. Until then, I think I have some tablets that will help the pain.”

“Cove-“

“I’m not!”

Frustrated, Cove distracted himself by digging around in the first aid kit until her found the mint-green pills in their plastic packaging. There was no dosage written down, but he followed his instinct. Cove forced two of the pills into his sister’s hand, offering her his own water.

“We’re going to try,” he argued.

Relenting, Sennen slowly placed the pills in her mouth. She took the offered water and swallowed, lowering herself back into the grass. “Okay,” she replied, defeated.

***

Serenity commandeered the hunt for their former ally. Epona followed reluctantly, still stained with blood from her fight. Sparkle was dragged alongside them.

The volunteer’s motivation and ferocity had died with her partner. She maintained the image around other tributes but in reality, it was an overexaggerated pantomime meant only to intimidate. The space left was filled by the supposed Gamemaker, leaving Epona between them with the opportunity to think. She thought a lot. There were many different things which did not make sense.

“It is strange,” she murmured, speaking loud enough to be heard over their heavy footsteps, “that no one heard Cove leaving last night.”

“Does it matter?” replied Sparkle, through gritted teeth. She still seethed – it had been on her watch, after all.

“He left before his leg fully healed,” Epona reminded. “He left a steady stream of sponsors and supplies that could heal him. He could have waited.”

Serenity stopped her charge. She turned, speaking with a slow pronunciation as if the answer was clear. “He took a medical kit with him,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

The suspicion was an alarm clock that woke Sparkle from her fog. “We didn’t check what he took,” she reminded.

There was a beat of hesitation. “I checked as we were getting ready to leave,” replied Serenity, smoothly. She began the hike again. Epona noted the sudden hiding of her face. “He took his pack, with his food ration. He took an empty bottle, and he took a medical kit. It was the one with the bandages, and the antiseptic cream.”

“You knew how many medical kits we had?” asked Epona.

“Yes,” answered Serenity, immediately. She slyly added, “didn’t you?”

The trek briefly continued in silence. There was an electric current of resentment which held them together. “I’ll kill him,” stated Sparkle, simply. “He left us, and he stole from us. I’ll kill him.”

Epona did not let her mind wander to revenge. She thought about their camp. She replayed their routine over and over in her head as they trudged the mindless path. She did not recall any moment where Serenity could have counted their medical kits.

***

Acacia watched the flashing lights dance across his skin as he traced the shape of the buttons. There were no labels, or instruction manual. He did not even know what the machine did. It did not matter – he had made it work.

He stepped to take a closer look, accidentally knocking over his open toolbox in his haste. He cursed briefly with no care for the camera. He was focused on the control panel. What did each button do? Acacia hovered his hand across the row of twinkling buttons, trying to make his decision. They each called to him in a loud voice.

Although he had experience in rebuilding the water pump, this roaring machine was far different. Acacia recognised it as a train track but there was no destination. Instead, it was a loop: it climbed a hill, completed a sheer drop, and travelled upside down in a loop before returning to the station.

It was meant to be ridden. That was clear. The bright red carriages were joined with thick metal, and each had a bench with a strange harness at the shoulder rest. Acacia would not climb aboard. He could not envision a situation where anyone would, but it did not matter. He did not want it to work so that he could use it. He wanted it to work to prove he could make it work.

He had three choices: red, blue, and green. The buttons were all calling to him with their light, clamouring for his attention. The largest, loudest button was a scarlet jewel in the centre of the control panel. Acacia hovered his hand over it. It was as good as any other.

Curling his hand into a fist, he hit the button with the excitement of discovery. The machine began to crank and creak, and Acacia took a step away in case it fell apart. It did not. Instead, he watched through an open window as the strange harnesses lowered themselves across the chair. It began to chug away from the station.

Acacia needed a closer look. Immediately, he wanted to know everything about the machine. He pulled himself to the window and watched as the carriage hook itself on to a chain. It pulled it to the top of the large hill where it hurtled down the drop and moved around the track at a speed that was almost incomprehensible. It managed to twist upside-down without slowing at all before stopping suddenly as it pulled into the station.

It had to be useful. Acacia’s mind began to buzz with a thousand different ways to utilise his new discovery. They were not all convenient for the arena, but he did not care – he was familiar with taking advantage of machinery in a place that did not understand it.

***

Without a path, it was difficult to move. Fern and Saori picked their way through unfamiliar plants as they pushed themselves through tightly packed trees. They hesitated with each footstep, unsure what awaited them in the unending greenery.

“We’ll just head to that roof,” said Saori, pointing to a pastel-coloured point against the vibrant sunset. “We can use it as shelter for the night.”

“We’ll have firewood, at least,” replied Fern, through gritted teeth. She waited in a patch of tall grass, trying to catch her breath. Her trousers were torn from barbed thorns. Scowling at the continuing undergrowth, she shook her head. “We’re leaving a trail where we’re trampling the plants. We wouldn’t leave footsteps on a path.”

“People will be watching the paths.” Saori joined his ally in choosing to rest, leaning against a tree and wiping sweat from his forehead with the neck of his t-shirt. He was panting – they were not moving fast but there was effort in stepping over each branch. “We haven’t met anyone yet, and I don’t want to start now.”

Fern glared and chewed on her bottom lip, but she did not argue. It pained her to admit that her ally did make sense, so she did not give him the satisfaction of saying it aloud.

“Come on,” said Saori. “Let’s keep moving.”

He picked himself up from the tree, taking a large step to avoid a thick patch of green clover. Fern followed him. She left the safety of her grass to skirt around a large section of deep green foliage.

Suddenly, she was screaming.

Fern desperately trying to brush the leaves away from her legs, before jerking her hands away from the plant. The leaves clung to her flesh and embedded themselves in the fibres of her trousers. Her cry captured Saori’s attention, and he turned to see his ally’s reddening, blistering skin,

“Fern?” he called, panicked. There was no hesitation left; he trampled across the clover to reach his ally. Fern was still shouting, stumbling backwards until she fell back into the patch of grass. She kept her hands from the floor. Instead, she held them in front of her face and watched in horror as a scattered rash grew from her fingertip to her elbow. In the rips of her trousers, it was also beginning to spread across her legs. She whimpered.

Saori collapsed to his knees beside her. He began by pulling her trousers above her knees and then faltered at the size of the spreading rash. There were blisters swelling with a yellow pus as the rest of the skin began to scab. “What happened?” he asked, breathless.

Hissing at the pain, Fern contorted her hand to point at a plant which lurked on the bark of a tree. “Don’t touch it,” she warned, in a mumble. “Think it might be poisonous.”

The leaves were a vibrant green, spreading across a fallen log and climbing several surrounding trees. When Saori looked closer, he began to recognise the plant wrapped around many trees they had skirted around. The shape of the leaf was familiar, clawing at his memory as if it was taunting him. He closed his eyes tightly. He hated when he could not remember something.

“What did you say?” he asked, turning back to Fern.

Her arms trembled with the pain. “Poisonous,” she managed, nodding at the leaves.

Saori bit his tongue – a plant could not be poisonous if it was not ingested, but that did not seem important at that moment. The description stirred a distant memory. “Poisonous,” he repeated, beginning to mutter through any plant name he could recall. He landed on the correct answer. “Toxicodendron radicans! Fern, it’s poison ivy!”

Shaking her head, Fern mumbled weakly, “we have that in Five. It doesn’t do this.”

“They’ll have done something to it because it’s the Games.” Saori ran a hand through his hair, trying to recall his private session. President Dux had asked him about this. She had wanted to know that he had an answer. She had embarrassed him. “There’s a plant that can help. It was on the matching game at training!”

Fern’s eyes brimmed with tears as she desperately tried to keep her blistered skin from touching anything. Saori ignored her.

What had she said?

He tapped his fingers in the grass, trying to recall the plant that the president had teased him about. She had described it. She had designed this as a test.

“Jewelweed!” he cried, hitting the ground with a fist as he suddenly remembered. Fern jumped at the shout. Saori did not notice. He scrambled to his feet and edged closer to the poisonous plant, scanning the foliage around it. “Jewelweed, Fern! We need to find round, dark leaves with bright orange flowers.”

The plant burned through the surrounding green with the flower as a beacon, drawing Saori near to them as soon as he noticed the bright petals. They waved dangerously close to the ivy. Saori was careful to step on the poisonous leaves with his solid boots as he pulled healing leaves from his miracle plant.

“Careful of the ivy,” warned Fern, faintly. Her skin began to tighten as if she had placed each hand into a burning fireplace. “Will it work? I mean, if the Gamemakers changed it…”

“They tested me on it,” answered Saori. He returned with a handful of the leaves. When he tore them apart, they bled with a clear sap which he applied to each burn. The relief slipped from Fern’s mouth in the form of a soft moan, which she quickly silenced with burning, red cheeks.

Saori continued across each wound, painstakingly being as gentle as possible so as not to hurt his ally further. The blisters began to burst, and the rash retreated to a series of red-ringing pin pricks. He moved to her hands, carefully wrapping a leaf around each finger.

“How did you remember?” asked Fern, still sighing in relief as the leaves pulled all pain from the rash. Her skin was still a faint red but it was calming, and she panted as she tried to recover from the pain.

“President Dux,” answered Saori. He took the remaining, unused leaves and wrapped them into a pile. He tucked them in a pocket of their pack. “I tried to show her that I’d learned the poisonous plants, but I’d just memorised it. She caught me out. She specifically recommended it.”

“Did she test you on anything else?”

Reluctantly, Saori shook his head. “There were a lot of plants in the game, though. I tried to memorise all of them, but it was impossible. If they’re all as bad as that poison ivy…”

He trailed away. Fern nodded in agreement. “Yes,” she announced, preparing to stand. The anthem began to blare above them. “We should take the paths.”

***

Eden shouted at the sky. He did not care that it would bring people running to him. He would fight them. He would kill them all. Then, he would continue to scream.

He punctuated his tantrum by throwing his knife on the floor, watching the blade stick in the dusty ground. Eden kicked a rock. It did not move, sending a spiking ache through his foot. He roared again, but only the trees listened.

The sky still taunted him with Mercy’s knowing face. She could not be dead. He refused to believe it. She needed to be alive, with her condescending voice and her military training – and her kind comments, her comforting touches, her predictable reminders.

Panting, Eden was thrown into darkness as the anthem ended with a flourish. It mocked him. It pulled him in and whispered in his ear, repeating she is gone over and over again. She was gone.

There was no benefit in attacking a tree, but Eden did not seek benefit. He wanted pain. He craved it, choosing to scrape his knuckles on the rough bark until the numbness in his chest was replaced by the ache and the bite. The blood was warm on his skin. It was comforting to know it was his own.

He waited for someone to appear and handcuff him. When they did not, he was completely and utterly lost.

Mercy was dead. The sentence rung in his head like a piercing alarm. He was meant to be celebrating. Eden had failed to kill her father, but his daughter was the next best thing.

However, his daughter did not seem like a Peacekeeper. She was kind. She offered support. She tried her hardest but still made mistakes and seemed as determined to avoid Eden in the arena as he was with her. Somehow, neither wanted the other dead.

Eden grew lost in middled thoughts. He seethed. The anger burnt through him and boiled over, but there was no one to aim it at. It was the Capitol’s fault, and he could not reach them.

Yet.

***

Look for the next threat.

The mentor’s words still echoed in Solar’s head, harmonising with the final strain of the anthem. Cotton was right. Despite his initial distrust, Solar understood that he needed to keep pushing the competition forward. He needed to spill blood.

There was no advantage in hiding. There were no sponsors, or supplies, or steps closer to home. Solar put his head in his hands, pressing on his closed eyes until his vision swirled with colourful, distracting patterns. The forest was alive with whispering around him. He tried to focus on the noise, but his own mind was louder.

Solar could not switch off his betting brain. He sat in a soft patch of moss beneath a tree but in his head, he was still at the dining table with the tribute odds inked on a stack of yellowing paper. He considered the remaining tributes as if he wanted to make a profit. That would tell him who he could beat.

He regretted that he could not watch the Games. As much as he detested the broadcast each year, Solar did not know what was happening around him. He had encountered no one except the panicked boy from Three, and there had been no point in killing him.

Briefly, Solar rested against the cold trunk of a tree. It was comfortable on the ground, with the forest humming a lullaby. He could almost fall asleep, if he just closed his eyes and-

No. He stood, pulling his lethargic body back into hunting. Solar did not want to sit still and wait for someone to find him.

Chapter Text

[39] Coffee

Serenity traced a swirling pattern in the dust that decorated the table. The wood was varnished - it would not work as firewood, but the dilapidated building was still a hive of other potential treasure. There was a door hidden by a collapsed beam. It could only be accessed from behind a dirty, broken counter.

“I think that might be a kitchen,” she announced, her voice echoing in the empty silence of the building. Sparkle stopped picking through broken shards of old plates to look, and Serenity pointed to the door. “We should work on moving that beam, see if anything is in there.”

She could imagine the kitchen – it would be overgrown and forgotten, but there would be silver machines on the counter which might still contain drinkable water. If she was lucky, Serenity might even find coffee.

“Why?” asked Sparkle.

Her voice was grating. Serenity tried not to grimace. Instead, she left the dust to lie and turned her attention to Epona. “Come on,” she ordered, bored, “come and help me move it.”

Serenity left the dust to lie, pushing back her stool to approach the beam. Sparkle and Epona were united in their silence, bemused.

“Why?” repeated Epona, although she followed her ally and obeyed the instruction like a dog. “Is there a purpose to this?”

Cautiously, Serenity opened a section of the counter which rested on hinges. It screamed as she pulled it but held steady as she walked through. “There’s no power, but there might still be food. We should check the machines for water, and there might still be something in the espresso machines.”

Epona took the narrowest end of the beam, attempting to shift it from the door. It would not move. Serenity did not try to help; when it became clear that it would be difficult, she decided not to bother. “That’s a shame,” she sighed, leaning against a rotting wall. “I was really hoping for a drink. I’d kill for espresso.”

“What is that?” asked Sparkle, as her cheeks began to burn red.

Serenity went to speak, before deciding that she did not need to answer. She closed her mouth. Briefly, an entertained smirk danced across her face instead.

“I’m not sure either,” defended Epona. She left the beam alone to fold her arms, glancing around. “You dragged us here, and you appear to think it’s important. Where are we?”

It was an effort to stop herself laughing loudly. Serenity stretched her words across the room, tasting the knowledge she held over her allies. “Do you not know what an espresso is?” she asked, tutting. “And you’re District One, Sparkle. I’d thought you’d be all of this.”

Sparkle’s face flooded red. Serenity could no longer disguise her laughter. There was no point – her district allies were simply too entertaining.

“Do you really not have a café?” she teased. “I didn’t realise the districts were really that uncivilised!”

***

Azazel wandered with no destination. He found comfort in the repetitive motion of walking. In District Three, he would walk with his boy beside him without ever reaching anywhere in particular. That was his favourite type of evening: journeying from their night shift to dawn, holding each other’s hand.

There was no one beside him. There was nothing to look forward to when the sun rose. There was no one to hold his hand.

You should save your energy.

Defiant, Azazel kept trampling through the undergrowth in his heavy boots. He scowled. When he stopped moving, he saw the image of his partner’s head rocking back and forth like a rag doll. He did not want to see that again.

You’re being ridiculous.

“I’m not,” hissed Azazel, loudly. He caught himself as the sound left his mouth. The camera would catch him, and it would be impossible to explain away to an audience.

You are. Look at you, walking in circles. You were sick yesterday. You need to rest.

The sharp, stabbing pain returned to Azazel’s stomach at the thought of the previous day. It churned, rolling over and over until he felt his mouth begin to flood with saliva. He could not be sick again. He had nothing left. “I’m fine,” he replied, reassuring the night sky.

No food. No water. Nowhere to go.

This was familiar. It was his boy’s way of making sure he was safe – Tesla was blunt, and dealt compliments disguised as mean comments. Azazel reacted by raising his head and continuing to stomp along as if he did not care. He would show him. He would find a destination.

“I know exactly where I’m going,” he lied, aloud.

Azazel was satisfied with his response. If the watching audience were concerned by him talking to himself, they would recognise he was being smart about it.

It was still a lie. There was no destination. Every tree looked the same as the last. The arena could spin in incomprehensible circles, and nothing would change.

The wind howled between the thick branches. Azazel shivered but refused to untie his jacket from around his waist to wrap around his shoulders. That would be giving in. He never gave in – not even when he loaned his jacket to his boy and stood there shivering. The clouds floated in the breeze, exposing twinkling stars. Azazel could not care less about them. He found nothing special in constellations.

However, the movement sent the moon’s beams scattering across the arena’s specific silhouettes. They illuminated trees, which were no use. They also highlighted a distant structure, which could be. At least, it was something that was not wandering around in a circle.

“I’m going there,” announced Azazel, gesturing vaguely into the distance with the hand that used to burn with his boy’s name. The structure seemed to be the twisting, melting metal of a train track traversing the air but it was no stranger than anything else in the confines of the arena. It was something, and that was what Azazel needed.

If you say so.

Tesla began to speak to him in the clipped, short tone he only used when he was angry.

***

There was laughter at the back of the building, where Serenity entertained herself hunting through moulding coffee beans. She explained all the different ways of adding milk to an indifferent Epona, entertained by telling tales of life in the Capitol and not caring if no one else was. Sparkle could not handle the clipped, enthusiastic conversation anymore. She sat alone, in the front of the – what had Serenity called it?

Café.

Sparkle scoffed. Of course, they had a name for it – the people in the Capitol seemed to do nothing except sit in fancy places and drink fancy drinks.

She tapped the wooden handle of her axe on the insultingly ornate table, beginning to drown out the incessant conversation with the repetitive sound. It reminded her of the endless ticking of the clock in the training centre. In the arena, everything seemed to move too fast and when she finally caught up, it dragged itself alone. Her chest ached when she thought of Ferro. He seemed a distant memory, but it could only have been a matter of days and-

There was a noise outside.

Sparkle pushed her mourning aside. She picked her axe from the table, reading it in her hand. The kitchen echoed with another shallow laugh, and she wanted to scream that the Capitol girl should shut up, but she did not. If there was someone waiting outside, Sparkle did not want them to know they had been heard.

Her chair caught debris as she pushed it back. It almost fell but Sparkle caught it, rising to her feet amongst the dusty furniture. The noise travelled on the breeze through the collapsing building: the soft rustle of grass and the shifting of mud as a foot was lifted and replaced.

Did she need her alliance? Sparkle glanced at the broken kitchen door. It was a long journey to remain silent for, and the tribute outside would notice their voices fall silent. It was too risky. Sparkle worked better alone.

The settled layer of dust muffled any sound. Sparkle was careful to avoid any floorboard which seemed loose, broken or as if it would creak. The door would be trickier. She stared at it, unable to remember if it had been open or if it had blown open in the wind. She needed to be careful either way – the hinges were rusting, and craved oil. The opening was not wide enough for her to fit, but it would only need a small nudge.

“Sparkle?” called Serenity, the tone still grating despite being muffled through the kitchen door. “You still there? Come on – I’ve found something.”

Torn, Sparkle glanced between the door and the kitchen. The sound rustled again, taunting her. She knew what her decision was. She knew what her decision had to be.

The door did not creak as she pushed it open. Grateful, Sparkle stepped through it and into the dark world that lay beyond it. The grass was damp. There was a light fall of rain in the air. That was why footsteps were suddenly making more noise: the Gamemakers were making it easier to hunt, and Sparkle would do what she was told.

She was confident, armed with her axe. The sound came from the left of the building, so Sparkle pushed herself against the front panel of the glass as she moved. There were cracked paving slabs which covered her own footsteps. She peeked around the side of the building.

No one was there.

Sparkle closed her eyes, rubbing at them with her free hand. She looked again. Even in the dark, it was clear that there was no one waiting. She scanned the ground. If there was any variation, it would fill with water in the mist of rain. There was nothing. There were no footprints at all.

Forgetting how to be quiet, she stormed forward through the grass. It destroyed any evidence of a trespasser if there had even been one. She walked the four sides of the café and found no sign of one. Sparkle bit her tongue to stop herself from shouting in frustration.

Light.

It seemed a simple fix. Sparkle returned to the café and retrieved a torch from her pack, shining the bright light through the window and looking for any movement in the distant trees.

“What’s going on?” asked Serenity, leaning on the doorframe between the kitchen and the café. She held a glass of strong, brown water in her hand but did not take a sip. “Something outside?”

“Heard footsteps,” said Sparkle, ignoring her ally to continue to stare into the night.

“Well, you’re not being very subtle about trying to find them,” replied Serenity.

Sparkle turned from the window, wanting to ignore her reflection’s scowl. “Couldn’t see them when I went out, so I thought the torch might help.”

Serenity laughed. It was a cruel sound. She walked forward, trapsing an arm across her infuriated ally. “It was probably just a fox or something,” she said, as if the answer was simple. “Honestly, Sparkle, you’re going crazy.”

***

Satin desperately tried to remember the entirety of her training. In District Eight, Cotton decorated his lessons with little pieces of advice. He stressed to his students that even the cleverest minds could easily be tricked, between in-depth lessons on which weapons were easiest to wield with an untraining hand and the best places to find drinkable water.

He would order them to smile. He would make them laugh, even if there was nothing funny. He told them that finding a bright thought could make them happy, and that this skill could easily be exploited for energy, for confidence, or for a reason to live.

Attempting to greet the dawn with a grin, Satin watched the first flash of sunlight that began to peer across the horizon. It was a new day. She was alive to see it. It would begin to warm, and she was able to see anyone sneaking up on her, and it would be easier to hunt for food amongst the bushes.

The arrival of the sun was accompanied by the arrival of a parachute. Satin’s smile fell, giving way to a scowl like a broken dam.

It was a large parcel. The parachute was another wide stretch of luxurious material, allowing the hamper to float down without injury. The picnic basket was made with a crafting hand far more delicate than anything Satin had encountered in District Eight. It was large enough to make a soft thump when it settled itself in the crook of a tree branch.

Satin stared at it as if it would bite her. She should smile. She had sponsors which wanted to help her. Her face remained fallen.

Cautiously, she reached out to rescue the package from the tree. Satin tore the tough string with her teeth, saving the material in her backpack with her previous parachute – it would be a crime to let such a strong fabric go to waste. She held the remaining basket as if it was a hot iron. It was very heavy.

She set it down, kicking open the lid. The gist was exactly as she feared: soft bread, apples, a bottle of water, a flask of stew, a hunk of slow-cooked meat, and even a cake studded with silver balls across chocolate icing.

Why?

Her stomach churned. She could not eat any of it. There was no optimism hidden amongst the feast. There was no bright side. It was something else to carry. It was something else to make her stomach hurt. It was another promise to entertain the audience that Satin did not want to keep.

Satin did not think she had shown any exceptional survival, or any particularly attractive look to the camera. She had been pacing in circles, trying to recall her training without revealing

Was it because she was a killer? She did kill the girl from Nine – Satin flooded with a chill as she remembered the sensation of the scythe blade surging as it cut through the soft flesh of her skin. The memory still haunted her but surely, that hardly counted. It had been the start. She needed the weapon.

That was not the killing that the Capitol wanted. They did not want necessity. They did not want mediocrity. They were bribing Satin into ferocity.

Slowly, Satin crouched beside the hamper. She opened her back, ignoring the constant count that she kept on the white fabric with berry juice. There was some space. Satin filled it with practical food, like the apples and the bread. She left the rest. She would not accept their bribe.

***

Fern had nothing to offer her ally, but she was determined to be useful. Her hands were stained purple with the juice of ripe blackberries. It trickled down her wrist as she plucked them from the bush, forming a pile in a pouch made from her jacket. The soft rustling of the leaves was accompanied by the vigorous sound of wood on wood as her ally tried to start a fire.

They worked in silence. Saori offered a soft sound of approval as the wood finally caught and began to ignite the tinder made of dried bushes, but they did not talk. The sun was setting. They would not have the fire for long. Fern wanted to sit by it and warm herself, but she needed to pick berries.

There was nothing to talk about. It was an alliance of convenience as they exploited each other for sponsor gifts, although nothing was falling from the sky. They would never be able to forge a friendship. Fern could not look at Saori without imagining the scene from the screen: her sister leaning over whilst on watch, slitting his brother’s throat with his own knife.

“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly. The fire continued to crackle. The rustling in the bush still echoed in the growing night. There was no response, or any indication that her ally had heard her. Fern did not care. She could not stop the torrent that seemed to spill from her mouth. “I’m sorry about your brother. I know you must think about it every time you see me, and you probably think about doing the same and I understand because it would be fair and…and…”

Fern hesitated. Her hands were trembling. She gathered the blackberries into a small pile on the ground, trying to wipe the juice on her trousers. When she managed a tearful glance, Saori was still staring into the flames of the fire.

“I was so excited for Sunnie to come home, and I didn’t think about anyone else,” she continued. Saori did not flinch. “It doesn’t seem real when you’re watching on the screen but now that I’m here, I know she must have been desperate because I swear, she’s not that kind of person, but I’m still sorry because you didn’t deserve to lose your brother too, and especially not like that.”

Her tone walked a dangerous line between calm and hysterical, dancing on the edge of a sob. “I know it wasn’t fair. It was awful, but there were five people left and-“

“Four,” interrupted Saori.

He did not turn to look at her. The burning orange of the fire caused a glint in his eyes, forcing a blush onto his face where the colour drained.

Fern stuttered, unsure what to do with the sudden intrusion. “Four?” she repeated, eventually.

Saori moved the flames with a deep, heavy sigh, filled with painful memories. “Four,” he clarified, in a heavy whisper. “It was the final four. The girl from District Two died that morning. They think it was an infection.”

Hesitating, Fern crouched amongst the berries. After a pause, she replied, “oh.”

There was movement. Saori’s face softened into a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Your sister woke at the sound of the cannon. She was meant to be on watch, but she fell asleep. Sunnie is smart, and she did the maths and, well, figured her odds were much better if Xico was dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Saori was stern, shaking his head. “It wasn’t you. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not. I miss him so much that I can’t focus on anything else, and I can’t sleep at night because I’m scared I’ll forget him as each day passes. I really think he could have won, and I’d give anything to have him back, but it wasn’t you. It wasn’t really Sunnie. The arena changes people. I understand that now.”

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “It’s just…” he began, before struggling to find the words despite his life in education. He shrugged, before settling on, “it’s just the Games, isn’t it?”

Fern gnawed on her thumb, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. It was either an endless nervous energy, or the cold – it seemed impossible to tell. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she murmured, unsure what she meant by the statement.

“Yes, it does,” replied Saori, almost immediately. It did not carry the same weight as anything else he said. Their rebellion remained unspoken, as Saori and Fern both realised their survival depended on not voicing it aloud.

***

Raven could not stop himself from shaking. When he moved, the wound in his side tore open like the flimsy fabric of a coal sack and sent a fresh wave of blood across his clothing. He felt empty – the lack of food after a week in luxury was a likely culprit, but Raven knew that the largest Capitol banquet would not fill the hole. There was something missing. He could not find it.

He fumbled through the forest, trying to scavenge from the arena around him with trembling hands. The movement made him dizzy. Raven perched from rock to rock, reaching up into low-hanging branches. The cup gifted by the sponsorship parachute was a useful container; he had already filled it with water from an almost clean pool, and now he added pine needles and other treats from the trees. Once he could light a fire, it would be soup. It would taste of home.

Raven clutched the lid against his chest with an arm and held the cup in his left hand, trying to juggle tree branches and foraged food in his right. He dropped the lid and watched it bounce across the broken concrete. Hissing between his teeth to muffle a frustrated shout, Raven leant down to pick it up.

An arrow flew over his head and lodged itself in a tree.

There was a frustrated shout hidden in a shadow, speaking in a tongue that Raven could not catch. He felt and found himself sat on the concrete, backed against a tree which wore an arrow as decoration.

The young boy stepped into Raven’s camp as if he owned it. Raven recognised the curling hair although it was limp in the arena air, and his clothing identified him as District Two even if his face meant nothing. It was the quiet, unexpected volunteer who charmed the audience rather than impressed them with skill. It was the boy who scored a ten, despite having no skill with weaponry.

He had a weapon now. The boy lowered his bow as he approached, letting it fall to his side.

Raven was confused. “Wait…” he began, quietly. He glanced upward to the arrow in the tree. “You can shoot?”

“I can do many things,” replied the boy. He eyed the situation with a tilt of his head, before stringing his bow across his shoulders like a bag. “I’d have hit you if you had not dropped that.”

It was a certainty. The arrow was at the exact height of his head. Raven did not want to think about it.

The boy sighed, as if his miss was simply a minor inconvenience. His hand traced his belt until he lifted his shirt and pulled out a knife. “No matter,” he murmured, raising the blade.

The casual conversation was over. This boy intended to kill him.

Scrambling to his feet, Raven stumbled over the root of a tree as he reached for his own weapon. He had left the knife on the ground as he foraged. The boy saw the panic and the direction in which it was aimed, and simply stepped over to place himself between Raven and his weapon.

“That will make this easier,” he said, and he dared to smile.

Raven could not breathe steadily. He panted like a dog, not daring to move his head but still glancing left and right in search of an escape. He needed to move first. He was fast. The boy watched each direction he looked. Raven took him by surprise and ran backwards.

He tripped as he took off into a full run from a panicked crouch. It scraped and bruised his knees along the uneven floor, but he did not stop. Raven pushed himself into the trees, hearing the boy shout behind him as he was slowed by the low-hanging branches.

The boy was still fast. Raven felt a cold hand grab his jacket and pull him back. He yelped, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders when he heard the material rip. The boy simply tossed it to the ground and tried again. This time, Raven was pulled backward as the collar of his t-shirt tightened around his neck.

He fell, landing heavily on the ground amongst the dust. His head hit a rock, and the familiar warm sensation of blood began to spread down his neck. It matted in his hair. The world began to spin as Raven fought desperately to breathe.

It became harder. The boy stamped a sharp foot down on Raven’s chest. He yelled in pain, but the voice did not sound lie his own; it echoed as if calling out through a deep mine. Then, the full weight of the boy was on his stomach as he pinned him down with his legs. The light was sparkling. Raven saw it glinting on the oncoming blade. Briefly, he hoped his brother was not watching.

Raven fought weakly, but each movement sent pain throbbing through the wound on his head and the cut to his side. The boy simply pinned his arms down with his knees, strong enough to resist any attempt to throw him off. He thought aloud, humming as he decided between Raven’s face, neck, and chest. “You were the one who missed the reaping,” he murmured, recognising his prey’s face. The boy took hold of Raven’s chin and tilted his head, looking closely. “You have a little brother.”

Tightly, Raven closed his eyes and mouth. He refused to answer. He still tossed, trying to throw off his attacker.

“I’ll be kind, make it quick for him,” continued the boy. Raven felt the cold edge of a blade press against the soft flesh of his neck. “But if he’s watching, he should look away now.”

There was a hand grabbing Raven’s hair, pulling on the wound that already waited there. He yelled but his head was still pulled back, exposing his throat. Raven opened his eyes again. He wanted to see. He wanted to try once more to throw off his attacker and-

***

“Etta,” mumbled Jackdaw, as the blue glow from the screen lit up his face. He had a nest of blankets beneath her selling table to sleep on and whilst Etta normally returned home to sleep, she had settled into a camp bed in the Hob whilst the Games were ongoing. Jackdaw was not sleeping. He stayed awake to watch every moment. He knew Etta was not sleeping either.

She rolled over in her bed, wiping her eyes with the edge of the threadbare blanket. Etta did not need to ask what had happened. She had heard every minute as she tried to ignore the reality. She had not decided how to explain it to her new charge.

“Did you look away?” she asked, voice hoarse.

Jackdaw nodded. “I was told to,” he added, voice trembling. His head swirled between the screen and his caregiver, not able to focus on either. Overwhelmed, he buried his face in one of his covers. “Raven’s not coming back, is he?”

Chapter Text

[40] Button

Leon made his intention clear. He chose a rock which was a safe distance from the body, sitting down and placing his bow on the ground. He was not going to run. He was not going to take hold of the corpse and try to escape the arena. He simply wanted to know what was happening to the fallen tributes.

The sudden breeze scattered leaves and set the sky alight with startled birds. There was a piercing alarm through the rustling as it ruffled his hair, exposing his bright smile to the craft that appeared from nowhere in the sky. The vehicle glinted in the sunlight as if it was winking at him.

They did trust him. They wanted him to win.

The craft lowered a metal contraption on a reinforced rope, reminding Leon of the cranes which were sometimes used in the difficult quarries. With the speed of a practiced manoeuvre, it took hold of the limp body, lifted it through the air and pulled it through the waiting doors of the hovercraft.

That was it. Leon admitted to himself that the Capitol knew exactly what they were doing when it came to the Games. The only remnant of the boy was his blood that trailed across Leon’s hand, knife and t-shirt.

Leon hated the feeling of dried blood. It crusted on his skin and flaked off with the disgusting smell of old metal. His bow prevented the worst of the mess but now, his clothing was covered in it. He was beginning to miss the old tin bath that he shared with his father in their rooftop room. If only he had spare water, he could attempt to clean himself.

There was spare water. Leon recalled the cup in the boy’s hand – he only missed because the boy had crouched to retrieve the lid. That would still be there, and it would contain enough clean water to wash without wasting any from his own drinking bottle.

The boy no longer had a use for it.

Leon followed the path that they had left. It was a thrashing mess of stomped grass and broken branches, but it was also a clear route to the clearing where he had watched his prey for several minutes before deciding to take the shot. The scene was untouched. The cup still sat on the floor where the boy had fallen, and his full pack was still sat on a rock. There was even Leon’s arrow still waiting in the tree.

He claimed his property first. Leon needed to place a foot on the tree trunk and pull with all his strength to free his arrow from the bark. He placed the trophy back in his quiver before turning to the cup.

It was filled with water, but it was tainted with pine needles and unfamiliar, browning leaves. Leon did not care. He was not going to drink the strange stew that the backward boy was making. He simply poured the water of his hands to loosen the blood and dried them on his trousers. Throwing the rest across his front to clean his t-shirt, Leon tossed the cup aside.

There was nothing of value in the backpack, either. Leon rooted through it for anything he could use. He chewed his way through a meagre ration of dried meat, but there was nothing else worth taking. To prevent it being taken by someone else, Leon cut the pack’s straps with his knife and threw it high into a tree. There was no indication that the dead boy had ever been there.

***

Cove did not know what to do, but he acted as if he did. Sennen played along with him. It was comforting to think that he was helping her, and terrifying to consider the alternative.

“You know what water is like,” he scolded, after Sennen asked if they should clean the large, open wound that now served as her ankle. Their fire was built inside, carefully placed beside a broken window so that the smoke could escape. Cove sat alongside it with a metal pot sat amongst the flames. “I’m boiling it before I put it anywhere near you.”

Sennen did not disagree. She sat against the wall and watched. The sound of the bubbling liquid soon filled their small building, alongside the comforting crackling of their fire.

“It’s like being at home,” she said, in a small voice. Cove glanced at his twin for clarification. She gestured to the pot. “When River comes home from work, he always has a pot boiling on the stove for his soup. It sounds like home.”

Cove listened carefully to the music of their shelter. “I guess it does,” he agreed.

Suddenly, their own tune became overrun by stronger music. The twinkling sound of a parcel, which Cove recognised from his bread, soon floated in through their improvised open window. Sennen recognised the flash of hope which arrived in her brother’s eyes and immediately realised what the sound must be.

“I’ll go get it,” she joked, weakly.

Cove offered the dignity of a laugh, before ordering his sister to watch the fire as he went out in search of their gift. He expected more bread, speckled with the seaweed that reminded them of home. If they were lucky, it would be some form of fish stew – they had been talking about it, after all. A hearty, salty meal would do his sister good as she tried to purge the shock from her body.

It was not food.

He found the parcel sitting in a bush outside the door. It was large – the gift was completely covered by the silver fabric of the parachute and when he pulled it away, Cove was confronted by a large, white plastic box. There were no markings beyond a red ‘4’ on the hinged side.

“Is it something to eat?” called Sennen, hopeful. Cove pulled the box from the bush and through the door, catching it on the space between floor and floorboard. It was too bulky to carry comfortably and once inside, he let it fall to the floor and pushed it to his sister with his feet.

“Don’t think so,” he replied, trying to ignore the fall in Sennen’s face. He crouched beside the box. “It seems far more important than that.”

“Well, go on, then,” she urged. “Open it.”

It was tricky to open. There was a clasp which required two hands, and stiff hinges that prevented the lifting of the lid. Cove struggled before finally managing the movement and was soon staring at something that likely cost more than he would ever hope to have.

“What is it?” asked Sennen, impatient.

Cove turned the box so that she could see. “First aid kit,” he explained, breathless. “For you.”

The kit was well-stocked and seemed deliberately put together for them, with packages of sterile wipes to clean the wound and waterproof dressings to cover it. There were antiseptic creams, and numbing creams, and plastic gloves to use when applying both. The box rattled as it moved, and the culprits were full packages of medication: pain relief, and antibiotics, and strange, mint-green spheres in a plastic bottle.

Picking at the unfamiliar packaging, Cove turned the container to read the label which wrapped around it. “Antibiotic pearls.”

“Pearls?” repeated Sennen. “Like, from an oyster.”

“I don’t think so.” He searched the packet for a direction, narrowing his eyes when he found it in a tiny font at the bottom of the bottle. He read it aloud. “Place one to three pearls into a deep wound before dressing to prevent serious infection.”

Cove piled each item on a plastic sheet, trying to keep the packages as clean as possible. It concerned him more as he dug deeper: a heavy-duty splint with tight straps, a pre-wrapped needle containing a clear liquid, and a metal tin that held two tablets and a small label. He handed the tin to his sister.

“Sleeping pills,” he explained, puzzled. “I suppose they’re to help you sleep if you’re finding it difficult.”

Sennen poked at the chalky, white pills. They decorated the inside of the tin with powder. There was nothing remarkable about them except for their instructions, which explained to take two tablets with a glass of water and to expect the patient to be unconscious for six to eight hours. They were ideal for quick but invasive cosmetic procedures, apparently.

“No,” she replied, closing the tin. “They’re to knock me out so you can treat my ankle.”

Cove took the tin and investigated for himself. “No,” he murmured, as he read the label. “No, they can’t be. I’m not a doctor.”

Waving her arm, Sennen gestured to the rest of the first aid kit laid across the floor. “Look,” she explained, softly. “You can’t touch my ankle know, but you can do anything to it if you knock me out. You’ll be able to clean it and put those pearl things in it, and then dress it and stick it in the splint. It’s better than just boiled water.”

“It won’t heal,” argued Cove, as his face drained to an ill grey. “There was that boy in Mom’s class – Nyx, I think? He broke his leg diving off his boat when it was too shallow, and they had to break his leg again to fix it because it didn’t heal right the first time and-“

“It doesn’t need to heal the bone,” interrupted Sennen. She matched her brother’s colouring at the thought, but her eyes burned with a new determination. If it worked, she would no longer be useless. “They can fix that in the Capitol if we win. We just need to keep me alive and give me a chance.”

Cove shook his head. “I can’t, Sen. I’m not a doctor.”

“You have to.”

Sennen began to unwrap the jacket she kept around her ankle. The pain was a permanent reminder even if she hid the injury. She could grit her teeth and bare the dull, biting ache which throbbed with each beat of her heart, but movement was unbearable. Sennen forced herself to look. Her own bone was still visible. Cove pointedly stared at the fire.

“Ocean sent us everything we need,” continued Sennen, trying to hide a wave of nausea at the sight. “You’ll need to clean it and put the antiseptic cream on and use those pearls. Then, the injection. I don’t know what it does, but it must be important. Then, you try…try and put it back together, I suppose. Infection is the biggest problem. It’s like cutting your foot at the beach.”

Slowly, Cove busied himself with packing the supplies back into the white box. He kept his body turned from his sister. “It must have cost a fortune to send this,” he thought, aloud. He remained silent as his brain continued, remembering the Capitol girl’s comments about the audience wanting to see their reunion. She had been right if they rewarded him with this.

“If it was expensive, we need to use it,” urged Sennen. She nudged her brother with her uninjured foot. “You worried?”

Cove nodded.

Sennen tried to smile. It did not reach her sunken eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured. “We’ll both be fine.”

***

Trying to feign disinterest, Sparkle settled in the dirt beside her ally. She hid her burning query behind a moment of drawing a pattern in the dirt with an outstretched finger. However, it was painful to wait. Quietly, she muttered, “what do you think of Serenity?”

Epona did not stop cleaning her sword as she listened to the question. She simply turned her blade to the blonde-haired girl. “What do you mean?” she asked, with a glance across her shoulder – the Capitol’s tribute was distracting herself by roasting dried meat over their fire.

“I mean,” explained Sparkle, “do you think she’s still useful to us?”

Hesitating, Epona lowered the scrap of t-shirt that she was using as a polishing cloth. She hated this type of conversation. There were hidden mazes of incorrect answers, and no one ever informed her when she took the correct path. She decided that honesty was best. Epona had experience with honesty.

“She is skilled enough to be a concern to me,” she answered, lowering her voice so there was no opportunity to be heard over the buzz of the wind. “She is strong in combat and understands the arena as if she built it with her own hand. Her leadership is far stronger than you ever offered.”

Sparkle nodded as her ally spoke. At the complaint, she stopped and scowled. “I’m a far more capable leader. I lost my partner!”

“We will each lose our partners. It does not need to affect our skill.”

“My partner was worth something.”

Epona considered her partner, and Serenity’s partner. “You have a point,” she muttered.

The initial confidence in Sparkle’s question was beginning to fade, and she began to gnaw on her bottom lip as she continued. “We’re on the same page, though. She’s a concern.”

There was no treachery in the comment. Epona searched for it. Instead, it seemed to be a genuine worry punctuated with little, anxious glances to the tribute they were discussing. It could not be faked – Sparkle was not that good of an actress.

Epona began to read between the spoken comment. “You think she’ll betray us,” she clarified. “Kill us.”

“Exactly.”

In the arena, three was destined to become two. Epona felt the pull of tension in her chest ease as they formed the necessary pair. “Do you think we should kill her?”

Sparkle ran her tongue over her teeth as she thought, ruining the illusion of a polished tribute. Her voice was barely audible over the lullaby of the arena. “We need to consider it. She’s our biggest competitor. We could kill her, and then go our separate ways.”

With a hand hovering above her sword, Epona paused. “You want to separate?”

“We’ll have to at some point, won’t we?”

This was not a pair – it was an inevitable solo act. “Alright,” agreed Epona, slowly. “Tonight?”

“Not tonight,” said Sparkle, beginning to climb back to her feet. “We’re not there yet. We just have the plan there for if she does, you know, snap…”

She trailed off, with her voice fading into the wind. Sparkle’s initial confidence was dropping faster than the other tributes, but Epona did not mind. It made her ally tolerable. It made her seem more genuine. It made the inevitable easier.

***

Serenity chuckled to herself as she turned a skewer of roasting meat. It was clear that her alliance was discussing her, and they were likely beginning to plan to overturn her leadership. She did not care. She was ahead of them. She always was.

The meat began to blacken. Serenity took it from the fire, waving the meat and metal through the air to try and cool it. It was hardly effective. It was evening but the air was humid and hot around them – as the fight grew longer, it seemed as if the Gamemakers were relying on extreme temperatures to drive their playthings to the end.

It was an infuriating addition to the arena which was already driving her mad. The bitter edge of moulding coffee was still lingering in the stale air, making Serenity feel homesick. Her brother had helped design the torture. He had almost shown her the map, on the distant reaping day. She still could not understand it.

The arena was an old pleasure garden, or a fun fair, or a theme park. It was a location that Serenity felt was familiar from her childhood. Her silly alliance had no idea, or understanding, or reference. It was designed for the Capitol. It should be talking to her.

However, it remained frustratingly silent. There were no messages. There were no parachutes. There was nothing she could use to her advantage.

***

Eden held his breath and strained to hear above the whistling wind. The distant voice travelled on the breeze to meet him in the tree, clear enough to distinguish who was speaking. He would recognise the stupid accent through anything: the Capitol girl was nearby, and he was going to find her.

The sound was a sweet, sadistic music. Eden could not stop the smile which spread across his face and cracked his dry lips. His dream was close enough to touch, but he was not going to rush and make an embarrassing mistake – he had done that before and refused to do it again.

There would be an alliance. During training, she had forced herself into a group. District Twelve had christened them The Careers and decided that they should be avoided at all costs. However, Eden did not want to avoid them. He was confident that he could handle a crumbling alliance. He could handle a whole squadron of Peacekeepers with nothing but a sharp tongue.

He would kill her. He would send a message. Then, he would find their stupid songbird and kill him too.

With a grin, Eden scrambled down from his precarious tree. He found the knife in his belt and secured it in his hand. His plan to leave immediately was interrupted by a sudden bright light, a booming fanfare, and a reminder that the competition was more than just him and her.

There had been a cannon. The curiosity was strong enough to distract Eden, and he stared at the sky through a blanket of silhouetted leaves as the anthem continued to announce the dead.

It was the staged smirk of the boy from Twelve.

For a heartbeat, Eden’s fight faded. He did not understand why. The boy – Raven – had been no great friend to him. They had shared a lunch, a hatred of Peacekeepers and a knife, but nothing else. The anthem finished, and the arena returned to a quiet night.

Eden readjusted the knife in his hand. He remembered what his Papa had taught him – to mourn was to waste time. A missed companion could be honoured through action. He remembered his goal and set off in the direction of the distant voice.

***

Stumbling into the strange clearing, Solar fell across rotten netting which had become tangled with ivy on the floor. His hand caught the dark green leaf, and he whimpered, immediately pulling it from the poisonous grasp. It was too late. The back of his hand blistered as Solar held it to his chest and begged for it to stop.

The site was a graveyard of entertainment. In the dying light, Solar could see the decaying remains of smiling faces and bright lettering on a moulding, wooden sign. He had never been gifted at reading, but the writing was still legible enough:

Fun Bounce!

He scowled. There was nothing fun about the arena.

As he tried to clamber back to his feet, he seemed to struggle to hold his stance. Was it the poison? He briefly looked at the bubbling mess on his hand, but the rash was not spreading. Solar sank into the floor and fell again, twisting his ankle as he collapsed. The floor bounced beneath him.

It was a strange rubber, sewn into the moulding ground. He tested the material – if he bounced, Solar found that he went far higher than on normal ground. The black fabric was attached to eight rotting springs, which stretched it across a large pit dug into the dirt. It did not stretch forever but when Solar peered through the overgrowth, he could make out several more of the bizarre nests lining the floor.

He saw the deep hole in the earth and immediately thought of one thing: trap.

Solar began to calculate. The fall would not be far enough to kill, but it would be incredibly difficult to climb back out. He would have the advantage over anyone who was beneath him.

It was easy to split the rubber where it was already beginning to fray at the springs. Solar pulled himself from the hammock first, wincing at the pain in his hand as he pulled his knife from his belt. He crouched amongst the foliage – avoiding any plant with dark green leaves – and slicing through the fabric as if it were flesh. He caught it before it fell.

The remains of a fence guarded the clearing from any intruders. The metal poles were embedded in big stones, which Solar could only just push along the dirt. It was necessary. The stones were heavy enough to lay across the rubber and hold it in place as he draped it back across the pit. With an anchor on each corner, it was sturdy enough to hold its own weight but not the weight of a wandering tribute.

Solar covered the harsh edges with broken branches and scavenged leaves. He stepped back to admire his work but found it difficult with just the moon as light. He knew the trap was there. He was not trying to hide it. The illusion just needed to convince someone that it was safe to stand on.

He began the same process on the other five pits. It would be simple to climb a tree and remain nearby. Someone would fall for them eventually.

***

When he looked at his ally, Vixen felt a pain in his chest.

It was not fear. He was familiar with that – it began in his stomach and grew until it was all consuming, making him sick and silent. This new pain was different. It reminded him of watching his sister ignore her own friend to come and check on him or handing Panko over without being able to explain where he was going and when – if – he would be back.

Vixen turned away from the blue-haired boy sleeping amongst dying foliage. The pain did not subside. It followed him, as strong in the arena as hunger and anxiety.

The leaves whispered around them. The pain occupied his chest, but fear overtook the rest of him as Vixen scrambled in the dirt. Eventually, his hand landed on the machete he shared with his ally. He did not know how to wield the blade but somehow, he was calmer when he held it. Azure shifted as if he could hear the noise and then settled back into his rest.

There was nothing to be frightened of. Vixen repeated the mantra in his head over and over as if it would change his mind. There is nothing, he thought, because you’re with him.

The pain doubled, and Vixen curled his knees up into his chest.

He wanted to believe it was not his fault. His escort had spoken at length about Azure. When she said famous, Vixen heard untouchable. District Nine noticed that the arena was manipulated for the favourite tributes even if no one else did – if Azure was as well-liked as everyone said, there would be nothing sent in his direction besides expensive parachutes.

The Hunger Games were happening around them, but not to them. There were faces in the sky although they had never seen a single tribute. There were no mutts. There was no disaster, or trap, or cruel trick. There was no real reason to be holding the machete – Vixen knew he was safe.

That had been why he followed the blue-haired boy along the tail of the cornucopia. It had worked.

Azure made a noise in his sleep. Vixen panicked and raised the machete, before realising it was only his ally.

His ally.

Vixen did not say that aloud. If he did, it could be snatched from him. He tried not to say much, but the strange boy from the Capitol had a habit of easing conversation out of him. It was easy to be at ease around him. Vixen believed that outside of the arena and the Games and the confines of Panem, they could have been more than allies.

They could have been friends, which was strange to Vixen as he thought he was only capable of befriending four-legged creatures who screamed for milk.

Azure shivered. Despite their jackets, the cold night had a habit of reaching out in tendrils and chilling every inch of their body. Vixen could feel it himself, but he did not mind the cold.

Slowly, he put down his machete. He took off his coat and shook the mud and the branches from the folds of fabric. Immediately, the cold air began to bite at his bare arms. He did not notice.

Vixen lay his coat across Azure as if it was a blanket. It would not be long until they switched positions – Vixen had agreed to keep watch until the moon said it was midnight – and then he could take it back. Until then, his friend was warm.

***

Inari stared at the camera, challenging it. He could see his own face looking back. It was warped in the reflection of the lens. It did not look like him: dirty, hollow, and with shadows under his eyes which were darker than the night sky. He leaned back.

Was he that wild already?

Instinctively, he reached up and tried to tame his hair. Inari’s hands were also dirty and bleeding from the constant climbing, and the grime simply moved around his body rather than being brushed away. There was nothing he could do. The audience would never recognise him.

The camera whirred softly, refocusing on the tribute. There were clearly people watching. Inari assumed they liked what they could see. They might like his strange appearance. They might like his spirit. They might be looking at his broken arm and rooting for an underdog. Inari was not going to argue with them. He did not see the appeal in many of the performers who shared his spotlight in the circus, but they still received the same applause.

Inari was empty. The circus was so far away, and he knew he would never perform again.

He had been fighting to return to his audience since the reaping. Inari craved the applause, wanting to hear it echo as he flew above the sandy ring. Hiding in a tree, it felt further away than it ever had before.

Victory was not an escape. Inari moved through the arena as if winning was his aim but if he was a victor, that was all he would ever be. He would never perform for his audience again. He would belong to the Capitol.

***

With a frustrated groan, Saori dug his nails in the dirt and erased his hard work. The map, which he sketched in the ground with a blunt stick, quickly disappeared under the intermittent light of the moon.

Fern made a sound in her sleep, as if a breath caught in her chest whilst she tried to stifle a sob. She turned over. Saori stopped. He held in his shout, and Fern continued to sleep. He did not want to wake her – at least, not until the moon crossed further across the sky.

He had offered to take first watch. Fern trusted him whole-heartedly. Saori did not know what to do with that trust.

Lost, he threw himself back into his failing project. The stick dug into the dirt as he sketched a rough outline of the cornucopia and drew a large circle around it to indicate the clearing. It was supposed to be an easy task. Saori had studied maps during his schooling – in the transport district, it was expected they were experts.

The silence of the night filled with the mocking chorus of the other children in his class. He shouldn’t be here, they jeered as Saori’s hand shook. He can’t even hold himself together to draw a map.

Saori traced his footsteps: the strange teacup machine, to the patch of poisonous plants, to the deserted village of torn market stalls that served as their latest camp. He could add nothing beyond his own, winding path.

Clenching his cold hands into fists, he hit the ground again. The force cast dust across his creation. He could shakily mark the inner-district alliance at the horn, and himself and Fern at their camp, but what was the point? They had wandered aimlessly to get there, and they would continue to wander aimlessly as they left at dawn.

Fern snored gently. Her hair was still tangled in two braids, draping across her back. Saori could only see her sister in the sleeping figure. He hated it. He hated her.

He dropped the stick and abandoned his map, knowing he was lying to himself. He did not hate her – that was the worst part. Fern was smart, and helpful, and resourceful. She knew her way around the arena and, although Saori did not want to admit it, she was good company as they wasted hours pacing in circles.

They had not received a single parachute from the sponsors they were attempting to draw in, but Saori did not care. That was not the aim of the alliance anymore.

Fern looked innocent when she was sleeping. Saori forgot his attempt at a map as he watched, briefly contemplating the knife in his belt before pushing the thought away. He did not understand how someone could lean over their ally and slit their throat.

***

Without a destination, Azazel tried to curl himself into the meagre warmth of his jacket as he wandered. He tucked his hands as far as they would go into his sleeves and pulled the hood around his face. Tesla, he screamed in his head. Tesla, where should I go?

There was no answer. Azazel did not understand.

I don’t know what to do, he tried. The desperation did not drag his boyfriend back to him. Instead, Azazel could hear the cruel, teasing jaunts and jabs from District Three as they discovered his secret. Tesla must hate him for making him face the mob alone. That must be why he stopped speaking to him.

Azazel longed to go back and fix it. He could not. He was trapped in the arena, stumbling in circles.

Breaking into a clearing, Azazel practically fell across a cracked path protected by moulding red rope. There was a broken sign strewn across the ground in front of him and beyond it, a rusting metal track climbed steeply into the sky. It seemed dangerous, framed by overgrown vines. Azazel stopped wandering to stare and traced the shape with watering eyes.

He tried to ask his boy for advice. Was he meant to return to the forest, or explore the contraption? There was no answer. He did not know why he hoped for one.

Instead, Azazel tried to mimic Tesla’s voice. He managed a weak attempt at a favourite saying: what’s the worst that could happen?

Tesla would take a risk, if he had been trapped in the arena. Tesla would explore, and fight, and laugh through it as if nothing was wrong. He would reach the top of the track and try to map out the rest of the arena with his bright memory and constant enthusiasm.

Azazel was tired of being cautious. He wanted Tesla to speak to him again, and to be proud of him. He pulled his hood down from his head, followed the path and stepped on to the metal track.

***

Acacia was trapped in the painful, unending world between asleep and awake. His eyes burned and desperately clawed to rest, but his heart refused to slow down. The continual panic flooded through him like fuel powering an engine. Suddenly, he heard the familiar beat of footsteps. It reminded him that sleep was a risk, and he forced himself to sit up.

There was somebody on the track.

He strained to listen. It was not an alliance. There was only one set of unsteady steps. Acacia decided it was safe to peer through the window.

The old, dilapidated cabin was illuminated by the constant flashing lights of the control panel. As the wooden wall changed from blue to red to green, it reminded Acacia of the Capitol parties he had seen from his room in the Training Centre. The lighting called to him: press me, press me, press me.

Acacia knelt beside the window. Holding his breath, he pressed his face against the dirty glass and looked for the tribute that disturbed him. The moon illuminated a figure stumbling across the track in the direction of the first lift hill.

There was no chance he would make it. Acacia could not believe that the person was trying to climb despite finding it difficult to walk. Surely, he thought, it would be better to be killed instantly rather than fall.

Acacia understood the vehicle. He knew which button would launch it. He knew it would hit the intruder at roughly sixty miles an hour, like a pedestrian being hit by a speeding logging truck trying to make it back to the depot before nightfall. They would not survive.

He would be doing the tribute a favour. It was not as if he needed to slit their throat. Acacia only needed to push a button – the red button.

It was quick. Acacia pressed it, palm flat, before he could consider the consequences.

Immediately, the track began to whir as the launch lurched into life. The sudden sound scared the intruder. They fell back but remained on the track, frozen. There was a soft, steady countdown as the mechanism fell into place. Then, the vehicle accelerated.

It would be exhilarating to watch. The train of carriages reached their top speed in a matter of seconds. However, Acacia crouched back behind the window and covered his ears with his hand.

He still heard the echo of metal meeting flesh. It was like a dead tree falling in a muddied forest, accompanied by a sudden cry of pain. The noise of the train on the track continued as the vehicle moved, fading as it soared further away.

There was no cannon.

Tentatively, Acacia let his hands fall from his face. He did not dare to breath. He had done what he was supposed to do. He had pressed the button. Why was there no cannon?

The train pulled back into its station. As the engine fell silent, there was a low grown of pain which continued to stretch through the night. The figure had been hit. Acacia had heard it. They should be dead.

Braving a glance through the window, Acacia narrowed his eyes as they tried to focus in the dark. The figure was still there, but they no longer looked human. They became the machine, with an arm melting into the metal and legs splayed at strange angles as if they were part of the supports. In the moonlight, the smear of blood across the ride’s train was obvious.

Acacia felt his knees buckle as he sank back down to the floor, his stomach churning at the sight. He had seen it before. It was a common sight in District Seven, where woodchippers often took a hand or leg. His heart was pounding. This was his fault. The rumbling lullaby of pain was his punishment for the long evening.

***

Tesla Faraday retreated further into his torn jacket as the rain dripped from his hair to his face. The bakery steps were cold and were a broken waterfall in the storm, but they offered the clearest view of the screen erected beside the Justice Building. He could not turn away.

He was leaning on a door, which opened with the scream of a rusty hinge. Inside, the air was warm with the heat of an oven and the scent of burnt cinnamon wrapped around him.

“Come on, mate,” urged the baker, gruffly. He poked Tesla with the toe of his boot. “You know he ain’t going to make it now. You should run off home.”

“I ain’t got a home to go to, have I?” argued Tesla. He turned away from the screen but only to scowl.

The baker folded his arms. “Scram. Don’t want your kind sitting on my doorstep.”

Tesla returned to the screen. His boy, still bleeding out on the track, was being given the majority of the night’s focus. He did not even get the dignity of a quick death. Tesla refused to move until the pain was finally over.

“I’ll get the ‘keepers,” warned the baker. Tesla spat on his doorstep.

Chapter Text

[41] Calm

Hesitantly, Serenity edged her hand into the mug until a liquid caressed her fingertips.

“It’s cold,” she said, warning her alliance as they stood around an abandoned hamper. Serenity wiped her hand clean on a napkin included in the gift, and then lifted the mug to her lips to taste. She did not swallow, spitting the mouthful on to the ground. “It’s a soup we have in the Capitol, I think. It must be an old sponsor gift.”

“We could drink it,” suggested Sparkle, investigating a cake with silver decorations that had been placed atop the pile. She picked a tiny ball with her fingers and placed it on her tongue, waiting for the sugar to melt.

“Are you stupid?” asked Serenity, pouring the soup out on to the ground. It was a hearty soup: there were chunks of meat, and tiny squares of carrot and onion hidden in the broth. “Someone has left this out in the open for a reason. I’d assume every single thing is probably poisoned.”

“Poison is the coward’s weapon,” added Epona, but she still refused to touch anything in the basket. She watched with a half-smile as Sparkle hurriedly put down her cake. “There is no honour in dying from it.”

Serenity used her water bottle to rinse the inside of the cup. It would retain the heat of anything placed inside – she could tell from the thickness of the metal build – and it could keep their own cooking warm if they took it back to their camp at the cornucopia. “It’s a shame,” she murmured, opening her pick to secure the cup inside. “The meat looked rather tasty.”

Avoiding touching any of the remaining food, Sparkle dug around in the fabric interior of the hamper. She sent napkins and cutlery flying as she searched. When she did not find what she was looking for, she turned to tracing the intricate design of the woven basket.

“What are you doing?” asked Epona, her voice varying only in curiosity.

Sparkle closed the lid of the hamper, where she found her answer. The leather strap that served as an opening had an engraving, and the seal of District Eight was clearly visible. “Here,” she said, pointing. “When Four got his stupid gift, Serenity knew it was for him because it said Four on it. This is the same. It was sent to Eight.”

“Eight,” repeated Serenity, tilting her head in thought. “The boy’s dead, so I’m guessing the girl is still alive.”

“She’s not insignificant, either,” added Epona. “She scored an eight, but I don’t remember her going to a single weaponry station whilst we were training.”

“Poison might be her style, then.” Sparkle pushed the hamper away, frustrated. Leaning on her spear to ease the movement, she stood. “If she’s getting sponsor gifts, she must have done something impressive. We’re not getting anything like this!”

With a roll of her eyes, Serenity turned on her heel and correctly assumed that the alliance would follow her. “We already have supplies,” she scolded, as if asking for more was a crime. “Although, this girl clearly has enough to be leaving her cakes and soup on the floor.”

The statement was followed by silence. The small alliance all understood the implication – there was someone out there with as many supplies as them, and someone who was vicious enough to have as many sponsors. Suddenly, they each had a new target.

***

Sennen was growing impatient. Her brother was still dithering over the medical equipment in their supply crate. He was boiling water over the fire, but it was already becoming steam in the small cabin they shared. Tired of waiting, Sennen edged to her brother’s careful pile and snatched the tin of sleeping pills. She swallowed them dry.

“Sennen!” gasped Cove, trying to pull the medication from her hand even though it was no longer there.

Reading the packaging with interest, Sennen began to untie the blood-soaked jacket from her leg. “Five minutes,” she warned, letting the fabric fall away. “According to this, you’ve got five minutes until I fall asleep. I don’t know how long it’ll be until I wake up.”

“I don’t know what I need to do!” worried Cove, loudly.

Sennen took his flailing hand in her own, in the same way she did when dragging him out into a stormy sea or when they went to the harbour to hear news of their father. The room was already beginning to swim. Blinking her eyes took far more effort. “You do know,” she reassured, softly. “We ran through it together. Besides, you learned how to set a broken bone in training.”

The confusion halted panic. Cove tried to cast his mind back like a net – had he learned anything about broken bones during training? 

There had been an afternoon at the first aid station, talking about blood with the boy from Ten – the one who was now dead. For a brief moment, they discussed settings and splints. Cove tried to read his sister’s face. “How did you…”

“I watched you almost the entire time,” interrupted Sennen. The room was spinning. She leaned back and rested her head on a backpack. Surely, it would not be a problem to rest her eyes for just a minute. “It’s no wonder that alliance wanted you. You’re pretty good at a lot of things, Cove.”

“I’m not,” argued Cove. 

There was no response. Sennen was asleep.

Panicking, Cove shook her shoulder to try to wake her. She did not respond. He lifted an arm and watched it fall limply back down on to her face. He pinched her side. She did not flinch.

There was no written instruction, or guidebook. Cove floundered as he tried to think what to do first, shoving his limited knowledge into an undetermined amount of time. Gloves – he needed his hands to be clean before he did anything, and the gift had come with a set of blue gloves. Cove ripped the packaging open with his teeth and slipped the plastic across his hands as he desperately tried to think of what to do next.

It made sense to clean the wound. With the bone still visible, the torn skin reopened regularly and leaked blood across anything it touched. Cove felt his stomach churn as he reached towards it with an antiseptic wipe. He tried not to look. His sister did not complain as he forced himself to reach right up to the exposed bone, although he could not bring himself to touch it.

The strange antiseptic pearls still lived inside their bottle. Cove reminded himself of the instructions as he cleaned his gloves with a spare wipe. In his hand, they felt nothing like real pearls – they were soft and rolled in his hand like a bead of roe. They fitted inside the gaping wound easily. Uncertain, Cove also broke one open and rubbed the strange gel around the edges – just in case.

Then, there was the needle.

Cove did not like the look of the needle. It felt specific, like the tool of a doctor with a lifetime of knowledge rather than a fisherman’s son. Cove was not trained to administer it, but there was no other choice. As he took it, his hands trembled. It was slightly too large for him to hold; the needle wobbled unsteadily as Cove tried to place a thumb over the end. It was too much. The needle slipped from his hand. The glass shattered on the floor.

Cursing like a sailor, Cove tried to dredge the precious liquid from the floorboards, but it was tainted with glass shards. There was nothing left to use. If Sennen died, it was his fault.

No - he could not afford to think like that. Sennen would have improvised. She was good at that. Cove decided to use another of the strange pearls to try and force more antiseptic into what was left of his sister’s ankle.

There was nothing to be done about the bone. Cove was trying to force optimism, but he did not have the equipment, or the skill to put it back together. Instead, he settled for dressing his sister’s lower leg in a startling white, waterproof bandage that made the entire thing seem far more manageable. There was another bandage – fabric, and tighter – which he applied over the top. There was no chance that her shoe would fit, so Cove pulled the bandage lower to keep Sennen’s exposed foot warm.

He was done.

Cove fell backwards, caught up in admiring his own handiwork. It was not much. His stomach still churned. His heart hammered against his ribcage. He could have made everything much, much worse. The only thing he could do was wait for his sister to wake up.

***

Eden remained trapped between two voices. He was learning to find comfort in the lullaby of the arena; the singing of birds, the rustling of trees and the gentle whisper of the wind were sounds he recognised before the underground control of District Thirteen. However, the voices of other tributes sent the familiar chill of fear which usually accompanied heavy, Peacekeeper footsteps and the rattling of chains.

Rooted to the ground, he tried to distinguish the two separate conversations. They were both muffled and distant. Eden reassured himself with the thought that at that moment, distance was the same as safety. 

He expected conversation when trailing the Capitol’s irritating girl. Eden had watched her closely and anticipated her alliance. He did not want to attack whilst he was outnumbered but he could not help but laugh at their forced conversations.

However, he could hear another Capitol voice at his other side. The blue-haired boy must be talking to someone.

How did he get an ally?

Eden did not understand. That boy had been handed everything in his life and yet, he still did not seem to be good at anything. He was irritating, crying and messing with his shoelaces when there was not an audience to preen for. Eden wished he had killed him when he had the chance in the training gymnasium.

Now, he could hear both voices. They were tempting him and calling him, longing for him to kill them. Eden wanted the girl and the boy dead. He did not know which to hunt first.

***

The familiar red and white patterning stretched high above the trees, in the slant of a tent that glinted in the early morning sunlight. Inari could not help himself; he threw himself toward the tent as fast as he could. It would not be his circus – that was far away in District Eleven, and hopefully safe from the fear of the arena – but it would still be familiar. It would still feel like home.

However, Inari stumbled into the clearing and was immediately overwhelmed by the cold, sinking feeling of disappointment. It was not a circus. It was not even a tent.

The colouring was a hard, plastic canopy that housed unfamiliar rusting metal. Inari did not want to risk clambering into it – he probably could, but there was nothing up there waiting for him. Rather than a circus ring, the only thing beneath the roof was several chairs which dangled from metal chains. In the breeze, they rattled like the rigging of the circus tent during a storm.

Inari bit his tongue. There was no point in screaming, either in anger or frustration. It would bring people in his direction. It was not a true anger, anyway. It was the sinking, indescribable feeling of being awoken from a comfortable dream. He thought he was home. Then, he was not.

He did not want to sit on one of the twinkling chairs. They were an insult to him. Inari did not even want to walk amongst them but then, a mark in the dust caught his eye. He swallowed his pride and edged closer. There was one chair – the one nearest to him – which had kicked-up dirt at its base. Someone had sat in it. Someone was nearby.

***

In his panic, Leon forgot that he was meant to be different.

He whimpered like any other tribute as the strange, dark green leaf brushed against his stained skin. Immediately, a rash began to bloom. It burned, growing more intense at the curve of his wrist and sending electric flashes of pain from his finger to his shoulder.

He dropped his bow. It was inevitable; his hand began to spasm, fingers contorting into claw-like shapes as he stumbled back. Leon fell into a soft patch of grass that was still blessed with a morning dew. As he put his hand down, the droplets of cold liquid eased some of the burning sensation.

The bush, with its poisonous leaves, stretched up the bark of a tree and taunted Leon like a snake twirling around the branches. He stared at it as if it would leap out and bite him.

A murmur of pain escaped his mouth. Leon forced the sleeve of his jacket to his face, biting down on the bitter-tasting fabric to muffle any other scream which might escape. The rash began to blister with a bright, yellow pus as it developed into a burn. 

Leon’s fingers still trembled. He watched in horror as the wound darkened. It stopped spreading down his forearm, but the pain did not stop. His fingers were stiff. Without them, he could not shoot. Without that, he could not fight.

***

Azure felt an unfamiliar ache in the pit of his stomach when he looked at his ally. In the arena, Vixen had grown from a stammering tribute to a real person who did not quite fit into the description the commentators assigned him. He spoke in full sentences. He laughed. Azure had come to crave his company.

It was still easy to notice the stutters in confidence. Vixen was curled at the base of a tree, resting his head on the bark as if it was a pillow. He stared at the gold charm on his wrist. As he read the inscription over and over, he stroked the worn fabric of the collar. 

The repetition was familiar – Azure saw it in himself, as he tied and retied his shoelaces over and over to delay an inevitable. He wanted to help. He leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand and said softly, “tell me about District Nine.”

Vixen was immediately startled from his ritual. He blinked once in surprise, and then again in suspicion. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your home,” replied Azure. Then, he hesitated and pulled back. “I don’t want to make you sad though, so don’t worry about-“

With a shake of his head, Vixen interrupted his ally. His hand returned to the collar on his wrist. “It’s not that exciting,” he moaned, but he settled with his back against the tree to continue anyway. “I live in an old mill. We make flour. Not for the Capitol, though. Their factories have huge machines which can fill their quotas. We still use a water wheel to turn the grindstone.”

“A water wheel?” asked Azure, confused.

“It’s like…imagine the wheel on a cart, but it’s being turned by a river.”

Azure struggled to imagine it. In the city, he only saw black, rubber wheels on the feet of cars. There were no rivers, but he had seen those on broadcasts of the Games – they did not seem like something you wanted to have beside your house. “I want to see it,” he decided, aloud.

“It is pretty,” Vixen acknowledged, as a faint smile appeared on his face at the memory. “They’re too much work to really be practical, though. Nana is getting too old to do it, and she wants me and Kit to learn. She’s having to hire a boy from the village at the moment.”

“Nana?”

“My grandmother.”

Azure did not know his grandmother. He could not imagine living with one – on the screen, they were shown to be rather outdated, ugly things. It was not likely that someone would live with one by choice. “Did your mother and father…die?” asked Azure, whispering the last word as if it was unmentionable.

Vixen shook his head hurriedly. “They have to work in the fields,” he explained. “Everyone does, if they’re fit enough. Me and Kit go during the harvest, too.”

The conversation was tainted by confusion, as if they spoke two different languages. “Don’t you ever see them?” Azure wondered. 

“I do.” Vixen began to tense, bringing his arms around his chest. “They come back at wintertime.”

“You didn’t get to say goodbye?”

Vixen paused, and then shook his head.

Scared of losing his friend again, Azure pushed the conversation forward before it had chance to stop. “I didn’t get chance to say goodbye either,” he reassured, hurriedly, “and I don’t really get to see my father very often.”

“What about your ma?” asked Vixen.

Azure’s face twisted into a scowl, which he quickly fixed in case a camera caught it. “I see her a lot. She helps me work.”

At the statement, Vixen seemed to perk up with a newfound curiosity. “Tell me about your work,” he asked.

“I sing,” explained Azure, after a pause.

Frustrated, Vixen edged forward. “It’s not just singing though,” he stressed, distracting himself in the details of the conversation. “We sing in the fields. You’re different. You sing in front of thousands of people. My escort said!”

Azure nodded. “I do,” he replied, plainly.

“And you’re on the screens all the time! It sounds awful. I bet everyone in the Capitol knows your name.”

That was harder to answer. Azure knew that there were plenty of people who did not care for him, or who said that his performances were for people with nothing better to care about – but even those people could likely name him in a screen program, or on an advertisement. “Probably,” he answered.

Vixen shook his head at the simple answers, exasperated. “You’re like the escorts,” he argued, fixating on the only Capitol people that he knew were recognisable, “or the stylists. You’re speaking as if this is normal. Don’t you like it?”

Azure paused to consider his answer. He had a script for this question: he was grateful to his fans for letting him do what he loved every single day, and he would work harder to repay them with better performances for their unwavering support. 

It was easier to ignore the audience when they were not in front of him, hanging on to his every word. They were the people who cheered as he was locked in the arena. They would simply find someone else to worship if he died for their entertainment.

“No,” he admitted, hissing the answer through gritted teeth. “I hate it.”

***

Without question, Fern followed her ally. He was intent to keep moving as the sun settled into place across the sky. Saori did not have a destination in mind, but he walked as if he did.

Eventually, Fern cleared her throat. “Where are we going?” she asked, tentatively.

“East,” replied Saori.

They pushed forward for another silent minute. There was no sign of stopping, even though Fern craved a break in the shade with a bottle of water. She cleared her throat. “How do you know that?”

“The sun,” answered Saori. He stopped. Fern stumbled into his back. He turned around to address her, “unless the Gamemakers have managed to change that too, which would be a real pain in the ass.”

“Do you think they have?”

“Who knows?”

Saori turned and persisted onwards. Fern was given no choice but to follow.

The alliance moved until the dry dirt beneath their feet became grass, and then until the grass became a path. The sun continued to beat down as if it was laughing at them. Fern tried to ignore the burning, peeling sensation on her face and her exposed arms. Briefly, she considered wearing her jacket rather than tying it across her waist. When Saori stopped, Fern was lost in her thoughts and continued to walk.

“Look,” he called, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her back. Saori pointed to a sign, before widening the gesture to acknowledge an entire area surrounded by a rotting fence. “Fun Bounce.”

Fern could hardly read the lettering behind layers of rust and overgrown ivy. “Fun Bounce?” she clarified, and Saori nodded. “What do you think that means?”

“No idea!”

Saori would not be deterred. As Fern stood still, her ally began to pick his way across the rocks and branches. They were each covered in moss – a sign that no one had touched them in a long time.

“Do you think this was built especially for us?” asked Fern, eyeing the unfamiliar ground with caution. “The arena, I mean.”

Stopping to think, Saori waited between the final fence post and a collect of fallen leaves. “I don’t think so,” he replied, eventually. He began to move again. “It would take a lot of planning to make everything seem this abandoned, and that would be-“

The floor collapsed beneath him, and Saori disappeared from view.

Fern went to rush forward, stepping cautiously beyond the fence. Her voice raised in panic and trembled, like electricity arcing from a tesla coil. “Saori?” she cried.

Her ally responded by loudly shouting a curse word that Fern recognised but rarely heard on her merchant street in District Five. There was a dull thump – it sounded suspiciously like Saori hitting his fist against the dirt in anger. Fern edged forward until she was peering down at him in a large trench.

With anger flushed across his cheeks and spreading to the tops of his ears, Saori gnawed on his bottom lip. He could only just reach the blades of grass with his fingertips when he reached upward. “It’s a trap,” he announced, bitterly. Saori pointed to a black covering which had fallen alongside him. “Look – that was resting on the ground, but it was only held by the rocks. They designed it so that someone would fall in.”

“The Gamemakers?” asked Fern.

Saori shook his head. “It’s got to be a tribute,” he explained, “or there’d be something down here to kill me.”

Securing her footing on a thick root, Fern held out her hand to help her ally. It felt strange to feel him take hold of it, but Saori did not hesitate. There was nothing hidden in her motion; he simply used her as leverage to begin the climb out.

***

Solar hid in a bush, cutting the branches to see if they held water whilst trying to ignore the voices in his trap. The sound was muffled but he was certain there were two people. He did not want to take on two people, but his trap was pointless if he did not at least try.

He sighed, believing the arena was deliberately taunting him. He pulled himself from the foliage with the intention of pushing the second voice into the pit with the first. They were arguing over which tribute might have created the trap. Solar was pleased – they would be too 
distracted to notice him.

When he saw the familiar blonde braid, he stopped. “Fern?” he asked, loudly. 

His partner was no longer the pretty, poised figure in a light-up dress. Her clothing was torn, her arms were scarred and there were leaves stuck in her hair in mud. When she turned to him, the bright spark in her eyes and the natural smile of her mouth still persisted.

Solar did not believe his partner would kill him. He still lifted the knife in his hand as a precaution.

“Solar?” she replied, with a gasp. 

She could not turn fully. Her arm was deep in the trap, helping another tribute to climb out of the dirt. They were already pulling themselves into the grass, but their face was not visible in their effort. It took Solar too much time to identify them and when he did, his eyes narrowed.

It was the boy from District Six.

There was no movement, or sound, or conversation as they observed each other. Fern focused on her partner, taking in his injuries and the weapon he carried. Slowly, she edged backward to stand beside the boy she had rescued from the pit.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she offered, when she decided the silence had been too long.

Her relief meant nothing to her partner. Solar also stepped back, into a position where he was ready to spring forward with his knife. Fern had said that she would not ally with anyone and yet, there she was – with him.

“Nice trap,” complimented Saori, in his own manner of interrupting a tense meeting. His speech still wore the condescending tone that had followed Solar and Fern on their journey through the training gymnasium. Saori nodded back to the pit, where the sides were beginning to collapse from his destruction as he climbed. “I couldn’t see it at all. You can’t see the others either, unless you’re really looking for them. It would have been better if there was something inside to kill me, though.”

Solar’s shock became fury, as he saw red as vibrant as a sunset. “My plan was to kill whoever fell in,” he threatened.

“Go on, then,” urged Saori. He stepped forward, opening his arms to offer a clear shot to his chest. “Let’s get it over with.”

Fern pulled her partner back using the hood of his jacket. She retreated with him. Solar caught it immediately. “You don’t trust me either?” he challenged, ignoring the boy in favour of his treacherous ally. 

She had the decency to blush. “It’s the Games,” Fern tried to justify, but it fell flat.

Solar wanted to attack, but he found himself unable to move. His partner’s gaze – the same gaze which had managed to reassure him on the train – kept him still. She did not say an apology out loud, but it was evident in the fall of her head and the crease in her posture.

“You going to fight me?” taunted Saori, but Fern tugged on his jacket again.

“Don’t be stupid,” she scolded. “No one is fighting anybody. Come on, Saori.”

Reluctantly, Saori allowed his ally to turn him around as they began their trek back into the trees. Before they disappeared, Solar found his voice. 

“Why are you with him?” he asked, lowering his knife. He was desperate for answers over bloodshed, and he needed Fern to trust him like she did at the reaping, on the train, and in every moment until the nightmare began.

Fern opened her mouth, but she closed it again before any answer materialised. Sensing the hesitation, Saori answered on her behalf.

“Because she’s smart.”

***

At the first sight of colour in the dew-stained grass, Satin threw herself to her knees. She took hold of the paper on the ground. The moisture caused the ink to stain across her hand in the same manner as blood, taunting her with red and pink hues against her dirty palm. Satin tried to ignore it. The strange paper – a poster forgotten by the side of the path – could finally be the answer to her many questions.

It was exactly what she believed it was when she caught sight of it: a map. The arena could not dull the glow of pride that spread across Satin’s face when she realised she was right.

It was not a type of poster that Satin recognised. It folded into three equal pieces, with information and glossy pictures scattered across both sides. She focused on the map. There, a bright yellow line indicated the outline of the park that the arena had once been. There was a lake in the centre. Satin decided it was likely where the cornucopia now stood, and where the water from the sudden flood had drained to.

The map was accompanied by a title, plastered across the top of the paper in bright blue lettering:

Pleasure Park!

Beneath it, there were pictures of smiling children dressed in elaborate clothing. Satin knew that the fabric would take several days to sew, and each outfit likely took several days to make these were Capitol children. They sat on rides. They petted animals. They smiled as if their faces had been permanently altered to grin.

Satin traced the painted paths with a pointed finger. From the cornucopia, she followed a red line to a symbol labelled as The Soaring Seats. She recognised her strange, striped ride with chairs attached by chains in the picture that rested alongside it.

Beside it, there was The Wheel of Prosperity which seemed to take people into the air in pastel-coloured carriages. The Logging Factory sat atop a steep hill and promised a wild ride in an authentic, District Seven lumber mill. Satin almost laughed as she noticed a swirling, looping track that was fittingly named Rebellion.

There was a small paragraph of writing beneath the map. Satin devoured it.

Pleasure Park is delighted to be celebrating twenty-five years of fantastic family fun! The party will continue around the park with special guests, live music events and special themed dishes at our new food court, Plates of Panem. 

Satin followed an arrow which pointed from the writing to a picture of painted buildings. There were twelve huts sat around a field of benches, each labelled with a seal of a district. If the picture was not clear enough, a further paragraph explained that each cabin sold a unique cuisine from the district people. 

On the map, the location was indicated by a small picture of a knife and fork. Satin placed her finger on it and began to plot her course immediately. There might still be food there.

***

He was from District Three.

Acacia watched the anthem through a broken window, seeing the boy smiling from the sky before he was gone. He did not know the tribute’s name, but he knew he would never forget his face. There was a sharp stab in his stomach. Acacia wondered if it was guilt, but then decided it was not likely. He did not kill the tribute, after all. He only pressed a button.

He remained sat against the creaking wall. There had been no sleep, and no hunting, and no moment of peace. He could still hear the low moaning of pain echoing from the track, although the cannon had fired, and the body had already been collected.

The control panel still flashed, begging for another alliance through bright lights. Acacia ignored it. He refused to press it again.

The sky came alive with the sound of singing crickets as the anthem faded. Across the forest, the overlapping notes filled the arena with sweet music which was far from the nightmare noise in his head. It would be a new day soon. Acacia decided that it was time to go outside and slowly, he began to pick up his toolbox and make the effort to leave.

He caught sight of the view from the broken window, where the straight track was still stained with darkening blood that seemed to shine in the moonlight. Acacia could still see it: a mangled body stretched across iron supports. He could hear the creaking of his bones in the creaking of the shack.

The comforting night time lullaby became intertwined with the soft sound of a bell. At the unfamiliar music, Acacia was finally torn away from the view at the window. There was a box waiting for him at the doorway, blanketed by its silver parachute.

Briefly, Acacia recalled the conversation with his escort on the train. It seemed so long ago and in a life so far away, but it was still real. He had promised to be nice to the audience if his escort could find him a sponsor, and now it was time for Clarus to keep his end of the deal.

It was a small box. Pulling the parachute from the strings, Acacia desperately clawed the lid open. He did not know what he hoped for, but he was pleased with what he found: a small portion of steamed salmon on a bed of pine needles, and a familiar layered cake. His escort had not only provided food. He had researched and sent food from home.

There was no cutlery. Acacia yelped as he touched the hot salmon, but he ignored the pain to pull it apart and force pieces into his mouth. He would try and keep the cake for later. His mouth watered at the thought of the nutty, crumbly base and the thick custard icing. It was a reminder of home that Acacia did not mind. Before she died, his mother would make them as a reward whenever he did something good. 

Was he being rewarded?

The salmon turned to paper in Acacia’s mouth, becoming tasteless. He still chewed it as he thought, but he caught his tongue and blood rushed through his mouth to join his meal. There had been no sign of a sponsor and then, at this death, they suddenly wanted to send him treats. Acacia did not understand it. He had not killed the tribute. He had only pressed a button.

The arena was filled with other buttons to press.

Acacia turned his back on the strange train track. He did not want to use it again – it was too fast, too unpredictable, and too violent. However, he knew where there was another button he could bend to his bidding.

Chapter Text

[42] Storm

Comforted by the familiar sight of the plastic sawmill, Acacia pushed himself forward into its embrace. He followed his own previous footsteps, grinding his teeth together until his jaw ached with the effort. Every step felt like wading through tree sap.

His old cabin still had wiring carpeting the floor. It flowed from the open control panel in a tangled mess, telling him that no one had entered the room since he had jumped through the window. The distant hum of the water pump still sang, accompanying Acacia had he placed his toolbox in the previously disturbed dust.

If he knew how to wire the water filter, he might be able to override any limit on the tank. He might be able to create a whirlpool. He might be able to set the water to a boil and push another tribute over the edge. The possibilities seemed endless, and he was not a murderer in any of them – he was only pressing a button.

Should he wait until morning?

Acacia considered it. He fiddled with the plastic catch on his toolbox to keep himself busy, filling the cabin with another repetitive noise. He did not want to wait. He would not sleep with his mind whirring like a machine.

The moon illuminated the cabin, dancing through the window in a shaft of light. Acacia used it to identify the colour of each wire in the nest around his feet. He dug around in his toolbox without looking, finding the handle of the wire cutters by touch. Hesitating, he held the sharp edges across the wiring of the water pump’s circuit.

Sacrificing his previous hard work, Acacia snipped his previous wiring. The gentle hum came to an end. The loose cable allowed him to pull the wedge of wiring apart, separating them and tracing their paths through the control panel and into the inner circuitry. His hand landed on something cold in the base of the cupboard.

Acacia shifted to allow the moon to see it. There was a grey rectangle waiting for him, bolted to the ground. There was no sign to tell him what was hiding beneath.

He could handle a bolt.

Abandoning the wire cutters, Acacia dug through his collection until he found a small impact wedge capable of biting into the solid metal. It was difficult without the leverage of distance, but curiosity overpowered pain. Acacia’s hands blistered and ached with the constant force but eventually, every bolt was free. He pried open the door with a screwdriver. 

There was a single, silver wire running from a black box to a hole in the floor. 

Briefly, Acacia considered it unimportant. He scolded himself. It was often the most unassuming part of an engine that held the most important role and anyway, he felt as if he deserved to know what he did. He had put in the effort to find it, after all.

He took another length of unused wire and used his teeth to unwind the plastic coating. Painstakingly, Acacia covered his hand with the thick rubber. He cut the new silver wire and carefully entwined the copper inside with the cut end of the live wire to the water pump. The effect was immediate.

An alarm sounded. He jumped at the sound and dropped the wiring, but the sound did not stop. It was joined by the forceful applause of rushing water. Acacia stumbled to his feet to look at the pool, but the cabin lurched under him, dragging him back into the dust.

Beneath him, the floor tilted. The window showed sky where there had previously been trees, and the air was filled with a new cacophony of splintering wood.

Acacia felt the panic which came with running out of time. He rushed to pack his tools back in the mess of his box, but the floor never cracked as he was working. The wall remained standing too. It was not the cabin that was falling apart. Acacia braved the window and watched as, beneath him, the confine of the reservoir began to splint under the new force.

The water was not stopping. There were further pipes and pumps hidden beneath the cabin that were now filling the space with water it was not designed to hold. It pushed upwards through rotten floorboards, and Acacia began to feel it seeping into his boots. It was about to break.

Acacia’s instinct was height. He tucked his hatchet in his trousers and held the handle of the toolbox in his mouth, swinging through the window with the ease of a practiced orchard worker. He mumbled three points of contact against the rough plastic as he pulled himself to the rough shingles of the roof. It was a difficult climb. Acacia still tried. He could not swim.

The roof offered a viewing platform for the chaos beneath it. Acacia was panting, saliva dripping down the box, when he reached the top. There was a deafening crash as the reservoir fell. The water was a surge as it powered across trees. The pumps were still spitting out into the floor.

Dropping his supplies, Acacia wrapped his arms around his chest. He sat down to watch. There was nothing else he could do. For the first time in the arena, he felt in control.

***

The night was cold, and a fire was a risk they were not willing to take. Azure edged closer to his shivering ally. “Here,” he offered, taking Vixen’s frozen hands in his own. “We’re going to be fine.”

With chattering teeth, Vixen pulled himself closer into the shared warmth. “It doesn’t feel like we’re going to be fine,” he murmured, deliberately defiant.

There was nothing he could do but Azure wanted to do something. He dragged his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, holding Vixen’s hands tighter. “You could have my jacket, if you want.”

Vixen shook his head.

Azure continued to push. “You should have it. You’re smaller than me. You’ll feel the cold more.”

“Smaller?” asked Vixen, with a small laugh brightening his voice. He unlocked his hand from the hold and placed it across Azure’s wrist. His fingers touched around the joint. “You’re tiny too. You should eat more.”

Pulling his wrist from the grasp, Azure hid his hands in his jacket. He tried to ignore the comment, but the familiar hollow feeling continued to grow in his stomach. It was a good feeling. It meant he was still being strong, even in the arena.

Vixen did not sense the discomfort. He continued to shiver but his face became whimsical, thinking back to his home rather than remaining trapped. “Whenever we’re cold at home,” he said, as if talking to himself rather than his ally, “we make this special stew. Thick gravy. Barley. Meat, if we can get it. It’s usually deer – the butcher hunts any that wander into the fields.”

“With rice?” mumbled Azure, giving in to the talk about food. He tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach.

“No. With bread. We eat everything with bread in Nine.”

Azure opened his mouth to answer but a distant thunder interrupted him. It filled the night with a sudden sense of dread. Vixen’s face fell into a pale fear.

“That’s water,” he announced, voice cold. “I recognise it from the mill. That’s running water. We need to move.”

At the instruction, Azure took his ally’s hand again and pulled him to his feet. “Up?” he asked, and Vixen nodded. 

There was no opportunity to search for the perfect tree. Azure and Vixen both immediately scrambled up to the nearest branches, trying to keep an eye fixed on each other. Vixen had been correct – the flash flood overtook their former camp. Azure’s feet were caught in the sudden onslaught, and he cried out, fumbling on the thinner branches until Vixen helped pull him to a sturdier limb. Instinctively, they both climbed as high as they dared.

Azure could not stop the trembling in his hands or the whirring in his mind. This was a punishment. There was no other explanation. This was a punishment for speaking his mind, and for saying he hated his audience, and for daring to think about food.

“Do you think it’ll go any higher?” asked Vixen, shouting across the roar of the water beneath them. His voice broke Azure from his spiral and suddenly, he was staring down at a tidal wave of stirred leaves and branches. It was impossible to tell what was planned for them.

“I don’t-“ he began. He was interrupted by a scream.

Instinctively, Azure grabbed for Vixen’s hand again, but the sound was not coming from his ally. The scream continued from their left, begging for help.

It was a fight to the death. They were hearing their competition fall and they did not have to dirty their own hands. However, the colour still drained from Azure’s panicked face. He met Vixen’s wide eyes.

“I think we should…” he began, trailing off. He did not need to finish. Vixen understood, and he nodded.

With the ground underwater, the forest was the only method of movement. Azure braved a thicker branch closer to the flood. It offered an easier path to the next tree across. Vixen followed him, mimicking his footsteps. It was a slow journey, but the alliance edged closer to the cry, listening to it grow more panicked. The sky shivered with each scream.

“There!” cried Vixen, pointing at another tribute up to their neck in the swirling water.

The boy was desperately clinging on to a branch with one arm, shouting. He noticed the approaching alliance immediately. “Help!” he shouted, voice shrill. His hand slipped on the branch, and he disappeared under the flood, flailing until he caught hold again. He coughed up the filthy water, spluttering into another shout. “Help me, please!”

It was an opportunity to take out the competition. Neither Azure nor Vixen wanted to take it.

“Get as low as you can,” instructed Azure, helping Vixen jump between safety and the tree where the boy was shouting. It was easier on the thicker branches. “You hold my legs, and I’ll try and pull him up.”

“You sure?” asked Vixen, weakly.

Azure nodded, and Vixen trusted him.

Wrapping his legs tightly around the branch, Vixen took hold of his ally’s ankles. Azure cautiously turned himself upside-down and lowered himself above the person in the water. He held out a hand, offering him a lifeline. “Your other hand,” he prompted, shouting over the rumbling of the rushing river. “Grab hold of me!”

“I can’t!” cried the boy, panicking. He spluttered in the water. “I can’t use it!”

Immediately, Azure returned to the training centre where a boy with a broken arm offered him a hand after the incident with the gun. It was District Eleven. Azure hesitated, and then shouted for Vixen to take him closer to the water.

When his head was inches away from the water, he placed his hand on the boy’s own. “Try now!”

The boy glanced from the water to his hand. He took a deep breath and let go, falling beneath the flood. Using the strength in his legs, he kicked up and took hold of Azure with his working arm. Azure secured the grip and pulled the boy up to stand on the branch he had been clinging to.

Unable to stand without the branch shaking under the trembling of his legs, the boy did not let go even when he was safe. “Thank you,” he panted, trying to take a breath through panicking lungs. “Thank you, thank you.”

Vixen shouted down, struggling to hold on. Azure shook himself from his hesitation and helped his ally pull him back into the tree. He held another hand down for the panicked boy. “Come on,” he encouraged, “you need to be higher.”

***

Fern was staring at her ally when the arena began to collapse.

It was impossible to look at Saori without seeing his brother, smiling on the screen in the hours before his throat was slit. However, Fern was learning to see beyond it. Saori was his own person: intelligent, resourceful and entertaining.

“What?” he asked, gruffly. Saori did not look up as he spoke. He was focused on the water that he was trying to boil over an improvised fire. He had tried to explain the science of purification to Fern, but she had been lost. She did not care. She simply enjoyed listening to him talk.

“Nothing,” replied Fern. There were questions burning on her tongue. She wanted to know more about the boy who chose to trust her. He was staying beside her, even though they had not received a single parachute from their alliance of convenience.

Finally, Saori returned her glances. His face softened when he saw Fern, grinning across their dilapidated shelter. “We’ll have drinkable water soon,” he said, “but if I’m not careful, I’ll melt the plastic bottle into it.”

“You won’t,” reassured Fern. She trusted him.

Saori went to speak. He was overcome by a low rumble. The floorboards rattled beneath them as the shack trembled in fear. He raised his voice. “Earthquake?” he suggested, shouting.

There was panic creeping into his voice. Fern noticed but did not reply. She whipped her head around to take in the shaking surroundings.

Considering safety, Saori turned his water bottle upside down and extinguished the fire. “Not an earthquake,” he yelled, making himself heard over the growing chaos. “I can hear water. It’s a mudslide, or a flood.”

“A what?” cried Fern.

“We have to get higher.” Saori refused to waste time with explanation. He took Fern’s hand – she stuttered at the touch – and began to drag her to the window. “Can you climb?”

He did not give opportunity for answer. Saori dropped his ally’s hand and took the first step through the broken glass, edging amongst shards. Fern stumbled after him. She took hold of the drainage pipe that around the outside of the building.

The metal brackets which secured it to the wall served as convenient footholds. Fern climbed it as if it were a ladder and when she reached the top, Saori reached out to help her take the final step. His heart was not in the rescue. He was watching the water with an expression of confusion rather than fear. It was already level with the floor they had been waiting on.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he cried, shaking his head as if the confusion was a personal insult. “We haven’t found any natural water sources yet. There are no rivers, or large lakes. There’s been no rain and no earthquake and no…”

He trailed off, dropping Fern’s hand to wave wildly in the search for knowledge. Fern wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She was chilled even though she was still bone dry. “Unless,” she suggested, “someone is being given a thumbs-down.”

“What do you m-“ began Saori, interrupting himself as he slowly understood. His face showed his journey as he considered the phrase, and the day, and the arena, and every moment that had led to them being perched on the roof of an old food stall. Then, he nodded solemnly.

The arena was their colosseum, and their emperor was bored.

Saori still found protest, lowering his voice so the criticism was between him and his ally rather than an audience. “It still doesn’t make sense. There’s been regular cannons. People must be fighting. And a flood can be unpredictable, so who’s annoyed them so much that they’d be willing to risk the rest of us?”

There was a pause. “Thirteen?” suggested Fern.

Thirteen – the criminal volunteer armed with a gun and a temper. He was still alive. “Yeah,” mumbled Saori, settling down on the assumption that their current predicament would last for the evening. “You might be right.”

***

Solar heard the water approaching before he saw it. He was sat in a soft patch of clover, trying to start a fire but failing to light a spark. His hands were blistered, and his damp joints ached from the effort of rubbing two sharpened sticks. There was nothing to cook anyway. His stomach growled like a wild mutt.

The distant wind carried the concerning noise of an alarm. Was he going delirious? There was nothing in the arena that should make that noise, but it was definitely there. Then, it was gone. It was replaced by the rushing of a river.

Abandoning his attempt at a fire, Solar pulled himself to his feet and readied his supplies. The critters in the trees and the undergrowth were beginning to escape, clambering up bark or taking off into the sky.

As it grew closer, it no longer sounded like the power of nature. Solar recognised the sound – a forgotten school trip, in the heat of the summer, to a hydroelectric plant. They sounded an alarm before releasing water through the dam, and the force was a deafening sound that covered all conversation. The arena played the exact same sound. 

Solar did not know where the water was coming from. He did not know how much water there was going to be. He did not know how much time he had. He did not care – he needed to be as high as he could, and holding on to something solid.

In desperation, he glanced around. There were trees, but they were not strong enough. He had seen flooding from District Five dams which uprooted trees older than their country. They were likely not tall enough either. No – he needed one of the Capitol’s strange contraptions, constructed of metal and secured to the ground.

There was something peering above the treeline when he looked closely. Solar headed to it, thinking only that it must be possible to climb it. 

It was a giant apple.

Confusion halted him, before the sound of the rushing water grew louder and jolted him back into action. It was a giant apple, with several holes where a track weaved in and out. It still stretched out above the layer of foliage and offered a barricade of protection.

The track acted like a ladder. Solar took hold of a rung and pulled himself up. Adrenaline fuelled him when strength could not. The station held a strange creature: a metal caterpillar with a terrifying grin. Solar tried to ignore it.

He entered the apple through the lowest entrance as the water rushed through into the clearing. Immediately, the splash soaked his boots. The plastic protected him but Solar bit down on his lip so hard that his mouth flooded with blood. It would not hold forever.

He jumped up, catching where the track was higher. His muscles trembled. His flesh burned at the contact with the rusting metal. Solar kicked himself upward as the water caught around his knees. With his final ounce of strength, he pulled himself from the water and sat, panting, as the moulding fibreglass beneath him was ripped away by the rushing water.

***

Sennen waded through her mind, dreaming in memories. She could feel the arena’s harsh sun burning her skin, but she could also feel the cold ocean on her ankles, smell the salt in the air, and hear the lapping of moving water.

The ocean should not sound like that. The ocean was a lullaby. This was a shout. Sennen tried to turn but her body was stiff.

“Sennen!” cried a voice, rumbling like a distant storm. It seemed familiar but she could not place it. Her head was filled with thick fog. “Sennen, I thought I’d killed you!”

Did she know this person? It seemed likely – they were certainly happy to see her, and she was fairly certain that her name was Sennen. “Is that water?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse and dry. She tried to sit up.

“No – stay there,” ordered the boy. His head was turning around, trying to place the sound that she had already heard.

Sennen felt safe. After all, she could tell from the wind and the fresh air that she was atop a hill or a cliff. The ocean would never reach her there.

“I think it is water,” murmured the boy. 

Cove – that was his name! Sennen’s brain finally awoke with her body, and everything swam back into focus. It was Cove, and it was her brother, and he had –

Sennen pulled herself up and took a look at her newly bandaged ankle. It seemed far more manageable dressed beneath the layers of sterile cotton but there was still the strange sensation of everything being wrong.

“I couldn’t set the bone properly,” admitted Cove, readjusting Sennen’s jacket over her ankle again so that she could not keep looking. “Hopefully there’ll be no infection but it’s not going to heal properly and then-“

“The Capitol will heal it if we win,” interrupted Sennen, determined to feed herself with optimism. There was nothing that could be done about it, anyhow. She was focused on the more immediate danger. “Is that water coming close?”

“I don’t see how it could…”

Cove’s voice trailed away as he stood, turned, and walked to the crest of the hill to peer down into the surrounding forests beneath them. The foliage ebbed like a tide. Cove sheltered his eyes with his hands, trying to get a closer look in the bright sunlight.

Sennen did not like being left to flounder. She gritted her teeth – she may have been injured, but she was not going to let her brother treat her like an invalid. With her trident as a crutch, Sennen dragged herself to her feet and pulled herself to stand alongside her brother and look across the arena.

“What are you doing?” complained Cove, immediately grabbing her by the arm to try and support her. He tried to drag her back to their meagre camp, but Sennen refused. She did not acknowledge him at all. Instead, she pointed out to what she could see in the trees.

“There’s a surge,” she explained, pointing to the brief view they had of the water rushing through the lower-lying trees. “A flood. Coming from that building.”

Cove allowed her to stay. He followed her point. “That whole building is water, I think. I went there with…I was there before. It might have flooded?”

“With that much water? I don’t think so.”

For a minute, the twins stood side by side and watched the rush. They enjoyed the familiar sound as if they were lying in bed and listening to the waves on a summer’s evening. “I think we’re safe up here,” reassured Sennen, eventually.

Cove nodded, agreeing. “If we’re lucky, the others won’t be.”

***

Clinging to the branch of a tree, Leon tried to cover his fearful scream with an illusion of calm strategy. The surging water beat around his knees. It soaked his jacket, teasing him as it threatened to sweep him into the flood. There, his body would be snapped against trees and tracks.

This was not the calm ocean beneath a sailboat. Water was a formidable enemy, and Leon was not familiar with fighting it. He gasped as a splash of water caught his cheek and reminded him of the fate that awaited him if he lost his hold. 

His weapon was safe. At the sound of danger, he had strung the bow safely across a branch above him. The quiver dangled next to it. The torrent had arrived before he could get himself to safety.

Leon resented the sight the audience would see. He bit his lip until it bled to keep him from screaming but he still whimpered. He closed his eyes, tightening his hold on the tree and willing it to stay strong in the ground. It was impossible to tell if the droplets tainting his face were water or tears.

***

Eden watched the formation of a new river, as the clearing where he stood became a bank. The strong water carved a path through the topography of the arena. It broke away the ground from beneath him. Eden slowly edged back until he hit the bark of a tree. The water was not coming any closer. It seemed to settle into its new position.

He was familiar with rivers. Before District Thirteen, Eden had lived alongside one. The rushing sound of the water was the accompaniment to a summer filled with rain, and indicated fish and pond weed which could be roasted. He had never seen one be born before. His father had told him that a river carved itself through rocks over several thousand years. They were older than Panem.

Yet, in the arena, the river formed in a matter of seconds.

Eden could not believe that his father had lied to him. This river was formed by the Capitol’s hand. He watched it with a neutral expression, as if he had come down to fish and wanted to rest by the water’s edge. His mentor had been very clear with him and any anger to the Gamemakers – or to the Capitol in general – would likely end in a terrifying death

However, Eden learned as he sat in silence. There was no fish in the river, or any river weed to scavenge. It was full of wooden debris and broken, jagged pieces of metal. This was a sign that the Gamemakers had complete control over the arena. They could shape the land and sea. Like the Capitol, they had too much power. They could bend the world to their will.

Eden tried to seem as if he was simply watching the river. In his head, he was scheming. He imagined himself as a victor, and he imagined himself as a leader reshaping Panem as quickly as the Gamemakers could reshape the arena.

***

The water came to a steady flow. It bit into the surrounding ground, calming itself into a permanent river which seemed to divide the arena in two halves. Satin spluttered. She tried to gasp, filling her mouth with fresh air rather than stale, oil-filled water.

Pulling herself from the water, she dug her fingernails into the soft earth and dragged herself onto dry land. Her mouth tasted as if she had licked a factory conveyor belt. Her new hair, still cut in its jagged style, was slick to her head with the dirty water that dripped down her face in grey streaks, She spluttered, coughing the water from her stomach onto the dry ground.

She had survived the flood. Satin had been swept into it and dragged through the arena at the whim of gravity, but she was alive. She knew she was alive; she could feel pain.

Satin felt the raw burn in her inner thigh. She tried to ignore it and hoped it would disappear as she retched onto the dusty forest floor. However, her stomach settled, and her breathing returned to normal, but the pain still remained in her leg. She poked cautiously across her thigh. Her hand came back red.

Sobbing, Satin tried to disguise her upset as a cough. She knew that the jagged metal which caught her under the rush had done damage, but she had been so desperate for an evening without a fight that she had dared hope she was okay.

Her training flooded through her mind like the river flooded through the arena. It was a wound from torn metal, meaning it was likely deep and needed stitches. It had been in dirty water, meaning it was likely infected. It was on her thigh, meaning it was very likely that she would bleed out and die right there. For a moment, Satin wondered if that would be best.

She had lost her water bottles in the onslaught, and the fabric of the parachute had been washed away too. The meagre rations from her gifted feast were soaked and inedible in her pocket. She had lost her scythe. There was nothing left.

Rolling on to her back, Satin stared at the sky and did not care as the sun burned her sore skin. She could hope for a sponsor. She could beg for something to help.

No. She forced herself to remove her jacket, using the sleeves to tie a makeshift bandage across her injured leg. It did not offer any pressure. She could not manage that. Then, she lay back in the dirt and openly sobbed.

***

Sparkle tore alongside the newly formed river, slipping on the steep, unsteady banks that it had carved. 

“It is, you know,” called Serenity, panting as she kept up with the sudden speed. The floor was muddy underfoot, from where the flash flood had initially flowed before retreating. She brought up the rear of the pack. “It’s leading straight to it. And I think the cornucopia is downhill, too.”

“Would the Gamemakers design something like that?” asked Sparkle. The creators of the arena had to be responsible for the flood – it was certainly not natural, and there was no chance a tribute could have done it. 

Epona stayed steady, hardly out of breath. She ran alongside Sparkle. “Don’t be silly,” she scolded. “Serenity won’t say anything bad-“

“Absolutely,” interrupted Serenity, in a shout. “It’s our specialty, isn’t it? They’ll take out our camp if given have a chance.”

The river suddenly meandered to the left, and the crumbling alliance followed it. The trees began to thin. The forest opened to the beginning of the Games, where their remaining supplies remained stacked in crates.

Sparkle skidded to a sudden stop, with Epona beside her. It felt like stumbling upon their destroyed camp once again. The camp was a lake where the river came to an end. The horn erupted from the centre like a fountain as debris floated in the water like boats. 

“Well,” announced Serenity, joining them. “If Four was still here, he could have swum for our things.”

“Shut up,” snapped Sparkle, kicking a splatter of droplets across the new waterway. They were reliant on what was in their packs: meagre food rations, a bottle of water, and weaponry. In one moment, her training threatened to fall into disarray. “Just, shut up.”

Serenity did not rise to the argument. She rolled her eyes instead.

“It’s an inconvenience,” decided Epona, ignoring the conflict. She approached the water’s edge, but nothing was salvageable. It reminded her of paddling at the edge of the quarry on reaping morning, on a day that seemed very long ago.

“It’s more than an inconvenience,” huffed Sparkle. She tried to calm herself. Her sister would know what do to. Her brother would have a quick remark. Ferro would – she could not think of 
Ferro without beginning to tremble, and she did not want the Capitol audience or the Capitol tribute to see that. She held her axe tighter. “I want to kill something.”

Chapter Text

[43] Promise

The river had not receded. It was safer in the sky. Azure tried to find a comfortable position in the crook of his tree branch, but he had no intention of resting. His body ached from the effort of pulling the boy from the raging torrent and he still wanted to keep watch, unable to trust the newcomer who shared a tree with him.

“You can sleep too, you know,” murmured the boy. He had plucked a leaf and was slowly tearing it to pieces, watching them flutter away in the wind. 

The boy – Inari, he had told them – was an unfamiliar. Azure knew that he could kill both him and Vixen if he wanted to.

“No, thank you,” replied Azure, stiffly. He glanced upward to where Vixen was snoring softly, managing to snatch sleep amongst the thicker leaves. The small boy had not spoken since the rescue. He had not even argued when Azure suggested he should rest. “I’m not tired.”

“Liar,” stated Inari. 

His mouth turned upward as he spoke, even though he did not look up. Was he trying to make a joke? Azure tilted his head, unsure. Inari looked at him properly when his comment was met with silence. “I know why you’re not going to sleep,” he continued, serious. “You think I’m going to kill you.”

There did not seem to be a correct reply. Azure decided to be safe, simply shrugging in response.

Inari continued, “I won’t. I know why you think that, though. You’re pretty smart for a Capitol kid.”

“You can sleep first,” ordered Azure, wanting the conversation to end.

“You could kill me too, songbird.”

They met at the familiar stalemate, unable to progress. The safest option was to both remain awake throughout the night. That would be admitting defeat, however, and Azure was beginning to grow into a burning argument that not even the new river could extinguish. “If I wanted to kill you,” he complained, “I’d have let you drown.”

When Inari grinned again, Azure was still not certain what it meant.

“But that wouldn’t have been as entertaining,” he replied, “and we’re both all about entertainment, aren’t we?”

Beneath them, the river whispered through the dark night. The gentle noise eased the silence between the pair into something that was almost comfortable. Then, Inari interrupted it again. “Do you find it strange that there’s a whole audience out there that we can see?”

Azure’s initial response was annoyance again but, with a deep breath, he realised the boy’s question was genuine. Inari was looking at him with eager eyes, bright with the reflection of the mood. He wanted an answer. Azure searched desperately for something to say to placate him.

“No,” he replied, slowly and honestly. He rarely saw his audience. Azure was simply told that the entirety of the Capitol – or Panem – knew him and were watching him. “They’re always there.”

“Always?” pushed Inari.

Biting his lip, Azure began to regret offering an answer at all. He hated having to explain himself. “Yes,” he tried, but it was clear Inari wanted more. “They’re- they’re always watching. If I go and get food or something, everyone wants to see what I had.”

“Really? Why?”

It was becoming harder to navigate conversation than it was to navigate the arena. Azure did not have many conversations outside of his mother and whilst Vixen had grown more talkative, Inari was relentless. “So they can get the same thing,” he replied, but he knew that was not enough so he added, “because they like me.”

“That’s weird.” Inari abandoned his leaf, sprinkling the remainder of the green confetti into the night sky. He flexed the fist that was locked behind a black cage. It was repetitive, as if was testing it. “My audience don’t care about me like that.”

Azure had not considered the boy from Eleven as someone who would share an audience but then, he was a performer. “They don’t?”

“Nope. They don’t want anything to do with good-for-nothing circus brats. Reckon we’re all thieves.”

“Really?”

“See us as all shirking the orchard work, although we pitch in with our fair share at harvest. They still come and see us perform, though. I couldn’t care less as long as they’re paying admission.”

Azure had attended one circus performance, as part of the winter festival celebrations when he was much younger. The ring had been filled with tumbling people dyed many different colours, and animals that had been trained to dance to a jaunty tune played on bells. The entire event had been rather underwhelming. “You’re a tumbler?” asked Azure, thinking of young boys doing backflips in silver unitards.

“Nope,” answered Inari, insulted. “Aerialist. All the same tricks, just much higher in the air.”

An aerialist sounded far more exciting. Azure did not know the word and immediately, he was curious to see exactly what one was. Without thinking, he said, “I’d like to see it.”

Inari laughed. There was no mocking tone in his voice now. It was low. “If we both get out of this, I’ll give you a free ticket to come and see me.”

It was another stalemate. Although friendlier, both boys knew that it would be impossible to see the other perform. It was easier to make promises which did not need to be kept. “I’ll get you a ticket to come to a concert,” Azure offered.

“I’d like that. I like music.”

“Even Capitol music?”

“It all grows from the same notes.”

Inari stretched out, his back clicking audibly at the movement. He yawned. There was no soft pillow or comfortable duvet, but Inari was perfectly at home in a tree. Climbing to his knees, he grabbed the branch above him.

“I’m going to go join the kid,” he said, beginning the climb up to the thinner branches. “Wake me when the moon is straight up. We’ll split the watch.”

Azure decided that the new boy was no longer an unfamiliar. He was a performer, like him. “Alright,” he agreed, softly.

***

Satin’s head throbbed with each beat of her heart. The air was thick with irony – she was dehydrated after a flood – but it did not lessen the pain. Her childish tears had done real harm. She needed to find a way to fix it.

Her pack was no longer useful. Although the supplies remained fixed to her back, the material had been soaked in the onslaught. Satin’s careful tribute count had been smeared across the dirtied canvas. Inside, the water had touched every item she called her own. The bread was inedible. Her bandages were torn and ruined. Her water swirled with the grime and impurity that she had been forced to swim in.

She needed to throw it all away. Satin felt the hollow disappointment in the depth of her stomach, burning in regret when she remembered her abandoned hamper. At the memory of the forgotten gift, her face suddenly brightened.

The parachute material was still stuffed into the front pocket of Satin’s pack. The flood water had found it – the outer layer was stained and dripped brown liquid as she unfolded it – but the fabric itself was waterproof. The smaller parachute, wrapped inside, was completely safe.

Satin had fabric. It felt like home.

With the material in her hand, Satin had the luxury of a concern she might be able to fix. Immediately, her mind drifted to the wound in her leg. It was still bleeding, seeping through the thick trousers. If it had been caused with metal debris, there would be a gaping cut that would not heal easily. It could also be infected. Satin took a deep, shuddering breath. There was not a lot that she could do, but she could bandage it.

Satin tore the parachute into long, jagged strips, finding the grain of the fabric and ripping it across with her teeth. She knotted pieces together where necessary before stretching and tying the makeshift bandage across her thigh. Her wound was quickly hidden beneath a shimmery, silver shield.

She pulled her jacket from her leg and shrugged it back over her shoulders, trying to ignore the blood. It helped with the cold. Satin took off her boots and her socks, leaving them to dry in the sun beside her.

The river still flowed, albeit calmer. Her scythe was still missing but Satin decided it had likely been swept downstream, resolving to follow along the meanders to find it once her footwear was dry. She could even throw her backpack into the current to watch the movement – she did not care if anyone else wanted her ruined supplies.

She did not need to leave yet, though. Satin leaned back. She willed her headache away, begged the sun to dry her faster, and hoped for a sponsor to take pity on her with another life-saving parachute.

***

At the distant thunder of footsteps, Solar readied himself to run. He crouched back in the foliage. If he took off in a panic, he would lead whoever was approaching straight to him. That would be stupid.

He was certain it was more than one person. Desperate, Solar tried to remember every alliance that remained in the arena. Fern was being dragged along by the boy from Six, but they had taken off in the opposite direction. The oncoming monster could only be the inner-district alliance, armed with strong weapons, unmatched strength and a lifetime of training.

Solar forced himself to take a deep, shaking breath. He looked for an escape. The leaves were thick; he would leave a trampled path of grass, offering a trail right to him.

“The footprints end here, but the plants are pretty thick,” called a sudden voice.

They were closer than it seemed. Solar held his breath.

The voice belonged to a girl, but he could not place her. He was focusing on an escape. He needed to move before they walked straight into him.

“They must be around here, then,” said another. Her voice grew to a lilting shout. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Solar could not run. They would hear him. Painstakingly, he edged as close as he could to the thick stems of the larger plants and bushes. His feet did not sink into the mud and leave any mark there. He was almost certain that there was a path a little further forward and if he reached it, he was free.

“Thirteen?” shouted a questioning voice. “Is that you?”

He did not have time to make it to the path. The voice sounded as if it was directly behind him but when Solar turned, there was nothing visible in the trees. There were thorns among the foliage that poled and scraped his face. Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself further into the leaves as the three members of the pursuing alliance burst through with the anticipation of a hunt.

“I thought you said there’d be someone here,” complained one. Solar did not recognise the voice but he did not dare to turn and see who wanted to kill him. They sounded disappointed to have lost the opportunity.

“They’ll know we’re here,” replied another. There was an audible drawl in her voice which sounded like the rolling of her eyes. “We weren’t exactly quiet, were we? They’ll know we’re here and they’ll have made a break for it.

“Or hidden,” added a third voice. Solar felt a chill, turning his heartbeat into an icy, pounding sensation. “Look. The plant here, where Sparkle is standing. It’s already flattened. There is a series of large bushes heading to the main path, but we didn’t give them that much of a warning. I think they’ll probably be hiding right about-“

Solar ran before the sentence was finished.

***

Anticipating a fight, Epona’s hand was on her sword as soon as the bush became alive with movement. There was no combat. Instead, there was cowardice as the boy they were hunting burst from the undergrowth and stumbled through the plant life. He did not turn to look back, sprinting for the path that offered a quick escape.

“Don’t just watch him!” ordered Sparkle, with a bite to her bark. She took off in pursuit.

The thick forest was rife with obstacles. It was difficult to push through as a three, so the alliance quickly scattered. Epona focused on the path of broken stems and scuffed leaves as she chased the panting boy. He was fast, fuelled by fear, and took a zig-zagging path as if trying to throw off a predator. Epona never quite caught sight of him but followed the moving branches.

“Here!” called Serenity, from several trees away.

Epona took her eyes from her prey’s path to see what Serenity was shouting about, but there was nothing that was worth her attention. She turned back. The branches were no longer moving. She was falling further behind.

The soft grass underfoot turned into the hard, unsteady stones of broken paving. The path cut across their chase and Epona skidded to a halt, desperately looking left and right. She could not see anybody. The bushes on the other side were undisturbed. There was not even a silhouette cast by the strong, midday sun.

Epona turned her head so quickly, it seemed as if she was saying no.

Stumbling onto the path without her usual poise, Serenity was powered by pure ferocity. She approached Epona with the deep, gasping breaths of someone who had pushed themselves too hard. Epona did not care.

“Why did you shout?” she asked, shouting herself. Her sword was desperately seeking a target and with the boy having vanished, her alliance seemed like a good compromise. “I nearly had him!”

“You didn’t have to look,” complained Serenity. Sparkle joined them, as confused about the missing boy as Epona had been. Serenity took a careful step to join the ally who was not criticising her. “I was just trying to tell you that I’d found the path.”

“That’ll have told him too,” hissed Sparkle, and Serenity stepped away. “Once he knew it was there, he’ll have taken off and we’ll never catch him now. You’ve cost us a kill. You can be so stupid, Serenity.”

There was a beat of angry silence. Serenity’s calm composure crumbled like a rock fall, leaving nothing but jagged edges and destruction. “Fine,” she replied. Her voice was calm and did not match the expression on her face. As she spoke, Serenity took off the pack she was carrying and threw it to her allies’ feet. She kept her kukri blades. “Fine. If that’s what you think of me.”

“What are you doing?” asked Epona.

“I’m leaving,” stated Serenity. “If you’re going to treat me like this when I’m the only one keeping this alliance together, I’m not going to bother.”

Sparkle’s pale complexion grew flush with anger. Her axe glinted dangerously. “You can’t just leave. We told the others – you’re either with us or against us. You can’t just walk away.”

Scoffing, Serenity turned her back. “I can. I reckon you should, too. We’re nearly halfway there. We’ve got no supplies left. What’s the point?”

Epona turned to Sparkle, who turned to Epona. Serenity forged a quick pace along the path before anyone was able to argue with her comment. The exchange that ended the alliance – which Epona and Sparkle had both discussed and planned – was nothing like they had predicted. Serenity did not go out in a blaze of glory, full of fury that made her easy to beat. Instead, she threw sensible suggestions at them and escaped in the confusion.

“We’re halfway through?” asked Sparkle, gently. She had not been counting the cannons or the days.

Epona, who did count, nodded. “Nearly,” she clarified, “and we said we would stay together until the end, and then fight it out. Or until the final eight, at least.”

“That was when we had a full team.” Sparkle glanced at the backpack which had been thrown to the floor. She bent to pick it up, adding it to her own. “We haven’t got the alliance we thought we’d have. We don’t have any real supplies. She’s right.”

As she spoke, Sparkle’s voice seemed to creep along the edge of tearful. She talked as if they were friends, or as if she had formed an emotional attachment to their alliance of convenience. Epona was certain she could hear a tinge of disappointment. 

She felt nothing of the sort. Epona could survive easily, with or without her team. “If you say so,” she agreed, lowering her sword. “I’m happy if you would rather separate. It does make sense, as you said. Are we fighting now?”

Sparkle sniffed. She disguised it as a cough. “That doesn’t seem fair. Serenity’s already walked away.”

“Understood. We can take separate paths now. I wish you luck, but I won’t be as kind if I see you again.”

“Neither,” replied Sparkle. She did not sound confident in her response.
Epona turned to leave. Her plan was to return into the thick forest that had slowed their chase, where there was ample firewood and likely water sources. However, she did not take a step. She did not feel as if she had said enough to walk away. The thought of an audience pulled at the back of her mind. The watching crowds were likely clamouring for emotion, wanting to see a tearful farewell as a fitting end. Epona could not do that, but she could attempt something else.

“Sparkle,” she called. The blonde-haired girl had already begun to move but stopped, turning to see what was still left to be said. Epona tried to force emotion in her voice. “I hope…I hope you get Thirteen, you know. Since we didn’t end up getting him together.”

Despite her stress, her fear and her grief, Sparkle laughed. “Thank you,” she replied, calling across the path as if it was a river dividing them. “I hope you get Two.”

“I will,” said Epona. She walked away from her alliance determined to keep her promise.

***

Eden sat in plain sight on the edge of a tree branch, observing the chaos beneath him with a smile on his face. Five, in the chaos of his daring escape, had flown past without a second glance. The alliance was so caught up in their own petty argument that they did not think to look up. It was amazing how invisible he could be when there was nobody looking for him.

He drew his knees up to his chest, deciding to stay amongst the leaves for a little longer. If he strayed closer to the path, it would be asking for death – Eden did not feel like taking on any of the well-trained fighters, even if they were no longer working together. They were close enough for him to overhear their final conversation, comedic in their attempt to be dramatic.

I hope you get Thirteen.

It would have been entertaining to follow them and take them down in a revenge-inspired performance. However, Eden had a promise to keep to himself. The Capitol’s girl was alone. He needed to kill her, and then their stupid songbird, and then he would finally feel free.

Above Eden’s head, there was a gentle whirr that threatened to give away his location. He twisted his head to find the source. It was a natural sound – there was no chirping bird or scampering squirrel. Instead, Eden was greeted by the cruel glint of a camera lens.

It turned again. In the glass, Eden could see his own confused face. The audience were watching him, amidst the chaos of everything else.

He hated being watched.

In a hot, white flush of anger, Eden stood on his sturdy branch. There was no mentor to tell him he was being stupid, or partner to grab his arm and tell him to stop. Eden listened to every screaming thought in his own head and there was no voice listing the consequences. He reached up and took hold of the camera, relishing in the burn of the cold metal against his skin.

Eden wrenched the camera from the bracket that supported it, nearly falling from the branch in the effort. He threw it to the path beneath him and laughed as it shattered into beautiful confetti on the stone.

Chapter Text

[44] Dogs

Acacia stared at the empty sky in anger. His heart pounded at the constellations, realisation flooding through him like oil in a growling engine. There were no dead tributes. There was nothing to placate the audience. As the Games dragged on, they would begin to demand blood. The Gamemakers would spill it for them.

It was impossible to rest with the threat of entertainment hanging over him like a dark cloud. Acacia resigned himself to another night without sleep and reassured himself that he would be fine. He often had sleepless nights in District Seven, with his father storming through the kitchen in search of a drink. Occasionally, he slept on the floor of the garage with a rag as a blanket. Those were sleepless nights, especially in the winter. He could handle the arena.

As he walked, the seemingly endless forest gave way to trailing paths. Acacia followed them into a village of small houses, none of which were fit for anyone to live in. He wanted to keep moving – moving was entertainment – but the shelter was tempting. The path led him to a fountain that was empties, surrounded by rotting benches.

Acacia counted. Mathematics was not his strongest skill amidst the exhaustion that clouded his brain, but he managed to make it to twelve. He stole a look into the dilapidated seventh house, hoping to find comfort in his curiosity.

Inside, the roof had collapsed inward and created an impassable blockage across a wooden counter. There were broken plates on the floor, with a dented metal pot left abandoned in the dust. To Acacia, it said food. However, there was no food to be found, and he was not certain it would be safe to eat if he did find.

There was nothing to be scavenged. Acacia did not know why he hoped there would be. It was as if no one wanted him to succeed.

Perching on the edge of the old fountain, he stared into the treacherous stars. What did he need to do to receive another parachute? It was likely he needed to kill somebody again – except, he had only pushed a button.

A low sound interrupted his wish. Instinctively, Acacia reached for his axe.

It was not the sound of footsteps, or the battle cry of an attacking tribute. It was a low growl smothered by snarling teeth. Acacia turned to attack. The beast attacked first.

His hands were immediately filled with the coarse fur of a vicious mutt. It fell into him, sending Acacia flying from the fountain and scraping his skin against the stone. The mutt’s jaws clamped across the sleeve of his thick jacket. The fabric muffled the attack. There was still blood. There was still pain. It fired through Acacia’s body like lightning, forcing adrenaline that had him swing the axe into the creature’s neck.

He missed, but not by much.

The blade landed solidly between the mutt’s shoulder blades. Whilst it did not kill, the creature whimpered in the same show of pain that Acacia himself was trying to resist. He tried to grip his weapon in his injured arm. It fell to the ground. His fingers would not cooperate, and any movement was agony.

Acacia took up the axe in his left hand instead and prepared to face off with the mutt. It was a dog, with brown fur that resembled the decaying leaves that littered the paths of the arena. Its fangs crept out over its mouth. They dripped with a stomach-churning blend of saliva and blood as the mutt snarled, preparing to pounce again.

It was not a wolf – District Seven had wolves and Acacia knew they were larger – but it was engineered within the Capitol, and likely twice as vicious as any natural predator. It pounced, again.

This time, Acacia expected it. The dog’s jaws caught a mouthful of fabric instead of flesh, tearing through the jacket and t-shirt as if it was butter on a hot day. The crucial second it paused to spit out the material was all that Acacia needed.

If tactical fighting was not possible, he decided that reckless abandon was just as effective.

He twisted back, swinging the axe wildly. The axe slowed through the thick fur. Acacia still bit into the dog’s flesh over and over again as he desperately tried to land a killing blow. The creature whimpered. Although a predator, it became soft and pliant at the thought of becoming prey.

Acacia did not care. The pain in his arm and the adrenaline in his blood served as a reminder that given a second chance, this creature would not care for his whimper of pain. 

He was soaked with blood. It stained the fabric that remained on his body. Fur flew in clumps like violent autumn leaves. Finally, his axe found the dog’s head with a sickening clunk. The mutt went limp.

Collapsing beside the body, Acacia panted as he tried to catch a deep breath. The creature was unrecognisable through endless deep wounds and a mouth that still dripped with Acacia’s own blood. It did not matter. The mutt was dead, and he was still alive.

Maybe he would be rewarded with a parachute.

***

Cove lay beside his sister as if they were at home. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. It was too dangerous to curl up and sleep together when somebody could be hunting them, but listening to Sennen’s soft breathing helped calm his constant, terrifying thoughts. He did not want to leave her side.

The night stretched on. The air was cold but in their little cabin, it was no harsher than a coastal winter in District Four. They could almost have been home. Cove tried to calm himself by matching his shallow gasps to his sister’s deep, restful breaths.

There was another sound.

Cove turned his head to free his ear, trying to catch the unfamiliar noise as it floated through the cold air. Sennen’s breathing was steady. Beneath it, there was a ragged snarling that tainted the peaceful scene.

Shrugging his sister’s arm from his back, Cove sat up. He narrowed his eyes, desperately trying to see with the dim moonlight shining through their broken window. Sennen stirred and her breath hitched. It left a space where a new sound echoed at the door. It was not a tribute. It did not even sound human.

“Sennen,” hissed Cove, shaking his sister by her shoulder. He often woke her when he had a nightmare. She would comfort him with sarcastic comments and light-hearted teasing. This was not a nightmare. This seemed painfully real. “Sennen, wake up!”

Familiar with midnight wake-up calls, Sennen stirred immediately. “What…?” she murmured. She tried to collect her thoughts between sleep and the waking world. “What is it?”

“There’s something outside,” Cove warned. He tried to move silently to avoid alerting whatever beast waited beyond their door. Hand skirting across the broken floorboards, he searched for his trident.

Sennen found it first. She handed the weapon to her brother. “Another tribute?” she asked, before her face narrowed. “Your friends?”

Shaking his head, Cove gave an order by placing a finger to his lips. The rattling, ragged snarl was louder with no other noise to drown it. The creature began to bang on the door.

He jumped, immediately taking to his feet to stand between his injured sister. Sennen reached for her own trident but could not quite grab the handle. It was too painful for her to edge forward. 

“Cove,” she tried. Her brother was distracted. They did not know what was on the other side of the door, but it was throwing itself against the rotting barricade with force. 

The wood splintered. A snarling, savage head burst through and took a bite of the broken door.

Cove cursed aloud, standing as if he had seen a fish in the ocean. His trident was ready. “It’s a dog!” he shouted over the violent noise. Sennen desperately fought between edging back to escape and moving forward to fight. It did not matter. The creature tore down the door and rushed into the cabin. It went for Sennen.

With a yell, Cove desperately tried to pierce the ashen-brown fur. He caught a leg and forced an echoing yelp from the mutt. The beast turned to him.

Snarling, the dog pushed forward and shouted a threat with its sharp teeth. It darted forward to take a bite. Cove intercepted the attack with the handle of the trident and the dog’s jaws clamped over the wood, denting it.

“Hey!” shouted Sennen, desperately trying to pin the dog back on her. Her tone wavered. She pushed herself against the wooden wall behind her, but she could not run, and her trident remained out of reach. Instead, Sennen pulled up a plank of wood from the rotten floor and threw it at the beast. The dog stumbled as its shoulder was hit. “Here, you monster!”

Immediately, it returned to Sennen. She almost regretted it.

“You need to kill it,” she called, in a wavering voice. Cove was frozen in place. “It goes for the last person that hurt it. You need to kill it whilst it’s not watching you.”

The mutt laughed at her with a mocking snarl, slowing. It did not need to rush. It knew the prey was not going to run.

Cove could not hesitate, but he did. His hands trembled like they did whenever his sister asked him to take the final shot. What if he missed? What if he threw his trident across the hut and hit nothing but a wall? What if Sennen-

No – he did not have time to think like that.

He did not throw the trident. Cove followed the dog and plunged his three sharp forks into the space between its protruding shoulder blades. The trident easily sliced through flesh. The dog cried, collapsed to the ground, and left the twins relishing in their panic.

***

Leon’s arm trembled with the force it took to hold his bow. The arrow shivered under the strain, but he did not want to fire until he absolutely needed to. The dog was not hurting him. It stood on the same path and snarled in his direction, but it did not take another step forward.

The creature was beautiful. Leon admired the dappled coat, with an intriguing mixture of grey and brown fur. It was flecked white in the moonlight. He had been alerted to the creature by the soft sound it made on the cracked stone and when he looked, Leon could see the long claws that made the delicate noise.

Cautiously, Leon lowered his bow. He kept the arrow notched on the string, just in case.

The dog whimpered, replacing snarling with a noise of concern. It moved gently. There was no rushing forward to attack or to fight. Instead, it moved with the desperation of a stray dog. Leon had seen them before, begging outside the butcher’s shop in District Two. He did not attack the mutt. Instead, he held his hand out to it.

“Cachorinho,” he murmured, in his familiar tongue. The dog did not understand him – no one in Panem did – but it appreciated the soft voice. It nudged his hand with its head, licking his fingers as a greeting. Leon laughed; the damp tongue tickled against his bloodstained hands.