Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Children shouldn't have to deal with death.

That's one of my thoughts. One of my silly, unspoken thoughts that would get me into a heap of trouble, but it's true. I bet children in the Capitol do not have to face death on a daily basis. I bet food comes at the press of a button so they never go hungry. I bet they never see their friends starving in the street. I bet they never wake up in a cold sweat during the night before reaping.

I try to keep quiet. It's the middle of the night after all. I listen to the sound of my sister, breathing softly in the bed next to mine. Too softly. Only the craziest kids can sleep on a night like this, I think fondly. That was a particularly vicious nightmare. I try not to think about it, about what it means. Me and my sister holding angry looking spiked weapons, facing each other as a crowd cheers for our blood. I try to be rational. First of all, there would be no crowd in the actual arena. Secondly, the odds of me and Krista both being reaped are minimal. Though not impossible. Not this year.

I shake the thought away though terror washes through me, strong and astringent. I still remember the horror as the President made his announcement on the television a few months ago. They would require double the amount of tributes this year, he said. Two boys and two girls from each district. Twice the tributes, twice the carnage. How very entertaining.

I feel sick as I flop onto my side, pulling the bed sheets around me tighter. What did we expect? It's the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell. That meant something even more horrific just had to happen.

It's ridiculous to think that both I and Krista will be chosen. The odds are in our favour after all. I know I said I see death every day, and I do, but I'm also pretty lucky. My family, the Donners, live in the rich part of District 12, the merchant's side. That's still not very rich but it means we get by. We live above our little sweet shop that does alright, especially with the peacekeepers and the Mayor (a sweet tooth I guess). We've never come close to starving to death unlike some. My twin and I have never had to apply for tesserae. We never needed to add our names more times into the reaping in exchange for a meagre supply of oil and grain. Lucky.

I sigh. There is double the chance that me or my sister will be chosen this year. We're twins. Both fifteen. Equal chances. Our poor parents. We all knew it. Mum, Dad, Krista and I had our last meal together. Last dinner before reaping I mean, in case I sounded dramatic. There was something in the atmosphere that evening. We were quiet. There was no laughter. Mum hugged us extra hard before we sloped off to bed. Dad ruffled my hair like he hasn't done since I was little. Krista gave my hand a squeeze as we made our way to our room. We fell asleep like that, hands reaching across the gap between our beds. It feels like a gulf between us now.

"Maysilee?" I smile to myself. I knew she was breathing too evenly. She wasn't asleep in the first place.

"I'm awake," I say, flipping over so I can see her outline in the dark.

"Good," she says simply, before getting up and sliding into my bed. It's quite a struggle, as I had wound the sheets around me quite tightly.

She whispers, "It's like you're in a cocoon. Budge up fatty, let me in."

I huff like I mind when I really don't. I'm not fat either. No one can afford to be fat in District Twelve.

Krista is shaking. It's not cold in our room. There's always this muggy heat radiating from the smoky Seam. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. Krista releases a shuddery sigh as she holds me too.

"What if I-"

"You won't," I cut in before she can finish her sentence. I can't think about it. I won't.

"But if I do…" she insists, voice trailing off.

I trail my hand through her hair, down her back. I can't see in this proximity or darkness, but our hair is precisely the same golden shade of blond. We may not be identical, but she's still the other half of me. That's why she can't get chosen. I don't know what I'd do without her.

"Don't think about it." I aim to distract. And tease. It's my duty as big sister (only by two minutes but still). "Why don't you tell me more about that Undersee lad? He likes you…"

Krista stiffens her back a little, but refuses to rise to the bait. "Never mind him." She swallows audibly, "Maysilee. If I get chosen-"

"You-"

"If I get chosen," she butts in sternly. "You're not to volunteer. Yes?"

I'm shocked. It's the last thing I would have expected her to say. Take care of her cat? Sure. Look after our parents? Obviously. But this… My mouth falls open and I'm glad she can't see me in the dark. I'd look ridiculous.

How did she know? I had only considered it briefly, a quick scenario in my head. It had felt right. We always did have this spooky connection. Often would we say things at exactly the same time and burst into laughter. We'd do it on purpose to scare the other kids when we were younger. This goes beyond child's play. I wonder if she feels this deep sense of foreboding too. As if something sick and evil was creeping up on us ready to claim our happiness.

"I know how you think, May. And you're not to do it. Are we clear?"

There's no point in denying it then. Instead I seize this opportunity. "Well you can't volunteer for me either then." I declare triumphantly, before a flicker of uncertainly flares in my heart. Would she really volunteer for me? I know I would for her. Of course she would, if the angry breath puffed into my face is any indication.

"Hang on now-" she starts.

"Ah ah ah Krista Donner, fair is fair. I don't take your place, you can't take mine." I wonder if I really mean it. Could I really stand there and watch her be lead off into a fight to the death from which she'd never return?

She sits up abruptly and I follow suit.

"May…"

"Don't 'May' me. I'm your big sister now do as you're told."

It's meant to sound jokey, but comes out much more sternly than I had intended. Her breath hitches and she begins to shake again.

"Oh Kris." I pull her into a hug. "Neither of us is going to get chosen." Not the privileged kids. I briefly wonder if the words sound meaningless to her as well. If she can sense the self loathing in my voice. It's not my fault our parents are well off. It's not as if we run a place of any use. If we owned a bakery, I could smuggle the odd loaf out to my friends from the Seam. Sweets don't really help anyone in the long term. I sometimes think the other children at school hate us.

"Guess we better shake on it," Krista sighs, pulling away a little.

I grin as we conduct our mad handshake ritual. Spit into your left hand. Then the right, cross them over and shake…

"We need a more mature hand shake," I comment, rolling my eyes as we lie back down in my bed, inches apart. I can just see the outline of her face. Morning is coming without warning. Time always seems to go faster when you don't want a day to come. I suppose it's better to get it over with. So life can go back to normal. Or not.

I say: "So to sum up, if I get chosen…"

"You can't take my place." We say it simultaneously and burst out laughing although it's sinister rather than funny in this instance. I wait until we've recovered to emphasise my point.

"I mean it Krista. Imagine the guilt if I took your place," I insist, describing my own horrified thoughts. Seeing her go in my place would make me want to die. "There's no point in destroying both our lives."

"My life would be awful without you." She mumbles quietly into the pillow. My eyes threaten to well up.

"Mine too," I swallow. "But this is what I want. No volunteering. Promise?"

She hesitates. "Promise. Promise?"

"Promise."

Well that's that then. We've both promised not to die for the other, and all before breakfast too. How about that. We settle back into each other's arms and try to get some sleep. And although we do not say another word, I can tell neither of us actually manages to accomplish this.

Chapter Text

I silently slip from the covers, from my sister. Krista lets me. I don't think I can stand breakfast and chit-chat today. Not yet anyway. I just want to get some fresh air, to gather my thoughts. I do this every reaping. Nothing to worry about. I pull on my underclothes and a pale cotton dress, leaving my hair in a tangle. Dressing up comes later after all. I try to remain as quiet as possible. Everyone sleeps in on reaping day.

I quietly enter our little kitchen space, scooping up some seeds from their wooden container to give to Alyssa. I pad through into our humble living room and pop the seeds through the bars of her cage. She flutters her golden wings but remains on her perch, indifferent. She was my grandmother's song bird. Nan loved birds. She entrusted Alyssa into my care after her death. Nan loved the way she'd sing along whenever I began a melody, her chirps both sweet and pure. I sometimes think there must be a bit of mockingjay in her - like the pin, another gift from Nan. Krista insists she's a plain canary. We were close so I do miss her sometimes. Alyssa must do too. She sings less and less these days. Still I'm lucky to have even met my grandmother. No one lives to an old age in District Twelve. She was the strongest person I have ever known.

I whistle softly. Alyssa cocks her head to the side, onyx eyes sparkling with curiosity. I know it seems cruel to cage a bird. I once tried to set her free, but she flew straight back at the end of the day. I had to shut her in for her own safety. Krista's horrible cat would be on the prowl.

Said horrible cat is absent today - probably tormenting some unfortunate vermin. I try not to feel bad. That's Tabby's job. Can't sale food when there are rats about. It's not that I don't like cats in general… I'm just more of a bird person.

I shuck on my shoes and pad through to the shop, passing shelves lined with extravagant sweets in their jars. We make them ourselves using the sap and sugars from home-grown plants. Such a useless skill. I exit and make my way towards the square. The banners are already in place. The Justice Building is clean and Capitol-esque, practically gleaming. I shudder. The cameras may not be here yet, but the stage is set. All that's missing are the glass balls and garish officials. There are a few Peacekeepers milling around already. Some are not at all familiar. I suddenly feel cold despite the warmth of the day.

My feet take me through the district that hasn't quite risen yet. The streets are empty. I pass the Hob, run down shacks, quality of the houses decreasing as I get further away from my own. I keep going. Keep going until I reach the fence.

"KEEP OUT" and various voltage warning signs advise me to go no further. I listen to them for once since I can actually hear the hum of electricity. We're doing things by the book today it seems. I'm frustrated. Occasionally I have sneaked into the sanctity of the woods beyond. There are no prying eyes there. I climb trees and enjoy the silence. Or I gather flowers for my mother. They add flavour to the sweets you see. I got very good at telling which ones were poisonous and which ones were safe. Whenever she asked where I got them, I'd lie. I know some people poach in the land beyond. They do it to earn a living or so they don't starve. I do not have that excuse but I'm willing to risk punishment all the same.

Krista would come with me every now and then, but she never really liked the woods. She's afraid of what she sees on the surface; the odd wild dog, rash rule-breaking and danger. She never saw the potential, the fun side, the freedom.

It's the signs from the Capitol that made me trespass in the first place. It's like Alyssa's cage. The fence is there to supposedly keep us safe but that doesn't mean I want to be confined, unlike the bird.

I have the mad urge to grab the chain link fence and rattle it in frustration. That would be madness. And suicide. I can't help it. If there's one day where I don't want to be chained it's this one. I was going to gather some fresh greens for our lunch as well.

The wind whips tangled hair into my face and I brush it away impatiently. I stamp my foot like a child having a tantrum and turn around to make my way back and that's when I see him. The boy - man? - young man staring at me. I've seen him around before, at school or in town, usually with his arm around some pretty, dark haired girl. He's alone now, leaning against the trunk of a skeletal leafless tree.

I estimate he's a year older than me. His thick, dark hair and grey laughing-eyes just made him look older. His eyes aren't the only thing laughing. There's a sardonic smirk that's aimed my way.

I glare right back and pretend that I'm not blushing. I stomp past him with my head held high as if I can't feel those eyes on me, mocking me.

"Who'd have thought…" He drawls as I pass by, making me jump. Pretending not to have heard, I swoop past him although my mind is racing. What was that supposed to mean? He sounded sarcastic, as if he were making fun of me. Or did he sound the tiniest bit admiring? Of course not. What was there to admire? My temper that I usually hide so well? Or the fact I had been attempting to get past the fence? I don't know why I even care.

I don't.

I head towards home without sparing laughing-boy a backwards glance.

-

"That was nice wasn't it?"

No one answers Mum's strained question. The food was good. The little snack of fresh bread and creamy goats cheese would usually make our mouths water. It's just hard to appreciate it when there's a heavy weight settled in your gut. I eat every scrap anyway. We all do.

"Picked out what you're going to wear then?" Dad asks us when the silence gets too much. My eyes flash to Krista, who scrunches her nose up, eyes sparkling with amusement. Dad thinks the way to communicate with us is through clothes and ill-advised girl talk.

"Got a dress," I answer casually, not trusting Krista to talk. I hope that he lets this topic drop. We're not getting ready for a party after all.

"Better get ready," he quietly states and he's right. One, the time of reaping, is fast approaching. This uneasy peace has to be broken.

We take it in turns to use up the boiled water. I let Krista bathe first since I'm generally dirtier than her. I have to scrub my feet and dunk my hair under many times before I'm half way presentable. We put on our matching dresses, cornflower blue and simplistic. It makes us look a lot younger than we really are. I brush my hair in a frenzy, attempting to detangle it. I tie my hair into a tight ponytail to keep it neat. Krista leaves hers down.

"How do I look?" she asks.

"Ready," I say as light-heartedly as I can manage. She looks like me. Her free flowing hair makes her look younger though, prettier.

We are about to leave the house, the four of us together, when I suddenly dash back to our room.

"Just a minute!" I call out as I retrieve my grandmother's pin from our table. It's a golden hoop with a mockingjay in the centre. Its meaning could not be more important than it is today. I just want to feel my grandmother near me. I hardly ever wear it. It makes me feel guilty. I'm sure it could keep a family in food for weeks but it was hers. And there's a story behind it that makes me feel indescribably proud. I pin it in place and rush to meet my family.

"See you girls afterwards," Mum says firmly, hugging me then Krista in turn. I smell her wonderful cinnamon scent and it soothes me even now. Even here in the main square. The place is swarming with cameras and uniforms. Everyone looks miserable and tense. The balls are on the stage along with the mayor and Elise Mayberry, District Twelve's clownish escort from the Capitol. I wonder if they all dress like her, with long pink hair, unnaturally pale skin and a lime-green suit. I wonder if she realises how odd she looks. She's even wearing a cape and has talons like a bird. How impractical.

My focus returns to the moment when Dad scoops us both into a bear hug. I'm embarrassed because I don't want to make a scene in front of everyone. There are cameras about too. It does feel nice though I am relieved when he releases us. Dad whispers: "We'll be fine" and I hold on to his words like a lucky charm.

We scuttle off to sign in and to take our places amongst the other fifteen year olds. I link hands with Krista and we locate Ana, our closest friend. She's another merchant kid. Kind and blond, her father is the local apothecary. She is always beautiful and her presence is relaxing. Ana is the only other person Alyssa will sing for.

"Happy Hunger Games," Ana announces with a heavy heap of irony, imitating the prissy Capitol accent. She is paler than usual but is making an effort.

"How could it be anything but?" I answer, playing along. We all have a catty grin to ourselves. Ana takes my other hand and we fall in line. No one is speaking much. The nerves are palpable. Krista just says nothing. Her hand is clammy with sweat.

I wish I'd gone to see Ana this morning. I hadn't even begun to process the idea that she could in in danger too. I give her a small smile which she returns, giving my hand a squeeze. Our area becomes more crowded as the square becomes packed with children. Everyone in the district must attend. No ifs, no buts. It's starting to feel rather claustrophobic. We're like cornered prey, trapped in the square.

I look at the glass balls on stage. One for boys, one for the girls. Elise will get to pick out two slips of paper from each this year. Two from each. They are full of the names of people I know and love. There are four slips with my name on it. Another four belong to Krista. Another four for Ana. I don't have enough worry to go round. I glance across the crowd and see a few distant cousins of mine in the area for boys. We're not close, but I do hope they're not chosen either.

I feel sick but try not to show it.

The Mayor makes his speech. It's the same old rubbish about how this is our penance for the uprising. How the tributes from each district will fight to the death in the Hunger Games. And about the great glory and honour that lies in wait for the single victor. The speech is slightly amended. He mentions something about having twice the number of tributes for the Quarter Quell as it is a momentous occasion to show our gratitude to the Capitol which feeds and cares for us. I barely manage not to roll my eyes. I want to laugh. Or scream.

Only one tribute has ever won for District Twelve. Elise must be fed up of representing us. She has ever since I can remember. So has Ford Heddon, our only victor. He's about fifty though he looks much older. He won many years ago and rumour is he doesn't give a damn about training tributes. Can't say I blame him. Imagine what it feels like to win and yet to never be able to leave the arena behind. He should at least try though. My eyes follow him as he shuffles on to the stage to take his seat with barely an acknowledgment. He's going grey, is far too thin and his eyes have a faraway look about them. He's very small and silent. I wonder how he managed to win.

The anthem plays and I tear my eyes away. That sure doesn't look like a victor to me.

Elise totters over to the microphone. Every screen shows her in garish detail as she welcomes us all and bids us a happy Hunger Games.

"And may the odds be ever in your favour," She concludes, looking merry. I don't think the look is real though. I bet she can't wait to get back to the Capitol. I see her lips move and don't take any of it in until she says:

"Ladies first!" Elise trots over the glass ball on the left, smiling slightly. Suddenly, it's time. She reaches in and we hear the paper slips rustle. They scratch against her long nails. My mouth goes dry and you could hear a pin drop it's so quiet. I think no one dares to breathe. I know I don't. The moment has slowed down, her actions suspended in motion. I can feel the weight of the Capitol upon us, hovering in anticipation.

She unfolds the piece of paper carefully, almost lovingly, before announcing:

"Rose Chater."

There's a collective gasp followed by dead silence. A girl from the Seam steps forward looking understandably shaken. She's a little younger than me. It's horrible. The crowd parts around her, as if they do not wish to be contaminated. She is chosen.

I feel queasy and terrible but I'm glad that it can't be both of us. Me fighting my sister. Or my best friend. That cannot happen though we aren't safe yet. I start to sweat.

"Come to the stage, don't be shy," Smiles Elise as Rose slowly makes her way up. She is trembling. I hate this part. The long walk to the stage. The death march. I feel a swell of sympathy inside. But there's no feeling of guilty relief like there usually would be.

It's not over yet.

Elise says something else as Rose finally arrives on stage but it washes over me. She pats the girl on the back. We've made it through one selection. My stomach clenches. Krista digs her nails into my palm. It hurts but I don't mind. I grip her and Ana tighter, anchoring them to me.

Elise is suddenly reaching into the glass bowl once more. It startles me. Perhaps I had zoned out. She digs deep into the thousands of names, plucks one deftly out, and unfolds it with nimble fingers. This happens so fast but the wait is still agonising.

She clears her throat before clearly announcing:

"Maysilee Donner."

My legs nearly give out. They certainly buckle but I force them to straighten out, gripping my anchors. Did she really just say that? Was that really my name? Is this really happening?

It's like I've been sucked into one of my nightmares except I can't wake up. I know we were all worried about something like this, but it's not meant to actually happen. Is this real? Is it?

It is.

The agonised cries of my friend and sister snap me out of my reverie. I know she promised not to volunteer but I better not hesitate. I yank my hands out of their grasps and step away from their safety.

"No!" Krista sobs.

I murmur reassurances that mean nothing, shaking off the denial. I grit my teeth, stick out my jaw and walk away. I hope Ana has the sense to grab her. I can still hear her crying. She sounds like a wounded animal. It's upsetting me and I don't want to cry so I let it all drain away. It's as if I'm under water again. Sounds become murmurs. I block it out.

I feel numb. I hold my head high and try to stride but it takes forever to get to that stage. I always knew it would. I feel every camera, every eye on me and wonder whether or not I am going to lose my lunch. I bite my tongue and the pain brings me back to myself. I will not show weakness. The other tributes will watch this. The whole of Panem is watching this.

I try not to shake and manage it pretty well. I feel like prey. I wonder if they're glad a merchant kid got chosen? I bet they're not. Not right now anyway.

More underwater babble as Elise pats me like a dog too. Her face is startling and I try not to flinch. I go and stand by Rose. I pitied her before but now we are the same. Marked. Just a little longer. Two more lives need to be destroyed and then I can go and lose it. Then I can let go, scream, shout, cry. Get away from the cameras first. And my family. Damn. I'll have to say goodbye first. I need to keep it together until then. Right now that seems impossible. I feel hot and cold. Numb and terrified. So dizzy… I can't faint. Tributes aren't supposed to faint.

Thoughts whirl around my head so fast that I actually manage to miss the next name called. I'm too busy wrapped in my own selfish tragedy. I'd feel bad if I had anymore feelings to spare. I wonder if Rose did the same.

An eighteen year old boy joins our doomed ranks. I don't know him. Another boy from the Seam: skinny and dark. He's shaking. I only noticed once he got close. Good for him.

I manage to pay attention as she calls out the final name. I pull myself together on time. Even manage to take in a deep breath.

"Haymitch Abernathy."

Strong, handsome and defiant, the tribute steps forward to claim his name and unfortunate fate. My mouth briefly falls open in recognition. It's the laughing-boy - my laughing-boy. He walks towards the stage steadily. He's not laughing now. His face is a mask, giving little away. He doesn't shake. His eyes look dangerous.

He spares me a glance as he joins the line up and I am filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Surprise that he would include me in this moment. Warmth from the idea that I vaguely recognise someone (who isn't close to me). A strange dread that it had to be him. And horror. Horror because I just know I'm going to have to fight this boy to the death.

Chapter Text

When I was little I used to play-fight with my sister. It was never anything serious, just rolling around like siblings tend to do, whenever we were bored or irritated with each other. Hair pulling was Krista's tactic of choice. I snigger, imagining using that as a defensive move in the arena, although it's not really that funny.

Mum once saw us messing around in the meadow, fighting. We were playing an old game with a few other children from the Seam. The one where someone is 'it' and has to touch someone else to make them 'it'. I caught Krista and she refused to accept this harrowing turn of events. I called her a liar. She called me a cheat. We fought like cats and dogs. When Mum finally noticed, she was horrified, her face pale and strained. She sent us straight home. I always thought it was because we'd embarrassed her in front of the other mothers but now I'm not so sure.

Maybe they were sick of children fighting.

I try to breathe. I never knew the Justice Building had such fancy rooms. It's small and would probably be cosy in any other circumstance. The plush seats are not inviting. If I try to sit still I'll go insane. I pace because I need to. I want to get out. I feel trapped. Desperate. Like clawing at my own skin. I pace faster and faster, fists clenched and laughing hopelessly as I consider running away, just breaking the window and fleeing. I wouldn't make it to the end of the square. I try to calm myself.

I won't cry. I won't do that to them.

The door knob turns and I freeze. They are here. My family, come to say goodbye.

I fall into Krista's arms. She shakes and sobs, coming apart at the seams.

"Oh May. My May. Oh May…" She repeats the mantra and I want her to stop. It will upset our parents. It's upsetting me. I try to find the right words, the magic formula to comfort her, but cannot. I hate to admit it, but a childish part of me feels irritated. Who should be comforting who in this scenario? I'm the one with the death sentence hanging over my head. But then I think of how I'd feel if our positions were reversed. I hold her tighter.

"It's okay…okay." I murmur, rocking her gently. I glance over her shoulder at Mum and Dad. They have their arms locked around each other, eyes suspiciously bright. It's good that they're keeping it together. It's what Krista needs. It's what I need.

Krista pulls away slightly. Her eyes are red and her breath hitches. We're the same age but right now she looks like a child, pale hair framing her oval face.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her voice is shaky. I don't know what she's apologising for. Sorry I was chosen? Sorry she wasn't? Sorry she didn't volunteer?

Just sorry.

It doesn't matter.

"I had all these things I planned to say and now they won't come out right and I'm wasting time." She babbles, glancing at the door as if afraid uniformed men will drag her away. They will of course, but she still has a little time left I'm sure.

"You don't have to say anything."

I'm surprised and proud of how calm I manage to sound.

"I love you." Krista chokes out. It's upsetting. I wish she could pull herself together. I nod back at her.

"Love you too - all of you." I gesture towards our mum and dad, still lingering by the door. They seem to take this as some kind of signal to interrupt our sibling tragedy.

Mum holds my face in her hands and stares intently at me, her mouth wavering. Her soft blue eyes, so like my own, seem so defeated. The light seems to have gone out from them. "You're my girl," she says, "My good girl. You'll be…"

Fine? She doesn't insult me by finishing that sentence. She places a lingering kiss on my forehead and pulls me close. Her motherly scent does not calm me for once. I cling to her and it is the hardest thing, to let her go and make it look easy but somehow I manage.

Dad steps into her place and gives me one of his crushing hugs. I don't wriggle away. He places kisses on top of my hair.

"You're my little fighter," he whispers in my ear, catching me off guard. "You're fast and strong and you're my beautiful girl." He pulls away and unlike Mum, his eyes aren't watery, they're blazing. "Give them hell." he enunciates, surprising me again. I nod again, and turn to back to Krista. She seems to have calmed herself somewhat.

"I would have done it you know."

"I know." She means she would have volunteered to take my place. I know it. She doesn't have to say it. Even now, even in the hangman's gallows I wouldn't let her. Never. "I'm glad you didn't."

Her face crumples as she pulls me into another hug - this one fierce - and says, in a tone that could rival Dad's in its ferocity: "Try to win."

I smile. It's grim, I know, but it's better than crying. "I will."

"You know stuff," she whispers urgently. "You're fast. You know what plants are safe. You're smart - far smarter than me. Just try."

I swallow hard before I can meet her burning gaze. "Of course."

Now we've got that out of the way, it's time to make a few demands of my own.

"Alyssa. Give her to Ana won't you? She'll like that."

"Don't do this." Mum pleads quietly. "Don't make a will."

"You said you'd try," Krista laments, already sounding betrayed.

I hold my hands up in surrender, "And I will." I say savagely, surprising myself. We're talking about killing people here. Children. And there's forty eight of them this time. My odds aren't looking so good but I will try for them. If I can.

Laughing-boy - Haymitch - Haymitch's face swims into view and I banish it. He has no place here. Not now.

"Krista, here, take this." I undo my pin, our Grandmother's mocking jay pin, and hold it out to her.

"No," She refuses flatly. "It's yours."

"And if you have it, a piece of me will still be here. With you. At home where I belong."

She hesitates. "I think you should keep it."

"Don't you see how important this is to me?" I snap. Doesn't she see just how close I am to breaking? "It was Nan's. It has to be passed on so please just take it."

"Okay, okay." She relents, placating me. She takes it and I close my hand over hers. I bring it to my lips and gently kiss it.

"It's not over till the canon fires." I say looking at each of them in turn. "Don't write me off yet."

"Never." Krista says at the same time our mother. Dad just shakes his head fiercely, lost for words.

We have another family hug, just like before the reaping, before we were torn apart. I'm no fool. I know what my chances are.

As the men in uniforms take my family away, we say our final goodbyes.

"Come back to me," Krista calls out before she's lead away.

Her words resonate and I know I have to try to do just that. I have to go down fighting or it will destroy them. They will be watching.

As the door closes, separating us forever, I feel drained but relieved that I made it. I didn't cry once. I was strong and that was the right thing to do. I know I should hang on until the train, where the cameras will be absent, but I don't think I can.

In fact, I know I can't. Now that I'm alone, I gracelessly fall to my knees. I lose the little strength I had mustered as it all pours out. I break down, struggle for breath, weep on the floor. The noises I make scare me. I sound like a wounded animal. I want to thrash and kick and scream.

I just cry and I am alone.

Chapter Text

I've never been on a train before. Given the circumstances, I would gladly give up the experience.

I keep making these stupid little hiccupping sounds. It's because I cried so much, I know. Scraping myself off the floor of the Justice Building was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Even harder with the knowledge that it certainly won't be the hardest thing I will ever have to do. If I want to go home, I will have to commit terrible acts. The horror of that reality, the finality of it made me pull myself together long enough to board the train. I will not be a meal for these people (whether that is the Capitol, the viewers of Panem or the other tributes I am unsure. Probably all three).

I told myself it was good to let out my feelings in an outpouring of grief and self-pity. Better when I am locked in some room than with hundreds of cameras pointed in my direction. But now it seems rather foolish. My eyes are read and my throat is sore. I keep hiccoughing like a toddler recovering from a tantrum. The others will know. They will think I'm weak, will make me a target.

What briefly united us on that platform at the reaping has now torn us apart, singled us out as enemies forever. The four of us may be from the same district, but that's as far as any camaraderie goes. There can only be one winner after all. This has been demonstrated the way no one has said a single word since we stepped on this ridiculously lavish train over an hour ago.

I keep checking the others for signs of weakness, any indication that they are suffering too. Rose, who sits on the sofa with me, looks pale, almost sickly. Her grey eyes stare out of the window, not focusing on anything in particular. The boy, who I discovered from Elise is called Cal Rooba (son of the black market butcher I recall), has restless eyes. His mouth is a tight line. He cannot seem to settle and keeps pacing. It's driving me mad but I don't think he would stop if I asked him to.

And Haymitch… He is hard to read. His body posture is almost casual as he sits on the plush seat across from mine. He is slumped, occasionally drumming his fingers on the arm rest. Every now and then, he actually sighs as if this whole situation is boring to him. But I know he's only feigning indifference. He must be.

"I've never been on a train before."

It makes me start, despite the soft, dreamy tone. I turn to Rose in surprise. She hasn't changed position. It's as if the thought had just slipped out unaware, disturbing this hush.

"Me neither." It's a stupid response - as if anyone from 12 is privileged enough to travel. Well, except for the occasional Peacekeeper of course.

She slowly turns to me then, though her eyes don't seem to focus on mine, they slip through me. It's as if she isn't really there. Maybe in her head she isn't. Maybe she's at home right now, not chosen and safe, celebrating with her loved ones. Good for her. Safe for another year. We'll never feel safe again.

Her eyes are a wide and clear, empty grey. There's a sheen to them and I realise she's trying not to cry. "We were going to eat fresh greens with our friends."

I don't know what I did to inspire these random, intimate confessions. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I have to swallow down a lump in my throat, try to repress the stolen moments she has conjured up with one simple sentence. The memories of what will never come to be. Hadn't that been my plan? To gather fresh plants from over the fence for my family to enjoy? The electric fence put an end to that plan. Then there was the reaping of course. All a part of the Capitol's designs. A wave of hatred passes through me, intense and vile, taking me by surprise. I had been emotionally numb since I'd left the Justice Building. I thought I would never feel anything so strongly again.

Eventually I just nod in response to Rose's statement. I understand. I would hug her but I doubt it would be welcome. Don't think I want to anyway. What good will making friends do in the end?

"Oh please," Haymitch chimes in, a sneer in his voice. My eyes snap to his face but he isn't looking at me. He stands up with a stretch before heading over to the door that leads into the next compartment. That's where Elise and Ford are; sat amongst a grand selection of food that initially made me feel weak with longing and nausea.

"I'm going to make the most of a bad situation," Haymitch says, passing into the next compartment without sparing us a backwards glance.

It takes a moment but I realise I am grateful for his words. It was as if he had broken an eerie spell of morbid grief and misery. He's right. Of course he's right. There's food through that door. Food. More food than any of us would have in a month of meals. And there's Ford Heddon, our mentor. He's supposed to help us. He's supposed to tell us what comes next, work out a game plan, talk about sponsors.

Ford and Food. Food and Ford. I snigger, get up and trail after Haymitch.

-

By the time I make it into the dining compartment, Haymitch is already sat at the old oak table that is inundated with food. He's tucking into a leg of some kind of overlarge bird, without a hint of self-consciousness, despite the fact he isn't using utensils and that the drum stick looks pretty greasy. I fight down a smile as I approach. Elise is sat opposite him, looking mildly disgusted.

"And here's another member of the flock," Elise says, addressing me. I can't tell whether she's being nasty. Her voice remains at its usual fruity, high pitch. "Please take a seat! Don't let all this food go to waste."

I slip into the seat next to Haymitch, opposite Ford. Our so-called mentor still looks frail and sickly. This does not reassure me in the slightest. Elise's comment about not wasting food stings a little. Only someone from the Capitol, from a place of great wealth, would say such a thing so light-heartedly. We never waste food in our district. I can see that if the others don't join us, then we will do just that. There is an almost obscene amount of stews, soups, breads, cooked meats, wines, spirits, fancy grains, rice and many other foods, some I cannot even name. We'll never eat it all anyway.

I grab the nearest ladle and load up my plate with what I suspect to be beef stew although I've never had it with fruit before. I shovel it down even though I'm not entirely sure that I like it. Plumbs and meat – who would have thought of such a thing? It's very rich, which is not something I am used to. I hope I can keep it down.

Ford seems to be just playing with his steaming bowl of soup whilst Elise merely takes dainty sips from a tumbler full of an amber coloured liquid. She's starting to look rather pink under all that pale powder. This does not make her look any less startling. I wish she'd stop tapping her talons against the table, like some impatient bird of prey.

It seems I have swapped one silence for another. I've had enough of this. If I'm going to put on a show for the rich morons of Panem, then they can at least give us some tips.

"So…" I say, laying my knife and fork down and tucking a stray strand of hair back behind my ear. My ponytail is getting rather bedraggled. "What's our game plan here then?"

I can see Haymitch turn to me out of the corner of my eye, but keep my gaze firmly on Ford. I'm trying desperately hard to see the warrior beneath the surface of this skinny old man. He looks twitchy, uncomfortable with my attention.

"Maybe we should wait for the others." He answers, so quietly, that it takes a moment for me to realise he had even spoken. His voice is smooth, calm, not what I expected.

"Why?" Haymitch chimes in suddenly, as is becoming his custom. "We know there can only be one winner right? And let's face it, it's not going to be one of them." He finishes, jabbing his thumb in the direction of Rose and Cal.

I narrow my eyes at him, feeling a startling wave of dislike and pleasure before I can rebuff myself for being so stupid. He wasn't really paying me a compliment. He probably thinks I have as little chance of winning as they do, he just didn't want to say so to my face. I'm starting to think that Haymitch can be quite cruel and sneaky when he wants to be. And it is with a heavy heart that I realise he really will be my main competition in the arena, apart from the Careers of course.

To my surprise, Elise begins to laugh. There is unmistakable meanness in her tone this time. "That's the spirit! Start stabbing each other in the back before the games have even began."

"The games have already begun." Says Ford with a startling level of gravity. Maybe there is a fighter in there somewhere after all. He looks at Elise long enough to make her feel uncomfortable anyway.

She stands up abruptly. "I'll just go fetch the others shall I?" She waits for no response, then does just that.

"So… Any words of wisdom then?" Haymitch says with a sardonic smile. I cannot believe he would dare to so rude to the man we will have to depend on in the arena. Bad move.

Ford apparently is on the same wave length. "You can drop the cavalier attitude with me Abernathy. That won't get you anywhere. Save it for the interviews. Everyone loves a bad boy don't they?" He says with a patronising nod so I cannot tell whether it is meant to be an insult or true advice.

It makes sense I suppose. Each of us will be interviewed in front of the whole of Panem by that grinning jackal, Caesar Flickerman. The thought of it makes my palms go sweaty. We need to entertain the masses, get them to like us, sponsor us, bet on us. It is the only way we will be able to survive in the arena. I can see how bad boy Haymitch would be appealing to a society that enjoys seeing children brutally murder each other for their entertainment. What would my angle be?

By the time I have puzzled this out, the others have joined us. Rose is biting her nails, looking anxious. Cal looks defiant but is not as convincing as Haymitch. His eyes are still restless, and he glares at my timid welcoming smile. I guess we aren't going to be best friends then.

Ford clears his throat and I instantly focus on him. I have the feeling that Ford Heddon is a man of few words, but when he does speak, you really should pay attention.

"Now, I've never had to mentor so many at once before," He says so quietly, but with an undeniable edge of authority. "So I think we need to set a few ground rules yes?"

There is an awkward silence until we eventually realise he is waiting for a response. We mumble and nod in agreement. Except for Rose. She still seems out of it. Elise merely watches in amusement, steadily drinking her poison next to Ford.

Once Ford is satisfied with our assent, he continues, steadily looking each of us in the eyes as he speaks. "First of all: these other unfortunate tributes sat around you? They're your family now. Let's accept the fact that you'll probably never go home again. That's what I did, and I'm still here."

My mouth drops open. It's not what I had expected to hear him say.

"So yes, treat each other well. Support each other, train together, appear as if you are family."

"That's bull shit." Haymitch says quietly, though not disrespectfully. Almost as if he was saying it with disbelief and slowly dawning understanding.

"You don't think the other districts are going to team up?" Ford responds sharply. "Let me tell you, districts one, two and four – the Careers – are going to wipe the floor with you, so my advice is, get making friends."

"What, with each other or the other districts?" I ask. "Not the Careers I mean. The less insane districts." I clarify, the Careers would eat us alive.

Ford gives me a smile. "This one gets it. Make friends with the other non-careers by all means. But watch your backs team twelve. You know they won't stay friendly forever. When the death canon starts firing, you'll be surprised what people will do to stay alive."

His words make me shiver and for some reason I look at Haymitch. His moody grey eyes look grave as they meet mine. Something passes between us and I turn away first, alarmed by how strongly I feel for him in that moment. Because I know. I know the tough-guy status is all an act. He is as vulnerable as the rest of us, perhaps more so since he doesn't seem to know how to make friends. I still don't want to be the one who has to hurt him. He's the laughing-boy. I don't know what I'd do if it came down to him and me.

I think Ford is wrong. How could more attachments make you less vulnerable? I already seem to have become stupidly fond of Haymitch and we've barely spoken two words to each other. I even have a soft spot for Rose, who seems so sad and afraid.

I shake off these feelings, knowing that I need to be cold-hearted and tough if I want to survive.

"…so that's it basically."

I struggle to catch the rest of Fords words, knowing they will be important.

"Remember: Nothing in the arena will be as it seems. Don't assume anything is safe, be it water or a friendly face. Anyway, more on that later. For now, we'll focus on getting you up to fighting standard at the training centre. Your stylists will try to make you all look good, and hopefully not too ridiculous."

I flash back to the former tribute parades that I know Ford is referring to. Twelve always looks ridiculous. Butt naked and covered in coal. Or wearing unflattering mining uniforms. I blush and pray for the latter at the very least.

"Me and the lovely Elise will find an angle for your interviews and that's that. That's all we can do for you."

That sounds pretty final. Ford is clearly starting to droop a little, retreating into his old man shell. Is this what becomes of the winners? They become so damaged that they cannot function properly? I feel bad for him, but grateful he is at least trying.

"We are definitely going to die." Sneers Cal. His voice is deep and lacks the natural charm of Haymitch's.

"You probably will." Says Ford, frowning at Cal. Haymitch laughs and Cal responds with a look that could kill. So much for being a family. "But you can't just curl up and die can you?"

I nod. That's what I keep telling myself ever since Elise said my name. I won't just die. My family deserves better.

"The next thing to let me know would be if you have any special skills. Any weapon-based training? Let me know what I have to work with."

When this is answered with silence, Ford lets out a huge sigh.

"Well, I hope you're all just being strategic and hiding from each other. If not, no worries. You can always learn a skill. There's time."

There isn't. Some of the tributes will have practically trained since birth. I rack my brains. What am I good at? Identifying poisonous plants? But I don't see how that could help. I'm pretty fast but I don't think that's what he's asking for. I'm surprisingly strong for my small stature. I'm also pretty good at making boys from school tongue tied... Perhaps they can train me to charm the nation? I'm small and blond and look harmless…It's ridiculous.

I don't want to be a pretty girl. They always die first.

"I don't think I have any skills." Whispers Rose.

"I'm pretty good with a knife." Adds Cal, with an alarming smile at Haymitch who simply rolls his eyes. "My Dad's a butcher."

"Thanks for the warning." Replies Haymitch, with mocking laughter in his voice. "What about you, my little fence hopper?"

I was too focused on Ford to realise Haymitch is addressing me. I feel my face flood with colour. How dare he mention that here? Now?!

I give him my best glare, the one that makes Krista go silent. But Haymitch seems to be collecting glares with relish.

"'Fence-hopper?' Whatever does he mean?" Elise chimes in, curiosity bright in her eyes.

"Figure of speech." I blurt out, and miraculously Haymitch doesn't betray me. She's from the Capitol and beyond the fence lies Capitol property. Does Haymitch want to get me in trouble? I'm going to die anyway but they can always take it out on my family. I decide to change the subject, or rather get back on track to the original conversation. "I'm fast. And clever I suppose."

"And she's got a wicked temper." Drawls Haymitch, teasing me. I can't believe he would refer to my little tantrum by the fence!

"Would you like me to demonstrate that?" I say to Haymitch, smiling sweetly and exaggeratedly clenching my fists.

He smiles right back at me, a naughty light in his eyes that makes my grin turn into something more genuine. "I wouldn't dare ask," he answers, hands held up in mock-surrender.

I swallow down a laugh as I see the others staring at me in confusion.

I thought Haymitch had been merely mocking me. Or trying to disarm me with flirtatious banter. Maybe he was actually doing me a favour. The others don't know him well enough to tell if he is being serious or not. Through his gentle teasing, he has added a layer of mystery to me. A fiery temper and mysterious penchant for jumping fences, breaking the rules (how does he know? Technically, I go under it but still). Cal and Rose will know what he means. There's only one forbidden fence in our district. They'll think I'm much tougher than I really am. There are wild animals over the fence.

They don't need to know that the last time I was confronted by a wild dog, I climbed up a tree and stayed up there until it went got bored and went away.

"Well anyway…" Ford then steers the conversation back towards sanity. I barely pay attention to his whispers of training schedules and arena tips (find water…don't light a fire at night…Obvious stuff.)

It seems that Ford was right. The games have already begun.

I try not to look at Haymitch. Try not to analyse every question and keen response. Try not to care so much.

When the feeling of doom becomes too much, we each trail off towards our own quarters as the sun goes down. Cal stalks off and says nothing. Rose lets out a timid 'bye' that makes my heart ache for her. And Haymitch…

His room is opposite my own. As Haymitch barged past me in the narrow corridor, he squeezed my arm as he went past. "G'night," he says softly, a half-smile on his lips.

I just nod in response. I don't know what game he's playing, whether he's trying to charm me into forgetting he's a threat. But it ends here. I'm not stupid and I don't want to feel. I practically slam my door right in his face and flop onto my stupidly comfortable bed (as I knew it would be). I tear off my dress and curl up under the covers, suppressing the urge to scream into a pillow. No more tears. No more feelings. No more regrets.

Just keep surviving

Chapter Text

I wake up in the softest embrace I have ever known. I am encircled with warmth. Supple arms wrap around my bare skin. For a few shining seconds I feel safe and at peace. His name nearly rises from my lips unbidden. But then I am fully conscious. Then I remember where I really am. The horror of yesterday hits me with full force making me gasp with painful realisation. I thrash and the phantom embrace is gone, never there to begin with. It was only a fleecy quilt, so thick and comfortable, that after several long, sleepless hours, I had finally managed to nod off - a miracle in itself.

Perhaps all the crying had worn me out.

I sit bolt upright in bed, realising I am still on that cursed train. The room is filled with morning light and my panting. Images flash past the windows, casting strange silhouettes across the room. We move forward so quickly, so soundlessly, barely making our mark upon the world as we speed towards the Capitol. I kick the covers off and try to catch my breath. The time for panic attacks is over. I feel trapped in this luxury.

I wrap the sheet around me and stagger towards the adjoining bathroom. There's a shower. I may be a merchant kid but this is all new to me. I stand under the warm downpour, hoping that the water will soothe me, that the warmth will bring me to life.

When I am clean, I pad into my room once more, leaving my hair wet and hanging down my back. I'm sure one of the buttons in the bathroom would have dried it for me, but who cares? My blue dress is no longer on the floor and I feel a trickle of unease that someone had obviously collected it without me noticing. I'm going to have to be more alert in the arena. There I won't lose a dress, but I may get a knife in the back.

I find a plain dress in the wardrobe and pull it on, not taking note the colour. It's figure-hugging: tailored to fit my body, sculpting it. I shrug, finding this a little creepy. My designer wardrobe was put together pretty quick wasn't it? When we reach the Capitol, they'll give me a makeover anyway. Stuff me in something truly horrific - if I'm lucky. I could be completely naked in the tribute parade after all. I slip on my simple, leather shoes - a piece of home - and go in search of breakfast.

I find the room where disastrous plans were made the night before. To my displeasure, I am the last one to join the table. Am I late? Have they been strategizing without me? Why didn't Elise wake me?

"Ah! All early risers aren't we?" Says Elise, positively beaming, though there is an edge to her tone. If she hates us so much, then why does she do this for a living? Perhaps she's just waiting to represent another wealthier district.

At least Elise has indicated I am not callously late.

I sit next to Cal, not meeting anyone's eyes, though I feel every one of them taking me in. Why? Is it my sloppy, wet hair, or the dress? I finally take in what I am wearing. Nope. Nothing offensive, indecent or otherwise dressy about it. It's a subtle, checked blue. I've never worn checks before but my mother has a dress made with the same pattern. My heart gives a painful throb at the thought.

I feel Haymitch's eyes bore into me at the other end of the table and tell myself I couldn't care less. I grant him one careless glance and he instantly ducks his gaze, looking skittish. How odd.

I mentally shrug and tuck into the plate of food that is instantly placed in front of me: meats, fruit, toasted bread, eggs, mushrooms, fried potatoes. It is only sensible to pile on a few pounds before the games begin. Who knows what I'll manage to scavenge in the arena.

I can see I have a distinct advantage at the moment. I've never been close to starving and therefore am a healthy build. The others are very skinny. Then I realise this may be my undoing later. I can't hunt or handle hunger as well as the others, I bet.

"Morning Team Twelve," Ford says dryly, sipping some orange juice. Orange juice! I'll be sure to give that a try.

"We really sticking with that?" Asks Haymitch casually.

"It's stupid." States Cal.

"I like it." Rose pipes up, quietly. I can see she has a little more colour today. Could be all the food. My fellow tributes eat quickly, as if they had never seen such food before. I know I'm acting the same way.

"That's because you're stupid." Snarls Cal in response to Rose's innocent opinion.

I slam my fork down, incensed. Rose has done nothing to him. Nothing except share his distinct misfortune of having her name pulled out of that glass ball.

"Do we have to constantly tear each other apart?" I hiss, glaring at Cal, though my words are for everyone. "We're in this together. For now, anyway."

Until we have to kill each other. I know the others will understand the meaning of my words.

Cal glares at me for a few seconds, hands clenched around a butter knife. I notice his eyes are a very dark and even brown. Unusual for the Seam. They are also furious, but gradually, his anger drains away. It's like the fight has gone out of him. Temporarily, I hope. He'll need that fighting spirit. Besides, if I don't win, it would be better for my family if Cal, Haymitch or Rose does. Then Twelve will be showered with gifts for a whole year in celebration – gifts of the edible variety.

"Fine," Cal eventually whispers, turning away so he can shovel more food down. I begin to breathe evenly again. For a moment I thought he'd jam his knife into my hand or something (although fighting is forbidden between tributes until we enter the arena of course).

"Well, well… At least you're showing some fighting spirit. That's something." Murmurs Ford thoughtfully, echoing my earlier thoughts.

We spend the rest of the morning cramming down as much food as humanly possible and passing the odd remark about strategy. Ford wants us to obey our stylists, no matter how stupid they make us look (thanks Ford). He also wants us to present a united front around the other districts. I think he may have to give up on that one. Haymitch sniggers and Cal's lip curls at the very suggestion. I offer a tentative smile at Rose which she shakily returns. If the boys want to be stubborn, that's their problem. Perhaps Rose will turn out to be a whiz with a knife. Perhaps she'll make a powerful alley. I can only hope.

When snow-capped mountains start to appear outside the windows, I am overcome with curiosity. We all are. It means that we are getting close to the Capitol, catching a glimpse of something we only occasionally see on our battered TVs. Again, I don't think a place in the Hunger Games is worth the experience. Nevertheless, we press ourselves against the windows, taking in the sight. I find myself sharing a view with Haymitch. Our breath mingles and fogs the glass a little.

I like the mountains. They seem so powerful and free. Of course, they symbolise the very opposite. The mountains gave the Capitol a distinct advantage during the Dark Days. The rebels could not scale them without making themselves a target. They could not storm the Capitol for this reason. They lost. And it is this piece of history that has led to me being chosen as a tribute.

I suddenly hate the stupid mountains.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Elise asks curtly, cutting into my dark thoughts.

"Are you about to suggest you take a swan-dive out of the nearest window?" Haymitch smiles sweetly, shocking a laugh out of me.

When Elise glowers at us, I know I'll pay for that laugh at some point. Somehow I don't think Elise will mind watching me die at all.

"I was only going to suggest you try waving at the Capitol residents." She answers through gritted teeth.

I blink. Wave at the Capitol residents? The ones who demand our deaths? The ones who will quite happily bet on who will be slaughtered first?

But I soon see what she means. As we pull into neatly sculpted streets, so clean, brightly lit and crammed full of freakishly colourful people, their excitement is practically tangible. I see Cal try a cynical wave from the corner of my eye, and they eat it up. Cheers and flashes, cries of adoration as they crowd around the train.

"How about that?" Haymitch mumbles next to my ear, his breath warm against my neck. The rough material of his shirt rubs against my bare arm. "Come on then, wave. Perhaps we can lure them onto the tracks."

He smiles darkly and I struggle not to return it. He's very close to me. I pull my attention away from his mouth and give a little wave to the crowd as the train slows. They wave right back, delighted.

Haymitch snickers and walks away, shaking his head, causing his hair to brush his shoulders. He wants no part of this show. Neither do I but I don't see how refusing to play the game will keep me alive. Quite the opposite actually.

-

"Oooh we got a pretty one this year!" Coos the purple-haired lunatic formally known as Sasha, one half of my prep team. They're supposed to be making me look attractive. Presentable. Appropriate for the tributes parade. Sponsor seducing in other words. As far as I can tell, attractive in their eyes mainly consists of being primped, preened, scrubbed, exfoliated and waxed to within an inch of my life.

I've never been so hairless. I half expected them to shave my head.

"It's amazing that someone like you could have such fair hair," Agrees Gabe. A dig at district twelve or a reference to the dark complexion's of Seam children? Who can tell with Gabe? At least, I think that's what his name is. I was a little distracted by his multiple body piercing. Silver studs and platinum hoops adorn his available ear surface area. In his nose, there sparkles a dazzling diamond.

"So much prettier than last year's..." Sighs Sasha. She's starting to get on my nerves. I knew the girl tribute last year. Her name was Alana. She was nice. She died with a spear through her chest. Beauty probably wasn't a high priority for her. I shudder at the memory: a bright stain of red then she was gone forever, leaving nothing but a mourning family in her place.

I don't want that to be me. Please don't let that be me.

With thoughts like these it's no wonder my prep team soon thinks I am quiet. They mistake my gloomy silence for shyness. They keep calling me "sweetie" and "quiet as a little mouse." They seem so kind. I have to remind myself that they are preparing me for the slaughter.

"Mays-iii-leee…I love your name." Sasha says, unintentionally making me hate it a little bit. I do not want the Capitol's approval over anything. I don't consider that to be a compliment. They have such flouncy names here; I can see why mine would appeal to them. If Maysilee wasn't an old family name… I give her a little smile and say nothing.

They fluff and cleanse and brush and bathe me in foul concoctions until I'm almost begging to be thrust into the arena to escape this torment. I say little. They say enough. I don't know why they're bothering. They'll just hand me over to my stylist after who will stuff me in some appalling costume for the tribute parade. Or just leave me naked.

It's funny how the nudity doesn't bother me at the moment. It's actually boring. It's amazing how quickly you can get used to it. I barely know Sasha and Gabe, but they're so shallow and are just trying to help me in their own odd way. I'm like a project to them.

'Team Twelve' was split up as we arrived at the Remake Centre. To be honest, it's quite a relief to be away from them. Away from Cal's surliness and Rose's defeated attitude and Haymitch's confusing friendliness.

Friendliness isn't the right word. There's always an edge to his words, like a double meaning I cannot access.

We were each assigned to our own prep team. Rose waved goodbye. Haymitch gave me a laughing "later sweetheart," startling me. I think of the dark-haired girl I've often seen him with back home. I know he has a sweetheart of his own. I won't let myself get caught up in his tactics.

A genuine grin flits across my face as I imagine the others undergoing a similar treatment right now. Oh, how the boys will scowl. I wonder what they'll do with Haymitch. ..

"Aw, look she's smiling!" Cries Sasha happily, making me jump.

Gabe's round, boyish face looms into view, examining me. "So she is! And why not? You do look rather nice underneath all the hair and grime darling."

I showered that very morning. What grime? I wipe the smile off my face. This prep team of mine likes to dish out very back-handed compliments

They soon change the subject and start babbling on about how the Quarter Quell is so exciting to them. So many tributes to root for! What is exciting for them was a huge source of fear and nightmares for me. I remember when President Snow did the reading of the card. I remember how my jaw dropped when he announced they would require double the number of tributes this year. I clung to Krista and prayed that it would not be us.

Guess I got my wish.

Krista. I've never been separated from my twin for so long. The realisation makes me ache for her, for home. I lock these feelings away. They are of no use to me now. But it's no use. Everything, from the gentle smile of Sasha (almost motherly), to the sweep of Gabe's bright yellow hair (reminds me of Alyssa's feathers) makes me think of home.

I am practically on the verge of tears when they slip a robe over my shoulders and announce I am done – ready to meet my stylist. I don't even glance in the mirror. I thank them flatly and they beam like idiots. I have to remind myself it's not their fault I am here.

But they could try to act a little less excited about the impending televised slaughter of children.

I am unceremoniously handed over to my stylist, feeling like a raw slab of meat. I find out her name is Dana. She looks familiar as she has been in the background of every games since I can remember. My heart sinks. She never makes an effort with our tributes. She eyes me with a weary expression as if she were bored already. How tedious it must be for her, clothing the tributes of twelve. We just die anyway.

She flicks back her dramatic sweep of midnight blue hair and quietly studies my face.

"You have good hair," she says dryly. "Think we'll leave it down."

I shrug as it hardly matters. "So I've been told." And it's getting old. Maybe they'll be allowed to scalp me when I'm dead, use my hair as a wig.

Dana smiles, perhaps sensing my animosity, before arranging her features back into an indifferent mask. Her staring is beginning to grate.

"Food?" She asks, surprising me.

My appetite has diminished but I know I need to eat. I nod and she presses a button, making a large meal of pearly rice and roasted birds that smell absolutely mouth-watering.

Food that appears at the touch of a button…Capitol people really do have it made don't they? We eat in silence and I devour every scrap, hating to waste anything. I think of my family, just scraping by, more fortunate than the many starving Seam residents. Snow could share the food. There clearly enough to go round Panem. Funny how none of it comes our way. I think of the tesserae system, and clench my hands tightly under the table, nearly drawing blood.

"Are you alright?" Asks Dana, seeing me tense up. "Food a bit rich for you?" I don't think Dana is being intentionally rude, it's just another example of how callous and thoughtless these people are. These people who have my life in their hands. I suddenly feel sick and fight away the feeling so I do not prove her to be right.

"So what's it going to be?" I ask to change the subject. "Nudity or coal miner chic?" I'm not quite sure what 'chic' is, only that my prep team greatly overuses the term.

I notice that Dana's eyes are a startling shade of violet. It's a little unnerving. Right now, they are narrowed at me.

"It's traditional to reflect the flavour of each district." She responds a little defensively.

"So we're stuck with coal. I get it." I spit out bitterly. She could at least make an effort. Try to care. Maybe tributes of twelve would stand a chance if they could get sponsors. The way to do that would be to not look like an idiot at the parade. I don't bother to relay this to Dana. She clearly already knows, but is beyond caring.

"Come on then - give me some flavour!" I have a feeling that Haymitch's sarcasm is already rubbing off on me. Either way, Dana's stone cold silence as she dresses me indicates she knows I was making fun of her. I can practically feel the waves of hostility coming off of her and I doubt she won't be making an effort again this year either.

I keep alienating everyone around me yet I do not feel my behaviour has been unreasonable. Reasonable would be screaming and crying in a fit of hysteria.

By the time Dana is finished, I can only stare at myself in horror. And confusion. There are some bits I actually like: the smoky eye effect and long lashes that make my eyes look moody and piercing. Defiant even. My hair practically glows gold as it falls past my shoulders in soft waves thanks to all the vigorous brushing. My lips look full thanks to the seductive tinge of red Dana has added. There ends the positives. It is downhill from there.

I am of course, stuffed into an awful coal-miners outfit – Capitol style. My high-heeled, pointed boots are strictly not regulation. I'm glad we'll be riding in chariots, because I doubt I can walk three feet in them. They reach my thighs and look clunky. I pick at the rough, black material that encases my body. Dungarees – I think Dana called them. Overalls to the rest of us. I'm wearing nothing underneath so my face, arms and chest stand out palely against the stark black. I almost glow.

And to top it all off, a yellow hard hat sits atop my head at a jaunty angle. There's a flashlight too, just in case I don't look stupid enough I guess.

I take in the full effect in the mirror. Yes, I look like an idiot, but I also look much older. It's probably the added height, and the sleazy outfit. Sadly, I look too ridiculous to pull off sexy. That could have been my angle but Dana has failed in that respect, unsurprisingly. I could have looked sultry, or she could have let me look sweet and innocent. Now I am nothing but a cheap joke.

I have to fight not to burst into tears at the sight of myself. If I had to be chosen, I wanted to die with a bit of dignity, instead I will look a fool in front of the whole of Panem. Everyone I have ever known will see me like this. I force back tears of humiliation, hating the Capitol with every inch of my being. They dress us up for their amusement because watching us die isn't enough. This is completely deliberate.

"Thanks a lot," I choke out.

-

After my makeover, Dana leads me down to the stables under the Remake Centre. I can smell the musty scent of horses. My stomach twist as I realise I am going to see the other tributes for the first time in the flesh. We appear to be early as the rest of team twelve are the only other tributes down here so far.

When I am reunited with the others, I can barely meet their eyes. Until I realise they will be experiencing the same thing, wearing matching outfits. I look up.

I see Rose first and feel a wave of sadness. What looks sleazy on me looks almost pitiful on her. The overalls hang off of her skeletal figure and I could almost weep with the unfairness of it all. The boys fare a little better. They wear the heavy mining trousers with fluorescent braces to hold it up and that's it. They are too thin to look mouth-watering as I'm sure their stylists intended. But Cal and Haymitch look wiry, surprisingly strong. At least they have an advantage in that respect.

"See something you like?" Haymitch's voice makes me blush as I tear my eyes away from his lack of outfit, sheepishly. I meet his eyes and see that he is smirking. His curls look glossy. His eyes sparkle with mischief and something dangerous.

"Just wondering how they got your hair so nice and curly. Wish mine was as pretty," I joke. He narrows his eyes at me but I can tell he doesn't really mind. I jest because I'm so nervous.

"We do look rather silly don't we?" Says Rose lightly, looking pale under her tanned skin.

"Tributes from Twelve always do," Cal spits out, flicking his headlamp and causing the hat to swivel. It's the first thing we have agreed about since we met.

"Why headlamps?" Sighs Rose, looking pained.

"Perhaps we can use them to our advantage. Blind everyone so they can't get a good look at us." The joke slips out. I feel weary but the sense of camaraderie is helping a little.

To my surprise, the three of them burst out laughing. Even Cal. It's not raucous, but it's something, a sign that we are all in this together. I join in weakly and we are still spluttering when Elise joins us.

"Oh my, you look like you're ready to go down the mines," She says, sounding strained.

"Think that's meant to be the idea." Answers Haymitch smartly.

"Indeed," Purrs Elise. "Anyway, when it's time for the parade, you'll be riding out together in an extra special carriage. I want Haymitch and Maysilee standing together - you're both so tall and striking."

I can feel my cheeks redden. I had wondered how we'd be presented. There have never been so many tributes before.

"Oh and remember to switch your hats on and smile…What's so funny?"

Elise stomps off then, looking all flustered, shaking her head at our apparent stupidity.

A few minutes later, we are not laughing when the other tributes start pouring in. It is an endless stream of bigger, meaner and tougher looking children. I have to remind myself that they are in fact children. I curse our team for bringing us here so early. Now they all get to walk past us and smirk at our outfits (though some do not look much better - District Four are dressed like fish with scaly silver outfits complete with fish hooks for instance).

My hands become clammy with fear and I try not to let it show. Rose looks terrified. Cal is staring at the ground. Haymitch holds his head up and stares each tribute down defiantly. I want to be brave like him but the reality has finally hit me. Forty-seven other tributes - each instructed to kill. Many are humongous or have been training for this since they were very young.

The odds really aren't in my favour.

Chapter Text

Target is Snow…Target is Snow…Target is Snow…

I pull the knife back over my shoulder and hurl it at the target with all the malice I can muster. Then I sigh. At least it landed in the general direction of the mannequin. It falls limply at the base of the dummy that I like to call 'President'. Perhaps the other tributes will think it's a ploy; that I am acting deliberately terrible in training but am really a master with a knife. I feel the eyes of the others on me and go to retrieve my knife.

Ford and Elise had told us at breakfast to steer clear of any special talents in the training centre - that it would be better to take the others by surprise. Cal had replied that that would not be a problem as none of us actually has any talents. I thought he was just being mean but I can see what he meant.

I look at a couple of the tributes from 4 - the fish. One of them, a little redhead, is weaving a net with extreme dexterity. Another massive tribute from 4 is hurling a harpoon-like spear around like it's an extension of his arm, taking off dummy heads like there's no tomorrow. I shudder. 4 is a fishing district. It isn't fair. We only get to mine for coal when we reach eighteen. I see a group of tributes from 7 taking turns hurling an axe. I imagine what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such an assault and feel a bit light headed.

As if the parade wasn't bad enough.

The parade…

Couldn't have gone worse. Well, at least I didn't fall off the chariot. The four of us stood side by side, Haymitch and Cal on the outside, with me and Rose in the middle. We obeyed Elise' orders. It took everything I had not to cling to Haymitch as we started moving. I didn't like the jolting rhythm of the two black horses pulling our golden chariot into the street. I didn't like the flashing lights, the stupid outfits and cries of adoration - none of it aimed at us.

Why would they cheer for us? I saw our faces on the screen. The boys looked grim and we girls looked terrified. I held my head high and imagined I was a noble warrior. I managed to project a reasonably calm demeanor hiding the fact I was gripping the safety bar hard enough to make my knuckles turn white. None of team 12 wanted to wave and pander to the cheering crowd. We're not showy or flashy like the other districts.

I heard that all the tributes from 1 and 2 were volunteers. That seems unbelievable, foolish and insane to me. I would give anything not to be here. At the parade, I tried to decide who looks the most terrifying. I had to choose District 1. Two of them are giants who look like brothers and were very confrontational even at this early stage, gagging for a fight. I dubbed them Crazy 1 and Crazy 2. One of the girls, I think was called Satin, was bigger than the both of them - truly frightening. They took an instant dislike to us of course. Just to make things worse.

"Look at the early birds," Satin sneered as they walked past us before the parade. Her name did not suit her hulking presence at all.

"What are they supposed to be?" Laughed her smaller counterpart, the second female tribute of 1, but still no more pleasant.

"Think they're wearing miner's suits." Said Crazy 1, smiling in a sinister manner. At that point I was trying to make friends with one of our horses, smoothing its soft mane to sooth my nerves. The horse kept pulling away. Nothing in the Capitol is going to be friendly it seems.

Unfortunately, this singled me out from the others standing by the chariot. Crazy 1 and 2 leered at me as they went past. I stood my ground but ended up flinching a little, crossing my arms protectively around myself. This only caused them to burst out laughing.

"Miners… They go underground don't they?" Growled Crazy 2, a false note of interest in his voice.

"You're a clever boy aren't you?" Said Haymitch, steel in his voice as he strolled right up to my side as if it was nothing. As if it was normal to anger a couple of psychos, to take my side.

The tributes of 1 made a slight hissing sound then, like they couldn't quite believe Haymitch had the audacity to answer back. I was beginning to realise that Haymitch will always answer back. I see a flash of pure rage in the eyes of Crazy 2 before he turns his attentions away from Haymitch and back to me. I don't know how Haymitch didn't crumble under a look of such hatred. It was all I could do not to run away right then. Perhaps it helped that he was by my side.

"I was just commenting on how appropriate it is since that's where I'm personally going to put you." Crazy 2 hissed at me.

Put me? Oh right, underground. Nice. A bit convoluted, but effective.

They all shrieked with laughter at their wit before casually strolling onwards towards their own pen. I didn't know whether that was a personal threat to me or to all of 12. Doesn't really matter though does it? He's right. Even if it isn't one of the crazies who finishes me off, I'm going not coming out of this alive.

"Idiots." Muttered Haymitch, before wandering back to his original position.

I had to force myself not to follow. He makes me feel safe which is ridiculous beyond belief. We're going to have to kill each other. And I get the feeling that Haymitch has what it takes to go all the way, to get home, to win. The way he stood up to those Careers for me…

No. Not for me.

I tell myself this now, as I bend to pick up my knife. Even as he suddenly materialises above me, like he could read my thoughts.

"You suck at this."

I straighten up and give him my best glare. "I'd like to see you do better."

"I'm sure that Rose could do better." He scoffs. I walk away from him then, with the intention of returning my weapon to its stand before I do something I'd regret. It was a mean and unnecessary dig at Rose.

I scan the room quickly. So many tributes practising ways to kill me. I made sure District 1 was on the opposite side of the room, practising wrestling, showing off. I catalogue that weakness.

I eventually locate Rose, sat at a booth surrounded with plants. It looks interesting and I make a note to visit it later.

I go to place the knife back in its slot when Haymitch's hand clamps over my wrist firmly. His hands are rough and I jump. He's lucky that I didn't take a chunk of his skin off for his troubles.

He drops his hand. I miss its warmth instantly. "Sorry!" He says, hands raised in faux-surrender. "Just thought I could show you how it's done."

I narrow my eyes and scan his for insincerity. "Show off more like," I mutter.

He huffs. "If I wanted to show off I'd be over there with them," He jabs his thumb in the direction of the wrestlers who have now been joined by both 2 and 4. I see a Career alliance is already forming. Didn't take long did it?

He sees me frowning. "Forget them."

"Maybe Ford is right." I murmur thoughtfully as Crazy One slams an enormous guy from 4 into the ground. "Maybe we could do with some friends of our own."

He snorts, "I don't do friends."

I want to say he's doing okay with me but don't want to sound sentimental and weak. Instead, I raise my eyebrows and say lightly: "Hmm I wonder why that could be?"

He gives me a half-smile then, which I return before I can stop myself. "Come on. Let's go practise because you really do need it sweetheart."

The sarcastic endearment makes me grind my teeth together. Nonetheless, I stomp back to the throwing station, determined to prove him wrong.

I throw three daggers under Haymitch's close examination. Only one makes an impact, and just barely. It sticks in the dummy by its tip.

"Better," Says Haymitch. "But if that was a person, you'd have just tickled him."

I'm about three seconds away from stomping my foot again when Haymitch sidles closer.

"Here, let me show you." He moves slowly, probably so I won't take a finger off like I nearly did before. He stands behind me and gently places his hands on my hips, turning me so I stand sideways, the range to my left. He repositions the knife in my hand so I am gripping it differently, firmly. His hands move to my elbow and forearm, his face hovering over my shoulder.

Haymitch guides my arm back until the knife is in line with my ear. Like you would throw a spear. He breathes into my other ear.

"Close one of your eyes if it helps. Focus only on the target."

I do as he says with difficulty, breathing a little shakily. He's so close. He moves his hand away from my wrist and I hold the position on my own. One of his hands is on my stomach, applying pressure that makes my thoughts whirl. I realise he wants me to straighten my spine and I do accordingly. My body responds to his naturally.

I feel his breath on my neck as he clears his throat. "You're focusing too much on power than precision. Except for that last one. Don't hurl it, throw it." He chuckles darkly, "It takes less pressure than you realise to cut a person."

I don't ask how he knows this. Instead I detach my thoughts away from his heat, from how I feel about having him so close, and focus only on the dummy.

He steps away. "Take a breath."

I do.

"And throw."

I don't even pretend it's Snow this time.

It hits the target deep in the shoulder - not ideal, but better than before.

"Better." Haymitch confirms. I turn to him expectantly but he's already walking away. He isn't smiling. I'm not either.

I realise now that the room has become more subdued than before. I see that at least half the tributes have their eyes on me. They must have been watching us. I can't imagine why they would find my attempts so riveting - I'm clearly no threat to them. I wouldn't get that long in the arena to make a throw, neither would the target be so still.

I definitely wouldn't have Haymitch's assistance.

-

At lunch, I am pleasantly surprised to be joined by Rose as we sit on the floor. I spent the rest of the morning constructing snares, as gathering food on my own would be a weak point in the arena. The snare-lady's instructions on how to skin and gut an animal made me queasy enough. But I kept practising. I think I've established I'm no fighter. Maybe basic survival skills could help me more in the long run.

I didn't think about anyone myself. Although I may have looked for Haymitch. Just out of curiosity. He doesn't seem to be practising anything at all. He's been sitting in a corner, watching everyone for at least two hours. Either he's given up - which isn't his style - or he's got some incredible skills already. The idea that he will be my biggest opponent surfaces once more, unpleasantly.

Even if he has got some super talent, it's a bit arrogant and foolish to sit there learning nothing. The rest of us are preparing for the fight of our lives. He looks like he can't be bothered. Unless he's studying the others for weaknesses? Or maybe…

"Are you okay Maysilee?"

I look into Rose's soft, grey eyes that are filled with concern for me. It's touching, but she should know better. We can't be friends, not really. She looks away as if the contact were making her nervous. She's so gentle. I worry for her and try not to.

"Sorry. I'm fine. Just a bit distracted," I answer. We eat our beef sandwiches together.

"Meat's good isn't it?" Rose asks limply, a strained smile upon her face. I want to tell her not to bother, that it would be better for us not to get attached. But after seeing the way Haymitch is treating me, and how the Careers have bonded, I am already sick of tactics. I want to pursue something real for myself.

I smile at her: "So…how's training going for you?"

She blinks a bit as if surprised by my question. Have I really been that cold and distant with her? Seems wrong somehow. It's not her fault I'm stuck here.

"Good," Her face lights up a little. "I've learnt some really interesting things about poisons and snares. It's really interesting. There's a lot of information about poisonous substances. It's a bit odd actually."

It's the most I've ever heard her say. Like Ford Heddon, I think that when this girl speaks, you better listen. It's a valid point. Perhaps it's a hint. Maybe there's going to be a few poisons in the arena for us to avoid?

"I'll have to check that out," I say wistfully. "Thanks for the tip."

"No problem," She ducks her head and shoves more sandwich in. "Haymitch was being helpful wasn't he?"

I feel my cheeks colour and I'm very glad she is looking away. Rose is very astute. It seems that everyone was watching our little exchange. "I'm not so sure."

I don't think knife-throwing will be my main forte in the arena. Anyone could see that.

"I think he was trying," she says, tone thoughtful. "He likes you. You're the only one he talks too. He hasn't helped me at all." She says it quietly. There's no accusation in her voice. It's just a statement in that squirmingly honest way she has about her

"So?" It comes out a bit sharply, a bit defensive. Rose's posture stiffens and I feel terrible.

I back track. "He hasn't helped you because you got your head screwed on right. You haven't practically endangered the whole room with your throwing like me." She looks up then and gives me a toothy smile.

"You're not so bad," she says, tone conciliatory, making me laugh. I wonder whether she means my personality or my throwing. I don't mind either way.

I swallow my last piece of sandwich and stretch. "I think you got the right idea anyway. Defence and survival skills are the way to go."

We eat our lunch in a comfortable silence as I try not to replay her words over and over. Why would Haymitch help me? Was he just embarrassed for me? Or was he just showing off? Then a darker thought emerges. By showing me the ropes, he ensured we got an audience. Now everyone knows how terrible I am with a weapon. Did he deliberately make me an easy target? Or did he think they would overlook the girl who can't even hit a dummy? My head spins. Good or bad intentions, I guess I'll never know.

"Try some apple - they're so sweet." Rose hands me a slice which I accept gladly, anything to break these consuming thoughts. I need my head to be clear.

"You're welcome."

The cheerful voice takes us both by surprise as we see a lanky boy with smooth, dark skin, a sunny smile and eyes that practically sparkle. I don't trust him.

"What's that now?" I say cautiously.

"You're welcome. For the apple." He grins at our confused expressions, "It's clearly from eleven - my district. Could have picked it myself in fact - how ironic is that?"

This piece of information catches my curiosity. I hardly know anything of district 11. The idea of apple orchards seems to fit from bits and pieces I've heard in school… I catch myself. No more friends. I don't trust that smile. Who smiles at a stranger when there's nothing remotely funny about our situation?

"Well…Thanks I guess." I say, turning back to Rose.

He laughs at my tone even though I wasn't making a joke.

"My name's Pash, from eleven - agriculture and orchard management. This here is Kaye." He gestures to a girl sat next to him. She is dark, beautiful and looks very irritated.

"Oh shut up Pash," Hisses Kaye. She gives us a nod before concentrating on her food once more.

Pash slides over the floor to come and sit by us uninvited. I don't know what he wants. There is an awkward silence until Rose surprises me again by actually responding. "I'm Rose and this is Maysilee. We're from twelve - coal mining district."

He smiles and nods as if this is fascinating. He has quite a twitchy manner, as though he can't sit still. Perhaps the rest of 11 simply ditched him for being so irritating? Kaye looks like she wishes she was on her own.

"What's it like where you're from?"

His questions are getting annoying.

"Same as everywhere I suppose," I say vaguely. For some reason I can see a couple of Peacekeeper guards edging nearer to us out the corner of my eye. Must be a coincidence but better safe than sorry. They've been here all morning, overseeing our training sessions. I guess they beefed up the security this year, with all the extra tributes to keep in line.

"Eleven's okay - pretty strict," Says Pash chattily. I want to make him shut up but can't work out a subtle way to do it. None of the other tributes are talking as it is. Me and Rose were the exception. Apart from the Careers obviously. He drawing too much attention to us. "We farm all day and none of it for us - but home is home right?"

"I wish I was home." Says Rose sadly which kills the conversation for a while, to my relief.

Yep. Definitely getting closer. And looking right at us. Are we not supposed to talk to other the districts or something?

Or maybe just not about the other districts. Perhaps they don't like the idea of us exchanging information. They like to keep us in the dark. The guards move closer to us, looking tense…

"Time to start training again!" I announce in an overly-cheerful manner. I stand up abruptly, dragging Rose with me. She looks a little surprised but follows me anyway. Rose is very intuitive. I'm starting to think she really would make a good alley.

The Peacekeepers blend back against the wall again and I breathe a sigh of relief. Strange.

"Bye Pash!" Rose calls out cheerfully, covering for our sudden exit.

The games are not just for the arena. I see Haymitch and Cal sat together nearby in silence. They have been watching our whole exchange, Cal with boredom and Haymitch with an intensity that is almost alarming. Maybe I'll ask him later what he thought of the whole thing.

Rose and I are the first ones to resume training but many follow after so it's okay. Rose doesn't demand an explanation for which I am grateful. We spend the rest of the day learning how to tie knots and going over which plants are edible. There is a station that emphasises the use of poisons in combat which is unusual. I force myself to concentrate although my heart is racing.

I felt afraid when those guards started coming for us. I guess it just really hit me how we now belong to the Capitol. How we must do as they say, be good little puppets in their games.

I shudder and remember the tale of the Seamstress of 12. This was before I was born but rumour had it, this woman used to run her mouth off about the Capitol. She used to spread angry words about the President, about how cruel and unfair his regime is. She stopped making clothes for the Peacekeepers and sang rebellious songs as she went about her business. Everyone grew to fear her. She was a liability.

The story goes that one night, the Peacekeepers came and dragged her away to the Capitol. She was never seen again.

But not before they cut out her tongue in front of her family.

My own tongue suddenly feels too dry and I plaster a look of casual interest across my face. Outwardly I am calm but inside I am screaming. Let the games begin.

Chapter Text

After my small taste of the oppressive force of the guards, I felt too jittery to concentrate on much else. The rest of my first training session was spent trailing after Rose from one workshop to the other, barely taking in their precious advice. It was a shame really. One much neglected station concentrated on medicine - natural remedies in particular. I know I would have found it fascinating under any other circumstances. It reminded me of home, of Ana. Her Father runs an apothecary in the merchant's quarter. I found every visit interesting, with all those jars of strange concoctions that could mean the difference between life and death to some people. It really emphasised how useless our sweet shop was to anyone but ourselves (trading with the other districts, even the Capitol, kept us alive).

Sweets are a useless commodity when your friends are starving to death.

But Ana's shop…I immerse myself in memory. The spicy scents. The clinical cleanliness. The neatly labelled herbs in jars. Ana behind the counter, cheerfully chatting to my sister and I as she sorted through bandages. There it was safe. There, I could feel at ease. I try to look past the nostalgia, corrupting the memory in an attempt to find something useful for when I'm in the arena. Salt water to clean wounds. Gum leafs to draw out tracker jacker venom (pray I never need that). Yarrow to keep infection at bay. Nightlock berries to stop the heart, end suffering…

Tiny scraps of memory. Oh how I wish I'd paid closer attention!

After the training session, me and Rose made our way to the elevator to retreat to floor 12. At that moment, it was with a great sense of unease that I noticed Cal waving goodbye to a boy from 4 - Neptune, I think he's called. The names careers are given! Anyway, 4-boy hung back to meet with the rest of his district whilst Cal deigned to join Rose, me and Pash (our new best friend and shadow) in the fabulous elevator (it swoops in an overwhelmingly smooth fashion - it's almost fun).

"Making friends?" I asked haughtily, sounding ridiculous. It's stupid to feel betrayed by someone who was never really your ally, but that's how I felt. Seeing him getting friendly with a career… it's just so underhanded. I suppose it's naïve to think that just because you grew up in the same place, and our names were drawn out of the reaping balls, we should be comrades. Cal doesn't owe me anything at all.

Now I don't owe him anything either - certainly not my loyalty.

Cal raised his thick eyebrows at me. He sneered a little but I'm starting to suspect that's just his natural expression so it didn't bother me. "Just following Ford's orders," he replied.

I made a rather unladylike snort at that. Despite the tension in that moving cube being as thick as a bread loaf, Pash, because he cannot resist I suppose, decided to chime in then.

"Hi!" He beamed at Cal. "I'm Pash. You're the other 12 tribute? I got to say, you were very good with those arrows and I… Never mind."

Even Pash can take a hint when confronted with a look of death. Interesting to hear about Cal and arrows. I never noticed him wielding a bow. I guess he wasn't too happy about Pash pointing his strategy out to us. His withering look was enough to silence Pash and his never ending optimism.

We continued upwards in silence until Pash stumbled out on floor 11 with a hasty "Bye!"

Now, I find myself sitting at a grand glass table. The surface is cool and loaded with food (big surprise). Floor 12 is lavish (big surprise!) with thick fur carpets, shining appliances and a roaring fire. The view is quite simply spectacular. The Capitol glitters before us in the darkness, looking toy-like and surreal from this considerable height.

I stab a chunk in the creamy cod chowder in front of me with my fork. It's delicious. I sit next to Rose, opposite Elise (whose hair has transformed into lavender corkscrews. Good to know someone had a productive day).

"So…Make any friends today?" Ford delves in straight away. Right to the point. I look pointedly at Cal but it's Rose who pipes up first.

"Pash and Kaye from 11," says Rose around a mouthful of food. She blushes and swallows. "Sorry."

"Eat up by all means," smiles Ford with such sincerity that I can't help but like him. Elise, however, wrinkles her nose. I ignore her.

I wonder what Ford does with his time back in 12? I never see him, but then, I have no reason to go to the Victor's Village. As the only winner from 12, I imagine it's pretty lonely there. I hope he gets a new neighbour this year.

Elise cuts into my thoughts as is her usual custom. "The skinny couple from 11?" she doesn't sound impressed.

"They're friendly," I say, a tad too defensively.

"Trustworthy?" Asks Ford, his voice soft, a contrast to Elise's high-pitched, sharp stabs.

"Not remotely." I admit. Pash is a little too friendly. Kaye just looked fed up with the existence of everyone in that room.

I don't mind Ford's scepticism. But I won't take Elise's constant sniping. It is neither helpful nor appreciated. What does she know anyway? She's drinking again.

Rose opens her mouth as if to come to Pash's defence - she seemed rather fond of him, I'm not stupid - but says nothing. She must see that I am right. Allies may get us far, but we can never trust them.

"Anyone else?" Ford asks tiredly.

Silence. I glare past Rose, studying Cal. I don't trust him either. No I do not. Him and his fishy pal seemed friendly enough to me. Now he's keeping quiet. I think about announcing this wonderful new friendship on his behalf then reconsider. Rose already knows and Haymitch watches everyone anyway. He probably knows. Why tip off Cal?

If he thinks the careers won't turn on him, he can think again. It happens every year. Someone outside of the usual career pack joins up, maybe they have a skill the others covet, but they're always the first to go. When the tension gets too high, or if the pack hasn't met their kill quota that day. Sometimes just for fun. They'll hunt them down like animals.

I'd warn Cal but then…At least I won't have to kill him myself.

The thought fills me with revulsion as soon as it is formed. That's not me at all, planning someone's death. I cringe with shame, as if I'd said it out loud.

Strangely silent servants come and take my plate away, replacing it for one covered with fruit and chocolate sauce. I feel nauseated. There's a link between the servants and the Capitol's cruelty that I know will come to me later if I let it. For a moment, I was being just as cruel.

"The careers hate us," I blurt out to ease my conscience. "We can't trust them at all. They're like snakes."

I focus on skewering a strawberry, carefully not looking at Cal.

"That's a given," Says Ford, sounding perplexed.

"They hate you," murmurs Cal, just loud enough for us to hear. So quiet that we could choose to ignore it if we wished.

And that's just what we do.

He's confirmed it. One quarter of 'Team Twelve' has been corrupted.

What does it matter anyway? None of us is on the same team. We have to kill each other in the end. Damn Ford Heddon and his ideas of friendship. I think of hurting my fellows from 12. Lovely Rose…Haymitch….

I grip my napkin so hard, my nails pierce through it. My beautifully shaped, perfect nails. I feel trapped. I need air. It's like I've been buried already. Like I'm six feet under instead of on top of the world like I literally am…

The others do not notice my internal struggle. I just realised that even if I was to win, impossible as that may be, I won't be me anymore. I would have to do terrible things. I would lose myself - hand everything I was over to the Capitol and walk out as a shiny new killer.

But I can't lay down and die. That's not me either. It would kill my family.

I get a grip. Save the breakdown for later. I loosen my grasp on the napkin with a grimace. It is lined with little half-moon crescents of blood. My hand stings. I cling to Ford's words, his calming presence.

He wants us to continue to find allies. He would prefer we focus on defence skills for tomorrow's session, but to train with one weapon we feel drawn to. The only thing I feel drawn to isn't a weapon or an object at all…I instinctively cringe away from most weapons anyway.

He asks us if we don't mind divulging which weapons we feel confident using.

"None," says Rose gloomily.

"The knife I suppose." It's the first time Haymitch has spoken in my presence since this morning. He sounds bored. His words remind me of target practice, his warm hands on mine. I bite my tongue. Idiot.

"Cal?" Presses Elise, eyes glittering.

"Bow and arrows." I suppose he doesn't mind sharing with us lowly mortals since Pash gave him away anyway.

Elise sighs. "It's such a shame I can't use this information to get sponsors. They do love an archer!" She turns to me expectantly. "Maysilee?"

"Oh," I shrug. "Nothing really. I prefer defence to attack."

"Not true. Her aim's pretty fair with a knife." For some reason, Haymitch speaking about me not to me is highly irritating. He sounds kind of annoyed himself.

"But I've got no power in my throws," I protest through gritted teeth. I don't need him to build a false picture of me in front of Ford.

"Maybe you would be better with a bow and arrow too Maysilee?" Ford chimes in. I can see his logic. Aim, agility, no power behind it… "Perhaps you could show her Cal?"

"Yeah maybe…" Cal responds in a tone which clearly implies that's not going to happen.

I've had enough of this. I still feel sickly and light-headed from my earlier realisations. I excuse myself, leaving the others to work out a tactic for Rose. Ford does care. At least he's trying. Perhaps it's because he has double the chances of mentoring a victor this year.

I slope off to my room, stumbling a little. There's no lull in the conversation so I assume they didn't see. Good. Don't want to look weak.

I enter my room. It catches me by surprise every time I see it. Mine until I die. It's so fancy and cosy - two adjectives I never know could coexist. I shuck off my shiny training clothes - dark blue jacket with a 12 stitched on the breast, black vest, clingy yet flexible pants, same as the others. I kick the garments onto the floor as usual, scoop up a white-cotton night dress, and trail into the bathroom to scrub down. I step in the shower and exfoliate heavily, scraping my scalp, making my injured hand sting. I let the water soothe me, mould me back into being. It feels good to have some control over my body.

This illusion is shattered when I step out of the shower and an intangible breeze dries me off, unwanted. I sigh at my reflection, those silky locks just aren't me. I slip on the night dress (more like an overlong shirt) and pad into my room, weary and beaten.

"Messy."

I like to think I didn't scream even if his glittering eyes indicate I may have just done that. It's just I didn't expect him to be here. A servant maybe but Haymitch?

He's looking at my abandoned clothes, unsmiling.

"You could at least knock," I grumble although it is the last thing on my mind. I'm proud of how calm I sound. Surely this isn't allowed? I bet the Gamemakers are listening in right now. I suddenly feel paranoid… surely the rooms are being monitored?

"Your hand."

I'm still standing by the bathroom door and he's by the entrance to my room (door is closed…). He must have eyes like a hawk to notice the nail-shaped cuts across my palm.

"It's nothing." I curl said hand into a fist and fold my arms across my chest, self consciously. My dress is quite revealing. Then I remember my parade outfit…I know he's seen me in worse which is oddly comforting.

Haymitch shrugs. I am tired and annoyed. So what if he doesn't like my tone?

"What do you want?" I try to snap but it comes out rather defeated. I'm too tired deal with his mind games tonight. What's the point of asking? I'll never know what's going on in that head of his.

Haymitch just stands there looking…confused. That's new.

When the silence is getting to be too much, I really do snap at him. "Why are you here?"

It brings a ghost of a smile across his stupid, handsome features. He seems to like it when I am mad. I force myself to remember our situation, his girl in 12. I pretend I am made of stone. I won't smile back. It will be too hard. Far too hard in the arena. Already is…

"Don't know," he replies with a careless shrug, stuffing his hands into his training jacket pockets. He looks casual, as if he has every right to be here. I know he's pretending. It's as if he doesn't know why he's here either.

"Well do you mind lingering around somewhere else? It's kind of late." I will admit to being baffled too.

His eyes suddenly meet mine. They scorch right through me, pale and dangerous. I wouldn't dare look away.

Haymitch suddenly looks shy as he fidgets, though his eyes burn with purpose. "You okay?"

My mouth drops open a little, "I -"

"You seemed kind of queasy at dinner. I'm guessing it wasn't the fabulous food." He interrupts, speaking fast so it's hard for me to process his words.

As it sinks in, my heart melts even though I am stone. He noticed. "I'm okay now. Just tired of it all." I force out as flatly as I can manage.

He looks at is feet and smiles grimly. "Aren't we all?"

There's an awkward little pause before he blurts out something else. "May?"

"Yes?" It's funny how my nickname sounds so natural in his voice. I burn with curiosity and something else. I am made of stone. Made of stone. Will not cross that distance…

"Take better care of yourself yeah?" that was not what I had expected at all. I don't know what I expected. Is this really happening?

"W- what do you mean?" I stutter, caught off-guard.

"I just mean they'll toss you into that arena if your hand's hanging off," he says, nodding at my minor injury.

I already know this. Does he care? Does he really care? I decide that tonight isn't the night to call him out on all this mind trickery. Let him think that I'm swallowing it. Let him think that he's making my heart beat faster. That I'm smothering this huge smile that crops up when he's around because he cares. I'm not. He's not. I'm not….

He doesn't.

"Thanks for that piece of wisdom but I don't think my hand's quite that bad. Anything else?"

His eyes go dark at the coldness in my tone and I suddenly want to stuff the ungrateful words back in my mouth. I'm torn between feeling proud of how casual I sound and how desperately I want to warm up to him. Go to him. Ask him to stay. Share my earlier revelations with him. But I can't. Doesn't he see that I'm pretending too? Doesn't he see that I can't?

"Well night then," he says gruffly, turning on his heels to walk out and leave me. I clench my hands, possibly bloodying up the other in my attempt not to ask him to stay.

"Oh and Maysilee?"

I say nothing, not trusting my voice. I focus on the back of his head, wishing I could see his expression.

"Snakes don't just come from career districts," He opens the door and calls out without so much as a glance backwards. "They can be friendly too."

The door slams shut before I can even respond. I am alone once more.

Chapter Text

I just want to feel.

I want to laugh with my sister again. I want to feel safe back home again. I want everything to be shiny and clear again.

That is never going to happen again.

I toss and turn, Haymitch's words floating around my head, taunting me.

"Snakes aren't just from the career districts. They're friendly too."

"Whatever you say Haymitch," I whisper in the darkness, trying hard to mean it. But his words have already taken root deep within, infected me. I doubt everyone, from my 'team-mates', to the less spiteful tributes, even Haymitch himself.

Was he warning me? Or was he just trying to be enigmatic? Maybe his message was sincere, relating to someone specific? Unless he was just trying to spin my head, to put me off?

Not working…

I snort with laughter and flip onto my side in the cool sheets. I'm never going to sleep now which is a shame as I expect I won't do much sleeping in the arena. I need to be alert and cautious if I am to decipher the true meaning of Haymitch's words (if they even have any meaning). And to be alert, I need sleep. Tomorrow is our last full day of training. After that, it will be time to demonstrate our skills in front of the game makers in private sessions. It is a thought that makes me break out into a cold sweat. They get to judge us, rate us. Our scores will determine whether we are worth sponsoring at all. This could mean the difference between life and death in the arena. And there's a lot of competition this year.

Then there are the interviews.

I swallow down the nausea. I haven't even considered what approach I'm going to take. As long as I don't throw up on Caesar Flickerman's shoes, I think I'll be okay.

I bury my head in the pillow and try to remain calm. Or at least in a numb state of denial about what's coming. It was working reasonably well. Until Haymitch with his stupid, smug, good-looking face came along to shake me up. I have a right mind to invade his room and spin his head somehow, hit him or something. But that's not really my style. And I think the game makers would frown upon such behaviour. They want the violence to have an audience. We must entertain the masses.

When I finally get out of bed, I feel sickly and ill rested. Great.

When I get to the breakfast table, only the girls are there.

"Morning Elise, Rose." I nod, feeling dreadful. Where are the others? Surely I'm not late? How can I be late? I certainly didn't oversleep…I feel like I'm back on the train again. Trapped in a vicious circle.

I take a deep breath and pile some brightly coloured fruits on to my plate, needing the nourishment.

"Hi May," Rose looks pale, strained even. That's not good…

"Ah Maysilee - thanks for joining us." I see Elise has a mainly liquid breakfast again. Doesn't the woman ever eat? I would never starve myself by choice.

"Where's Ford?" I say, biting into a slice of fruit that has a hard, yellow skin. The fruit bursts with a watery freshness in my mouth. The juice helps to revitalise me.

"You look terrible dear. That's not very good is it? Imagine what the others will see when then look at you. Another easy target!" I glare at her fiercely. "Though you look a damn side better than poor Ford I have to admit."

I swallow my indignant fury (which is masking a deep fear that what she says is actually true). "What's wrong with Ford?"

Her golden eyes lock with mine and I can see she's selecting her words a shade too carefully. "He's a little under the weather and won't be able to attend to his duties today. Such a shame twelve has no other victors!"

"Sorry, your games killed them all." It comes out too sharply. Elise's eyes widen with shock which is soon covered up with her usual edgy chirpiness. She doesn't notice Rose give me a little kick under the table. Rose knows that such honesty is unwise in this climate.

But I don't see what else the Capitol could do to me.

Then I remember my family, and do my best to curb my temper.

"It's lucky you have me to guide you in his stead," Says Elise, grimacing at me. I suspect it was meant to be a smile.

"Can I see him?"

"No. You're to carry on with your usual schedule - training! The boys are already down there - early risers." she says, sounding almost fond. I don't like it. It's like they are more determined to learn how to kill than we are. So much for a united front. "Later we can view the tapes of the reapings - see if there's something we can learn from them and then we-"

"What's wrong with him?" I persist, feeling concerned. My mind flashes to how frail he has always looked. I just thought he didn't take care of himself since the games, I never thought he was really sick. It's like losing another chink in my armour. As if we weren't vulnerable enough.

"Eat your breakfast," Elise answers coolly, probably offended by my interruption. "Long day ahead."

As soon as we are able to ditch Elise by reach the elevator, I round on Rose in pursuit of more information.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," she says, eyes wide and worried. "He wasn't there when I woke up either."

I sigh, feeling blindsided and not liking it at all. Ford may not have been the strongest mentor, but he was all we had. He seemed to care. It was nice to know that someone was rooting for me. That someone understood what we'd be going through. I feel abandoned though I know it's not his fault…

I feel like something unpleasant has crawled inside me, making me cynical, questioning everything. This will be good in the arena I suppose but right now I feel uneasy. Ford is sick isn't he? I think of the guards and Gamemakers and the feeling of unease increases. They wouldn't hurt him would they?

I try to laugh at myself. He hasn't done anything wrong. I need to stop feeling so paranoid. Time to focus on training, something solid and vital.

Day two passes by in a similar fashion as day one. We stick to learning the basic survival skills, Rose as my shadow. It's a little annoying but at least we're doing what Ford wanted. When Rose lowers herself to strike a rock against some flint at the campfire stall, I examine her expression - can't help it. Pale, strained, grey eyes sharp with concentration. There's no hint of betrayal there. Haymitch's words rise in my mind. He wasn't referring to Rose. She wouldn't stab me in the back.

She hugs me in triumph when the pile of kindle finally ignites, catching me by surprise. I hug her back after a moment's hesitation. No. Not Rose. Never her.

I successfully build a fire of my own in half the time it takes Rose.

"Don't worry. It's only because I'm used to lighting one in our kitchen for the shop," I say reassuringly, anything to keep the mood light. When she smiles at me, this could almost be fun. Not two girls preparing for a fight for their lives. Just a couple of friends earning new skills together.

"You mean you use the fire to make sweets? Your family does run a sweet shop don't they?" Rose asks as we trail over to the rope tying station.

"Yep. Not much use to me now." I sigh, holding my head high anyway.

"Kept you alive this long." She says with another genuine smile. I never thought of it like that before. As we settle down to tie some knots, I fill her in on how all the separate sweets are made. The processes and ingredients. The little tricks of the trade. Just so we can keep talking. Rose looks vaguely interested enough.

"…Not that I'm an expert or anything," I conclude lamely, pushing some hair out of my eyes. "That's my father."

"Always wanted to try some." She sighs dreamily and I feel a little ashamed again. Here I am babbling on about my extravagant family trade - like an idiot.

"If you get back, tell my family I said you can have as much as you like." It's meant to be light-hearted but comes out pretty grim.

I grab a coil of rope and attempt to copy the teacher's neat little snare. Keeping my hands busy so I don't have to look at Rose.

She laughs sadly. "As if I'm going back."

The silence is too much and before I can stop myself, my hand lands on top of hers gently as she clutches her bundle of rope. I meet her eyes and smile. "We can try."

For a few seconds we stayed locked in moment of camaraderie. Then I begin to feel a little embarrassed and return back to my snare. Moment broken.

Rose clears her throat. I see her hands twitching as they fashion knots from the corner of my eye. "If anyone's coming back it's you."

It's my turn to laugh then. "Oh sure," I roll my eyes. "And I'm sure the barrel twins will give me no trouble at all." I say, nodding towards the chunky hulks of district 1. Who are currently attacking each other with long, wooden spears. The clashing sounds they make upon impact sound like gun shots. They battle fiercely. In fact, one of the guards has to step in, probably fearing they would bash the other's head in.

I imagine the damage one blow like that could do to a human skull and feel the colour drain from my face.

I glance at Rose who is watching them thoughtfully. "You're smarter than them."

"So are you." I state firmly.

"You have so much to get back too."

I would love to reply that the same applies to her but I just don't know if that's true.

She sees the question in my face. She always sees. "I've just got my mother. She'll manage fine without me eventually. Washes clothes for a living. Never was much help there. One less mouth to feed." She tries to sound cheerful but her voice wavers. The small laugh she tries out is just plain ghastly.

Is that all? - I want to ask. Just Rose and her mother. The idea of this faceless mother haunts me. All alone. I have to swallow down a lump in my throat. Imagine losing your only child to this nightmare.

"You still have to try." I repeat. I doubt her mother sees her only child as a burden. I suddenly want Rose to win more than anyone else.

Rose blinks a few times as though coming out of a trance (or blinking away tears). She looks at me and smiles weakly.

"You too," She clears her throat. "You've got your sister and lovely parents?"

I realise she's been tracking me somehow. Paying attention like she always does. The shop. My sister. "How'd you know about Krista?"

"The only blond twins in school?" She smiles. "You're noticeable."

I understand what she means. We do look startlingly alike to those who aren't used to us. I shrug. "I'll go out fighting for them but they'll be okay. My family's tough.." I say hoping it's true. At least they have each other. It's more than Rose's mother has.

"So is my mother. Had to be after dad died." She glances at me. "He was working on the deep seam."

I nod understandingly. She doesn't need to say anymore. The last mine that collapsed was over ten years ago. My heart goes out to this little family of two before I can remind myself we'll be fighting to the death in three days time.

Suddenly I feel too vulnerable - too exposed. I remember where we are. I look up, but the woman who was making snares moments ago has dashed off somewhere. How odd. Perhaps our conversation was making her uncomfortable.

"It just seems unfair." Sighs Rose, continuing the conversation on her own. I can feel my familiar walls closing down around me. "Separating twins like this."

I clench my hands and bite my tongue. Trying to keep in a gasp of pain. No one has voiced that opinion out loud. It hurts. It really hurts. But she doesn't understand. How could anyone understand?

"I think we should train separately for a while." I say, standing up abruptly. It isn't 'share time'. That's over. Why should I let her in, feel sorry for her? It won't help either of us in the long term. Not when we know what's coming. This is stupid. Was stupid of us.

"Are you okay?" She says, leaping up too, looking slightly alarmed.

"Fine. Just need to think on my own a little." I say smoothly, trying to smile convincingly whilst Haymitch's words echo unpleasantly around my head. Snakes can be friendly too… Not Rose. Not her. She didn't tell me about her life to make me vulnerable on purpose. No. She is just heart-wrenchingly honest about everything it seems. Was since the moment we really met on the train.

Even so, I have to get away from her. I walk away before she can even respond.

-
"So… I trust no one because of you. I'm acting like a paranoid lunatic. Probably just upset Rose for no good reason and it's all your fault with your vague, enigmatic warnings." I sigh harshly and plop down on the floor next to Haymitch.

It's lunch time and he eyes me warily, a chunk of bread in his hand, inches from his suspended mouth.

"What?"

"You know."

"I'm just eating bread here sweetheart."

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me. I want to know exactly what you meant last night."

He drops his roll looking pained. "Would you keep it down already?" He looks mildly disgusted at my apparent nervous break down. I suppose I have come on a little strongly. We haven't spoken all morning. Haven't even seen him. Suddenly there are a lot of angry words for him to process.

"Who's the snake?" I say at a lower volume. I scan the rest of the training room. A few of the tributes are talking to each other with little enthusiasm. I see Pash has joined Rose again. As has Kaye though she looks as aloof as last time.

The careers - a mixture of tributes from 1, 2 and 4 - have now officially been joined by our faithful Cal. I grit my jaw and try to forget him. His funeral.

"Who's the snake? You mean aside from the obvious?" Haymitch drawls, eyes switching from me to the careers.

"I know Cal's a treacherous little back stabber." Haymitch snorts at my casualness. "Was that it? The warning? Because I got to say, that was pretty obvious."

We look at each other for a moment. I am the first to lose our little stare down. His eyes are a deep, moody grey. I cannot read them at all which unnerves me. He just looks kind of dangerous. Always dangerous. And amused. And also as if he is plotting something, taking everything in, missing nothing. Hence the danger I suppose.

"You need to stop being so trusting. That's all. Thought you would have worked that out by now." He says, with a slight sneer.

"I am not too trusting!"

"You're making lots of friends." His tone is higher, mocking me as he gestures at Rose and Pash.

"I'm doing what Ford told me to do." I practically growl.

"Because Ford's such an expert…" He says, heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Won it didn't he?"

"And where is he now?"

That surprises me. "I don't know, where is he now? What's wrong with Ford? Do you know?"

"That's irrelevant." I could strangle him, I really could. "My point is: snakes are friendly. Don't trust that cheerful creep."

I follow his glare and work it out. "You mean Pash?" He talks too fast. Switching topics, jerking me around like a puppet. My head's spinning because we're sat too close. I feel more confused than before.

He nods. "Elevens aren't that bad are they?" I ask, doubtfully. Whenever previous tributes from 12 have formed alliances in past games, it's always been with those from 11.

"This guy is."

"What makes you say that." He turns to pick up a little glass of water and I grab his wrist, forcing him to make eye contact. He's taken his jacket off and his skin is smooth and warm. "Come on. Stop twisting things." I say, feeling exasperated. "Where's the proof? Or are you just sewing your own seeds of doubt, playing the game?"

"I have my reasons." He jerks his arm out of my grip. "Share time is over." The words, so similar to my own before, startle me.

He gets up, looks down at me and says: "I did you a favour May. Doesn't make us friends so don't push it."

He haughtily strolls off and I don't know whether to laugh or sigh. You got to give it to him, that boy does love to make an exit.

I trail over to Rose with a heavy heart. I'll just have to trust my own instincts on this one.

Pash is talking at Rose, discussing the next couple of days. Is it just innocent chit-chat or is he trying to scope out our (nonexistent) tactics? We tell him nothing either way. Rose welcomes me with a forgiving smile. I try to focus on the here and now. I don't look for Haymitch. I'll take this a step at a time and work out who to trust for myself.

Three more steps. Private training sessions. Interviews. The arena.

Hope my instincts guide me well.

Chapter Text

By the time I get to floor twelve that night, my legs feel watery, my arm muscles ache and I am hungry. What a day.

My conversation with Haymitch left me feeling furious. Add that to the creeping awareness that I have nothing to show the game makers in our private sessions tomorrow, I had to spend the rest of the afternoon angrily practising my aim. Knives, spears, even a bit of archery. By dinner time, my blood was pumping and I could now hit a target from more than ten feet away with a knife (the teacher nearly wept with joy). The other weapons…not so much. A spiky-haired girl from five (according to her shirt label) hooted with laughter when I nearly launched the bow at the target instead of the arrow. Though not in a malicious way, I discovered.

"Something funny?" I asked with a smile to show her I wasn't being aggressive. As if I need any more enemies. The cackling girls from 1 kept barging into me whenever they got the chance. And I kept catching the Crazy Twins watching me every now and then. It was making me feel very uncomfortable. That's an understatement.

"Nice shooting." She said stoically, green eyes sparkling.

"Bet you're afraid now," I joked. She pushed some strands of red hair out of her eyes, and laughed to my relief.

"Terrified." She agreed before taking aim with her own bow and hitting the target next to mine dead in the centre. I hadn't even noticed her approach, too absorbed in target practice I guess. My hand was throbbing from where I pinched myself last night. Yep. I'll go with that reason for my terrible aim.

"Think I'll stick to the knife." I said, eyes fixed on the arrow that was decisively stuck in the bulls-eye, mocking me. It was a stark reminder that even friendly faces can be killers. I really hope I don't run into her in the games.

"That's wise." She said, faux-serious, her eyes glittering. I get the feeling we would be friends in another life. Shame.

"Maysilee." I blurted out, pointing to myself stupidly.

She hesitated, before probably deciding I was just a bit simple and therefore no threat. "Greta."

We shared a little smile before I went to place the bow back in its holder. "So…Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

I didn't realise she had already walked swiftly away in a blur of red. I suppose it was a stupid question. I don't know much about 5, but I doubt they encourage their population to learn how to shoot. It was probably safer for her not to answer. Never know who's listening.

I sighed heavily, before deciding to go and join Rose and Pash. I may not completely trust him, but the single-minded knife-hurling event was starting to creep me out. I needed a break. Some companionship. It's not a pleasant mind frame you're left with, practising killing things on your own all day.

I'm not going to last five minutes in the arena am I?

---

After another exquisite meal from which Ford is absent yet again (Elise still wouldn't answer my questions. Dodged them like a professional), us four tributes and Elise settled down in front of the television like one dysfunctional family. We should have watched the all the reaping footage ages ago.

We watch in silence, me wedged in between Rose and Haymitch. Funny how that keeps happening. I try to watch the coverage clinically, as if it wasn't a snap shot of twenty-lives being wrecked beyond repair.

The brutes of district 1, fight over a place, eager to volunteer. I see the pride in their features and want to laugh at their stupidity. Satin and her counterpart practically glide to the stage with an air of superiority. District 2 isn't much better. At least they haven't bullied the rest of us as much as those from 1. District 3, two striking blond boys and a couple of shaken girls. They have a much more realistic reaction. District 4 - more of the same career rubbish. The petite red-haired basket weaver smiles slyly. Neptune, the boy with the unfortunate name, steps smugly on stage.

"Look Cal - your boyfriend." Grins Haymitch. Cal makes a very rude gesture in return which has Elise flapping her arms about bad etiquette. I suppress a smile.

I stop listening to their names eventually. What would be the benefit of that? I don't seem to be learning anything of use from this. I just see a series of youths having their lives snatched away.

Greta gets called which does grab my attention. She steps smartly on to the stage without wavering. She could be a real contender. A boy from six catches my eye. It's the crowd's reaction. Gasps of dismay. Then I see him and I understand why. So small. So pale and frightened. It's always awful when a twelve year old gets chosen. Just a child. His name is Jak. I hadn't even noticed him in training.

"Have you seen that kid?" I ask to no one in particular.

Nobody answers. Even Elise keeps her smart comments to herself as the kid is practically pushed on stage. You can tell he's trying hard not to cry, mop of fair hair blowing in the wind. No one volunteers to take his place.

I swallow hard and make a promise to myself not to look for him next time we are all together. I know I will break that promise.

To my surprise, I feel Haymitch's warm hand give my knee a quick, reassuring squeeze. His eyes don't even flicker away from the screen. Then he folds his hands neatly in his lap and carries on watching like nothing happened.

7 - the burley axe throwers. 8, 9 and 10 - some cry, others look brave. A girl from 10 who looks as young as Jak bravely takes the stage, curls billowing. A haunting image. I really didn't pay attention in training did I?

On and on it goes. So many. So many dead children. Only one of us comes out alive.

Finally Kaye and her fellow female tribute Freya are chosen. Another boy from 11 is called (Nat I think is his name - there are so many) before Pash. I am unnerved by Pash's reaction. He smiles broadly and shakily makes his way to the stage. Does nothing stop that smile? There's something not right about that boy. And it's not just the warmth or the proximity of Haymitch clouding my mind. There's something off about that smile.

I shiver.

"We don't need to see this." I hear Cal groan exasperatedly.

"We lived it Elise," Sighs Rose sadly.

"I think you need to know who you're sat next to. And I want to see how you all come across - what we've got to work with!" She gives a single excited clap, making me jump terribly.

I think you need to know who you're sat next to…

That could be one of the creepiest and wisest things she has ever said. I suppose you really see what a person is made from in moments like that.

Rose first. Pale and shivering, slowly making her way to the stage just as I remembered. Knowing what happens next, I wish we could have walked up together. I pat her arm clumsily as she trembles beside me. Why are we watching this?

I feel Haymitch tense next to me as my name is called. I don't want to look but I can't help but see. The shock on my face, wiped clear in seconds. The look of pure anguish on my sister's face, reflecting how I truly feel. The way she clings to Ana when I push them away. And I do push them away. I never realised. I feel terrible. At least I put it right with Krista as we said our goodbyes. I'll never see Ana again.

My throat hurts as I watch myself smooth my dress down and walk to the stage with my head held high, albeit a little wobbly. I'm pleased. I look so much stronger than I thought I would. No one would think I'm weak from this.

I breathe deeply, trying to detach myself from the moment. It hurts. I hope I don't look cold and uncaring. I only ever wanted to not look weak. I know I'll worry about this all night. This is…A calloused finger runs down my arm before rubbing the back of my hand, distracting me. I don't look at him. I know he'll be watching the screen if I do. I flip my hand over and he gently traces my wrist before linking our fingers together. Two people, finding comfort as they are forced to relive the worst moment of their lives. This is okay. I can let this much happen.

I try to focus on the screen. Cal looks stoic and composed, though his eyes are restless. And Haymitch… He burns with purpose. He stays strong and calm, eyes glinting dangerously, blazing. So handsome and confident. Nothing will stop him.

I try to separate my feelings for him now so I can view this impartially. Am I just imposing the qualities I know he has onto the footage? Or does everyone see him that way? If they do, he'll have no trouble finding sponsors at all.

I nearly laugh at the TV-Me's expression of surprise as Haymitch joins us on stage. My Laughing Boy. I cant believe I've only known him for a handful of days.

"So…Have we learnt any tips from the coverage?" Says Elise, switching the set off and standing before us expectantly. Haymitch lets go of my hand at once.

Probably for the best. Tributes don't hold hands.

But I know the damage is done. I know it. What I don't know is whether he's doing this on purpose. I consider it, feeling more and more distressed as the others babble about easy targets and possible allies. How can I hurt him now? How can I fight him to the death? How can I let him die?

I sigh sadly.

---

Eventually, the 'team' calls it a night. Private training sessions come next. Then interviews. Better rest while you can, as Elise remarked, grabbing a bottle of scotch as she went to bed. I hang back. So does Haymitch. I'm not even surprised.

"Goodnight Maysilee," Rose calls out, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity as she walks away. I wish her the same as I settle on the couch in front of the remarkable view.

I stare out of the window until the lights make my eyes blur. So much life down there. Another world we'll never see. The city glows like embers, still toy-like and surreal from this height. I am very aware of his presence. I wonder what he wants.

"Why do you always wear dresses?"

Didn't predict that.

"What?" I ask with surprise. I scan his face. His eyes glitter despite his stoic expression.

He says nothing, waiting for a response. Guess he doesn't waste words. I take a moment to consider my response carefully. "Um… I suppose I feel less restrained. And Krista - my sister… I'm used to matching what my sister wears. She likes dresses. She always…"

I let the thought trail off, feeling pained and exposed.

He watches me, face revealing nothing.

"Why'd you ask?"

"You're intriguing," he replies instantly.

I laugh a little harshly. "'Intriguing?' Please don't attempt to go all charming again."

He grins in an unfriendly manner. "I suppose it does sound stupid. But it's true." he sighs and tilts his head back, rubbing his eyes as if he was tired. I stare at the stripe of exposed neck. "Kept waiting to catch a glimpse of the foot stomper again. You'll need her."

I know what he means. The angry girl by the fence. Maybe he thinks I need that aggression to survive. I don't know why he cares. "Are you helping me?" I ask hesitantly. "I mean... why on Earth are you helping me? Why'd you even care?"

"I don't." He says sharply, looking at me. I see the boy who blazed at reaping and have to resist the urge to back away. I tell myself it doesn't hurt.

I can feel myself closing off. "Then leave me alone."

We both sigh and sit in silence for a few minutes.

"If I can't win then maybe you should," he says in a rush, as though confessing something unpleasant. "You're alright. You got a family. Smart enough - not completely useless."

"Gee thanks." I say, heart racing at his words. He seems sincere. Why?

"Someone has to show them up," he adds quietly.

I consider his words, feeling puzzled. "Wait a minute - show who up?" I practically mouth at him. The other tributes? The barbaric careers?

His grin is sardonic. "Can't talk about it here. But think about it," he leans closer and whispers in my ear, curls tickling my cheek. "Ever wish there was a way to outsmart them?" He pulls back and studies my face eagerly, eyes dark.

I think of the fence for some reason.

I mull over his words. Outsmart? Show up? Suddenly I realise who he means. He's not talking about showing up the other tributes, or shaming them like I first thought. He's talking about the Gamemakers themselves.

He didn't mean I need that anger from the fence incident either. He means he wants to see that rebellious girl again.

My mouth falls open with shock and I consider my words cautiously before I answer him, carefully studying the view. There are ears everywhere. I need to make sure my words won't implicate him in any way.

"Family comes first." I try to sound bored, as if my comment could be in relation to nothing important. "We should always protect the ones we love."

I know he'll understand. Do something rebellious in the games and you've got one dead family. I think Haymitch needs reminding. He could just be reckless enough to do something stupid.

"Who's waiting for you back home?" I ask, to emphasise my point. He gives me a ferocious glare but goes with it. If he protests, someone will pick up on his thoughts.

"Got my parents," He says grudgingly. Someone hates to share. "My brother…My girl." He grunts it out and has the grace to look away. I let his words settle in the air, people he needs to get back to.

His girl. Oh. It's not like both of us could come out of this alive anyway. It still hurts. Stupid.

He glowers at me a moment before abruptly changing the subject. Good idea.

"Liking the food?" he practically spits it out. I don't understand why he's so angry. Perhaps he thinks I should have agreed with him? I'm sorry, but if he thinks we're kindred spirits, he is mistaken. I will not jeopardise my family to make a stand, even if I did know how. And if that makes me selfish in the bigger picture, so be it.

I think back to the Dark Days. Someone made a stand once. Someone risked the people they loved to overthrow our oppressors.

And now we have the Hunger Games as a result. Thanks a lot.

I know I'm being deliberately obtuse and self centred, but I can't think like that. I need to try and survive. That is all.

We fake a bit of polite conversation, just for appearances.

"Thought about the private sessions?" I ask limply.

"Well yeah." He rolls his eyes, implying that it's tomorrow so the answer is obvious.

"What you going to do?" I persist.

"Put on a show," he relies simply, though I don't like his smile. "You?"

"Knives." I say with a shrug. I bid him good night before the bitter silence gets too much.

I really want to ask him about his girl. Does she make him happy? Will he fight for her? I want advice about tomorrow's sessions. What angle will he use in the interviews? I want a friend - more than a friend. Sadly it can't be him. It will never be him. That window has passed when I shot down his theory. Doesn't he see I was only trying to protect him?

It just that proves I should be focusing on protecting myself. Only myself.

I bow my head and slope off to bed.

Chapter Text

A whole afternoon crammed in a room full of aggressive teenagers. Whoever thought that was a good idea? I clench my fists and try to remain calm whilst sat on the cold, unyielding surface of the bench. Forty-eight of us, waiting to be called in and assessed. To be judged and rated by a crowd of Capitol snobs who have too much power over us already. No wonder the tension is palpable.

I look at my shoes, fixated. Each of us has four minutes to show off our skills. The careers were called in quite early, in district order. It's a good thing. If anyone was going to snap because of this oppressive silence, it would have been them.

"Greta Marsh." A cool, careless voice announces. I look up then. It's the spiky red-haired girl's turn to go into the training room. The one I shared a joke with before. Have we only just got to district 5? It's taking forever. I want to give her an encouraging smile, but realise how stupid that would be. There's no sense of camaraderie in this room. Even Pash has stopped smiling.

Greta marches to the door with an air of determination. I think of how talented she was with that bow and arrow. She'll be fine. I have no room to worry about her as well.

I recede back into my staring match with the shoes, letting my thoughts whirl and settle on nothing in particular. I don't want to think about my turn. I'll be spontaneous and what will be will be. It won't effect me in the arena either way. Who would want to sponsor me, high score or not? I'm invisible in this crowd.

I definitely don't bother to size up my opponents. I don't want to look at little Jak from 6. Or the child from 10 - the little girl with the blond curls. I know they are here thanks to the tapes of reapings. It's too sad. I can't worry about them, or feel guilty or sympathetic. Although I know I already do. I know that images of them during the reaping will haunt me for the rest of my life anyway. No matter how short that time may be.

More names. More nerves. The cool voice. Witling down the numbers. Soon Pash is summoned leaving Rose, Haymitch, Cal and I to wait all alone. One happy team.

My foot taps a meaningless beat against the floor.

"Would you stop twitching? It's annoying," Cal's sudden haughty tone makes me jump. What does he…?

Oh. He means me and my tapping. I wasn't even making any noise! Someone's a little on edge. He has been all day. I didn't think Cal was the type to get so nervous. I suppose it was all a show, the toughness. Still doesn't mean I have to like the guy.

I raise my eyebrows at him and make a big show of crossing my legs slowly and carefully. He huffs with disdain which I choose to ignore.

He's been snapping all day. At breakfast he exploded when Ford didn't show up again. Started muttering under his breath about 'useless people' and their 'pathetic addictions.' I have no idea what he was talking about and didn't care to ask. It is a little frustrating after all, being without a mentor. It puts us at a distinct disadvantage. Not only that, but I find I genuinely do miss his calm demeanour and helpful attitude. It was reassuring to know that someone from 12 has won before, and that he knows what we're going through. That he seems to care more about our lives than putting on a show like Elise does. But it seems he has abandoned us. Elise says he's sick but I keep catching Haymitch and Cal giving each other sceptical glances as if they don't believe it. Maybe he just doesn't care about us.

"Rose Chater." I snap out of my thoughts and feel guilty. I should have talked to her, tried to boost her confidence, keep her calm.

I grab her wrist as she walks past me - I cant help it. "Good luck."

She glances my way but I don't think she even sees me. She gives a little nod and then glides out of the room, dreamily. Hope she will be okay. I wonder what she'll do?

I'm next. I know it. In four minutes. For some reason I think of my grandmother, teaching me pretty melodies to sing to her songbird. That sense of calm as we sat by her fireplace. Sometimes she'd braid my hair. I miss her so much and all that she represents. All that I will lose. I try to sit still. Try not to look at Haymitch. He hasn't spoken to me since last night anyway. The wall is back up between us again. I won't be the one to tear it down this time. I'm sick of his mood swings. If he can't see I was only looking out for him last night, then he's not as bright as I thought he was. We're better off not being friends. I know that in my head anyway.

"Maysilee Donner."

Haymitch and Cal say nothing as stand up, breathing slowly to keep calm. Didn't expect them to. I take slow, even steps towards the door that will take me to the Gamemakers. This won't even be the hard part. I know that too.

I walk into the hall, feet soundless against the smooth floor. I look to my right. The Gamemakers are sat in a box, looking down on me, on all of us. Not that they seem very focused right now. They're drinking and eating merrily, murmuring and laughing. I grit my teeth, feeling at a disadvantage and hating them for it. Must have been a long day for them too. Poor things.

I pad over to the selection of knives. They gleam brightly. I snatch up two large knives, elegantly curved. I fan their coldness through my fingers, allowing everything to melt away, so my mind can slip into cold purpose.

I stand as far away from the targets as I dare.

I clear my throat. The Gamemakers carry on talking. I feel like stomping my foot again. Instead I say in a clear and measured voice: "Maysilee Donner: district twelve."

I do not look to see if they're paying attention. I just throw, aiming for the dummies as it makes more of an impact, hitting something human shaped. And that it does, to my relief. One hits the dummy in the chest, another in the shoulder. They cut deep.

It was two powerful throws. But not enough. Not very impressive, but not terrible either. Probably forgettable though - not what I wanted.

I hear a few mumbles but dare not analyse them. I still have time left. What should I do for them? I am the performing monkey after all. I walk back up to the knife case and am about to scoop up some more when something catches my eye.

It's a little hollow tube. Silver and smooth. A few darts lie next to it. I know what they are. Our Peacekeepers carry a more powerful version of this weapon on the rare occasions they want to subdue, not kill. Never saw this weapon in training. I wonder why? For some reason I am drawn to it. Without thought, because thought always leads to hesitation and I don't have time to hesitate, I scoop the tube and its ammo up. I smile a little.

I do not consider my next move. It may look stupid, but I want to try it. I doubt any of the other tributes gave it a go. Not showy enough. But effective. Damn effective if you know how to use it.

I bring one of the red-feathered darts to my face, keeping the sharp end pointed away and state in a clear voice: "Stick this tip in the wrong kind of berries and your enemy's in trouble."

There is now silence in the room. I take this as a good sign. I insert one of the darts into the hollow tube - a blow dart gun - and stride back to the dummies, closer this time. I take a deep breath and exhale harshly into the tube. The dart flies through the air and hits the target in a satisfying place - right in the neck.

I smile, give a little nod to the Gamemakers. They look…a little impressed? Certainly focused now.

One white-haired man, with an elaborately shaped beard steps forward: "You may go now. You are dismissed"

Dismissed gladly. And that was that.

---

Later, we gather around the television once more, waiting for our final scores to be announced. Dana and three other stylists (one for each of us) join us as well. I suppose they want to see if all that appalling work at the parade was worth it. I wonder what they'll dress us in tomorrow for interviews…

I don't feel nervous now. What's done is done. I only hope I didn't make a big mistake in front of the Gamemakers. At dinner, I even told Elise what had happened - that's how desperate for reassurance I was.

"Blow darts?" She wrinkled her abnormally smooth brow at me. "Well, at least that's original."

I was able to eat a little after that.

No. Nerves are not for now. That comes later. With the interviews. Then the whole fighting to the death deal that follows...

"Mind if I watch this with you all?"

This voice is little more than a whisper. I recognise it instantly.

"Be our guest!" Elise calls out merrily (drinking again) and gestures at the arm chair beside hers. Ford slips into the seat silently, looking so small in its confines.

He looks so frail - even more so than before.

"Are you okay?" It slips out in concern. I am no longer mad at him for leaving us at Elise's mercy for so long. He looks so ill, papery white and crumpled like a tissue. He's thinner, so much thinner. Victors eat well so the difference is palpable even if he was pretty thin before.

Even his skin seems aged, his eyes sunken. I feel awful for doubting him.

"Of course." He says and those eyes still blaze at me. That makes me feel better. Because if I stop and think about it, then it actually looks like he could be dying.

There's an awkward silence when before there was the brainless chatter of Elise and our prep team. Eventually the talk resumes, but far more subdued, as if we were in the presence of someone who was truly dying. I frown. That thought is ridiculous. He's not dying. He's here. We're the ones who will be dying imminently - the tributes.

The television is recapping the reapings again. The commentators are making up all kinds of mindless babble. "He looks determined! Oh! She looks fierce! Could have a winner there! A real contender…"

"What a load of rubbish," I hiss. Rose smiles at me thinly. She looks distant, strained. She hasn't said a word since the private sessions. I think something may have gone wrong for her. I really hope I'm wrong but I can see it in her eyes.

"Such lovely hair!" One of the stylists shrieks when the little girl from 10 is shown, cutting into my thoughts. I can't believe that something so shallow would be her main concern when seeing this child chosen for the slaughter. Actually, I can believe it. I'm learning it's just how they think in the Capitol.

"Looks awful doesn't he?" I hear Haymitch mutter at my side when the nervous boy tribute of 10 is chosen. I understand him. I pretty sure he's actually referring to Ford.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask quietly.

"You'll have to ask him that." Haymitch responds and he actually sounds angry. Why would he be angry with Ford for being ill? I don't understand. I think I will ask Ford, when we are next alone. I can hear Elise and Ford openly discussing tomorrow's plans already, for our benefit. Elise wants to work with us as a group on our physical appearances. It is agreed we shall separately train with Ford for our interview techniques. Thank goodness for that.

"And now, the moment we've all been waiting for…"

I sigh and resist the urge to shade my eyes against the commentators' hair. Who would chose such a lurid shade of orange which is brighter than the sun?

"Those all important scores for the fiftieth annual Hunger Games!" He announces excitedly on screen.

A picture of each tribute is shown, along with a score out of twelve. The careers get predictably high scores around ten. Satin - one of the girls from 1 - actually pulls an eleven. She'll be fierce competition. I bet the others will turn on her first. I try not to imagine what she did to impress the Gamemakers so. It makes me feel light-headed.

The scores are unnervingly high. Even little Jak manages to scrape a five. Greta knocks up an unsurprising ten. And Pash shocks us with a ten of his own. I try to remember what is his area of expertise in training was and cannot ever recall seeing him use a weapon. Someone's been holding back. It makes me uneasy. I notice Cal's smirk disappeared the moment the number flashed up on screen. Perhaps he realises he didn't have to worm his way into the treacherous career pack after all. Haymitch and Rose frown at the screen. Seems I'm not the only one who doesn't like it.

Either that or they're worried about their own scores.

"Rose Chater..." Her sweet face flashes before us on screen. "Six."

She sighs next to me. That's not great. There's no time for me to say anything consoling - what could I say in front of the others? I can't tear my eyes away the screen.

"Maysilee Donner…" Says the commentator and there I am, eyes focused bravely on something unseen in the distance. Oh God.

"Eight."

I feel like punching the air in relief. It was more than I ever thought I'd get. Perhaps they thought I was resourceful? I laugh a little in surprise and relief.

"Haymitch Abernathy…" He even looks like he couldn't care less in his picture. I care. "Nine."

I shout an internal whoop of celebration. Haymitch says nothing. I glance to my left and see his eyes sparkle, calculating. He must be pleased.

"Cal Rooba…" Surly picture. Big surprise. "Nine."

Ah. Equal footing for the boys. I wonder what they did?

Elise can barely contain her joy. "This is the best collection of scores we could of hoped for - the best I've seen in a long time! Oh! I will sell you. I will get you so many sponsors! The down-trodden warriors of district twelve - the dark horses of the games!"

"Well done." Ford smiles gently, a soothing tonic to Elise's madness. The stylists help themselves to something called champagne that the silent servant had brought in for us. I accept a glass and return Dana's small nod of approval from across the room. I take a sip and hastily set it to one side after nearly choking to death on the bubbles.

Haymitch smiles at me mockingly but I don't mind. His eyes crinkle at the corners and I think it may be the only genuine smile he has ever given me. I grin back, feeling loopy.

I wonder what my family thought? Bet it surprised them. Or maybe not. Krista knows me. I did promise not to go down without a fight. I bet they're relieved. This gives me a chance, a slim chance yes, but it's better than scoring a two like I feared.

Everyone's celebrating. Even Cal has stretched out smugly in his arm chair. It's just Haymitch, Rose and I on our settee… Oh. Rose.

I turn to her. She looks as pale as Ford. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line and she says nothing as she stares at the switched off screen. Perhaps she's seeing her score again. I feel terrible for forgetting her.

"It's not that bad," I say softly, struggling to be consoling.

"Easy for you to say, you got an eight." Her tone is gentle, not at all angry or snide, but still she looks at me appealingly. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really it's fine." I wave my hand at her. "Lots of winners hid their talent to get low scores - like a tactic. Then in the arena…" I trail off. They became brutal killers. Something Rose could never do.

Her eyes have a watery sheen. Please don't cry…

"I messed up so bad. Couldn't throw straight. Couldn't even tie a knot," she whispers, swallowing hard. "I think they were being generous."

I snort. "They're never generous. Perhaps you were better than you thought you were."

"They gave me a six." Ford pipes up clearly. I couldn't help but smile at him. Neither could Rose. He scored a six and he won. The clouds clear away from Rose's face as she gives him a watery smile. I suddenly feel a great rush of affection for our mentor. Whatever is going on with him, he does care.

He does care and one of us could get through this. I will drink to that.

Chapter Text

I'm going to weep. Or scream. Or start throwing things. But that would not be appropriate behaviour would it? Appropriate behaviour. I'd like to take Elise's favourite new phrase and ram it down her -

"Maysilee? Are you concentrating?"

"Yes Elise."

"Good because you have to master the appropriate behaviour for the show tonight. If you cannot manage high heels, you will send out the wrong message to the audience."

"Yes Elise." It's an effort not to growl. I see Rose duck her head out of the corner of my eye and know she is fighting back laughter. I admire her spirit. We've been practising wearing these stilt-like shoes for three whole hours now.

I bet Ford isn't making the boys work this hard - though the image of Haymitch and Cal in heels amuses me briefly.

"That's the only problem with the design - tributes from 12 have such spindly legs," Rochella whines causing Dana and Elise to hum with agreement. I don't know why our stylists have to be here. All they do is make mean comments that knock our confidence back. So helpful. Rose's stylist is worse than my sour faced helper, with her lurid green curls and offensive demeanour.

The odd thing is, our interview dresses are rather pretty I have to admit. They shimmer like starlight and are similar in design. Rose's is a subtle shade of green, mine a deep blue.

We match our stylists' hair colours! It's as if they are trying to mark us, to raise their profiles. This isn't about helping us at all. I realised this the second they shoved the dress over my head, at the start of this session, before I started losing the will to live.

I like the design. Our gowns are deceptively simple and girlish at a glance, with heart-shaped necklines, dainty shoulder straps and shimmery material that flicks out past the knees to where it ends mid-calf. There is an element of sophistication with the shapely design, slit up the back and complimenting high heels. We could be sexy or sweet. I'm impressed.

I can't help but think it is more suitable for someone who has been better fed their whole lives. I can barely fill mine out. I feel like a kid playing dress up. At least the past few days of feasting have softened the edge of starvation that surrounded Rose's image.

We practice walking until my soles scream in protest. How is mangling my feet supposed to help my chances in the arena?

"Hold the hem out - show off my design," Dana says, trying to be encouraging but simply sounding bored. As always.

"Try to look beautiful," Suggests Elise helpfully.

"Oh we'll make them look beautiful," smiles Rochella. Of course, the human thing to do would have been to say we already look beautiful. Who knows what they intend to slaver on our faces tonight. I think Rose looks very sweet. I'm not sure if this is an advantage. Who wants to sponsor 'sweet'?

In an act of unintended mercy, we are eventually allowed to change back into our training outfits for our practice interview sessions with Ford.

"If he tries to make me wear heels again, I'll make him eat them." I whisper fiercely.

Rose giggles, "I'll back you up."

But the joke's on us for when we arrive in the living room area, Ford splits us up insisting on private sessions. Rose won't be watching my back. She is dismissed to enjoy a late lunch in her room whilst I perch uncomfortably on the sofa next to Ford.

His pale eyes bore into mine, strong even if the rest of him looks so worn out.

"You know what we're supposed to be discussing?" he asks softly, like leaves scraping against the ground.

"Umm…My interview angle?" Obviously.

"That's right," he smiles encouragingly. "So what have we seen of you so far?"

Very little. You abandoned us when you were ill.

I say nothing, wondering if he really does want an answer.

"You're strong." He answers for me when the silence gets too much. "You got an eight which is unusual for one so small." I laugh nervously. "Do you mind if I ask what skill you demonstrated for the Gamemakers?"

I shrug, why not? "I threw some knives and used a blow dart gun. Killed a couple of dummies." I answer with a wry smile.

The corners of his mouth quirk up and those eyes sparkle. "Very good. You showed initiative. The audience will see that eventually. So far all they really know is that you have a twin who looks startlingly like you." His eyes fill with sympathy. "And that the separation must be unbearable."

I feel like he's hit me and have to swallow hard. His words hang in the air and I realise that this time, he really does want an answer.

"I just…"

"Yes?" he prompts gently.

"I just worry about how she's taking it." I blurt out finally.

He stares at me for a moment until I have to look away. Then I feel his rough hand gently pat the back of mine before retreating once more.

"That's your angle Maysilee. And the beauty of it is it's real. It's real and people will respond to it."

I feel my brow furrow, not following. "Respond to what?"

He sighs sadly. "Your compassion. Your honesty. Your warm heart and selflessness."

I squirm, not believing it. "That's not me."

He laughs, "I've known you for such a short length of time yet it's clear to see."

I raise my eyebrows at him. Ford's losing it.

"You proved it with those words. You've been chosen to fight to the death yet you're more concerned for your sister."

He's twisting it into some kind of warped morality. Of course Krista means more to me than my own life. Even if I die, she'll live and that's all I can hope for. I don't want to talk about her to all of Panem. They can't own that piece of me. That's not just some angle. That's my life.

It takes me a moment to realise I have said all of this out loud. And quote loudly too.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, wanting to retreat.

"No it's fine," he waves a hand at me, completely unruffled by my outburst. "That's what I was saying. We don't need to work on an angle for you Maysilee."

"We don't?" It comes out a little shakily. I think I'm going to cry but I won't do it in front of him. I don't want his pity. He's been where I've been.

"No." He smiles. "Just be yourself."

I fidget in a heavy silence. I didn't expect such an emotional session in such a short space of time. I feel wrung out. But since we're being so honest, the question bursts from my lips before I can stop myself. "Why did you disappear for so long? Were you really ill?" I look at my hands and ask so quietly that he could ignore it if he chose to.

I think that's what he is going to do until… "I was sick - in a sense." I can feel him squirm a little. I didn't mean to make him uncomfortable when he's been so kind. But I'm curious.

"What happened? I mean, if you want to tell me…We missed your sanity around here."

He laughs a little before answering hesitantly. "I had to wave goodbye to some demons. Get an addiction out of my system." I turn and meet him squarely in the eye. He blazes. "I'm better now."

I nod doubtfully, still confused though a picture is beginning to knit together from his words. The shakes, his thinness, that mysterious absence. I've heard of it before, from Ana. Seen it before too. Even know the word for it. Withdrawals.

I won't ask what for.

"The thing about winning is it changes you." He adds softly, mostly to himself than me. I don't know what I have done to deserve these confessions. But I can't stop listening. "Makes you selfish. Makes you hard - different."

He grips my hand again and his hold is no longer weak. "Don't lose yourself kid."

I want to promise I won't, but that would be a lie. I nod soundlessly.

He releases me and I leap to my feet. "Thanks for your help."

"Good luck. And…thanks for listening."

---

I don't tell anyone about my conversation with our slightly unhinged mentor. I respect the guy too much. Instead I sit here silently, in my shiny shoes and sparkly dress, waiting to face my audience. They've transformed my face. My lips are shapely and red. My skin is a delicate 'English-rose style complexion' according to Dana. They let my hair flow like a white waterfall. Dana ordered me not to hide behind it.

Again I find myself sat with a bunch of aggressive teenagers as we are called out to our interviews. The whole of Panem is watching. We get to watch each other on screens backstage - as if I wasn't nervous enough. I hate having to go before Haymitch and Cal. The ladies first convention is getting old.

Everyone is so confident and prepared. Luckily, Caesar Flickerman is a pro, instantly building a rapport with each of us, even the very nervous. He looks scary though with his taut face, bright blue hair with matching eyelids and suit.

The careers are suitably boastful. Satin actually made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"So Satin - a twelve!" Huge cheers from the crowd. "I wish we could have seen what you did!"

"Oh don't worry Caesar. I'm sure you all will." The threat is so sure and just the right side of menacing. The audience eats it up.

My palms are sweating. I will never be flirtatious and scary.

Neptune from 4 is surly and powerful in his silence. One of the axe-throwers from 7 is particularly creepy, citing he 'will be the last one standing in a sea of blood.' Even Caesar has a hard job putting a positive spin on that one. I make a mental note to stay well away from Byron from 7.

Little Jak is a heart stealer, claiming we'll (the other tributes I suppose) 'have a job to catch him first.' The little girl - Mabel - from ten giggles when Caesar suggests that 'she was holding back in training.' The audience ooohs and aahhhs. I hate them all.

Caesar almost can't get a word in edgeways when Pash raves about the charm of the Capitol and its wonderful, warm, welcoming people. I think he's laying it on a bit thick but they lap it up. I'm pretty sure the other tributes will want to kill him now.

Rose is sweet and charming when it's her turn. I don't take much of it in. I hope she seemed more memorable to everyone else. I am distracted after all. I remember her telling a joke about fighting for her life after shrinking a load of clothes her mum was supposed to be washing for the district. Rose deadpanned that surviving her mother's wrath certainly makes her a contender. The crowd laughed and I nearly beamed with pride. That joke had to be made up. Good for her.

Then they're calling my name and I beam no more.

The stage is ridiculously huge. It's like I am back at the reaping again, shuffling to my fate when I feel like running in the opposite direction. I totter in my heels, painfully slowly.

I approach Caesar - still scary. He takes my hand and guides me to my velvet seat. The lights are bright. There is a roar of applause - for me? Why me? What did I do to deserve it? The crowd is so huge! I glance at their smiling faces and promptly look away. The sight made my mouth go dry.

They want to see me die.

I plaster on a fake smile, as if their attention and reactions delight me, and try to focus on Caesar's words.

"Maysilee what can I say?" Caesar beams, holding out his hands towards me. I nearly recoil as I don't want this lurid man to touch me again. He's so surreal. Is anything real in the place? Turns out he just really likes to talk with his hands. "You lit up the parade!"

There's a roar of laughter and I realise he's referring to my stupid hat. I hope the makeup hides my blush. I try to tell myself it's all in good fun when really I hate them all.

I smile and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. My hand doesn't shake to my relief.

"Why thank you Caesar - I hope that's a compliment anyway." I tease lightly, voicing my inner thoughts. The crowd laughs exaggeratedly, perhaps in surprise? They always like to portray 12 as a backwards, simple-minded district.

"Of course, of course it was!" Caesar beams reassuringly. "Doesn't she look beautiful everyone?"

More cheers. This whole situation is ugly. My face isn't even my face tonight. And my body certainly isn't my body ever since they drew my name out of that reaping ball. I don't know what to say but luckily Caesar fills in the gaps.

"So Maysilee…Tell us a bit about you. Do you have any hobbies?"

Now there is silence - amplified in my head by the fact I have no idea what to say.

Just be yourself. What do I like to do? Nothing they could punish me for…

"I…I like to sing." I say amiably. "I hike, I gather herbs to be resourceful. Me and my sister mostly try to stay out of our parents' way."

More laughter. I wasn't even telling a joke.

"I can't imagine they wouldn't want you around am I right?" He asks the audience and they cheer in response. Is he flirting with me? How inappropriate. "So tell us, is there a special someone back home?" he wriggles his eyebrows and the audience is in stitches. I lower my head, pretending to be bashful.

"No one back home, no." I answer carefully, knowing it's true. "My father would scare them off."

He wouldn't but it makes the audience laugh again so that's fine. But suddenly Caesar's manner is completely transformed, he sobers up. It's an attack against my emotions that I really wasn't prepared for.

"You mentioned your sister just now. Tell us a bit about her. Must be hard to be apart."

His words echo Ford's in a way that is chilling. But I'm ready. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Tell the truth.

"Yes it is." I say thoughtfully. "Her name is Krista, we're twins and I'm sure she's very proud of me." It comes out a little stiffly but it's my fault he's even asking. I mentioned her first.

"I bet she is." He nods wisely, leaning towards me. "So tell us, what did she say to you, the last time you saw her?"

The vulture. I'm shocked he'd even ask. It's private - I can't -

I let myself go back to the memory. Immerse myself in the warm feel of my sister's arms, her determination, strength and courage. I find the words.

"She asked me to come back to her." I swallow hard and look out to the audience. "And I will do everything in my power to make that happen."

It comes out so certain, so dark and powerful that you could hear a pin drop, it's so intense in the room. Then suddenly, a burst of applause. Shouts, cheers, cries of adoration, stomping feet, the works.

"That's what we like to hear, fighting talk!" Caesar chuckles. It wasn't fighting talk. It was an admission. That I really will try for her. I don't think for a second that I will succeed, but I owe her that much. I know she is watching. I hope she knows I am telling the truth and this is my vow to her.

"I wish you the best of luck, I really do." Suddenly he has my hand again and we're on our feet. "Give it up for Maysilee Donner, our second female tribute of District Twelve!"

I couldn't get off that stage fast enough.

I whiz back stage to the room with all the screens. Everyone seems happy enough with their performances. There's definitely a buzz in the air. For them, the interviews are over. They're wondering how they are being perceived. They don't care that it's not over for everyone.

Elise swoops beside me, "That was wonderful Maysilee - very moving with the right amount of toughness!"

"Really?" I ask weakly, eyes on screen as Haymitch calmly saunters on stage.

"Absolutely. All of those hours with me clearly paid off!" She practically beams. "Oh I need a drink!" I let her think that. What harm could it do?

"Nice job," I smile as Rose approaches me.

"I was goofy," She insists. "You were great."

We have a moment of solidarity before turning our attentions back to the show.

"He'll be fine," I hear Rose murmur, just as entranced as I am.

I believe her. He seems completely composed, a wry 'couldn't care less' half-smile on his face, eyebrows slightly cocked in sardonic amusement. He lounges in the chair as if the entire nation was not watching. I feel like laughing. That's how you do it.

He looks confident, cocky - like the laughing boy I first met. He also looks unbearably handsome. His thick dark hair is pushed out of piercing grey eyes and he wears his elegant suit well. Rich female sponsors watch out.

"So Haymitch," Caesar begins warmly. "What do you think of the games having one-hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

Haymitch, to my surprise, just shrugs. "I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one-hundred percent as stupid as usual so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

The audience laughs in delight and so do I. It's too perfect an answer for me to get offended. So Haymitch. I have one moment where I worry how the other tributes will take it, before remembering they aren't really paying much attention anyway. I hope they don't watch it back or Haymitch will have just made himself a target.

Then I realise we're all targets anyway, so things can't get much worse.

"He really doesn't have to reach for that does he?" Says a bemused Rose and I nod in agreement. Of course he doesn't. Cocky, arrogant with a surly confidence. The audience eats it up.

"Well then!" Laughs Caesar. "You sound pretty confident of your chances!"

Haymitch gives him a bored look. "Let's just say the odds are in my favour." The audience squeals with delight at his use of their catchphrase. I just worry the show runners will realise he's making fun of them. But he isn't finished yet. "If one of them takes me out it would be very embarrassing."

Okay then. Pushing the arrogance a little aren't we Haymitch? Everyone loves a bad boy I suppose.

And so the interview continues in a similar vain. Terse, eloquent yet sneering answers from Haymitch which the audience very much appreciates. They do love meanness.

He is sarcastic about nearly everything from Capitol food to his stay in the tribute centre. Even when Caesar tries to bring some gravity into the conversation.

"Do you have a message for anyone special back home?"

"Yeah. Don't rent out my room yet."

By the time he exits the stage he has the audience eating out of the palm of his hand and Caesar wishing they had more time: "Such a sensitive soul!"

I go to greet Haymitch as Cal takes his place in the chair.

"Nice," I say to him, suppressing a smile.

"You liked?" he smirks.

"You were so charming and lovable. How did you do it?"

"I'm just a charming and lovable guy." Haymitch deadpans.

I snort with laughter as we go to grab some water and join Rose, Elise, Ford and an excitable Pash. My mouth is still dryer than that desert they used as an arena one year.

The arena. That wipes the smile off my face. The arena. I have been so busy bustling from one nerve wracking situation to another that it hasn't really hit me before. This is nothing. The interviews, the private sessions, the parade. None of it compares to what's coming - what's coming tomorrow.

My hand shakes violently as I stand amongst a strange bunch of people who have somehow become my friends. It has really dawned on me now, here, as I choke down a glass of water.

Tomorrow I enter the arena. Tomorrow I most likely will die.

Happy Hunger Games.

Chapter Text

I toss and I turn. I won't sleep tonight. Somehow I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. Falling into half-sleeps where faceless people I once knew scream my name and hurl accusations. I snap into alertness in a panic, sweating and feeling sick.

This is no way to spend my last night of freedom.

Shivering, I sit upright, pushing strands of slick hair back from my clammy forehead. I don't want to be here. I can feel the walls pressing in on me. I was wrong. This isn't freedom. I'm still caged in this luxury. It's worse. Here is where people have two faces and a smile isn't just a smile. Everything comes with a hidden meaning. The food poisons your soul and your face isn't your face anymore.

I shake my head to clear it, swing my legs and press my feet against the floor, expecting to find a cool surface. But the floor is gently heated. Even the ground is false.

I shuffle into the bathroom, trying to breathe steadily. I splash some water on my face from the sink, letting it drip dry, studying my reflection. A pale and frightened girl stares back at me, just leaving childhood behind. This is no age to die.

I fill a glass with tap water and pad back into my prison. The view of a sleeping, glowing metropolis outside my window taunts me. All that space and apparent freedom. I wonder if I could ever break the window, cast myself out. Would I if I could?

I go to the bedroom door, grip the handle with my free hand. It's probably locked. I hesitate, what's the point of stepping outside into more pretty prisons? I should try to sleep. I know I won't be able to in the arena.

The others wouldn't be sleeping either, I'm sure. I could go and talk to Rose. But we're already too close. Why cement our friendship when we must sever our bond so imminently? I know who I want to see. Deep down. I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit it. Haymitch.

We had our last supper. The tributes of District 12. It was hushed, awkward, even by our standards. Each of us wore matching expressions. We were closed off from one another. Our brief time as a unit was ending. There was nothing any of us wanted to say in front of the others.

Elise managed a slurred: "Goodnight and good luck my dark horses."

Ford went over a couple of basics solemnly as if knowing it will do no good in the end. "Nothing is as it seems. Question everything. Find water. Find shelter. Get away from the Cornucopia as fast as you can - no exceptions. It's going to be a blood bath… just please. Please: stay alive."

That was all that needed to be said I guess.

As we parted for our last night here, Rose briefly slipped her hand into mine.

"Thank you for being a friend," she whispered. I could only nod numbly and choke out a limp 'you too' which didn't begin to cover how I felt. She made me feel like I wasn't alone.

I didn't say get to say anything to him.

I drop my grip on the handle. I think it's better to leave things unspoken between us. I don't even know how I feel about him. I would only embarrass myself. His kind words, his friendship, embraces and goodbyes are not for me. Not now.

I walk away.

---

Then change my mind. I'll most likely be dead tomorrow anyway. What have I got to lose?

Still gripping my glass I shuffle into the living room area, and nearly drop it. At least I don't have to barge into his room in a cringe-worthy manner. He's stood by the window, wearing a grey t-shirt and sleep pants exactly like mine. The gloom of the night makes his skin luminous silver. I clear my throat as I approach so I don't scare him.

"Saw your reflection." Haymitch murmurs.

"Oh," Is all I can say.

Of course he sensed my approach. Nothing gets past him. It's what he needs to survive. I feel that ghost of an idea, that suspicion that he just might actually do it. He might just be the one who gets to go home.

I sit on the sofa, not wanting to crowd him.

"Nervous?" He asks sardonically.

"No." I say, equally sarcastic.

"Midnight strolls…"

"It's my thing," I answer quietly, humour fading. I wish he'd turn and face me. His ghostly reflection isn't enough. His warm breath fogs the glass. I swallow. "Can't sleep."

"No wonder." He replies calmly.

We remain in a comfortable silence for a while. I sink back into the cushions, close my eyes and think of home. Of a little shop with my kind mother, silly father and laughing sister. A roof that leaks and taps that only run cold water. I hear bird song; smell the mingled scent of sweet syrup mixed with the tang of coal. I feel the grit on my hands from Seam charcoal, the muggy heat and determination in our district to survive. It was real and I wish I could see it one last time. A tear slides down my face. I brush it away hastily.

When I open my eyes I see that Haymitch is watching me. It's difficult to make out his expression when he's silhouetted against the backdrop of the city.

"What?" I ask weakly despite intending to snap at him.

"Nothing," He responds sheepishly. He fidgets uncomfortably before finally deciding to join me on the sofa. I feel like I can't breathe again. But it's different from the panic in my room before. There's clarity when he's around that I lack when he's not near.

We both continue to study the view. He's not very close either, something I dare not change. I want to do something reckless. But he's not mine.

"What were you thinking just then?" Haymitch asks gruffly, surprising me.

I don't lie. "Home," is my only response.

He grunts in reply.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to comfort you?" He asks shrewdly, smirking slightly. I glance at his profile and think I see him waggle his eyebrows.

"Shut up," I laugh, can't help it. What an idiot.

He sighs, still not facing me. "I guess that's what normal people do."

"We're not normal anymore." I reply honestly, wondering if I'm really having this conversation or if I'm still half conscious in bed.

Haymitch hums in agreement. Why can't we ever just talk? Riddles and half-truths are all I ever manage. I've never met anyone like him before.

"Thanks for making me laugh on my last night here," I blurt out, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't think I'd ever laugh again so…" I trail off awkwardly.

He hums again. "Just…try not to die." Is his answer. He says it in a rush and it lifts my spirits through this deep sadness I've been lost in. I want us both to live. No, all of us. Even the careers.

"It's not fair." I whisper to myself.

There's a moment of silence. I hear Haymitch make this clicking sound with his tongue or something. It makes me smile. My Father always does that when he's stressed or feeling uncomfortable.

Haymitch sighs. "I can't think of anything comforting to say. Can't be someone I'm not."

"You don't have to say anything." I appeal to him. Just sitting beside him is enough. But he doesn't see. And I can't tell him. Not to be dramatic but we are, in every sense of the word, doomed.

To my surprise, he leans closer to me. My heart stutters as he reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear before pulling away again. "You take care of yourself Donner. Hope I don't see you."

He walks away so abruptly, as if he were never here.

"Wait!" I call out, but he doesn't. He doesn't as much as glance back.

A little shakily, I finish my drink, then head back to my room feeling like I've lost already.

---

I've never flown anywhere before.

In the morning all the tributes were death-marched onto some sort of hovercraft. Once seated inside, a grim looking woman came around with a sharp needle. She injected each of us with a tiny tracker that is inserted beneath the skin of the forearm. It's all happening so fast. I barely remember breakfast.

Is this that remains of my life now? These snapshots, passing by in a blur? I want to take it all in, every detail, every last ounce of life. But I can't. It's too grim. I regress, suppress, daydream and think of home.

We all avoid eye contact whilst being transported to the arena. Who wants one last look at the people they are abut the murder? Is this really happening? Is this what the edge of madness feels like?

---

"You got your thick camo trousers - green suggests plenty of trees or grass. A black vest doesn't offer much protection from the elements…or other things. Let's hope it's nice and warm." Dana's tone is professional, but it sounds as if she's struggling to keep up the bored façade.

"A very thin green jacket," she continues as if I cannot see that for myself. I dress robotically, grateful for her assistance. I can't seem to stop shaking.

We're in the launch room - the last stop on the way to the slaughter house. Dana dresses me efficiently. Right now, I'm glad she's here, even if it is only Dana. I know her. I wouldn't want to be alone.

My teeth begin to chatter though it isn't cold. My arm aches from the tracker injection. My mouth is dry.

Dana silently offers me water, on the same wavelength. I chug it down, slopping it over my clothes. Dana sighs and dabs at it with her sleeve.

"Don't think it will be long now," she says ominously. I keep drinking. Who knows when my next drink could be, if ever. I eye the tube with silent horror. Up I will go and then…

I've never experienced such an intense feeling of terror in my life. My whole body trembles. What horrors have the Gamemakers cooked up for us? As if the killing wasn't enough entertainment.

"There now," Dana says, placing her hands on my shoulders to steady me. My knees buckle slightly under the pressure. I can't tell if she's being kind or if my trembling is just annoying her.

"You can do it," She whispers fiercely. Probably means I can climb into the tube, not that I could win. That's insanity. Dana fiddles with my hair, not looking directly at me. I have two tiny plaits at the front of my hair, pulled back with the rest into a practical ponytail. They want to see the pain on my face.

"Is there nothing you wanted to take with you into the arena? As a token?"

I shake my head, barely absorbing her words. "There's nothing." I answer, dazed.

I must stay strong for them. My family. I mustn't let them see me suffer. I hear a cold detached voice announce there are sixty seconds left. I try to stop trembling. Time to put on my mask once more. Need sponsors. Must not look afraid…

"It's time." Says Dana solemnly.

I nod and allow Dana to steer me towards the hollow tube that will carry me into the arena. I can't do this. I have never known such terror. In a few minutes this could all be over. If I let it. I won't. I'll fight. I'll run, hide, survive. Oh God. Help me. I can't -

I'm standing on a metal plate, waiting, knees locked. The clear tube seals around me, a soundless vacuum, I fight the urge to scream or panic. I spare Dana a glance but she's already looking away. I see her lips move. Perhaps wishing me good luck?

I take several uneven breaths. Time is suspended and for one moment, I experience a feeling of perfect clarity. A balance between total fear and a grim determination to survive.

Then the plate begins to rise. It happens so fast though I know it's barely moving. They wouldn't want us to lose balance, fall off our platforms and be instantly blown to bits.

Then there is sunlight. Lots of sunlight. Brightness. Lurid colours. My frightened mind tries to take everything in at once, every sense being assaulted. There's a warm, gentle breeze that carries a beautiful scent with it. Like a fresh meadow filled with flowers. I try to focus. The golden gleam of the Cornucopia's spiral is nearly blinding in the sunlight but I can just about take in my surroundings. The others stand on matching platforms circling the Cornucopia, looking surprised and amazed. It takes me a moment to realise why and when I do, my mouth actually falls open.

I'm in paradise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 50th Hunger Games begin!"

Chapter Text

Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds until the gong sounds. There's a lot you can notice in sixty seconds. Try to focus. Try to concentrate on something useful, anything other than this completely breath-taking scene before me.

I'm in a meadow. Not like the one back home with its tufts of yellow grass and sparse greenery. This is stunning. The grass is thick, lush and green. It is dotted with gorgeous flowers. I've never seen such colours before: the deep purples, sunny yellows and lurid blues… they cannot possibly occur naturally in nature. Must have come from Capitol labs – mutations, or mutts as we call them. A coral green butterfly perches delicately on a single petal metres in front of me.

The sky is a bright even blue with fluffy white clouds gliding carelessly by. I glance beyond the golden Cornucopia and see a snow-capped mountain lies beyond. We lost so much because of the mountains; I remember my thoughts from the train. This mountain may be stunning, sublime even, but it won't help me at all. I look far to my right and notice thick, concealing trees - woods? That's where I need to be.

The scent in the air is wonderful. Somehow fruity, fresh and sweet. I feel a wave of contentment in this beautiful, deadly place. A wave of tiredness hits me and I…

This is wrong. I shake my head as if trying to dislodge water from my ears. What's wrong with me? Surely the Gamemakers aren't drugging us? I take shallow breaths, heart rate quickening as I concentrate on the danger.

Forty-eight plates circle the Cornucopia. I think I can see Rose in the distance, biting her nails, seemingly focused. Others look entranced, completely dazed by the spell of this place. That isn't fair. Some are actually swaying dangerously, like Kaye who stands ten feet from me. If she steps off her plate, she'll be blown to bits. Many are wearing curiously blank expressions. I cannot see Haymitch or Cal. They must be on the other side of the Cornucopia.

I scan the ground. Seconds remain but it's long enough for me to notice more than just flowers. There are backpacks and weapons scattered everywhere, increasing in size, ferocity and usefulness the further away they get. Do I make a break for the trees? Or should I grab a pack first? Ford said not to but there could be something life-saving in there, something I could use -

The gong sounds and my body decides for me. I dash towards the nearest pack without thinking. It's closer to Kaye than I would like but I hear no sounds of pursuit. I risk a glance at the other tributes and am pleased and horrified to see many of them still standing on their plates as if hypnotised. I make it to the pack in a wild scramble, scoop it up and hurl my body in the direction of the trees, slinging the pack securely over my shoulders.

I see someone closing in on me and push myself to move faster. Someone must have intercepted my would-be attacker, as I think they fall down. I won't stick around to thank them. Instead I pelt towards concealment, practically gliding over the grass until I crash into the woods, rabbiting. Running for my life. I don't stop once I reach my goal unscathed. Keep going. Keep running.

My feet crunch noisily and I wish I could fly. I pant and push my way through dense foliage, gasping for breath and on the edge of panic. There are sounds now. Horrible, frightening sounds of death that I can't allow myself to take in for fear of losing my mind completely.

I pass by bushes that bend with succulent fruits. I cannot trust such a sight. I fly past, legs burning, muscles aching. Should have practiced running.

With that ironic thought, I hit the ground running, tripping over an upraised root. I curse as I cut my hands on twigs and bracken. I leap to my feet shakily, not sparing a moment to gather myself.

I hear voices. Instinctively, I shove my way through the nearest hedge, borrowing into its thick weave of leaves for camouflage. Once I am hidden within a protective circle of branches, I crouch down in the dimness and try to catch my breath.

The screams, cries of rage and agony hit me from the direction I came from. I want to cover my ears, flinch away but this is the cold hard reality. Are people really doing that to each other? I think of the pack of killer wolf-mutts at last year's games, with their mouths of needle-like teeth. They produced similar sounds from the tributes. I shudder because I know the Gamemakers will save such horrors for later. This must be the work of humans - children.

It is a war zone, not a paradise.

Feet thud past my hiding place as I see a small group rush past. Allies. I bite my lip and hold my breath until they have passed me by.

I exhale shakily and peer through twigs and leaves. Even the woods have an unnatural beauty. Everything is too neat, each colour just slightly too ethereal. Shafts of sunlight stream through the dappled green canopy. A fluffy squirrel darts up a silver oak tree. The branches start too high for me to reach. Shame. Would have made a better hiding place.

The weight of the pack against my back is reassuring. It was worth the risk. I am fine. But this place is still too close to the Cornucopia for my liking. I can hear unmistakable sounds of fighting. Must be a bloodbath. I consider rooting through my precious cargo but decide against it. I need to keep going.

I am paralysed by indecision. I think there is no one near my clearing but cannot be sure. I need to move, but am too scared. I need a weapon and naively wonder if there is one in my pack. Water is the next priority. Water and shelter.

Cautiously, I begin to slowly crawl from my hidey-hole. I wince as my hands make contact with the ground and know from experience that they are probably bleeding again.

I straighten up and scan the clearing. Still alone. I begin to jog lightly, still heading away from the Cornucopia but in a slightly different angle from those who passed by minutes ago. There is a section where the trees are slightly closer together and I head for it, hoping for concealment in the shadows. Unfortunately, it could conceal someone else too.

I am hit backwards by a mighty force, landing awkwardly on my pack, sending a ripple of agony through my spine. Instinct makes me roll to my left and I'm just in time as a blade pierces the ground where my head was seconds ago. I cry out as my attacker retrieves their weapon and throws their weight on top of me, pinning me to the ground once more, knees securing my arms. It's Byron from the interviews. The lunatic from 7.

I buck and thrash desperately. His face is contorted in a hideous sneer of satisfaction until my knee makes contact with his groin. He howls and rears back. I roll over and crawl on my stomach away from his rage. There's a jarring impact in my back. For a moment I think he stabbed me. No, my pack.

His body slams into mine again. I'm eating dirt until he yanks my head up by the ponytail, exposing my throat. I know what he's going to do.

I scream and lash out, catching his face with my elbow. His second of withdraw gives me the advantage. I reach out blindly, hands meeting something rough and firm on the ground. And heavy. I roll from his grasp with all my strength and swing the rock in his direction.

It slams into his skull with a sickening thud. His eyes go glassy, confused almost. He twitches, groans, then collapses by my side and goes still.

Our exchange took only seconds. I feel the first signs of shock. A wave of nausea passes through me and I vomit beside him, feeling dizzy and wretched. He's still breathing I think. No death canon fires anyway. I physically can't finish him off, even if he did try to kill me. Our sounds of struggle will most likely bring others down upon us. I struggle to my feet and run away like a coward.

---

The canon fires seventeen times. I silently count from my shelter. Guess the bloodbath at the Cornucopia finally finished so they could count the bodies. One on those booms could be for Byron. I have already made my peace with that. That's what I tell myself anyway. It was him or me. I had no choice.

I try not to cry. I won't cry for him. I remember my family could be watching and paint my face back into its mask. I doubt any sponsors are going to support me now. I threw up next to what was possibly my first kill. Who does that?

I shiver. The image of the rock making contact keeps repeating over and over in my head. It may have been unintentional, but that was most likely a killer blow. Didn't take long for me to change did it? I fight back tears. Tears show weakness. He tried to kill me. I will not mourn for him.

It's cold in my tree. Finally found one that was climbable. Unless there is rope in my pack I don't think I could safely sleep up here. At least I can rest for now in its leafy sanctuary. Access the damage to myself and my bag.

I have a knife now, thanks to my attacker. I pull it out from the pack which saved my life. If I hadn't grabbed it, he would have stabbed me. It's a small blade. How intimate. I lay it to one side and open the backpack, wincing at the pain in my hands. There's nothing I can do about that for now.

Inside I find a bowl, a meagre portion of dried beef and something that brings a grim smile to my face. A blowgun with twenty-four darts. It's fate. I cautiously break the ammunition out of its clear sealed pack and sniff the both ends of a dart carefully. No scent. Wouldn't want to test it on myself, but I don't think there's any poison on the tips. Perhaps I can test it on a squirrel if I see one again? I feel mean, but I need to eat. That beef won't last long.

On second thoughts, I don't think I could eat meat that's been killed with poison. I turn a dart over carefully in my bloodied hand. Wouldn't want to prick myself and fall out of the tree. That would be an embarrassing death. I wonder…Perhaps there are poisons to be found in the arena? Why else would they put this in my pack? A sick joke? I feel like it was meant for me. The pack closest to my plate…I doubt the Gamemakers were being helpful, just curious perhaps. Poisons… What is poison in this place?

Those flowers! I nearly say it out loud in my excitement. They certainly had an overly calming effect on us. I feel a rush of adrenaline. I can work with that. I don't want to. But I will. The flowers may not be lethal (or are they?), but they could at least knock out an opponent.

I pack away my supplies, wincing at the pain in my back. I decide to keep the knife handy. At least until I can make a better weapon. I don't think I could actually use this thing on someone anyway.

My mouth is feeling uncomfortably dry. If I don't find water soon, my thoughts of weapons will be for nothing. What little nourishment I have consumed today I lost earlier. Need to find more food than just my little supply of beef. That won't last long.

I wistfully think of the fruit dangling enticingly from the bushes in this place. My stomach churns, half hungry, half nauseous. Seems too good to be true doesn't it? Carefully, I begin to climb down. The need for water is too strong to ignore.

---

It takes me a long time to locate water. I may have had to jump into the odd bush looking ridiculous but I'm not in the mood to meet another Byron. No sign of the Career pack yet. They're probably guarding the Cornucopia. That's what I would do if I had their advantages.

I remember some old tracking tips. Moss on the tree. Checking the dampness of the earth and just plain straining my ears but I get there in the end. The sight of the crystalline stream calls to me so strongly that it's an effort not to dive in. It is a beautiful, winding silver stream. I could nearly cry with relief. My mouth is so dry that my lips are cracking, my head is pounding and I keep losing concentration. These are the first signs of dehydration.

But just as I am about to step into the clearing, I hear a canon blast.

"Eighteen," I whisper. But who died?

More importantly, where and how? As long as they weren't near me…

But they were. As I step closer to the water's edge, I see I pile of clothes about ten feet away, left on the bank.

I pad closer cautiously.

It isn't just clothes.

Greta. That vibrant tough girl from training. The girl with the arrows. Dead. I crouch over her body. Her wide eyes look glassy, pained even. Her body is contorted strangely. Her face is ghastly – pale and bruised strangely. There's foam around her mouth. I don't have to worry about her killer finishing me off. No person did this to her.

She's been poisoned.

How? Was she stung? Did she eat some bad berries? Did she have an allergic reaction to something? I already know the answer. I just don't want to admit it. I feel my eyes fill with childish tears; for her pointless, horrible death and for the unfairness and brutality of it. I know what did this to her. A flask lies discarded next to her body.

I remember Ford's words before... In the arena nothing is as it seems.

The water is poisonous.

It must be. How else did Greta end up like this? I cannot take the risk either way. It feels right. Of course it's poisoned. The Gamemakers poisoned our water supply. I'm beginning to think that everything in this place is. The Gamemakers would find it so funny. A poison paradise. The flowers, the water…What about the fruit?

I curse and scream in my head. This is beyond unfair. How do they expect us to survive? Surely there must be clean water somewhere? Or these games are going to end very quickly. Wouldn't want that. I glare at the evil stream, so tempting and clear. I'm so thirsty. But I can't. I feel like weeping with frustration.

I stop ranting internally and look at poor Greta. She may have just saved my life.

"I'm so sorry, " I murmur. I try to close her eyes, but they are locked open, staring sightlessly. What a wicked death.

And then, because it seems to be the person I am now, I raid the small satchel she had been carrying. All I find inside is a packet of dried fruit and a miniature flashlight. I gingerly open the pack of fruit and pop a piece in my mouth, just so I have something to suck. I need a distraction from the gnawing need to drink. I pocket the items gratefully and silently thank her. There is also a small metal funnel that seems out of place. I add it to my bag anyway. Just in case it could be of use. I am about to leave when I suddenly remember the flask. It could be useful if I can find a safe water supply.

With a heavy heart, I pick it up, coat sleeve over my hand. I repeatedly shake it dry and wipe it on the grass before screwing the lid up tightly. It contained poison after all. It helped to kill someone. The object feels tainted – evil in my hand. But I know it can be of use if I can just wash it out first. I shove it distastefully into my pack.

I really don't want to do this, but it could get cold at night even if it is scorching during the day. I try to take Greta's coat, hating myself. I have to tell myself it could mean the difference between life and death but tears end up running down my cheeks anyway. I keep my head down so the cameras won't notice.

Her body is so stiff that I almost cannot manage it. I don't want to pull at her. This is horrible. I gag but persist and eventually remove the coat. I stuff it into my already bulging pack, feeling ashamed of myself. It's probably a wasted effort. I don't think I could ever bring myself to wear it now.

"Goodbye Greta," I say quietly and try not to look back as I walk away. I can hear a whoosh of an engine. A hovercraft is coming to collect her.

Nothing is as it seems in this place.

Chapter Text

I don't go far. I need to act while I'm still capable of thinking straight. Thirst is taking over. Taking me apart piece by piece until all that is left is this desperate need. My thoughts are becoming sluggish and hazy. Painful even.

There has to be a source somewhere! Surely they wouldn't want us to die this way? Dehydration is boring and slow. Pretty soon we'll be too weak to fight. The Gamemakers won't want that. I pray for rain. It is hopeless. Who knows whether the rainwater will be safe?

Meanwhile, I still need a weapon. I carefully collect of bowl full of poisoned water from the lake and briefly wonder whether viewers will think I have finally snapped. I haven't. I'm only a little tempted to take a sip. All I need to do is think of Greta.

After a very cautious sniff from a safe distance, I manage to locate a few flowers with that same sedative-like scent as before. I bite my lip to snap out of the sudden feeling of relaxation. It was a nasty trick - lining the launch area with poisonous flowers. I wonder how many were killed before they could even step off their plates.

I drop the flowers into the bowl and find a shadowy tangle of bushes where I can hide temporarily. I mush the stark petals into a pulp using a small rock, shaking off the image of Byron as I do so. Once a paste is made, I pull the darts out from their clear container and soak them in the solution.

I have a sick feeling inside, knowing that I fully intend to direct this poison into the flesh of anyone who attacks me. But what else can I do? My strength is failing me and I won't just lie down and die. I promised Krista.

None of this will make a difference if I don't find water.

I consider croaking my request out loud, just in case any potential sponsors are having trouble realising what I need. I snigger. No one is going to sponsor me. I begin to doze as I wait for the feathered darts to soak up the solution.

A noise wakes me. Music. The anthem. I'm furious with myself for actually falling asleep. The light has even changed - it will be night time soon. The woods have transformed into a dusky land full of shadows. I peer through branches to get a better look at the sky.

I see the Capitol seal broadcast onto the giant screen in the sky. Time for a recap. Time to count the dead.

The images of all the dead tributes are being projected above me, looking down on me. Free. I am not surprised to learn that all the tributes from 1 survived. One girl from 2 didn't make it. District 3 lost three of their tributes. One tribute from 4 died, the girl with the red hair. Byron's face haunts me as he glares down from above. So he did die. I have to remind myself it was me or him.

Heavy causalities came from every district especially Greta's, 6, 8, and 9. The little girl from 10 is dead. Her sweet face flickers in the darkness one final time before going out forever. I feel a wave of horror. Who could kill such a sweet kid?

We get to 11 and I can barely look. Pash is still out there somewhere apparently. Kaye isn't. I wait and brace myself.

Cal's face lights up the sky. Then nothing.

He's dead. Cal is gone. I swallow hard and try to separate my hazy thoughts. I may not have liked him very much but he was someone's child. Someone's precious boy. Gone forever. I wonder how? Wish I'd known more about him. Wouldn't help.

They're alive though. Rose and Haymitch. I cling to that knowledge with hope. We made it past day one. I feel a rush of shame for experiencing such joy over their survival. I think that they're probably celebrating a little back home. The possibility of a victor coming from 12 has never been so strong. At least one family's world has been shattered though. I feel terrible for the family of Cal Rooba.

I wonder how the others are coping. I bet Rose is being smart and hiding. Haymitch has probably been fighting fiercely or being covert. Guess I'll never know for sure.

I crawl back into my temporary accommodations and bury myself in fallen leaves. This will do for the night. It isn't that cold and I don't think I can have the energy to climb a tree. I push aside thoughts of Cal, a ten-strong career pack and my desperate need for water. They're still out there. Haymitch is still out there…

---

I am awakened by the chirping of unseen birds. I peer through branches, look up to the sky but nothing. My stomach is a gaping cavern of hunger. It's bad enough to make me want to go hunting. But I doubt any birds I fell with my poison darts would be safe to eat anyway.

I pop the lethal darts into their plastic pouch and slide them into my trouser pocket ready for another day in hell. The dart gun has tough string connected through hoops on the outside meaning I can hook it securely around my neck.

I drag myself out from the brush and begin to make my way, shaking off bracken as I pick a direction. I decide to head away from the mountain. I don't like the look of it for some reason. Who knows what could be hiding there, waiting to ambush me. If I keep heading away from the Cornucopia, the arena must end somewhere.

I take my coat off and tie it around my waist to stop myself sweating. The Gamemakers seem to be cranking up the temperature. That will kill us faster. I don't want to die of thirst. This is a pitiful death. I struggle to walk in a straight line anymore.

A butterfly skims past me, luminous in the gloom of the woods. I focus on its beauty. It is the same vivid green as the one I saw at the Cornucopia. I think it must be a Mutt as I've never seen anything like it before. Suddenly, it swoops closer to me, before ducking and weaving away again. Such curious behaviour for a butterfly. It's exquisite, but in my foul mood, I'm almost tempted to swat the thing. It's like it's teasing me.

No good ever comes from a Mutt, does it?

It skims past me before suddenly landing on my forearm before I can react. Instantly a bolt of excruciating pain skewers its way up my arm.

I shriek - can't help it - and attempt the crush the creature. The thing must be indestructible as it glides away, almost looking pleased with itself. Job well done.

But my arm…the pain… I actually fall onto the floor, biting my lip to stop myself from screaming. I taste blood, finally a drink… I'm delirious. I pull the stinger - butterflies don't have stingers… - out but it doesn't help. I squeeze the wound to get rid of the poison but have to stop when it makes me sob in agony. Burning. My whole arm is burning. I writhe and twist and hear a girl screaming in the distance until I realise it's me. It's me and I can't stop myself…

Let them come. Let them come and stop this pain.

My knife. My knife is small but I can hack it off, get rid of the arm. Get rid of the source. It would be better. I roll, feverish. Is this hell? It's so hot. What a stupid way to die. Stupid, stupid…

I hear footsteps.

Laughter.

I'm still trying to decide how I can cut my arm off if my body's on fire when a foot kicks me in the stomach. I know it's a hard kick because it makes me roll with the impact but I don't really feel it. It is nothing. Nothing at all. .

"Pretty much a goner already Mat," I hear a voice say.

"Best to make sure."

More words lost through the pain.

But I must be dead. How could anything else hurt more than death? But I can feel. If I can feel then I must be alive. Paradox.

I moan - it's all I can manage. The pain is fading a little. Or am I just getting used to it? I want to tear my skin off. Will they please help me tear my skin off?

"I'll deal with it." I can only see darkness. The pain's made me blind. It's hard to care.

What can I care about now?

My face. It's my face I can see. No. Not my face. Her face. So much like my own. Twin. Sister. Krista.

I manage to scream. It's so loud I surprise myself.

"Shut her up before she brings the whole lot down on us!"

Not careers?

Suddenly there's a cry. A shout and a grunt. A horrible, wet sound of breaking. A sound that makes me think of Byron.

I roll onto my front and try to drag myself away. I can hear sounds of fighting. Unmistakable. Whoever wins will kill me. I don't want to die anymore. Not really. Not by their hands. I'll take the butterfly. I'll choose my own death.

I black out.

---

Hands grasp at me in the dark. Clutching, squeezing… Trying to drag me down with them.

“This is your fault.”

“No!”

It’s the boy. The boy I killed. There’s blood. Blood everywhere. Coming out from his hands, his face. Falling on me where I lay. Dripping on my face. Trickling in my mouth…

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

“No!” I cry and thrash, waking up from the nightmare.

It’s not blood. It’s water. Wetness pouring over my face, pooling into my mouth, blessed water. Someone is pouring it over me. I gasp and try to take it in though I am flat on my back. So thirsty. I gulp it down gratefully, choking but not caring. It cleanses, refreshes, saves me.

It’s poison.

I sit upright in a panic, waiting for the excruciating pain to begin again.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” A voice soothes.

“But the water - it’s poison!”

“This isn’t.” The voice calmly counters. “It’s rainwater. The rain’s fine, I’ve been drinking it all day.”

I know that gentle voice.

“Rose?” I splutter. My eyes are only just adjusting. It’s so dark…“I’m blind!” I cry out, remembering the sting. But then my sight begins to adjust, slowly.

We appear to be in a cave. I see moss and droplets running through cracks of grey stone. It’s dark and cool. I can see a small light in the distance…

Rose’s face looms over me, looking nervous.

“How? I…” Words fail me. Did she kill those people?

“I found you near the lake. You were unconscious so I dragged you here.” She looks at me shyly. “I couldn’t just leave you.”

She found me? None of this is making sense.

“You saved me from those people?” I pause doubtfully. “Did you kill them?”

I see her brow furrow in confusion. “I haven’t killed anyone. You were alone when I found you.”

She sounds sincere but still…

“So you just dragged me here?” I can hear the distrust in my voice.

“Yes,” she says simply. “We got lucky that no one came by. Have some more water.”

I push the canteen away. “I was being attacked…”

I see her face twist in confusion. “It looked like you had been stung,” she counters, trying to be helpful.

It all comes back to me in full force. I actually break out in a sweat from the memory. “The butterflies aren’t exactly friendly,” I mumble faintly.

“A butterfly did this to you?” She splutters, looking horrified.

“A Mutt did,” I correct her. “Nearly killed me. Surprised it didn’t actually.”

There’s a pause as Rose considers this. “Your arm was all swollen and…discoloured.” She says, delicately implying that my arm must have looked completely hideous.

I check it in the dim light, feeling horrified. Nothing to see but a bandage (someone got lucky with their pack). It hurts like a -

“I had to drain the fluid out.” Her voice actually wavers with distaste. “…With your knife. Drained it as best as I could but you could use some healing herbs or something.”

“Not from this place I don’t, everything’s poison.” I answer weakly.

“Surely not everything?” Now she sounds horrified. “How do we eat?”

I pull myself into a sitting position and shrug. “We survive on pack food I suppose…Where is my pack anyway?”

“Right here,” she says anxiously. It lies next to my coat. I clumsily grab my bag and begin to rifle through. My food and flashlight are untouched, but my containers…

“I had to use your funnel, bowl and flask to gather the rain,” Rose explains hastily, reading my thoughts in that way she does.

I pat my pockets and find that the darts are still there. My blow dart tube is still around my neck. I don’t get it. If I was attacked after being stung, why didn’t they raid my pack? And why didn’t they finish me off? None of this is making sense. Did someone drive them away? If Rose didn’t fight them off, who did? And why would they leave me breathing? Unless they thought I was dead…but the canon would have told them otherwise.

I pluck out one simple question. “How did you know the rainwater was safe?”

“I didn’t.” She answers. “I was desperate.”

Something hits me. “How did you know that lake wasn’t?”

She frowns as though remembering something unpleasant. I think of Greta uneasily. Has Rose been following me all this time and I haven’t even noticed?

“I saw a squirrel drink from it and die,” she explains and I feel my face twitch. “Don’t smile!” She scolds, though she‘s smiling too. “It sounds funny but it’s actually pretty horrible.”

We’re both giggling before we can stop ourselves. It really isn’t funny but the absurdness, the horror, the pressure and strain of the situation is too much. You have to let it out somehow. If we weren’t laughing, we’d be crying, as my father says.

“Thank you.” I say, when I can catch my breath. “Thanks for taking care of me. You probably saved my life and you didn’t have to do that.”

“You’d have done the same.” She smiles shyly.

I wonder whether that is true. I think it is. I hope it is. I smile gratefully.

“Sorry about all the questions before. It’s just a little confusing.”

“That’s okay.” She smiles and we link hands briefly. I know we will be allies for life now. Even if that time will be incredibly short.

“Hungry?”

“Starving! I’ve only got some dried potato slices and I really didn’t want to break into them yet.” Says Rose enthusiastically.

“Could always have eaten squirrel.” And we’re off again.

It feels strange to laugh in a place like this.

“It’s all I got away with.” Rose explains when I look at a small bag next to her. “The crispy things, a small bottle and bandages.”

“I appreciate the bandages.” I say, lifting my arm gingerly.

I rifle through my pack, looking for food when something else strikes me. Something is missing. “Rose…I had a spare coat in here. Did you use that to collect water too?”

“No, but good idea. How did you get another coat anyway?”

I decide not to answer just yet. “It’s not in here.” I say, completely puzzled.

I try to retrace my steps. I know it was in my pack when the butterfly from hell got me…Someone must have taken it while I was unconscious. But why take that and not the food? And why leave me alive afterwards? It doesn’t make sense. Unless Rose is lying…

I study her face closely. But I know she doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body.

“Are you sure no one was around when you found me?” I persist, offering her a beef strip.

She takes it gladly with an appreciative nod. “Nope. You were just lying there,” She answers. “Lucky no one found you before I did huh?”

“Then where did my coat go?” I muse, nibbling on a beef strip of my own. The salt hurts my cracked lips. When I cough, Rose offers me more water which I gratefully accept.

“Maybe you dropped it?”

When I can bear to drag my lips away from the bottle I say: “I heard fighting after I got stung. Like…someone was going to kill me, but someone got them first…”

I see scepticism plain in Rose’s eyes. I can hardly blame her. That’s a lot of ‘someones’. I’m beginning to doubt it myself. That was a lot of pain I was in.

“Perhaps you were hallucinating…” she offers timidly, as if afraid I will snap at her.

I smile reassuringly and decide to let it go. “Maybe I was.”

Still doesn’t explain where my coat went.

---

We spend the next few hours exchanging horror stories and catching up. I tell her about the butterfly. She mentions seeing these enormous, pink birds with razor sharp beaks. She sure gave them a wide berth.

Apparently I was near-dead all day. It rained non-stop as if my earlier prayers had been answered when I wasn‘t at liberty to appreciate it. No one has found this cave yet, but we both agree we have to move on.

“It’s quite well hidden though. Had to shove you through the tiniest hole.” Explains Rose.

“No wonder I’m black and blue,” I say jokingly. Byron already left me covered with enough bruises. I checked whether there was a foot-shaped bruise to see if I really was attacked whilst stung. Couldn’t tell one bruise from the other.

I told her about Byron and Greta. She looked appalled but not surprised. I explained about my blow-darts and the poisonous flowers. Rose explained the origin of a nasty cut across her arm. A knife-happy girl from 8.

“Only got away because someone got her with an arrow,” She sighs. “So many didn’t make it past the Cornucopia. Now I know why.”

“We did.” I smile sadly, wondering if Greta had saved Rose’s life.

“Cal didn’t.” Rose answers, her eyes swimming with tears.

“You saw it?” I ask in horror.

She nods. “He wasn’t the nicest guy but it’s still horrible, you know?”

“I know.” I agree, thinking of Byron and the rock. I shudder.

“He ran to join his buddy. You remember, the boy from four?”

“Neptune.” I say numbly.

“I saw his friend cut his neck open. No hesitation. No mercy.” Her voice shakes. “We can’t let them win.”

“I know.” I reply, though I don’t know what we can do to stop them. The careers.

“They’re by the mountains now I think.” She says thoughtfully. So my intuition was correct. “That’s why this cave is so good.”

“Why?”

“No careers. And the lake nearby is a good defence mechanism. No one could pass by before it rained without taking a sip.” Explains Rose grimly.

“Who died?” Night is approaching. Since I was out of play all day I missed the body count.

I wait in dread, hoping she won’t say his name.

“Girl from eleven. And little Jak from six.” She says sadly. Another life snuffed out pointlessly. I hate this. I hate this so much. “Oh, also the two boys from five - Cadis and Matti.”

I don’t remember them at all. But the names make me jolt.

“Haymitch is out there still.” I mumble, distracted.

“So is Pash. Last one standing from eleven.”

Cadis and Matti… Why does that ring a bell? Two boys… Never met them did I? Why do their names ring a bell? Or rather, one name.

Pretty much a goner already Mat…

“It was them!” I shout, making Rose jump.

“Shush! This place is hard to find but not that hard to find!”

“Sorry,” I lower my voice. “But I think they were the ones who were going to kill me.”

“How do you know that?” Rose asks flatly, humouring me.

“I know you think I was hallucinating but one of them called the other ‘Matt.’”

Silence.

“I know it’s flimsy but still…”

“Very flimsy Maysilee,” she answers gently. “If you weren’t hallucinating then why didn’t they kill you? And why did they leave your food alone?”

I puzzle it out. Then I remember her words before.

“But they died. Someone must have got them first.”

“And again, just left you alive and didn’t raid your pack?”

“Except they took my coat.”

I hear a sigh. It sounds annoyed which is unusual for Rose. “Fine. Someone saved you and took your coat as payment.”

“Is that sarcasm I’m detecting Miss Chater?”

“I believe it is Miss Donner,” she replies but I can hear the smile in her voice.

We both agree to disagree as it’s getting dark and soon we will need to rest. We decide to take it in turns keeping watch in case anyone tries to ambush us. I say I’ll take the first watch as I slept all day anyway.

I prop myself up against a hard, stone wall so I won’t fall asleep again. Nearly dying really takes it out of you. Neither of us has sleeping bags so it’s a good job it’s still warm. Rose lies across the ground. Soon the sound of her breathing fills the cave. For the first time since I entered the arena I feel a little bit safer. A little less alone. I have someone who will watch my back.

And even if Rose disagrees, I think there’s someone out there who spared my life. It’s disconcerting to not know who, but it’s not a bad feeling at all. I finger the reassuring blow dart tube and keep watch over my friend. I know that tomorrow will bring all sorts of nasty surprises, but for now I have the illusion of safety.

Chapter Text

I wonder if they're transfixed. Are they enjoying the show?

I hope so.

I sincerely hope the viewers of Panem (or more likely, the Capitol) are enjoying the games this year. They must be pretty satisfied because the Gamemakers have allowed us to rest uninterrupted all night. If things get too dull for the audience, they'll push buttons and do horrible things to us.

I let Rose sleep for longer than we agreed. She needed to rest more than I do at present. I turn the same thoughts over again and again in my head. When I see a flash of golden light through the cave entrance, I wake Rose as gently as possible.

She still jumps and lashes out a little.

"Hey it's me, Maysilee!" I say, dodging a flailing limb.

"M-May?" I see the confusion gradually drift away. "I forgot you were here. Thought it was a dream."

I don't know what to say in return. Seems more like a nightmare to me.

"You should have let me keep watch," she adds, giving me reproachful look.

I shrug. "It was my turn to look after you. Anyway, time to move on."

We finish off Greta's small stash of fruit for breakfast but it does little to ease my hunger. I know Rose must feel the same. We take the edge off our thirst with a few mouthfuls of our already depleted water supply. Who knows when it will rain again? Then we divide our spoils evenly in case we get separated. Three sticks of beef each and a bottle of water apiece. I keep the tiny torch since Rose keeps the potato chip things. Since I have poisoned darts, Rose gets my little knife. Not much to boast of, but we'll get by for now.

I toy with the idea of hunting but we both realise there's no way of knowing whether the animal meat is safe to consume. We can't trust anything, from water to the plants. And we'd have to make snares (from what?) which would be a dead giveaway to our location. We won't last long on our supplies. Looks like all we can do is scavenge.

Once we are packed up, we bid farewell to our little sanctuary.

"Are you sure we can't stay?" Rose questions, looking back a little longingly.

A spur of the moment choice, I throw my arm around her and give her shoulder a quick squeeze.

"Come on." We move towards the light.

Rose was right. The entrance is tiny. We have to shove our packs through first before crawling after them. I scan the sunny landscape once we reach the other side. My eyes burn intensely. The sun must be very bright today although I do not feel overly hot.

My eyes adjust enough for me to see I didn't exaggerate the beauty of this place. An aquiline, crystal lake winds through shores of luscious green. Flowers line the banks with their bright, deadly beauty. The lake begins a little way from our rocky patch, our hidden cave, shaded by willows. Across the water, the forest continues. I strain my ears over the babble of the water but I can't hear anything. Or anyone. I hope my hearing is better than my eyesight.

I rub my eyes and a shadow falls over me. I can just about see Rose's concerned expression.

"Are you okay?"

"My eyes…" I trail off.

"May be a side effect of the poison combined with all that time in the dark."

I focus on her then, panic levels rising. I need my eyes. My life depends on my five senses.

"Don't worry," she says soothingly. "They'll get better."

With that, she calmly pulls the hood of my coat up and tightens it using the toggles. Immediately I can see a little better now the glare of the sun is obscured.

"Better?" She asks, irresistibly reminding me of my mother whenever she'd clean an injury - a grazed knee of mine perhaps.

"A little." I admit.

"Good. Come on then."

"Is it really that bright out?" I ask a little weakly.

I hear the hesitation in her voice. But she always tells the truth. "Not especially."

That's what I was afraid of.

----

We continue to head away from the mountain, keeping as far away from the careers as possible. Once we reach the shade of the trees I can see much better to my relief.

We have no clear idea of where we're heading. I don't want to admit it, but maybe leaving the cave wasn't the best idea. If you think about it, we could have picked off anyone who tried to come through the entrance, and just waited out the games.

But then it would be just me and Rose. What would I do if we were the final two left alive? There can only be one winner. No. It's better this way. I didn't like just sitting there. This feels like we have a plan, even though we really don't.

We don't talk much. Both too busy listening for approaching footsteps. It's hard to be quiet on a floor strewn with leaves and twigs. A crunch comes with every step. We need to get our bearings. I hate feeling so exposed.

"How are you at climbing trees?" I ask, eyeing a sturdy fern.

"Never tried it, why?"

"I'm thinking of shimmying up one. To get a lay of the land so to speak."

She smiles nervously. "Good idea. But we really should try to get some more food."

"How though?" I ask, still examining the tree. We don't have wires for snares and anything I kill with poison would be a waste.

"Look! A squirrel!" Rose points at a large oak tree opposite us, making me jump. She takes a few steps closer. I see it perched on a low branch, frozen as it watches us. My stomach rumbles at the poor but tempting prospect. I've eaten squirrel before. The Everdeen boy trades them in our district. I think he must go beyond the fence to get them because I've never seen one wondering within district 12. No one would report him though. Too hungry.

"What can we do? Throw a knife at it?" I sigh, feeling a shade desperate.

My tone is light but underneath I feel a great swell of exasperation. I know it's not Rose's fault. I never thought I'd make it this far. But now I have no idea of what to do next. I never dared to imagine I'd survive this long. I feel unprepared, like a lost child (I am, in a sense). I rub my eyes, trying to clear them.

"Uh May?!" Rose sounds a little nervous. Even with my eyesight, it doesn't take long for me to see why.

I only took my eyes off the squirrel for a moment. Now there's at least thirty of them. All on the same branch. Watching us. Maybe more. I've never been stared at by so many fuzzy little creatures before. It's very decidedly not cute. It's unsettling.

I tug Rose's sleeve lightly. "We should go…"

"Yeah…" she breathes, transfixed.

"Come on," They're so still, it's unnatural. I remember the butterfly and take a few steps back.

Nothing is as it seems.

They launch themselves at us.

----

Flying squirrels. Heard of them. Never seen one in action.

This is ridiculous!

I've loaded the first dart and exhaled it into one mid-flight. It falls and lies still which doesn't deter its friends at all. I get a good look at their tiny faces. They look rabid, full of rage. There's something quite grotesque about seeing such a hate-filled, human emotion on their faces. I fight away the sense of swooping insanity.

The pack flies at us. I take out another with a dart, one that was aiming for Rose's face as she stood there, horror-struck.

"Rose! The knife!" My cry snaps her out of it, but she has no time to draw. They're on her and they're biting, clawing, making hideous chittering sounds.

They're so fast, on us in a heartbeat. There's no time for me to reload. I'm jabbing at the little monsters with a single dart. It's good to know the poison works. Rose was standing closer to their tree. Whilst I'm fending off a few, she's coated.

"Rose!" I hear her screaming and rush to her aid. I step on a few of the rodents, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction.

Can this be real? It's like a bizarre nightmare. One lands on my arm and sinks tiny, razor sharp fangs into my hand. The pain is immediate. I shriek and shake my arm but it clings on with ease. Until I repeatedly slam the thing into a tree trunk. I manage to tear the Mutt off of me though an alarming chunk of my hand goes with it. The fleshy bit above the thumb. I howl and end up stomping on anything small and furry in a frenzy of terror, pain and outrage. Fur brushes my vision, claws tear at the lower side of my face. I grab it and hurl the monster away from me. It went for my eyes.

I keep it together but I can see Rose is beyond coherent thought.

I eventually reach her. She's lying on the floor, shielding her face with her hands. She's managed to crush a few by rolling. I extract my knife from her belt and begin to slash them away. They cling to her, biting (I pray that the coat has protected her). I impale a few, seeing red. It's hard not to cut my friend but I somehow manage. The hideous chittering makes them sound like insects. As the sound recedes, it takes me a moment to realise they are finally retreating.

I collapse on the ground next to Rose, panting. She is openly weeping.

I pat her shoulder. "It's okay. Gone now." I murmur, trying to catch my breath. I feel blood running down my neck. I go to wipe my face but pain flares up in my left hand. I examine it. The wound looks like a raw bit of meat. I feel sick. If they were rabid, I'm dead.

As I catch my breath I'm filled with the certainty that this place is going to kill me, rather than the people in it. I try to stop shaking.

"We have to move now." Someone must have heard our cries, we were loud enough. There was no death canon. Someone will be curious to find out what happened. Someone may be brave enough to follow through.

Rose slowly uncurls from her position and shakily sits up. She has a couple of gashes on her face - nothing too deep luckily. I was right, the coat did protect her. I can see that her leg is bleeding. Her neck is scratched up pretty badly too. I swear under my breath.

"They knew where to strike," I say, feeling horrified. They were smart and vicious…man made of course. There is a glimmer of hope. If they were manufactured to be so aggressive, they may not actually have rabies.

Rose's wide eyes reflect the horror I feel. "Your face…" She reaches out but doesn't touch. I must look real pretty.

"We can fix ourselves up later. Come on, let's find somewhere to hide." I think longingly of our cave. It's so far away and I'm starting to feel woozy. I press my hand against my leg in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. My heart sinks. How will I load my fiddly dart gun now?

We pull ourselves up unsteadily.

"That. Was. Ridiculous." I force out.

"Death by squirrel…" Rose adds, wiping her eyes.

We both splutter. It's laughter filled with nerves, horror and is far too erratic for my liking but it's laughter. We hold onto each other weakly.

"Do we take some with us?" Rose manages to get out as sanity returns. I realise what she means. I look at the broken bodies of our attackers and feel slightly revolted by the idea. But she's right. If we don't go mad from rabies or die from a poison bite then they might be safe to eat.

"Alight. But quickly then."

Wearing matching expressions of revulsion, we prepare to scoop up a few bodies. I slide the knife into my belt. I suppose I'll have to gut the things…

As I prepare to retrieve the least trampled looking squirrel, I pause. A thought occurs to me. An uneasy, but obvious thought.

"Why did the Gamemakers let us go?"

Dawning understanding fills my veins with ice. I do not turn as Rose voices my realisation.

"They didn't." She chokes out. "They were just setting up something better."

We both turn in time to see two tributes step into our clearing, weapons drawn.

And the show goes on.

Chapter Text

Fear has the ability to make the mind play tricks on you.

I remember this one time; I was sitting in our shabby classroom back home with the other kids (think I must have been about ten). It was particularly hot, one of those really humid days where you just want to collapse and loll about. No one ever did though. There’s always some work to be done in district twelve. Anyway, we were listening to our teacher drone on about some coal process, fracking I think, when one of my classmates suddenly let out this incredible shriek.

He thought he had seen a bear wondering around outside.

Whether it was fear or just plain heat stroke, I don’t know. But when I rushed to look out that coal-dusted window with the other panic-stricken ten year olds, just for a second, I thought I saw a bear too. This big, black shape, prowling around outside hungrily. Big as life, strolling through twelve…

Turns out this mangy - though admittedly quite huge - wild dog had wondered into our district. Poor thing ended up in a stew before it knew what was happening of course. The fence around the border was thoroughly repaired and order was restored. And as for my classmate, he is still being ridiculed to this very day. The boy who cried bear.

When those two tributes stepped into the clearing, I saw two careers coming to finish us off. I saw death. The end.

I heard Rose cry out and thought she must be thinking the same thing. Imagine my surprise when she ran straight over to them. 

---

“Rose don’t!” I shout desperately, wondering what the hell she is doing. She’s running straight into them! Is she trying the get herself killed?

“Rose?” One of the new arrivals sounds just as perplexed as I do. And surprisingly not hostile.

Still holding a poisoned dart in one hand, with my dart gun in the other, I cautiously step closer. Just in time to see Rose throw herself into Pash’s arms.

“Ladies of twelve - you’re still alive!” he says haughtily, a little muffled by Rose’s shoulder.

I sigh with relief, but still don’t lower my weapon.

“Who’s this?” I call out, gesturing to the stranger beside him. She has dark skin with fantastic braided hair. She’d be pretty if she wasn’t scowling so fiercely at me. She looks vaguely familiar.

Rose finally pulls away, looking sheepish. Pash is still beaming.

“This is my other friend from eleven, Freya.” He slides his knife back into his belt and takes a step closer to me.

Freya. Of course. I’d only really seen her on the television in reaping footage. Pash seemed to be a lot friendlier with Kaye. I wonder what’s going on.

Don’t trust him… whispers a little voice in the back of my mind that sounds alarmingly like Haymitch. I give her a perfunctory nod.

“Hi! I’m Rose and this is Maysilee.” Freya doesn’t answer Rose, or take her eyes off me. I step closer, not wanting to abandon my daft friend. Also, I want to get a better look at them with my damaged eyes. 

“What’s that? A pea shooter?” The newcomer asks in a surprisingly deep voice, sneering slightly.
 
The air is fraught with tension. Like when you see two cats about to fight. It takes me a moment to understand what she means. Oh. My dart gun.

I shrug lightly. “We just met.” I say, falsely apologetic. I wouldn’t tell a stranger all my secrets straight away now would I?

“Well, could you point it somewhere else please?” She all but growls. I notice she still hasn’t put her knife away, and the tension ratchets up another notch. Didn’t realise I was even pointing the tube at her.

“May?” It’s Rose’s gentle voice that drains the tension a little. She places her hand on my shoulder. “These guys are okay. Pash is our friend.”

I’m not so sure. 

“Allies?” Pash extends his hand to me and I have the mad urge to bite, rather than shake it. But what choice do I have? Can’t start a fight right here after all. I can still feel the blood gushing out of my hand.  And who’s to say Rose would take my side if I started on her beloved Pash? If only we could slip away… But Rose’s attentions are already back to the boy from eleven so I know this isn‘t an option. Not yet anyway.

I don’t take his hand. But I do give him a curt nod. 

“Sure,” I say, lowering the dart gun back around my neck, and slotting the dart carefully back into its pocket pouch. The reassuring weight of the knife in my other pocket comforts me, easily accessible. 

Pash grins broadly. “Now… what on Earth is with all the dead squirrels?!” 

---

We decide to risk it and light a fire since it is the middle of the day and no one will be able to see the flames. We gorge ourselves on squirrel until we can eat no more. It bothers me, sharing our food with Pash and Freya. They didn’t have to suffer for it like we did. In fact, they hooted with laughter when we told them about the manic squirrel attack.

“You laugh now but wait until they go for you,” I say, feeling miffed but trying to sound jokey.

Rose patched up my hand as best as she could whilst the newcomers gutted the squirrels. Can’t say fairer than that, though I didn’t take my eyes off of them the whole time. I doubt I’d be able to do a better job with preparing the food. My hand is wrecked though fortunately I’m right handed.

Pash didn’t stop talking the whole time. It was mostly irrelevant babble and back-story. How Freya had jumped him, scaring the life out of him until they called a truce. How to skin a small rodent just so. That his brother had taught him how just before he passed away.

“Shame really. He was a great fellow. Ooh! Do you think we could find some nuts to have with our squirrels or is that too ironic?”

Rose and I exchanged a startled look over this piece of information so casually dropped into the conversation. His voice never even wavered from its chirpy, light tone which was probably the most unsettling thing about that random confession. I know that many people die young, I just never expected Pash to have a tragic experience. I wonder what happened? I didn’t want to ask. Starvation usually is the cause back home. Although didn’t Pash say they grow their own food in eleven?

More likely they grow it but the Capitol takes it all away. Far more likely.

At the time I just shrugged, filed away that information and continued working on fashioning a decent skewer for the meat.

Now Rose and I sit huddled on one side of the fire, Freya and Pash on the other. At least we’re not being completely ridiculous and overly trusting with each other. That would be too false. The squirrel tastes wonderful. I may have let the elevens try it first though, just in case it was poisoned. They either didn’t seem to mind or weren’t aware of the possibility of poisoned meat, though Rose gave me the evil eye. 

I’m not going to lie. I felt a grim sense of satisfaction, eating the little buggers that had tried to kill us. Respect the food chain.

“So…what’s your story? How did you two find each other?” Pash enquires, mouth full of meat. 

“And how’d you survive this long?” Freya adds, less nicely. It’s the first thing she’s said in a while.

“Rose?” I wipe the grease on my trousers and give her a nudge. She can tell the story. She was conscious for more of it than I was.

I am pleased to say she leaves out some important bits. Maybe she isn’t as taken with Pash as she seems. For instance, she doesn’t tell them about my make-shift weapon, which would have given them an advantage. Or my theory about being rescued by someone, a possible ally. Or about the poisoned water - a potentially lethal omission. Rose isn’t usually forgetful, or a fool, even if she did forget herself upon seeing a friendly face. She can’t help having such a good and trusting heart.

By the time she is done telling our tale, we have long finished eating.

“But what about you?” I ask, studying Freya’s cold expression.  “I’m sure you must have a more exciting story of what happened before you met up?”

“Not really, isn’t that right Frey? Life is dull without me.”

I don’t like the way he prompts her, humour masking something else. And that wasn’t an answer at all. It was as if he was doing some serious censoring. Why don’t they want to tell us their stories of survival?

Perhaps they don’t want to give us an advantage.

I shift uncomfortably, feeling full which is ridiculous given the circumstances. Are Freya and Pash hedging their bets? Preparing to fight us?

I suddenly feel weary to the bone. I don’t want to fight anymore. This day just keeps on getting worse.

“I heard about Kaye,” Says Rose gently, breaking the silence and my unpleasant cycle of thoughts. “Well saw actually. I’m so sorry Pash.” She does look genuinely sorry for him. My heart goes out to her and I am filled with the urge to protect my friend. We have to get away.

Pash’s smile falters a little. “Well. Can’t all survive I suppose. I did see her face on the recap screen. Poor thing.”

“Only one winner.” Freya chimes in, though she does sound a little sad about that fact.

Tension’s back.

I clear my throat, not liking Pash’s dismissal of the death of his friend. He didn’t even want to know what happened. There’s something quite cold and disconnected under all that sunshine. I shiver and feel Rose stiffen beside me. Something is wrong. She can feel it too. His tone was too casual, too cold.

“Well…now we’ve feasted like kings maybe we ought to split up and find some water.” I suggest, mouth going dry. Our supply isn’t too low but I’ll say anything to get away from them. We need to talk.

“We have rainwater,” says Freya dryly. “Don’t you?”

“Not a lot.” I answer half-truthfully, wishing more and more that Kaye was here in her place. I may not have known the girl very well, but she seemed okay. A little disinterested and not overly fond of Pash. Maybe that was a good thing. There’s something off about his constant smile. Only a lunatic keeps grinning in such a hideous situation. Perhaps Kaye sensed that too.

“So what’s the plan now allies?” Pash asks happily. “We were going to head as far away from the careers as possible. They’re by the mountains you know. Only just escaped from them myself - good thing I can run!” 

I smile weakly in response but a sense of unease grows. I have a feeling we are being sucked into something and we can’t get out. I don’t like the feeling.

“Do you like that idea?” He prompts. I realise I must act natural though I wonder what plan they are really forming aside from getting away from the Careers.

“Yes,” I say stiffly. “It’s as good as any.”

Pash and Freya give each other a sly little look which I cannot decipher. Or am I just being paranoid, heaping my own feelings of mistrust onto every exchange? Or should I just trust my instincts?

It was definitely better when it was just Rose and me.
 
We gather our belongings, ending up with a squirrel apiece in each of our bags as we set off on a trail that leads away from the mountains. I stay close to Rose.

---

“Berries!” Pash’s happy voice stops me dead in my tracks. He’s being far too noisy. “We have these at home, now I’m sure they’re safe to eat.”

We’ve been aimlessly walking for hours now, looking for somewhere to camp for the night. Pash has been constantly chirping away with Freya by his side. I flatly refused to walk in front of them - no way am I turning my back on them - so we’ve been walking in this impractical line formation. Fortunately, this path through the woods is very spacious unlike other parts, with golden brown willow trees lining our route.

It’s been quiet so far. Apart from Pash’s prattle that is.

I glance at the bush he’s pointing at. Yes, I’m sure those berries are safe to eat normally. But I’m also pretty sure water isn’t usually that poisonous, or that squirrels don’t attack in packs, or that a butterfly cannot kill you with a sting. I open my mouth to warn him when a voice pipes up in my head.

Why warn them? Can’t trust them…

It doesn’t even bother me that it sounds like the slightly bored and amused voice of Haymitch Abernathy.

I wish you were really here.

I know that letting Pash try the berries will be better for me and Rose in the long run, less competition. Haymitch would know that too I bet. But that’s not me. That’s not who I am. Since when do I follow his advice anyway? I see Greta’s once pretty face, and realise my decision has already been made. Has been since I saw her by that lethal lake.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say, just as he reaches out.

“Oh! That’s right! Don’t eat them!” Rose says, pretty much at the same time.

“Why not? Trust me, we grow them back home, don’t we Freya?”

I glance at the girl in question only to see she is studying us carefully, hands on hips, eyes narrowed sceptically. “What’s wrong with them?” She asks, casually ignoring Pash.

I hesitate only for a second. “Everything is poison in this place. The flowers, the water, even the bloody butterflies.” I didn’t mean to help them out so much. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. I can’t let them die in such a cowardly manner. Death through neglecting to mention something so basic. I won’t do it. I don’t think anyone back home would want me to do it either. It’s too sneaky. It’s not our way.

Would Krista understand? I realise I am putting my life in more danger by keeping them alive. Oh if only they were true allies! I don’t know what to do. What my sister would say. She’d probably call me an idiot though she’d do no different.

“It’s true,” says Rose. Grey eyes wide and appealing, tethering me to the present as always.

The tributes of eleven exchange a brief look of consultation.

“Fine. Won’t take that risk then.” Pash says finally, smiling broadly though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

We move on but not before Rose gives my hand a brief squeeze. She understands. She thought it was the right thing to do too.

---

“…We knew about the flowers of course. That was fairly obvious from the Cornucopia. In fact, I’m starting to suspect the only good food is pack food.” He finally pauses for breath. “Well, apart from your fuzzy little squirrel friends of course, but I don’t think that feeding us was the Gamemakers’ intention do you?”

I open my mouth to respond but he plows on.

“So with that in mind, I propose the next thing we do is to head back towards the Cornucopia. It’s the only sensible thing to do. Do you have any water? I’m pretty thirsty. I think we should pool our resources if you pardon the pun.”

“Umm…What?” Too many questions. He just never stops talking.

“Have you seen the other boy at all? Haymitch? I wonder how he’s doing.” Pash ponders, sounding pompous.

Deep down, I am dying to ask this question myself. To see whether they knew the answer (obviously not). But right now, I cannot let myself get distracted.

“Whoa!” I say, nearly laughing. “Let’s go back to the change of plan part.”

“And try to draw breath this time,” adds Freya, almost sounding fond.

We’re resting by an ancient oak tree in a shadowy part of the woods. Sat upon a carpet of leaves and needles. We’ve decided its branches would make a decent place to settle down for the night. We could even use our belts to buckle ourselves in. Or not. I think that would be an ideal time to split off from them.

I’m starting to suspect we are going around in circles anyway, so it was time to call it a day. This is why I don’t immediately dismiss Pash’s suggestion. This place is like a maze. The further we head away from the mountains, the denser the foliage became. Eventually, we had to turn back when confronted by an impenetrable wall of brambles. It was almost as if the arena was designed to heard us back into the middle, fighting back against us.

I feel trapped again.

“You want to go back to the Cornucopia?” Rose’s voice makes me focus on the conversation at hand once more. I don’t usually take Pash’s suggestions too seriously anyway. We’re not a team. We’re an accident waiting to happen.

“Of course. There were so many supplies just left there. The careers can’t have carried it all with them.” Pash reasons.

“Well, there was ten of them.” I add doubtfully. Of course they could carry it with them. And I’m not liking the idea of returning to that exposed meadow. It’s too dangerous and at least a day’s walk away. And then there’s the deadly flowers that perfume the air…

A canon blast makes us all jump.

“Another one bites the dust.” Says Freya ominously. I see her share a look with Pash and I don’t like what passes between them. They look almost satisfied, as if they are nearing a decision.

I doubt it is one I will like.

My mouth goes dry. Whose death did that symbolise? Can’t be him. Not him. No. I would know. That doesn’t make sense but it’s true somehow. I would know.

Where are you?

“Let’s hope there’s a great big fight going on somewhere so we get left alone tonight.” Pash smiles darkly.

“Let’s hope it’s nowhere near us,” Rose adds quietly.

“So the Cornucopia then?” Says Pash, as if there has been no interruption.

“I don’t know,” I say uncertainly, exchanging a look with Rose and seeing my own doubts reflected there. “It’s so far away. And the Careers are over there somewhere.”

“They could be using the Cornucopia to store their supplies. I doubt they’d leave it unguarded.” Rose contributes.

“Yes! Thank you,” I say, delighted that she’s backing me up with actual logic. All I can think of is it is a bad idea because it’s Pash’s idea. That wouldn’t go down well. This probably is paranoia now, but I don’t want to be lead into a trap. “We can hide here. Can’t in the meadow.”

“But we’ll starve or dehydrate eventually. We can’t sit around and hope for more rain. We have to go and get the supplies for ourselves, not rely on someone to press another button.”

It’s like arguing with a brick wall. I see where he’s coming from. But I don’t want to go anywhere with them really. That’s the bottom of it. And I resent the ‘sitting around’ dig. I didn’t just sit around. I nearly died looking for water.

“You’re just assuming the supplies will still be there,” I say, feeling exasperated, hand throbbing painfully. I wish I had something to treat it with. Something not toxic.

“There were more weapons than they could carry!” Pash shouts, sounding less pleasant.

“We can’t eat weapons!” I hiss back, in a slightly quieter tone, feeling ridiculous even as it leaves my lips. What is wrong with this person?

“Maybe this is where we part ways.”

It’s the first thing Freya has contributed in a while and I don’t like the way she says it.

Suddenly all four of us have sprung to our feet, facing each other grimly.

“Well, maybe that’s for the best.” I say, wrapping my fingers around Rose’s wrist. We need to get out of here. I don’t think they’re talking about an amicable parting somehow. It’s Pash’s smile. His overfriendliness.

A snake. Just like Haymitch once said, I realise with a sinking heart. What did he know about Pash?

“We’ll just go. We’ll go one way and you’ll go another. That’s all we have to do.” I say, taking a few steps backwards and towing Rose with me.

Rose looks appealingly at the man she thought was her friend. “Are we fighting here? Why are we fighting?”

He smiles at that. “Ah but you see, now you know where we’re heading. I don’t know who else you’ll tell.” Pash says slowly, voice completely lacking in the warmth it once held.

“What are you talking about? We wouldn’t do that.” Rose’s voice sounds so small and filled with hurt. She’s afraid. And probably feeling betrayed.

I think of cats again. Krista’s cat, poised and ready to pounce. They take two steps towards us. Their hands over their knives, barely concealed behind their belts. Easily reachable.

If they’re cats, then what are we? Are we supposed to be the mice?

I’m not anyone’s prey.

“Back off!” I shout, pulling my pathetically small blade out from my own belt. For all the good it will do. I clutch it in my right hand firmly.

And see their eyes widen in amusement.

“What are you doing Maysilee?” Says Pash, eyes fixed on my blade.

“What are you doing more like.” I say, close to hysteria. “Me and my friend are going to leave now. And you’re going to let us go. We’ve done nothing to you.”

“Even saved your lives,” Whispers Rose, likely referring to the berries.

“What are they talking about Freya? Do you know what they’re talking about?” Smiles Pash, still advancing.

“No idea. They’re so paranoid.” She sneers. I feel my back hit the tree.

Could this day get any worse?

“Why are you doing this?” Rose whispers. We can no longer fool ourselves. They mean to fight us. To kill us. I don’t know why. Well, I know it’s the games but why befriend us first? Why be so sadistic?

“I wanted to kill you from the start.” Pash says, almost cheerfully to Rose.

At first I think I must have misheard him. But Rose’s whimper says otherwise. My blood runs cold. He’s crazy. Deep down, I think I always knew it. Haymitch certainly did.

“Come on,” Sighs Freya. “We’re getting near the end now. It’s either you or us.”

“This is how it‘s supposed to be.” Pash says, almost kindly. “Don’t want you killing us in our sleep.”

I open my mouth to protest. I would never -

Then they strike.

---

She lunges for me. I deliberately forget the knife and jam a dart straight into Freya’s neck. She wasn’t concentrating on my mangled left hand. I suppose she underestimated me.

She staggers back, looking bewildered. She slaps a hand to the small wound, dart still sticking out. I missed any major arteries but I know I’ve done enough. I can tell by the way she’s struggling to breathe. A life ended, and it only took a second.

“What have you done?” She gasps, pulling the dart out.

I look away as she falls to the floor and go to help Rose.

She ran. She ran away from Pash. Of course she did. She has no weapon. I took the knife didn‘t I? I hear her footsteps crunch over fallen leaves and force myself to go faster. She didn’t get far. I can see Pash in pursuit. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Tackle him? Maybe. All I know is I have to get to my friend.

I run to her, screaming her name, not caring who else may hear me. I reach her just in time. Just in time to see Pash catch up to her.

And plunge his knife into her chest.

---

“Rose!” I scream. Pash turns to me. He’s still smiling. I don’t think. I launch the next dart. It easily misses the target. He charges at me and I don’t care. I hear Rose cry. See Rose fall.

I see my friend fall.

He plows into me. Like Byron. Like my fate the day I was chosen to die this way. He doesn’t have a weapon anymore. Left it in my friend. I think he’s noticed Freya. He’s furious, face contorted in rage.

His hands lock around my throat as we fall to the floor. I don’t fight his grip. I keep calm. It’s like it’s not even me anymore. I’ve been beaten, bitten, savaged, poisoned and now strangled. No more. I hear a roaring in my ears as I wriggle and writhe. Pain flares hot in my throat. My eyes bulge and all I can see is this maniac in front of me. This monster. I need to get to Rose. She’s bleeding to death. I hear a canon fire from so far away, beyond the roaring sound. I tell myself it’s for Freya. It’s Freya, not her.

I find the tiny knife that he sneered at before. It’s still in my grasp. Could I really use it?

Of course. It’s no different to a poisoned dart really. Same end result. He throws all his weight on top of me, hitting my head against the ground. The decision is taken from me. He impales himself on my blade. I feel it sink into his gut and it makes me feel sick.

At first the pain doesn’t even register. He carries on choking me and now I’m panicking because I can see butterflies floating in front of my streaming eyes. No. Not butterflies. Dark blots of colour obscure my vision. I kick and thrash, knees connecting with his stomach again and again.

He grunts in agony and finally rolls off of me, breaking his grasp. I choke back air gratefully, spluttering painfully.

“What?” Pash sounds completely bewildered as he finally notices the hilt of the blade sticking out of his stomach. He looks amazed as he clumsily yanks the knife out. Another mistake. He slumps back down against the leafy ground as I pull myself up.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he gasps, eyes bright with pain. I see the ghost of the boy I knew, peering out as that murderous rage dissipates. He looks scared. “I just wanted to win. J-just wanted to live.” He gasps harshly, sweating with the effort.

I tower over him. I coldly think: then you should have let us go. Why couldn’t he have just let us go? I don’t say it. It would be a lie anyway. The fact is, we were all dead the moment our names were pulled out of that reaping ball. Someone else would have got him.

I walk away from him. Leave him to die. I don’t want to feel sorry for him.

I run to Rose instead.

----

It’s clear to me that I am too late. I’m much, much too late. That’s something else Pash has taken from me. The chance to say goodbye to my friend.

The canon fires as I reach her. I tell myself it’s for Pash. Not her. It can’t be for her. She’s still alive. She’s okay. I can save her.

I fall to the floor, gather her in my arms.

“Rose? Rose?” I gasp, voice a pleading rasp. My throat is on fire and my eyes sting with tears. I can feel a bubble of hysteria threatening to overwhelm me. I can help her. How can I help her? I’m not too late. I go to press my hand against her wound, but the knife is still embedded there.

In her heart.

I hold her in my arms but there’s no one there.

“Rose? Please! Come on now! Don’t do this!” I brush a strand of dark hair back from her pale, oval face. So sweet and kind. Her eyes are closed. She could almost be sleeping. I see a dark stain of blood across her chest, seeping through the layers. Not just sleeping.

“No…” I howl, holding her limp body close to me. Rocking her gently. “Please leave me on my own again.”

I sit there, in that bloody clearing, with the shell of my best friend in my arms. Another canon fire. Another death. But not mine.

I sob and hold her close, so small in my arms. Irreparably broken. She’s still warm.

“Oh Rose. I’m so sorry.”

All I can do is sob and remember her. Someone else could take me out of this misery as I sit here. Let them come. I am ready for them.

I know what I must do.

I hear a strange rumbling in the air. Thunder? As if it matters. I can’t breathe. I cry until my eyes burn. I know the hovercrafts will arrive soon to take the bodies away. How can so much death occur in such a short time frame?

The rumbling sound grows louder, seeming to reflect my feelings. I barely take it in.

Instead, I place a gentle kiss on her cooling cheek.

“Goodbye Rose Chater. You were brave and kind and I wish you were still here,” I choke out, voice cracking.

I carefully lay her upon the forest floor. Fold her arms gently. I cannot bear to pull the knife out. I’ll let it be taken out of the arena with her, never to kill again. One last thing she will do for me. I already owe her so much. My life. I wish I could have repaid her.

I feel a swell of anguish threatening to overcome me, but I know what I must do.

I unhook her satchel buckles and slip it over my body. I know she wouldn’t mind. I feel numb. On the edge. I need to get out of here before I break down completely.

Without saying a word, I raise my three fingers of my right and hold them out to Rose - a mark of respect from our district.

“Goodbye.”

I walk away, tears still coursing down my cheeks. I do not brush them away.

I reach Pash first. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. His eyes are glassy. I disconnect. I cannot process this. Cannot accept that I ended another life in such violence.

A wave of horror carries a dark rage with it. He killed her.

Channelling my grief, I nudge the body over, open his small back pack. I take his flask of water and a pack of fruit and seeds, add them to Rose’s bag.

Without a second glance, I make my way over to the other one. I tell myself I don’t take it in. Bloated features. Pale blue. Desperate eyes. Another death on my hands.

Numbly, I take her knife. It’s larger than mine. She would have killed me with it. I should take the dart - reuse it. But can’t bring myself to pick it up. Her satchel is smaller than Rose’s. I open it, take the squirrel and the hard roll that I find inside. There’s other things but I can’t carry anymore. I add it to my pack.

I won’t spare Freya another glance. She was just as bad as Pash. I will never know what we did to incur such rage. Night is falling already. Seems like it always is. I scrub my eyes, try to catch my breath when all I want to do is curl up and mourn Rose.

I walk from that clearing just as a hovercraft drifts into view, silently.

What isn’t so silent is the next roll of thunder.

---

I feel it through my feet as it reverbs across the ground. I see a flock of enormous candy-pink birds take to the sky, cawing in panic with alarmingly sharp beaks. Leaves scatter from the trees as if experiencing dread. There’s no lightening, no rain.

Because it’s not thunder.

I hurl myself at the nearest tree. It’s nearly impossible with two bags but I claw my way upwards, climbing from branch to branch, feeling reckless, giddy. Maybe if I hadn’t survived so much I would never have attempted it. My life isn’t worth much anyway, not if I couldn’t save my friend. Branches scratch at my skin, I drag myself up higher and higher, past branches that bend dangerously and suspicious looking nests. My hand stings horribly. I grit my teeth and climb.

I don’t stop until I am dangerously high. Until I can see the tops of other trees, the lake in the distance, a glint of gold that could even be the Cornucopia, impossibly far away.

Behind, there is the mountain. Another almighty rumble has the tree shaking. I cling for dear life as the branch sways frantically. I had at first imagined it was thunder. Then thought the very worst. Something so far-fetched it was almost laughable. Some kind of monster - a huge Mutt roaring as it approached fresh victims.

It is neither of these things.

The mountain is no longer topped with gleaming white snow. It stands like a dark idol, carved from the blackest stone. It is engulfed in thick, impenetrable black smoke. It no longer looks like a mountain. I’ve never seen anything like it though I know the name.

Volcano.

It is a good thing I am holding on to my dangerously swaying branch so tight. I would have fallen to my death at the unexpected sight. Liquid fire.

My limited education supplies me with the right term. Lava. A furious lake of orange fire, so fast, unbelievably fast, steadily pours from the apex. It’s too easy, too neat, pouring out as if from a tap. Manufactured of course. Controlled by the men pressing buttons.

It flows relentlessly from the top. Chunks of rock and thick black smoke choke the atmosphere, rolling towards me like a storm from hell. The reverb is incredible, majestic, terrifying, like an explosion. Am I far away enough? I begin to panic. I can’t run anymore. Please don’t make me run anymore.

I see trees swept away with ease. The air is smouldering, scorching, clouded with smoke heading my way.

Fear and dread soon turn into a nasty sort of amusement as the realisation hits me. At first I splutter. Then I laugh and laugh and laugh though it sounds like I am crying.

The Careers are in the mountains.

Chapter Text

I watch the powerful, pointless display of manufactured nature until darkness begins to fall. It’s too neat. Too clinical. Lava flows as if from a tap. Chunks of molten rock ignite the ground. The earth shakes but I don’t really feel it. I watch steadily, a feeling of rising horror threatening to overflow as trees fall and the air grows thick with ash. Flakes of pretty paper, descending like deadly snowfall relentlessly.

I blink wearily and shift with discomfort, clinging to the branch with all my strength. The days are blurring into an endless nightmare. Except it will end. Soon. I try to do the maths. At least thirty are dead. Maybe more by now. I steadily count the canon blasts as the air grows thicker and increasingly uncomfortable to take in.

Five. Five canon blasts. If it was the careers, there will only be five left alive. It seems nearly impossible to believe the main contenders have been killed by the press of a button. I won’t know for sure until the death recaps later. Assuming I can see it. I cough uncomfortably as smoke fills the sky. There’s this metallic, smoky scent in the air. I am reminded of tales of mine cave ins back home. To perish in fire, to burn, to be left trapped and bleeding, terrified…

I wrap my arms around my body to control the shudders, as if that will hold me together. My breath keeps catching. Hitching painfully. There seems to be no part of my body that doesn’t hurt right now. The cuts and bruises aren’t the worst. There’s this gaping hole where my friend once was. It’s raw and painfully cold - jagged. Another wave of despair hits me.

She’s gone. What little chance do I have? I couldn’t even save her like she saved me. Tears course down my face and I don’t brush them away even though I’m being watched. Not even when the salt hits my cuts. I owe her that much.

Do I even deserve to survive when so many people have died, both good and bad? I’m not good anymore. I’ve killed people. I’ve let them change me. I’ve let them win. Lost so much. I bury my face in my hands and cry.

---

I must have dozed off eventually. I’m trapped in a feverish haze of nightmares until the anthem rouses me, mercifully. I panic, try to remember where I am, then panic some more when I remember. Still in the tree, belt anchoring me in place. The volcano sleeps once more, as if it was just another innocent mountain. I can see debris in the distance which proves otherwise. Trees flattened to kindling, as though crushed by a clumsy giant. The sheer destruction is overwhelming. The audience must be loving it.

The faces in the sky confirm what I thought. More dead children. One of the spiteful giggle twins from one is dead. A boy from two. Everyone from four - except Neptune - it seems has also died. Five careers, gone. A girl from five also joins the ranks - Nell - Greta’s district mate. Pash and Freya join the list of the dead. I feel the fresh horror of their deaths all over again and try my best not to scream.

Then there she is. Rose. My friend. Her sweet face illuminates the sky, watching over me for one last time. Despair grips me; I don’t want her to go. I failed her.

I try to pull myself together as the sky goes dark once more. I bite my lip; wipe my tears with a grimy, bandaged hand. She dressed it only this morning, hands impossibly gentle. How I miss her. Now the bandage is stained blood red - possibly a mix of mine and hers. I do not tear it off, my first thought. I’ll wear it as a token. A reminder to those watching. This is what you did. This is what you wanted.

I feel sick to my very soul, if such a thing exists. I don’t see how it would help me now either way. I’m feverishly hot. I shiver and shrug out of my jacket, tie it round my waist as best as I can whilst tethered to a tree. Maybe the volcano explosion has rocketed the temperature in the arena. Or perhaps the Gamemakers are just cranking it up.

Another voice whispers to me. One that reminds me of my friend Ana. She could be patiently explaining one of her father’s cures, that’s how clear it is: Could be shock. Or a sign of infection…

She’s not here, but she’s right. As soon as I think it, I become aware of the intense throbbing in my hand. The clammy sheen of sweat that covers my body. I laugh weakly and end up coughing.

“Killed by a damn squirrel,” I wheeze, still giggling though it isn’t remotely funny.

The thought of infection should scare me more than it does but I can’t seem to care. There’s nothing I can do. No way to treat it. Everything’s poisoned. I drink from Rose’s bottle gratefully quenching my thirst a little. I finish off the squirrel before it can rot. I’m not very hungry but force it down anyway. I stuff the bones into a hole in the tree trunk, resisting the urge to just drop them. There aren’t many places to hide anymore, now the volcano has demolished the mountain range. Just here and the exposed meadow. I may have company soon. Better not to leave any signs. I don’t think I can fight anymore.

I try to drift off once more but I’m scared of who will be waiting there when I do. I concentrate on Krista. Her caring face, warm blue eyes, hugs that feel like home. My life for hers. Have to keep fighting. I suppose Rose reminded me of her a little.

I sigh. Wipe the budding sweat from my forehead. Wriggle and try to get comfortable. I can’t remember being in such pain before apart from the butterfly of course. My neck, my hand, my ribs… even my face stings. Bet I look real pretty. The silly thought makes me laugh. I wish I had a friendly face to share my joke with. But friendly faces are hard to come by and even harder to hang on to in the Hunger Games.

Haymitch. His face swims into my vision, pleasantly. He would have laughed…

Haymitch! I nearly fall off my branch as the thought hits me like an electric current. His face wasn’t in the sky. He’s alive. He’s still out there somewhere. My heart beats madly at the realisation with an equal mix of longing and dread. I don’t want to be left fighting him. But I want him. I want him here with me. I crave his company so badly I surprise myself.

I struggle to catch my breath again as I lounge in my lookout. I try my best to calm down, to catch some sleep, drifting off with his face firmly in my mind.

---

I’m burning. Invisible flames envelope my frame like a demonic embrace, agonising and cruel. I don’t know what it is. Is it the volcano? A mine fire, stripping me of my flesh? The sting of a butterfly? Venomous, biting snakes? The press of a hundred knives? Could be any. Could be all.

All I know is I’m not alone as I scream and writhe in the darkness. Pash and Freya are watching, laughingly. Byron salutes me, grinning broadly. Rose is there too, but she turns her back to me and walks away. Haymitch is there too, leaning against a tree, smiling teasingly.

“Told you there were snakes.” He says triumphantly, nodding as if pleased with himself.

And he’s right. He’s right and it hurts and it burns and why is it so hot? Why is it so hot? I can’t -

I wake up to find tears streaming down my face. Hope I didn’t scream. I try to shake off the nightmare, tasting blood in my mouth. Bit my lip. Another injury to add to the catalogue.

It wasn’t just the pain of the dream that effected me so. It was the deep feeling of loss. The sickening sense of shame. I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore.

It’s still too hot. I’m shivering as badly as I did in the launch room. I think I could be dying. From something so treatable. How frustrating. Better than a knife wound. I shudder and try to keep memories of Rose’s death at bay. At least for a little while. I cannot bear it.

I decide to do something constructive. Gritting my teeth, I slowly unwrap the bandage, realising a token won’t keep me alive. That’s why I didn’t want the mockingjay pin here with me. What would be the point? Let its spirit live on with my sister.

I wince as I peel the rag off my skin. It smells awful even though the wound isn’t as bad as I originally thought. A jagged set of puncture marks. The flesh tore away when I yanked the creature off of me. It’s not healing too well. It’s all red and shiny, a little swollen too. I remember a mixture of my training and Ana’s advice. Need to cut it open, drain the fluid. Clean it with water and redress it. I consider the process with a clear head, numbly.

I have to get out of the tree first. Who knows how well I’ll be able to climb afterwards? Am I really going to do this? It probably won’t help much at this point. I have to try anyway. I suppose I do want to live on some level.

I stretch my numb legs; try to get the blood flow back into them. Got a long way to climb down. I pull my coat back on reluctantly. Make sure my darts are still accessible. My blow dart gun is still around my neck. I sling my bag over my back and Rose’s satchel across my front. Then redo my ponytail, I don’t need my vision to be even more obscured. I run my fingers through the lank locks. It’s stiff with dirt, but doesn’t feel too greasy. I wonder what my prep team did to it.

I’m just in the process of threading my belt back through my pants, when I hear the shouting.

Panicked shouts? More trouble? I freeze instantly like the hunted creature that I am, wondering if a plague of Mutts is about to descend upon me.

Not shouts of panic or fear. Triumphant ones. Excited calling. I hear footsteps crunch over leaves, look down and see a flash of dark clothes. Count them steadily. One person. A pause, followed by three more in pursuit. The group calls out in triumph as they pass by under me.

Why does it look suspiciously like a hunt?

“Get him!”

Not my problem. Is it?

Is it?

“Where you running to twelve?”

Twelve? Did I hear that right? The electric current grips me again. I’m paralysed by indecision. Was that… could it be?

I’m throwing myself recklessly down that tree before I can think this through wincing in pain. I’ll just follow from behind, just to make sure. Just to see. I’m a dead girl walking anyway. It could be Haymitch. It could be…

My feet hit the ground and I stagger clumsily, twirling on the spot to see which way they went. They’ve left tracks - marks though the bushes ahead. I jog on unsteady feet, light-headed and weak. I can hear more shouting. Unmistakable sounds of fighting. Cries of pain. I follow the familiar sound reluctantly. Please no more.

I get cautious when it’s too late to double back. I peer through the bush, out into a clearing. They’re moving so fast. Fighting at a speed that’s terrifying. There’s one person on the floor. I squint. It’s one of the crazies from District 1. He lies so still.

A canon fires. It was one of the crazies from 1 anyway. His district mate - the one who looks so much like him - roars in fury and lunges for someone. As does his muscled friend. Neptune. I remember those arms in training, the fury and power they could unleash.

Two on one. Two on one… Who are they fighting?

Haymitch.

I gasp. Clap my hands over my mouth to stop myself from calling out to him. He’s like a force of nature. Neptune circles him, but Haymitch is like a dark shadow, almost too quick for me to track. The boy from 4 goes for him. Haymitch takes him out with a vicious slash of his knife as if it was nothing. I stagger and try not to gag. He got Neptune in the neck. Like Freya. He falls. All that power disabled so easily. Haymitch is cold fury. Coiled like a spring as Crazy Two tracks his every move. Just him and Haymitch now.

Or so they think.

Haymitch is so much smaller than his opponent. But he has that remarkable speed on his side. I hold the dart gun loosely in my grasp. If I shoot now, I may hit him. They’re circling each other so quickly, like animals. I’m too far away, hidden. It looks like Haymitch is doing fine anyway…

As if cursed by the thought, Crazy Two lunges at Haymitch. I scream as he grabs Haymitch’s arm, twists it, snaps it back jerkily until he drops his blade. He punches Haymitch in the stomach. He falls.

The Laughing Boy falls. Crazy Two wrestles with him until Haymitch is on his stomach, trying to crawl away. I’m stepping into the clearing as Crazy Two towers over Haymitch. My friend tries to reach for his knife, but Crazy Two has one of his own. He pulls Haymitch’s head back, going for the throat. It‘s like watching Rose die all over again. I can’t. I’m too far…

I take the shot anyway.

---

“We’d live longer with two of us.”

It’s the only thing I can think to say. I got him. Another victim. Crazy Two lies at my feet. But I had to. I couldn’t just watch. No matter how badly Haymitch’s fighting skills may have scared me. I couldn’t just watch him die.

We watched the boy from 1 die instead. Silently. Unforgiving. It was him or Haymitch. I made my choice.

Haymitch looks stunned. Momentarily of course. He soon recovers his composure, rubbing his neck warily. “Guess you just proved that,” he agrees, voice a little strained. He pierces me with those grey eyes. “Allies?”

I stare into those eyes and find myself nodding. Helpless. I push down every emotion I’m feeling. Can’t show him, or the Gamemakers, how much I care. If they know we’re friends, they’ll tear us apart, like they did with me and Rose.

I hold out my hand instead. He stares at it as if I’m offering him a snake. It makes me grin.

For a moment he doesn’t move. I just stand there awkwardly, arm extended, suspended in time. But then he accepts my hand and I pull him up. His is warm and wet. I realise it’s coated in blood but don’t let go as he finds his feet. I didn’t realise how much I have missed friendly human contact.

We remain clasped for a while and I know we’ve got one of those pacts you never want to break. He doesn’t look too bad. His face is covered in dirt. His arm is crooked and his neck is all scratched up. That’s the only visible wounds I can see. His eyes still blaze down at me. His lips are dark red. Not chapped. Someone’s been doing okay on the water front.

He stares intently until I blush. He smirks, “What happened to you sweetheart?”

I raise my eyebrows as that familiar feeling of exasperation rises up inside of me. Funny how no one winds me up like he does. “Take a wild guess!”

“Your face exploded?”

I gasp in mild horror as I let vanity wash over me a little. I drop his hand so I can run mine over my face, feeling all the little cuts and bruises, the grime, the cut on my lip.

He chuckles weakly. “I’m just kidding. You look fine.”

His voice is all high pitched and false. I punch him on his uninjured arm.

“Ow!”

“Don’t make me regret saving your ass.” I hiss.

“Tyrant.”

We’re still bickering as we raid the packs of the Careers like scavengers with no shame. We divide their meagre selection of seeds and dried chicken strips. Take a bottle of water each. It’s surprising how I can be around death now and not feel much of anything. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen too much. Or perhaps it’s Haymitch that keeps me distracted. I can hardly believe he’s actually here.

I straighten up from Neptune’s pack too fast and suddenly the world is spinning. I stagger. But then there’s arms around me. Steadying me. Grasping my shoulders firmly.

“You okay?” Asks Haymitch gruffly.

I nod. “Just a little dizzy.”

“Sure…” He trails off doubtfully, eyes scanning my expression.

Suddenly his hand is across my forehead. It’s dry and rough. It feels cool against my skin though that’s probably just the fever talking. I lean into his touch instinctively, needing the support.

“You’re burning up.” He states matter-of-factly.

“Hmm guess so.” I tear my eyes from the cool depths of his and he seems to take this as a sign to draw away.

“Come on. We got to get out of here.”

He begins to take long strides away from the clearing and all I can do is scurry along behind him, fighting nausea and the feeling that I‘ve fallen into a trap of a different kind.

----

“This will do. Sit down.”

I raise my eyebrows at the order but obey anyway as my strength fails me. My legs are watery. We’ve been walking for about three hours now and I didn’t want to say anything… But I don’t think I can go on anymore. I don’t want to be dramatic but my whole body seems to be trembling and I can’t control it. I can’t walk any further.

I murmur some of this to Haymitch and he just sighs and rolls his eyes at me, as if I’m the biggest burden in his life right now. I let it slide without comment, too tired to care.

Fortunately, Haymitch has decided that this is the place to stop anyway. It’s pretty clever. We managed to find our way back to one of the tightly knitted hedgerows. It curves ever so subtly, leading us back towards the centre of the arena gradually, but Haymitch didn’t seem to care when I pointed this out. He just told me to ‘put up and shut up’.

So I did. As best as I could anyway.

He seemed to be looking for something as I trailed along miserably behind him. Now I know what. There was a slight break in the brambles which we were able to push through. Now we’re safely hidden in the thick of the hedge. For now anyway. It’s like a little den. Not exactly cosy, crouching room only, but at least we’re resting and have the illusion of concealment. Cameras are probably everywhere.

He eyes me warily in the dim light. I close my eyes and sigh wearily, in no mood for another staring match.

“Come here,” he says.

I’m also pretty fed up of his orders too.

When I fail to react I hear him slide closer over crunchy brown leaves. His hands cup my face again and I fall into his touch slightly, grateful for the support.

“Maysilee?” He says sternly. “Hey! Snap out of it.”

He digs his fingers into my cheeks harshly. I gasp sharply and recoil from his grasp, eyes snapping open.

“What?!” I cry out, feeling irritated beyond belief.

“Don’t lose consciousness,” he orders again.

“Why not?” I murmur, “Seems like a swell idea to me.”

“Where does it hurt?” He grits his teeth as though dealing with a disobedient child.

“Everywhere.” I end up growling back.

“Be more specific.”

“My neck, face, ribs and hand - hey what are you doing?!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

It was more the shock of having him roll my coat and top up slightly that made me cry out. His blunt fingers poke at my ribs making me gasp with pain. Rough calluses over soft, bruised skin. I swallow hard.

Then shuffle away, feeling indignant.

“Looks like it’s just bruised. Since it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting snow anytime soon there’s nothing I can really do in way of an ice pack. Just suck it up.” He leans back onto his haunches, examining me quietly.

I smooth my clothes back down, wincing from the sight of bruised flesh rather than actual pain.

“Thanks for the advice... Personal space Haymitch. You should try it some time.” I croak feebly.

He gives me a cocky grin that I won’t let myself return.

“Now that hand…I can do something about that.”

I don’t like the glint in his eyes.

“No it’s fine.”

“You have an infection. No prizes for guessing the source.” He adds dryly.

“That’s okay.”

“Let me clean it.”

“No, I’m good.”

“I can help -”

“No thanks -”

“Maysilee!” He shouts, making me jump. “You need to let me help you.”

I stop shuffling away and consider his words. It’s not concern for me that colours them. He feels that he owes me a debt. This is a big thing to those of us from 12. Debts need to be repaid. I saved his life. Now he wants to save me. I understand.

“All the water’s poisoned. Can’t clean it.” I say feebly, giving in.

“I got something better.”

He opens up his backpack and pulls out a silver box. There’s a small sheet of material attached to the top which looks suspiciously like a tiny parachute. He opens it with a click and pulls out a rustling package and a small glass bottle.

“Medicine.” He answers my unspoken question

“Where did you get that?”

His silence is answer enough.

“You have sponsors?” I ask, swallowing a lump that wasn’t there before. I know the answer.

He doesn’t reply and I feel a stupid, useless rush of annoyance. I didn’t think we had any sponsors. I thought the Careers would get all the support. The idea of someone sponsoring us never even occurred to me. We were on our own. Helpless. Now it seems Ford has been getting some pretty rich sponsors all along. For Haymitch.

I’ve become a killer. I’ve survived so much. Destroyed myself. But I didn’t get so much as a sip of water sent to me. Neither did Rose. How dare they decide whose life is worth saving? There can only be one winner I suppose. I guess Ford has been rooting for Haymitch the whole time. He had to choose who would survive.

And just like that, the ridiculous anger fades. I don’t want the support of the monsters who watch this for fun. And Haymitch deserves it. It’s a smart choice. If I was sick enough to bet on a winner, I’d root for Haymitch too. Especially after seeing him take out those Careers back there. Three on one… I shudder at the memory.

“I’m going to have to cut it open.” Haymitch’s words bring me back to the situation with an unpleasant bump. “Sorry,” he shrugs, unsheathing his knife.

I stare at the gleam of the blade in silent horror. He wants to drain my infected wound. I was going to do it myself. That’s a lot to ask of someone else. Do I trust him? It seems that I do.

“Okay.” I whisper.

He takes my injured arm carefully and I place my right hand on his leg, bracing myself. “Lean on me if you need to. Just hold perfectly still. Try to keep quiet.”

And I do. Even as the knife cuts open my hand shallowly, pain making me cry out. I hold still. Bite my lip. Dig the nails of my hand into Haymitch’s thy. He grunts but doesn’t hesitate. I gasp harshly as he squeezes the clear liquid from my cut without pause. Then he pulls a wet cloth from the medical pack and cleans the wound efficiently. It reeks of alcohol. Septic wipes. I take shallow breaths, sweating as I hold onto him. I watch his expression so I don’t have to look at the bite. He is completely focused. Expressionless. Biting his lip in concentration. A dark curl of hair swings over his face. And I resist the urge to push it back.

He presses the cloth over the cut until the blood flow slows. Then carefully bandages it up. It takes me a moment to release my hold on his muscle. He’s breathing as heavily as I am for some reason.

“You’ll have to take a couple of these pills too. They fight infection on the inside as far as I can make out.” He babbles, passing me a couple of tablets from the bottle. I dry swallow them without question.

“Expensive stuff.” I remark.

He shrugs.

“Think you missed your calling.” I say, to disrupt the awkward silence. “You should be a doctor.”

He laughs humourlessly and we leave it at that. I guess neither of us is too sure if we’ll have a future at all. Even if we did make it out of here alive (one of us. Only one of us could), the winner would have to coach future tributes every year until the end of their life. I think of Ford and his addictions, his demons. Guess you never really leave the games.

“Thanks Haymitch.” I sigh in relief as the pills begin to numb the pain. He grunts in earnest as I stretch out cautiously across the sharp ground.

“How’d you do it anyway?” He mumbles, packing the medicine away.

“Savage squirrel attack.” He pauses and gives me the evil eye. “No, really.”

He snorts at that. “Typical.”

“When did they send you the medi-pack?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me since we’re apparently in the mood to question.

He clears his throat and laughs dryly. “A great big bird sliced open my stomach, ripped right through my coat.” He shrugs. “Any deeper and I’d be wearing my guts as shoes.” I blink at the violent imagery. “It’s true.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I reply, mind flashing back to the candy-pink birds I’d only glimpsed in the trees.

“I managed to get the better of it. Killed it. Next thing I knew, that was floating from the sky and I was eating bird.” He jabs his thumb in the direction of the pack.

“Lucky.” I whisper.

“Didn’t taste that good.”

“You know what I mean.”

He sits cross legged opposite me then, brow furrowed. “Guess Ford hasn’t sent you anything then?”

I shake my head and shrug. “I suppose no one thought I was worth saving.”

He looks away and fiddles with his coat zipper awkwardly. “Wouldn’t say that.”

I feel a small smile break out across my face as we sit in companionable silence. I feel strangely relaxed… at peace in the middle of hell. Tired. So tired. What’s with that?

“Umm Haymitch…”

He looks at me with a ‘now what?’ expression.

“I think your pills are making me sleepy.”

He hums in agreement.

“I’m going to sleep now I think. If that‘s okay? Just for a moment.”

“Go on then.”

But something’s bothering me. Not the pills. No. He hasn’t drugged me to betray me. We’re a team now. I know that. But something is swiping at my consciousness. Something…

“Promise you’ll still be here when I wake up?” I slur, sliding down, sinking. Using the pack as a pillow. Didn’t mean to say that. Gosh.

I hear another grunt. This one I take to be an affirmative but I’m still relieved to hear him say: “Didn’t clean your nasty hand just to run out on you now did I?”

“But Haymitch…”

His words.

“A great big bird sliced open my stomach, ripped right through my coat…”

I catch a blurry glimpse at him. His coat is whole. No tears. A little snugly fitting. Not sliced open. This is important. Why is this important? I don’t know why but it is.

I see Rose’s face as I slip under. He sweet face, laced with scepticism back when we were in the cave. When I told her that someone rescued me. Someone saved me when I was stung and took my coat. Just my spare coat from my pack and that‘s all.

This is important.

Can’t remember why anymore.

“Go to sleep,” he orders again.

So I do.

Chapter Text

A hand over my mouth.

I have time to think: this is it then. The start of it. Or rather the end. This is how I die.

Not now. Not like this. I just found him.

I try to scream but no sound comes out. The hand is clamped down too tightly, restricting, suffocating.

I thrash and my fist connects with bone in a satisfying manner. Until I hear a grunt of pain followed by a familiar voice.

"Cut it out you crazy bitch!"

"Haymitch?" I attempt to say, although it comes out more like 'Hmishh?'

"You gonna start screaming again?" He hisses.

His face swims over mine as my eyes finally adjust to the darkness. Oh.

I shake my head, trying to remain calm, as if his rough fingers against my lips are an everyday occurrence. He's pressing me into the ground, giving me a taste of that coiled strength. Somehow, I don't feel scared. He's not attacking me. I know this. I just know.

He slowly pulls away and I gulp back air gratefully, pulling myself into a sitting position, dignity in tatters.

He hunkers down opposite me in the gloom, fidgeting a little. I think he might be massaging his face.

I raise my eyebrows until I realise he probably can't see my expression.

"Well?" I ask impatiently.

"Well what?" His response is slightly nasal.

"Want to explain why you gagged me? Or are we going to pretend that never happened?"

He snorts. "I'm not likely to forget sweetheart. Feels like you made a dent in my nose."

I wince a little and repress the urge to say good. He had scared me. A hand over your face isn't the most relaxing way to wake up. Stupid too. What if I'd done more than punch him? I think of my cadge of darts and shudder.

"Haymitch." I practically growl, demanding an explanation, stomping down the fear from my imaginary scenarios.

"You were screaming."

"Well I get that way when someone jumps me in the night." I answer wryly.

"No." He drags it out as if I'm slow. "You were screaming before that. In your sleep."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. Didn't want you to bring the others down on us."

"I get it." I clear my throat before adding: "Sorry." Seems like the right thing to say.

My companion says nothing.

"Look, it's still dark. Why don't you try and get some sleep now?"

"I'm fine."

"Really, your turn. You need to rest."

"I'm good."

"I'll watch over you. It's the least I can do since I broke your face."

I hear a pained sigh and think he's about to protest until he says: "Not broken. Slightly dented is all."

I smile. "Come on. I'll keep watch."

"Oh you'll keep watch? I feel so much better." I don't like his sceptical tone. Saved his ass before didn't I? He sighs deeply in resignation. "Do you want my knife?"

"No, think I'll be fine." I lift the hollow tube of the dart gun subtly.

"I meant to ask, what is that thing anyway?"

I shrug. "It was in my pack. I dipped the darts in some poison and…" He knows the rest. He saw me use it.

He whistles quietly. "Resourceful."

"Had to help myself." I say a little stiffly. It's stupid to feel betrayed by Ford. He was just trying to keep one of us alive.

Eventually Haymitch slides into a slightly less comfortable position, lying opposite me on the prickly floor. He wriggles until he has his back to me. But I don't mind.

I'm not alone anymore. I got to sleep, and wake up to a partially friendly face. I slept well when Rose was here before. Of course, I was poisoned for a large chunk of that time, but that's not the point. It's just reassuring. Having someone here with me. Hearing the gentle sound of Haymitch breathing in and out so steadily. Another human being who has my back and doesn't want to kill me.

Not yet anyway.

The thought makes my chest hurt in a way I've never felt before. There can only be one winner. That fact keeps circling round and round my head, whispering. As if I don't already know.

I can't hurt him. I won't.

But equally, I know I don't want to leave him. I'll stay with Haymitch until I am dead. Even if he's the one to kill me. I shake my head. He wouldn't. He could. But I'm not afraid that he will.

"What were you dreaming of?" His voice makes me jump guiltily, as if he could read my mind. I thought he was asleep.

I focus on the question. The nightmare that made me scream…It's all a haze. Pain. Fire. Hate-filled faces. The usual now I guess.

"Nothing good." I answer eventually. There's no response. I don't know if he's asleep or not. Thought he was before. Maybe he doesn't trust me.

I shift uncomfortably and focus on the curve of Haymitch's back. He saved my life. With the medicine and maybe even before then, though I'll never know for sure. I don't have the nerve to ask. I realise I do feel better now. I'm no longer riddled with fever and there's a pleasant numbness all over. No pain in my throat or ribs. That was some powerful medicine he gave me. Expensive too. Seems I'm not the only one rooting for Haymitch.

------

It was the rain that woke him up.

I was sitting in a daze, listening for any sounds of approach, when the first drops fell. A few drops was followed by a complete deluge. At first tapping gently outside out shelter, then pouring through in great streams.

We're both laughing as we stagger out. It feels so good to feel the rain on my skin. Even if it's so heavy our hideaway is losing its leaves. We'll have to move on.

"Fill the bottles up first." Haymitch suggests.

So we do. Haymitch even works out what that little metallic sieve is for. Channelling water into bottles. We stand outside of our hidey-hole in the downpour. Our bottles are lined up neatly in the mud, looking ridiculous as they fill up rapidly. I think of Rose's cave longingly. Then change my mind when I see Haymitch laugh and run his fingers through his hair, water streaming down his face. The rainwater is warm, like the showers in the Capitol.

I scrub days of grime off my face and neck, swallowing refreshing droplets. Pull my hair from its ponytail and work the grit out with my fingers. I shake my hair like a dog when Haymitch foolishly wanders too close, splashing him.

"Yes!" I cry out in success.

"Oh no you got me wet whatever shall I do as I stand here in this downpour?" He calls out in a sarcastic monotone though he's smiling broadly. I expect retaliation. I do not, however, expect him to hurl a great clod of mud at me.

"Nonono! Haymitch no!" I dodge expertly behind a tree. "Come on, I just got clean!"

"Not for long."

And it's ridiculous but we're laughing and shrieking in the middle of a war zone. I can only hope the noises of the mini monsoon drown us out, but right now I just don't care. I want to act like a kid again. I want this moment. I laugh and splatter my way through mud, trying to keep the tree between us.

I manage to duck just as he pops up in front of me with a second missile. It splatters the tree instead. I guess he decides this tactic isn't working so well. He advances towards me and uses my face as a towel instead.

I writhe and giggle helplessly, pressing myself back into the tree as he does a bit of face painting, wiping mud of on me.

He wipes it over my cheeks and I shriek and splutter helplessly. He cups my face. A drop of water runs down my nose. Rivulets drip from his dark hair, curls dangling over me. It looks much longer now it's wet. His eyes blaze as we look at each other.

"There. Much better." He declares, thumbs swiping over his handiwork. "I win."

His hands are now clean but he doesn't back away. I think he's tracing his handiwork, rubbing it away a little. I crinkle up my nose and don't take my eyes off him for a second.

I swallow and can't stop grinning. "Are you twelve? Are you actually twelve?"

We both laugh and we're a bit breathless from the struggle and he's so close to me. His eyes burn into mine and there's something there that I can almost name. So close. Too close and I actually imagine. I actually think what it would be like to close that gap. To press my lips against his and take that first kiss. Something for myself. The taste of him and me and the mud and warm rainwater. And I want it all. It's so startling. So desperately vivid and inappropriate.

So I push him away.

Not mine.

I slide away from the trunk shakily, ignoring the confused expression on his face. My boots squelch into mud but the rain is already slowing.

"Let's grab the bottles. Time to stop mucking around." I mutter, reminding myself why we are here. We don't get to be like this anymore. We don't get to live, laugh and love.

"Mucking around…" He repeats, sounding amused. I didn't mean to make a joke, but I'm glad he allowed the moment to pass. Maybe because there was no moment for him. I don't know. I'll never know.

"Ha ha." I say, scraping the remnants of mud off my face. I swill my mouth out, pull my hood up so I can see better. I wipe my eyes and squelch over to the bottle line up. We divide our resources fairly.

"Where do we go now?" I say to break the silence. "Any ideas?"

"Follow the hedges." He replies as if it is the most obvious answer in the world..

I raise my eyebrows, swiping water out of my eyes. "Why?"

Instead of answering, he stomps off in the direction I assume he chose on a whim.

"Haymitch!" I huff, and jog after him. It takes a little effort and I realise I am drained from our play fight. I guess the medicine didn't heal me. More likely numbed the pain a little. At least the fever broke.

I don't like the tracks we are leaving either. It makes me very uneasy. I can only hope the rain washes them away or we'll soon have company.

As if I brought it on us with a thought, a canon blast rings out through the forest. We freeze immediately and I tilt my head as if I could find out where it came from just by listening.

"Who'd you think that was?" I ask softly.

"Don't know." Haymitch answers gruffly. "Probably another victim of Axe Girl."

That's how he pronounced it. As if it was a name or something. He carries on walking and I rush to remain by his side.

"Axe Girl?"

"Axe Girl." He agrees helpfully.

"Who's Axe Girl?"

"This girl with an axe." I think he's grinning under his hood, delighted at being so annoying. I huff and he finally relents. "Psycho girl from district one, keep your hair on."

I mull it over. "Thought the volcano took the careers out." Apart from the ones we killed yesterday - I don't need to add.

"Not her." He gives me a look. "Didn't see her face in the sky last night anyway."

I always seem to sleep through those. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with curiosity. What has he been through before we found each other again? I want to talk to him. Trade stories. Remember Rose. I do hope we get the chance.

I skid through a puddle, grateful for the grip on my boots. I grab Haymitch's elbow to steady myself and he gives me a particularly pained look. We're back to being cold again it seems. Either that, or I hurt the arm he injured in yesterday's fight.

"Sorry," I mutter. He grunts in response.

And so we walk. And we walk some more. And after that, we walk a bit further. Someone finally decides to switch the rain off leaving us soaked through (there was only so long our coats could hold out against it). I begin to feel frustrated, shivering with chills not fever this time. Haymitch ignores me when I ask where we are going. I don't think he knows.

Pale light begins to filter through the green canopy. We're still fenced in by the hedge on our right, steadily being herded back the way we came. Why can't he see that?

I finally decide to point out the obvious. "Haymitch, we can't keep going round in circles."

"Who says that's what I'm doing?" He replies, not looking back.

I clench my jaw. "We're just going to tire ourselves out and that's not good. We need a plan."

"I have a plan."

"Care to share?"

No answer.

Apparently his plan involves allowing me to scurry after him, dodging my questions and walking a great deal. But I plough onwards anyway. I have to hope that he knows what he's doing. And I trust him. I do. I think I do.

The mud trails off, softened by a thick carpet of leaves that have been pounded into pulp by the rain. There's too many leaves and branches along what should be a clear trail between hedge and the line of forest. No other part of our path was covered so thickly. It bothers me for some reason. Out footsteps grow quiet, absorbed by the mulch. The ground is covered. Covered up. Not right. Not natural.

"Haymitch!" I only manage to give him a second of a warning before we are yanked into the air, tangled in what seems to be a very large and very strong net.

That's great.

Just great.

Chapter Text

“Fantastic. Haymitch Abernathy ladies and gentlemen.” I mumble miserably, addressing our invisible, and most likely, glee-filled audience.

You can bet the cameras will be on us as we slowly rotate, ten feet in the air. How hilarious. Wouldn’t want to miss this.

“Must be pressure rigged.” Haymitch growls out, kicking me in the calf as he squirms against our bonds. We both end up using some pretty colourful language.

“Watch it!”

I have a face full of thick, sopping wet - but no less coarse - rope. I’m tangled up, arms dangling sadly through the mesh. There is no part of me Haymitch isn’t pressed up against and it isn’t comfortable at all. He’s all sharp angles and squirming with annoyance. I don’t care that it hurts. I don’t even care that he walked us right into it. What I care about is the fact there are tracks in the mud leading up to us, trussed up like unfortunate game, dangling from a tree. Just trapped. Trapped and waiting for whoever set the giant snare in the first place to return.

I hope they’re already dead. Either way, we can’t be found like this.

The net is far too big for my liking. This is no animal trap, but is meant for people. This means we’re screwed if we can’t get out. The momentary image of this elusive Axe Girl brutally hacking us down makes me shiver with dread. Who’s to say the Gamemakers’ will be able to resist pressing a few more buttons - perhaps setting some Mutt on us while we‘re so vulnerable?

“Can you reach your knife?” I gasp, spitting hair out of my mouth whilst glaring at the muddy ground below.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Kicking the hell out of me?” I grunt as his feet make contact once more. We must look ridiculous.

He lets out an irritable huff of air against the back of my neck, making it warm and damp, cooling with every exhale. I swallow. I can see his legs now poking through the holes in the weave. Yes, we must indeed look ridiculous. My cheeks flame red. He’s crushing me against the rope. My ribs flare with pain once more, the spell of the medicine slowly braking. I squirm against him causing us both to gasp.

“Just - one - second…” His elbow is getting real friendly with my spine as he contorts and shifts position. I bite my lip to contain my cry of pain. “Got it!”

“Yay,” I wheeze out dryly.

Next there is a series of sharp jabs against my back as I feel him begin the saw at the interconnecting ropes. His arm rocking back and forth as he makes swift severing motions.

“Stuff - isn’t - that - tough.” He pants. Feels tough enough to me but I know what he means. It’s not the infallible Capitol-approved weapon of choice. Just your basic rope net. Like I would imagine they’d use in district 4 to go fishing. I absently consider if that’s a clue as to who set the trap. I let my mind wander to get away from the pain of Haymitch’s efforts. Can’t be helped. We need to get down. It’s going to be quite a drop…

I wiggle and try to access the knife strapped against my belt. the crushing weight of Haymitch makes this near impossible. If we’re both sawing, we’ll be able to get down faster. I can’t just lie here.

“If I can still walk after this, I’m going to kick your ass!” I say in a painful, breathless rush. I access my knife with a cry of triumph and begin to hack at our bonds.

Haymitch grunts with effort and carries on cutting. The material begins to crackle as he gradually snaps through the rope. He strategically saws through various points of the net, kicking me roughly as he does so.

“Ready?” Haymitch suddenly asks. I feel the trap dip, the branch above bends with our weight. Before I can even ask ’for what?’ we are falling and the answer becomes obvious.

It’s not all bad. I thought the drop would be excruciating but there’s a lovely layer of mud to cushion our fall.

All I can do is lie there, gulping like a dying fish, the air completely knocked out of me. Haymitch rolls off my legs so I can move once more with an effort. I gasp painfully, remembering the time I once fell from a tree beyond the border. Back when I was too young and too adventurous for my own good. Sometimes something can hurt so badly that all you can do is lie there trying not to laugh because it’s so ridiculous. Like now. Like the tree incident. Nothing this silly should hurt this much.

The butterfly incident has given me a new pain threshold I suppose. Still, I don’t want to move and discover any broken bones just yet. I struggle to breathe, face down in the mud, fleetingly wondering if drowning feels anything like this.

“You okay?” Clumsy hands haul me out of the mud so I find myself partially draped over Haymitch’s lap. He scrapes away muddy hair from my face and palms my cheeks roughly, trying to coax a response from me.

All I can do is glare up at him. “Super. Thanks.” It comes out as a little old woman wheeze and he grins at me, unmistakable concern still in his eyes. “Mud painting me again are we?”
He opens his mouth to retort but I cut him off with an outbreak of violent coughing. Haymitch sits me up so I can breathe easier but this only makes the pain in my ribs flare up again. I cover my mouth and fight for breath. He rubs soothing patterns across my back, murmuring words of false comfort.

“You’re okay. Just breathe. Easy now.” He sounds detached, distracted.

He doesn’t seem to notice the blood on my hand when I uncover my mouth. I wipe it on my already grimy pants and focus on pulling in deep breaths.

Haymitch pats me on the back in a comradely fashion. “Well, that was bracing,” he says in an unmistakably Capitol accent. I don’t have the energy to scold him. Mocking those who put us here will only make them punish us more. Doesn’t he see this? I guess that rebellious streak will never go away. I hope he thinks of his family. Hope he remembers my earlier words, back in the Capitol a million days ago.

I sigh and lean against him. The firmness of his body a warm line down my back, arms easily encircling me as we recover from the fall. I begin to shiver, too damp and too tired to do much else. I feel his embrace soften, dropping the detached act and just holding me. Maybe he senses this is what I need. I fold my arms over his, graze my fingertips over the warmth of his hands. I remember a snatch of a dream I once had on a train. A girl’s dream. The soft warmth of it. It was him. Of course it was. It was always him.

Before I can process it, there are hot tears running down my face. Why now? Why here? Why do I get to find this here of all places?

I realise that I am dying.

I also realise that this, us, this closeness is an act of rebellion itself. Alliances have been formed before in the arena - of course they have. But that was always a necessity. A desperate drive for survival. We are not stronger together. I followed him into that trap. And now I am slowing him down. We’re sat here, vulnerable. The trap-setter could come back at any moment, but I don’t know if I can stand to be anywhere else but in his arms. By his side.

He presses his face into my damp hair. I feel every breath that he takes, gently coasting down my spine. “You need some water,” He quietly insists and I know that is a signal to pull away. It seems like we are both finding it difficult.

I remove my hands from his so that I can wipe the tears away. Swallowing painfully, I remind myself that my family could be watching. They can’t see me break.

I turn painfully, twisting my body so I can look him in the eyes.

“Let the games continue?” I ask weakly, focusing on those stormy eyes. I push a damp curl of inky hair behind his ear, relishing the fact that he doesn’t flinch, that I am allowed.

He nods and there is nothing soft about him now. “Exactly.”

-----

“Thought you were going to ‘kick my ass’ Maysilee? Come on May-sil-eee.” He stretches my name out in an irritating manner. I don’t need to see his face to know his lip is curling sarcastically. Or to see his eyes to know that he is covering his emotions. He’s worried. Must be. He’s taunting me, trying to provoke a reaction.

We’ve been walking for hours. Again. I don’t have the energy to keep up and banter with him. When I cough, my hand ends up scarlet. I know the signs. I know what this is. Internal Bleeding my inner Ana supplies helpfully. Big trouble in other words.

You’re going to die here… Loser. The taunt sounds like Byron. And Imaginary Axe Girl. And Pash. And Neptune. All of them, rolled into one. Triumphant. I wipe the sweat from my brow as the word tilts.

“Why do we keep going on?” I ask almost accidentally, not knowing whether I mean in general or this long march in the same direction. Through endless woods, following the curve of the hedgerow.

“Because it has to end somewhere right?” Says Haymitch. “The arena can’t go on forever.”

I puzzle over that, brain fuzzy. I can’t picture this place ever ending. I force myself to imagine us eventually reaching an impossible end. What does he expect to achieve? Maybe he wants to bust out. Because the Gamemakers will really let that happen…

“What do you expect to find?” I ask wearily.

“I don’t know.” He admits. “But maybe there’s something we can use.”

I let that slide, because of all the stupid things he could have said.

“I’m sick of following this sucker. Let’s go through it. We got the blowtorch from that career’s pack.” It takes me a while to work out just what he means. He’s gesturing at the impossible hedgerow. It’s all tightly woven brambles and dense, thorny foliage. It will rip us to shreds.

“Oh right. Who needs a top layer of skin?”

“You know, I find your sarcasm to be very unattractive.” That surprises out a bark of laughter from me that soon has me coughing all over again.

I lean over and spit to get rid of the taste of metal. I immediately step in the small puddle of blood so he won’t see. He can’t see. I wipe my mouth and lean over, breathing deeply.

“I think we should rest first. Night’s falling anyway.” He suggests cautiously. I avoid his eyes, not wanting to see realisation there. Not wanting to see him register how useless I have become.

Because I am. Useless. It’s become too obvious. Whatever he feels about me… whether it is obligation or affection, it’s clouding his judgement. Only one of us is coming out of this alive. And it’s not going to be me. There’s so few of us left already. If he’s going to win, he won’t be doing it with me at his side.

It hits me hard. Has me gasping again. I feel his hand rub against my back, my neck, pressing in with concern. I force myself to pull away.

“I’m fine.” I say. Even manage a shaky smile.

I just realised my world is falling apart again. I could be back in that room in the Justice Building again, barely holding myself together after being chosen. Because I know what I have to do. I have to be alone again. I have to break away.

If our opponents catch up with us now, I’ll be of no use to Haymitch. If he tries to protect me, he’ll only be putting himself at risk. And I can’t let that happen. He has to look out for himself.

It’s nearly time to break off the alliance.

----

But one more adventure first. One more chance to go where I am not supposed to. A trip through the hedge to see what’s on the other side. I think I can allow myself to indulge in curiosity one last time. I’m entitled to that much. Because Haymitch has got me thinking. What is on the other side? Why do the Gamemakers keep herding us back to the middle again?

“What if we’ve doubled back on ourselves? What if we magically pop out right by the Cornucopia again?” I tease Haymitch as I carefully lower myself beside him onto the soft, leaf strewn ground. The heat of the sun has dried up all the rain. Here is as good a place to stop for the night as any. At least it’s not raining. It’s no longer so warm now the sun is setting but we have each other.

“Shut up May,” He growls fondly. “Come here. It’s cold.”

He opens his arms and raises his eyebrows expectantly. I hesitate. I know I have to leave him tomorrow. A night in his arms will only make it harder. I’m caught between pretending I don’t want to and wanting it so badly it hurts.

I decide to let myself have this too.

I shuffle over into the warmth of his arms. I tuck my head under his chin and press my body into his gratefully. The cold of the impending night is replaced by Haymitch. I hold him tightly to myself as he curls around me, radiating heat. His neck is like a furnace and his arms embrace me confidently. I press into him.

I will let myself have this.

Chapter Text

I lie still in his arms. No longer the phantom embrace of some half-remembered dream. Solid. Real. Mine.

For now.

An odd thought hits me that night. It occurs to me that some of my most restful moments in the arena have been with Haymitch. His arms around me create a temporary feeling of contentment that I haven’t felt since I had Rose by my side. I miss her. I know I’ll miss her until I die, however soon that may be.

I’ve only ever huddled for warmth with my sister before. In the harsh winter months when a blanket of sooty snow coats the Seam. It’s different with Haymitch. He’s like a furnace. We’re pressed together, front to front, almost too intimately if it weren’t for our layers of clothing. Every breath he takes flutters over the top of my head, ruffling my hair. I bury my face against the startling heat of his neck and breathe slowly. I cannot help but notice the scent of him: musky, vital and alive, with a hint of rain. I don’t mind. Doubt I smell perfect either. I can’t remember the last time I bathed properly - not including the refreshing rain storm. It doesn’t matter.

I know he’s awake. It’s his turn to keep watch. His arm acts as a pillow under my head, right arm wrapped around my middle. I mirror him, wondering whether Panem will be watching this. I don’t think the Gamemakers would want to broadcast friendships too much. Don’t want to look rebellious. Or bore the audience. They prefer death and violence over alliances. My thoughts flash to my time with Rose once more. Sweet, kind Rose. Torn away through violence. My chest goes tight and I press closer to Haymitch, taking in the warmth of his body.

“Rose was braver than all of us in the end.” I whisper.

My words against his throat make him shiver lightly. I don’t know what made me say it. I just think he should know. He mocked her in training. Never paid much attention to her after that. I just thought he should know and that she shouldn’t be forgotten.

“Was she?” He murmurs after a beat. I feel the rumble of his voice go through me.

“She saved my life when I got stung.” I leave my words hanging, remembering the blur of events that I think happened before she found me. Was it Haymitch who saved me from the other tributes? If it was, he doesn‘t admit it.

“She was a good kid.” He agrees out of the silence. I nod in agreement. She was good. Too good. Too trusting. “What got her?”

I blink sleepily. “Who.” I correct, swallowing a lump in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting any tears to form and fall against his skin. “Pash.” I reply, an unsettling amount of hatred sears through my body.

I feel his hand clench against my back before releasing his grip. “I’m sorry.”

I know he means for Rose. Not for the hand clenching. I sigh. “You warned me. Tried to anyway...I was lucky to survive this long.”

He says nothing and that makes me feel worse. An overwhelming sense of loss passes through me, of hopelessness and regret. I wonder if that’s what kills so many tributes in the end. I try to change the subject. “What about you? What’s your secret of survival?”

“S’no secret. Ford’s gift. And a good knife.” He mumbles against my hair, making me shiver.

“Any alliances?” I ask tentatively. I know how much it hurts to talk about it.

His breathing slows and for a moment I think he may have fallen asleep. “No,” he says softly. “Just you.”

Something in my chest warms and breaks at that and I don’t know why or how that is possible. It just does. I pull him closer to my face before I can stop myself, just so I can speak softly into in the shell of his ear. These words are for him only.

“Thank you.” I whisper gratefully. I hope he knows the full meaning of my words. He saved me. Even if I don’t survive, he saved me from so much. From my fever, my deep-seated grief and loneliness. It is an unexpected gift in this nightmarish place and I hope that he knows that. I hope he knows that I don’t want to go.

He squeezes my shoulder. “You should sleep now.”

I have to tell him. He has a right to know. Something inside of me shatters with the realisation. I cover my lips so no one can read them as I whisper to him. I try to make it a statement - strong and firm. “You know I have to leave you tomorrow.”

He pulls away, his face sliding from mine so he can look at me through fierce eyes, inches away but too far. Too much. “What?” He grits out. I place my hand lightly over his mouth. They can’t know what we’re discussing. They mustn’t. I shake my head slightly and he understands, eyes widening before pulling me closer into the cocoon of his arms so we can whisper again.

“I have to leave.” I repeat, voice shaking a little. It’s the last thing I want.

A minute passes - maybe two - before he finally answers. “I know.” He sighs against my cheek and I close my eyes sadly. He sounds so resigned. He sounds hurt. “But I wish you wouldn’t,” he adds.

He presses his face against mine so we’re cheek to cheek. His skin is smooth as he almost nuzzles against me, like Krista’s cat. I don’t know what they did to him and the other boys to stop them growing stubble but I relish the feel of him being so close and lose myself in the sensation for a moment. His breath skims hotly down my neck and it’s hard to focus.

“You’ll be stronger without me.” I say flatly, running my hands down the planes of his back.

“Doubt it.” He replies instantly. We both know it’s a lie but I find I love him a little for trying. I smile in response.

“It can’t come down to just me and you.” I say decisively and that’s the final word. There’s nothing he can say to counter that. The thought of us fighting makes me feel sick. Like those long ago nightmares of me and Krista being thrown into the arena. His hands clench against my body once more and I wonder if he feels the same.

I wonder if there’s someone back home who he would gladly volunteer for. I don’t want to mention the dark haired girl I’ve often seen him with. Her presence is still here anyway. Another reason not to get too close. It’s hard to keep her in mind. District twelve is another world away from here.

I start to drift off in his arms, face pressed against his when I think I hear him answer. I forget what he’s responding to and slip into sleep.

“It won’t.”

----

I wake up to find hands brushing strands of hair back from my face. It’s soothing and I am grateful. Is it my mother? Perhaps I’m sick. I feel very warm and there‘s a pain in my chest that runs too deep. Or maybe it’s Krista. She’s always sick of how I let my hair become tangled. She’s the neat and tidy one…

It’s Haymitch.

Although I am startled, I only pull back a little so I can see him. He has a crooked smile and stops touching my hair immediately.

“Morning.” I say, trying not to yawn in his face.

“Not quite.” He answers, looking rueful. “It’s only been a few hours but I’m real tired. Hate to ask sweetheart but could you…”

He hesitates looking embarrassed. It takes me a moment to understand his meaning. He wants me to keep watch for a while. I have been selfish. He’s let me sleep for too long once more.

“No problem.”

“Just for an hour or I’m gonna pass out on you.”

“Haymitch! It’s fine.” I say firmly, almost laughing.

He presses his knife into my hand. “Just in case,” He insists in a low voice, already sounding half-asleep. “Guess we’re always gonna be sleeping with knives from now on.”

His eyes slip shut before I can even begin to work out a response. I have to pull back from the circle of his arms a little - but still close enough to share heat. That sleepy warmth was lulling me into unconsciousness. I have to choke down several coughs and my breath comes out in a rusty wheeze. This is very bad. I tell myself it’s a good thing we’ll be separating soon. It is. He can’t see how bad I am or I doubt he’ll let me go.

Or would he? Maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe he’d be relieved to no longer have to drag an invalid around. I firmly push such thoughts back and concentrate on listening for the approach of footsteps but the arena is quiet. Too quiet. Viewers will be getting restless. The only sound I can hear is the chirping of dawn birds and a few clicking sounds from deep within the forests - perhaps insects of some kind.

I know there is only a handful of us left alive. I have to ask Haymitch if he saw the death recap tonight while I slept. I need to know who’s still out there. It makes me feel vulnerable, not knowing what adversaries remain. I hate to think of them as such but there’s no other option. I bet the Gamemakers will soon be finding a way to draw us back together. The thought makes me shudder and break out in a clammy sweat. In my state, I wouldn’t last two minutes.

I just hope it doesn’t hurt. That I won’t be scared and it doesn’t hurt. I can’t let them see that. My mother, father and sister. I won’t let them see how afraid I am.

My hand instinctively tightens around Haymitch’s bicep. He mutters something under his breath that I cannot quite catch. I force myself to relax, to allow him this time to rest. We won’t have each other’s back for much longer after all. Better to sleep while we are able.

----

“So there’s just the five of us left is there?”

I shiver lightly at the thought, as if mentioning to other survivors would make them descend upon us. I scan the shadows of the forest as if expecting a hoard to charge through any minute. The arena remains deceptively quiet.

“Worked it out while you were sleeping.” Haymitch says through a mouthful of dried chicken strips as we pack up. We decided we could do with the protein and divide our spoils evenly, water bottles and all (that’s going to become an issue if it doesn’t rain again soon. Unless we‘re dead of course). The division of rations is another silent acknowledgment of our impending separation. It still hurts.

“Just me, you…” I trail off.

“Satin the Axe Girl,” He finishes. “Boy from seven, girl from nine.”

“I don’t remember them.” I murmur, frowning.

“That’s because they’re either very unmemorable, or just good at playing the game.” Haymitch says, straightening up and slinging his pack over his shoulders with ease. I try to copy his smoothness, smothering gasps of pain. “You’re sweating.” He states, eagle-eyed as always in the early morning light.

“It’s hot.”

“Not really.” He wordlessly hands me some more miracle tablets and I swallow them without a fuss. I know they will be a waste. The only way I’m going to pull through is if the game ends and I get medical treatment back in the Capitol. Haymitch would have to die for that to happen along with all the others. I won’t let that happen.

If anyone should win this, it’s got to be him. It will be better for my family and friends back home.

And I just cannot picture a world without my laughing boy in it.

I take a long look at him as he fiddles around with the blow torch from the dead career boy’s pack. He looks stern, wiry and strong as ever. There are deep hollows in his cheeks and I know I must look similar. Pack food isn’t enough. But those eyes are focused. Determined within that gaunt face. He won’t go down without a fight and I won’t let him.

“You ready or you gonna stare at my pretty face all day?” He teases pouting, head cocked to one side so a snarl of curls dips forward. I grin at him and make a ‘lead on’ gesture with my hands. He’s the one with the blowtorch. Though I do have my little torch safely in my hands. This does not look fun.

I eye the thick mess of bramble hedge wearily. What if he sets it on fire, sending a big ‘come and get us’ message to the remaining tributes? The leaves seem green and wet enough for that to not seem likely but we decide to hack and push our way through as far as possible.

I retie my ponytail so I won’t get scalped on my way in. It’s hard going, even without dented ribs. Haymitch curses and I wheeze and puff, not wanting to take my jacket off in case I get scratched and suffering for it. Haymitch hacks and burns at anything that catches his skin as if it has done him a personal insult. He’s surprisingly stealthy as we push our way through the thickness. I blunder, nearly poking my eye out on an unruly branch at one point.

There is enough light to see by, filtering though the canopy. I follow through in Haymitch’s path of destruction.

“Isn’t this fun Miss Donner?” Haymitch asks in his best Capitol voice.

“We should do this more often Mr Abernathy.” I agree, matching his tone.

It’s hot in here. Maybe the heat is making us feel funny. I wonder if the audience finds us amusing, if they’re gripped to this weird little mission of ours. Then a thought strikes me. What if there are no cameras in here? I know we should never think we are alone but still… this hedge is meant to keep us contained in our cage. Maybe they never thought someone would try to get through it?

What if that makes them angry?

But if they can’t see or hear us…

I grab Haymitch by the elbow and have to call out to stop him viciously shaking me off, thinking I was another clingy branch.

He turns and eyes me wearily, wiping sweat from his brow. We stand in a narrow tunnel of thorns and leaves, green light upon our skin. “What is it?”

“Do you think there’s eyes in here?” I whisper in a hurry, returning to my previous train of thought while I still have his attention. I look around as if I could see a camera that way. I never saw a single camera in the arena but they sure were watching then.

I see that little worry line form between his eyes but I think he catches my meaning. “Who knows? Better keep going.”

I slide closer so I can still whisper. Try to stand tall to hide the pain. “When we get to the other side, I’m going to have to leave you.”

He opens and closes his mouth hesitantly. I wonder what he originally wanted to say. “Why now?” He asks flatly. “Why after all this effort.”

He clearly thinks I’m mad. Maybe I am. “Because…” I struggle. Because I’m dying. Because I can’t bear the idea of seeing you die. Because I’m holding you back. “Because curiosity has got the better of me. One last adventure.” I say instead.

“But-”

“And we can’t be the last two left alive.” I hope the magic words will have the same effect as last time, that he’ll let it go. “When I leave-”

“Maysilee stop.” There’s hardness in his voice that I don’t understand. A warning in every line of his tensed body. But I carry on anyway.

“When I do go, you have to let me. You have to act like it doesn’t matter. If they think you care, they’ll use it against us.” I realise how that must sound. “I’m not saying that you do care!” I babble. “Of course not. I just mean we better put on a show. Make a clean break. Play the game.” I start to feel nervous as he tenses even more and says nothing. “I’m not saying you do care about me it’s just -”

He harshly grasps my arms, pulls me close and kisses me without a word.

His lips press against mine, as hard as his grip, as desperate as the situation. I don’t know what I’m doing but allow myself to get lost in the sensation. I gasp, surprised that it sounds more like a moan. His lips are soft, damp, hungry. They open against mine and I mimic the rhythm, unable to stop myself. There are reasons we shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t seem to remember or care. Not when there’s this. Not when there’s this heat. We’re as close as we were last night, his body presses insistently against mine and I feel alive.

I press the flat of my hands against his back, trying to pull him closer, slipping on fabric. One hand slides up to cup the back of my head. His other hand loosens its grip on my arm and I know he’s going to pull away.

I gently take his face in my hands and brush soft kisses to his lips. Sweet and gentle, diffusing the horror, the pain, the bleakness of the past few days. Something beautifully broken for just the two of us. He sighs softly, warm air against my lips.

“It’s OK…” I murmur unsteadily, though it’s a lie.

We break apart slightly, breathing heavily. His eyes are dazed and I know I must look the same. He leans his forehead against mine and just holds me.

“If it’s just you and me right now…” His voice is shaky and he has to clear his throat before he can carry on. “…Just you and me and I’m not allowed to ask you to stay…Then that has to be your goodbye.”

He pulls away as swiftly as he’d instigated the kiss in the first place.

It takes me a moment to realise he is ploughing on ahead of me. Only his voice, calling back can break me from my daze.

“Don’t think I don’t care. Don’t you dare. Not for one second.” It’s bitter and the pain in it completely staggers me. I wonder if I should leave now, go back the other way. Save him from having to see me go. Because there’s no doubt - no doubt at all - that he feels something for me too. We are so stupid.

My feet follow anyway.

---

We made it through the impossible hedge. And there’s just this. Just this nothingness.

Of course.

Eventually, the crunchy ground full of leaves and bracken began to level out, turning into flat, dry earth - densely packed and easier to walk on. And just a few feet away from the hedge, there’s the cliff.

Over the edge reveals a sheer drop, sloping sharply outwards with toothed jags all the way down. Sharp, grey, bleak. Nothing lies below except for jagged rocks and death to anyone who tries to descend.

Then why is Haymitch looking at it like it’s his key to salvation?

His eyes are fierce, focused on the landscape below. I see nothing. More sharp rocks as far as the eye can see. No water, no places to hide. Just emptiness. Haymitch paces up and down the edge causing me to wince.

“Careful.” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. Or want to hear me. He’s not said a single word since we said goodbye. And that’s all it was. That’s all I can let myself think of it as. A goodbye.

He’s already left me.

The wind whips some loose strands of hair into my face. I shiver, relishing the flow of air. Our height makes me feel dizzy and uncomfortable, as if the Gamemakers could make the shelf collapse with the press of a button.

“That’s all there is, Haymitch.” I say softly. And before I can help myself, my treacherous mouth suggests: “Let’s go back.”

“No, I’m staying here.” He answers flatly, refusing to take his eyes away from the drop.

And that’s when I know. He’s let me go.

“All right. There’s only five of us left. May as well say goodbye now, anyway.” The words come out numbly. I am proud of how calm I sound, talking more to myself anyway. I carry on the charade, staring at the back of his head as those dark curls waver in the breeze. “I don’t want it to come down to you and me.”

I want him to look at me. I want him to tell me to stay. I want him to say there is another way, even if it means lying. I want him to show me a sign that he cares.

I guess he already did.

It was my idea to act this way, cold and aloof. I clench my fists and take several small steps away from him, vision blurring, throat burning like the pain in my chest. I don’t blink. I won’t let my tears fall. I take one last look at him. Not even his face but that’s probably for the best.

“OK.” He agrees quietly. There’s a slight hitch in his usually confident delivery. That’s all I needed to hear. I silently slip away.

Chapter Text

His eyes are hollow.

You always hear survivors described in that way. Hollow eyes symbolising and inner emptiness, but it’s true. His grey eyes no longer shine with the laughter and good confidence they once held. If you watch him closely, you can see that his hands keep clenching and unclenching unconsciously, as though reaching for a weapon. He jumps at the smallest of noises, has sunken cheeks, too much weight lost over such a short time. They’ve tried their best to scrape him back together again, but he’s seen too much. Lost so much.

He’s going to lose so much more.

He knows they’re angry about the stunt he pulled in the arena. He can understand that. But he was so furious – grief-stricken and desperate. They killed her. Killed her just so he could be propelled into a final showdown. Just so they could have their ending. Killed for entertainment. A plot device. A hindrance that had to be wiped out. Not even killed by another tribute. Just wiped out at the press of a button.

He didn’t want to kill again. Not for them. Not again. No more. She wouldn’t have wanted that.

Then he remembered the force field. The force field at the bottom of the cliff that could throw anything back. Then an idea had begun to form, started to evolve. A way to protest. A way to get the Gamemakers to do their own dirty work. To show them they do not own him.

And he didn’t even think of her warning, so many days ago. Before all the bloodshed.

"Family comes first. We should always protect the ones we love."

One simple action, such terrifying consequences. All he did was duck. He dropped to the floor; let that monstrous girl throw her axe harmlessly over his head, into the force field below. She thought she was victorious right up until it came sailing back with force, practically hacking her head in half.

Game over.

He begins to shake as he remembers. Maysilee’s warning, echoes through his head. He wants to get doped up on painkillers like his mentor. Or have a drink. Because now he’s scared. Now he’s terrified. He has to downplay what he did. Hide his real motives for using the force field as a weapon. For outsmarting the Gamemakers and playing on his own terms.

They really sort of hate that kind of thing.

----

The final day.

I hold my head high. Don’t blink so no tears can fall. Rub my eyes furiously as I slip away, pushing my way back into the path we made together. Back into the arena. I don’t spare Haymitch another glance. The alliance is broken. They will be watching this.

I grit my teeth and take in a few unsteady breaths to calm myself. It feels like I’ve left a part of myself behind in the clearing. But I can’t think along those lines. I dig my nails into my palms, wincing at the sharp pain of my mangled hand. It helps me find clarity. Every step is an effort. I’m sweating and the world begins to tilt. I keep going, intending to put as much distance between us as possible. He will pass back through this way, as soon as his fascination with the cliff wears off. Don’t want him to think I’ve been stood here waiting.

It was just a sheer drop. The cliff. Nothing that could help us. Maybe he just sees something I don’t. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to share it with me.

I trample through the portal. The pain in my chest is reaching new levels, though nothing compares to the butterfly sting. I really learnt how to bleed didn’t I? I gasp and push my way through, try to hold in a bark of laughter because it‘s ridiculous, the state I’m in. Must get to the other side.

I wonder if my family will be watching. I don’t think I could bear to watch Krista if our roles had been reversed. But then again, how could they possibly look away? It’s so close to the end now. Either way, win or lose, nearly over now.

A gloomy cloud settles over me. A deep seeping sense of loneliness and despair that I try to suppress. I can’t just give up. District 12 has never had two contenders in the final five before. I know they will be watching, cheering us on.

I picture my mother, father and sister gathered around our beaten-up television. Krista would surely be sat in the middle, something for them to hang on to. She’d be red eyed, but composed, strong for their sakes. Perhaps my father would be gripping her hand tightly, or mother would occasionally reach across and push some of Krista’s hair back gently to reassure herself as much as my sister. At least they have each other.

My heart aches with a fierce kind of longing at the image.

I want to tell them it will be ok. The best way I can do that is to not give up.

Splitting from Haymitch doesn’t mean I am clearing the path for him to win. It doesn’t mean I’m going to curl up and wait for death. I tell myself to think of a plan. To work out some kind of way to beat the games, as unlikely as that seems. I think my best method is to wait it out, scale a tree and defend myself with darts. I can barely stand but I must try. Defence is all I have. I won’t be able to survive another direct confrontation.

That’s usually how the games end though. With one final, bloody, confrontation.

I can see a light at the end of the cave-like tunnel. It’s nearly blinding after so long in the undergrowth.

I am so very tired. I head in a new direction - the opposite direction than the path we took before, covered in mud, aching but content. I go deep into the woods, as far as I can make it.

I think of the tales my mother used to share with us as I trundle on, back when we were little and clamouring for a bedtime story. Stories of Princesses being rescued by handsome Princes. Frogs transformed through kisses. Evil witches die and love conquers all.

I’ve never known anything like it in my lifetime. There’s just this. And it keeps getting worse. When you can’t even see the enemy. When the people who are supposed to protect you, shove you into an arena to die for their entertainment.

There has to be something more. There has to be something we can do to end this.

My thoughts are growing hazy as I head towards a patch of dense oak trees, ancient and golden in their towering splendour, gnarled and twisted like something out of a fairy-tale. Too high to climb. Maybe I can collapse against a trunk for now, get my breath back a minute.

If I get down, I won’t be able to get back up.

I stagger onwards.

I should have left more supplies with Haymitch. They’re wasted on me. I carefully dodge bushes brimming with so much colourful fruit that their braches bend from the weight. This part of the woods smells fantastic. I hastily pass by this exotic, deadly beauty.

A shadow passes over me in a flash. I look up and see nothing but leafy branches and the sun’s rays lazily filtering through. I hear a strange fluttering sound. Birds? I mentally shrug it off and keep going. A noise like a crow cawing startles me from my thoughts. I haven’t seen a crow in the arena before. This should trouble me. Especially when that squawk is followed by several others. Simultaneously. Multiple birds.

It’s an effort to even raise my head and when I do, an awful sound gets ripped out of me. Like a sob. A violent gasp full of horror and despair. Because I am no longer alone.

Because the branches above me are absolutely covered with birds. Completely covered. Not tiny mocking-jays like my beautiful pin, safe with my sister. Not even common crows. They weren’t there before. It’s like they materialised within seconds. Almost silently – a trap. I freeze, staring in dread. Pair upon pair of dark, alien eyes are watching me with unmistakeable malice. Huge birds – stinging pink, like the colour of the candy in our shop. Each one has a long, thin beak like a skewer, sharp and deadly. Glinting in the sun. I’ve never seen anything like them before in my life. Mutts for sure. Haymitch fought one off - just barely - how can I…?

Do I run? Can I run?

I finger the length of my dart gun nervously. I’m beginning to shake. I dare not move.

Is this it?

Then they swoop.

I scream because it’s all that I can do.

Scratches at my face. They just seem to be diving at me, making me panic. I throw myself to the ground, cover my eyes before they can do any more damage. One rips out a piece of my hair that has me howling. Why are they doing this? Why don’t they just kill me?

They want me to scream. It’s like the squirrels all over again.

They want to make the others come running.

Haymitch.

I press my lips together, vow not to make another sound. I curl into the foetal position as they continue to bombard me, pounding at my body, lightly slicing from every direction. Slamming into me, playing with me. I curl up tighter but it does no good. The cawing sounds are like something from a nightmare - deafening, gleeful even. How long will they keep this up?

I know they’ve stopped playing when one bird skewers me through the back. Impatience? Or Have the Gamekeepers finally decided my silence is an act of rebellion in itself? The attack is no longer cruelly playful. It’s deadly. This time I do cry out. I can’t help it as hot pain lances up my spine, causes my body to spasm and unfurl. That’s when another spears though my side, a light puncture compared to the last one that went through me, pain no less wretched. I scream anyway, tasting blood.

They’re taking it in turns. Diving one by one.

They mean to kill me.

And I’m just lying here and taking it?

No.

With a surprising burst of energy I pull myself to my knees. I don’t know what the plan is. To try to run maybe? Maybe not. This is horrific. This is cruel. My family… I can’t -

Another sharp blow in the back of my head. I can feel blood trickling down my back, fast and hot. I cover my face with my arms, to stop the pain block the view of their spiteful, alien forms.

Then I hear a sound over the monstrous cawing and fluttering.

My name?

Can’t be.

It is.

I want to call out his name as I see him enter my limited field of vision. One of the birds cut my forehead so everything seems red. But it’s him. It’s Haymitch it really is. I want to warn him. I’m being attacked. Run for your life. I pull myself up to run to him, protect him and -

Hot, agonising pain through my neck. And I can say and feel no more. Hit the ground running. He’s screaming now. Running to me. Can’t breathe. I’m sorry Haymitch. Sorry Mother. Sorry Father. Sorry Krista. Choking. Coughing. Everything is a bright red blur of pain, sticky and constricting. I can see the trees above. See the birds take flight. Job done. Final battle about to start. What final battle? Don’t remember. What’s happening?

Tired. Weak.

Pressure. Touch. On my neck. Hurts. Let go.

Eyes. Grey. Soft hands on my face.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Stay with me.”

Gripping my hand.

Who are you? I know you. Lips against my forehead.

“Laughing boy.” I try to say. Nothing comes out. Try to pull in air. Slipping away. Hurts less now anyway.

---

He holds his stomach as if to cover up phantom wounds, grimacing as the clown-like presenter fires question after question at him. He barely remembers answering them, being monosyllabic and withdrawn. He mutters the right words with none of the brash confidence he had pre-arena. None of the belief or cockiness of before.

There are some questions he can’t even answer, he feels so appalled. They not only wanted her life, they want his grief for her too.

“You and Maysilee seemed to form a… special bond in the arena. It must have been tough. Losing her…” Caesar Flickerman prompts.

But what can he say? Should he tell them about her small, quiet smiles, the ones just for him? Or the kind way she looked out for Rose? Or the way she laughed aside his arrogance? Or about how she seemed like such a free spirit before the arena? The foot-stomping girl in the blue dress. Should he tell them about how her lips felt against his? How holding her in that insane place, felt like home? Strong, funny, kind, occasionally irritated, girl in the dress.

How deeply his regrets letting her walk away. How it felt to feel her die in his arms.

No. They can’t have his memories too.

He forces himself to shrug, non-committedly, swallowing down a swell of fury.

“She was a great girl.” He forces out quietly, meeting Caesar’s overly sympathetic eyes. He hears exaggerated cries of sadness from the audience and digs his nails so hard into his palms, the skin breaks.

They were the ones who did this to her.

But this isn’t about her. This is about saving his family. Maysilee would understand. He refuses to say anything more on the subject and Caesar mercifully moves on.

But they eventually arrive at the most important question. This is the one that matters, the one they’ve been building up to all night. Snow has made it quite clear what the consequences will be if doesn’t pull it off.

“So what was going through your mind when you pulled that nifty trick with the force field?”

But she’s all he can think of.

He’s hunched slightly, wounded. Trapped and trying not to panic underneath the bright lights.

He did it for her. Maysilee Donner.

He manages to straighten up. To look Caesar directly in the eye as he forces out more lies. Sorry Maysilee. But I know you'd want me to save my family.

“I don’t really know why I did it,” He mumbles, hands clenching randomly. “I knew I was dying and I just couldn’t fight anymore.”

That sounds good right? That sounds as if it was a spur of the moment decision - not an act of rebellion.

That was good enough. They won’t hurt his family.

Will they?