Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I woke up rubbing my sore eyes. It took a moment for me to adjust to the scenery. My dreams were a mix and mangle of blood and thick trees and whizzing knives and spears thrown by thick bodied boys and girls. I groaned internally, and slowly moved my hand over to the clock.

I turned it over. 4:50.

Great Felicity. Just perfect.

I sat back down for a moment, turning over in my head what to do. I could skip today, work extra time at my job, and not have to walk the tedious mile to my school. Or I wake up now, get ready for school, and mow my way through the whole day listening to the school nervously chatter about what's going to happen tomorrow. Who put their name in how many times? Will we get a volunteer this year? What will happen if we don't get the exact same standard career pack we get every year. I close my eyes slowly again.

It won’t make a difference to me. Yes, tomorrow is the reaping for the 72nd Hunger Games. Yes, last year's District 4 tributes didn't even make it to the top ten. Yes, I put my name in twenty times. But I’m from downtown District 4, and even on the slight chance the slip of paper with my name on it is drawn, no one would let me make it up to the stage. We need the win. We’re District Four. Apparently, from the long speeches given to us at school, we not only have a reputation as being one of the strongest and victorious districts, but being the most interesting. Finnick Odair, Cassandra James. Hell, even Annie Cresta put on a good show, however sad and depressing it may have been. It's up to us, the new generation, to quote on quote “put in our all, and really make this year count.”

They’ve been drilling into us all year how to be the perfect little capital pets. “Forget about real school,” I mumble, “what does that matter if we don’t get a victory tour.” Suddenly my eyes snap open, realizing I said that at loud. I move my eyes to the other side of the room, relaxing when I see my younger brothers are still peacefully sleeping in their small twin beds. I breathe out, slowly moving my body up and out of bed. Might as well go to school anyway. It’s only one more year until I have to do this again.

I make my way to the bathroom, and switch on the dim light, looking at my reflection in the mirror. The surface is yellowed and spotted but I can still see the distinct differences in my appearance. Last year, I was a thin and baby faced girl. My hair was frizzy and my eyes were too wide for my face. Now, I have a defined jawline and cheekbones. My warm brown hair falls in ringlets rather than tangles, and reaches my waist. Most girls around here have short hair. It gets annoying to deal with on the docks. Nets and spears don’t mix well with long, flowing, exposed hair. I lean closer against the sink. I have a wide set, greenish-blue eyes, almost like the sea. Fitting, I suppose, for a girl who lives in the fishing district. It's not unusual for people in District Four to have my color eyes. My mom has nearly the exact same shade. I have her body too, tanned, like most downtown people, but lean and curved. I don’t have a hollow face, and bones that stick out like most of the girls in District Four. I got lucky. At least that’s what the uptown, career kids say. Last year, I started noticing boys and girls commenting on my hair, or my face, or my clothes. It’s annoying how out of control they make me feel.

I finish getting ready. Simple loose shirt and skirt I made myself from old drapes. I lace up my brown boots, and pull my hair back messily. Creeping back into my room, I drop my textbooks into my school bag, and make my way out to the kitchen.

My mom is getting ready for work, and she turns around as she hears me enter, a light smile on her lips. Courtnee Baker is gorgeous, for a woman who worked at the docks for most of her life. She has aqua colored eyes, just like me, and sandy brown hair cut shoulder length. Her body is also lean, but you can see the ropy muscle intertwined throughout her arms and legs. Her tanned skin hasn’t begun to shrink or shrivel up like most people her age get from working long hours in the sun. She fished at sea from the time she was thirteen. Working on a boat cramped with sweaty bodies during the day, and sleeping on the docks at night. It took a long time before she and my dad could afford this house, and an even longer time before she could find a better paying job in District Four.

“You’re up early, honey” she says. She strolls across the other side of the kitchen, and places a pot of coffee on the crooked table.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, and lean against the kitchen counter. I run my hands through my messy ponytail.
She yanks her head back to me. Her bright eyes trace over my body, slow and calculating. I know what she’s trying to look for. My brother, Griffin used to be so anxious before the reaping, that would spend his nights tirelessly pacing across his room. Subconsciously, scratching red lines into the underside of his arm. But I’m smarter than that. Seeing no signs of physical injuries on my body, she looks away.

I stare at the peeling wallpaper of our house, my mind spacing out. The room we live in is just that, a room. Maybe two. The main room connects to the kitchen, connects to the bedroom, connects to the bathroom, the only room in the house that actually has a door. We live in more of a cabin, made of rough pinewood, and slightly tilted. I know my mother couldn’t afford a better house even if they tried. Even so, there aren't many options for nice places around here. It’s a good location though, right by the beach, and an easy commute for my three brothers and dad to the docks. Meanwhile, I have to take the long trek to the other side of the island and back for both school and work.

I hear a noise in the other room. It’s my brother Griffin walking in the room. My brother bears a striking resemblance to Finnick Odair, with his green eyes, tall, lean body, and windswept caramel hair. But Griffin isn't my biological brother, despite his unusual resemblance to my mom and brothers. Before he lived with us, he was one of the seven Slate brothers that lived next door. A home that represented the chaotic, abusive atmosphere found in many in downtown District Four. I was little, probably only 5 or 6, when my mom began inviting him in. I don't know why it was Griffin, she could've had her pick of any of the seven brothers and it wouldn't have made a difference to the Slates. But there was always something intriguing about Griffin. Despite being 13 and almost six feet tall, with a sullen expression, and bruises peppering up and down his arms, he always found the chance to smile. He would stay a night, help my mom clean up the house, or cook dinner, and then leave early the next morning. It took my mom four months to convince Griffin to stay another night, and another four to stay a third. Eventually, after a few years, Griffin moved in. The Slates left a few months after, confirming their indifference in their missing child. By then, I think we all accepted him as a brother. And right now, the only thing i'm thinking about when I see him, is how he's being loud. His steps are clumsy and he half knocks the cabinet reaching to get a mug. I roll my eyes.

“Try to be quiet, will you,” I say patiently. He ignores me and sits down, slowly reaching over to grab the coffee.

“You're not the only one in the house,” I snap again. He finishes pouring and leans back.

“Well,” he says, finally looking at me. He grins cockily, “You could’ve told me that sooner.” He sips his coffee slowly, and I can’t help but smile.

“Well, maybe try not to be so self-absorbed all the time, huh,” I say, smirking. He just smiles, still sipping his coffee. Truth is, he’s not self absorbed. The opposite in fact. He works and provides for our family more than all of us combined. Sure, I wake up an hour early to walk half a mile to work. Still, that doesn't account for the numerous nights he’s spent working overtime on a small, rocking boat in thunderstorms, or nearly pitch black skies. Which is exactly why I was relieved he turned nineteen two years ago.

Now, it’s my turn.

“You’re going to work early today,” he says, running his hands through his light hair. He hands me a cup of coffee.

“Suppose” I say, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes. I run my hands through my soft ponytail.

“It’s the day before reaping, may as well.” He flinches, but nods hastily.

“Yeah, hmm, may as well” he mutters back.

My other two brothers, twelve year old twins, Daryn and Teo, are still sleeping. They work at the docks too, but small jobs. Carrying and stacking crates, cleaning, or entertaining the older fisherman who are amused by the obnoxious jokes. We were lucky enough to get jobs for all six of us. We wouldn’t be able to survive without them. The district has gotten so populated over the last decade, people struggle to find steady employment. Especially at the docks, where nearly half of the district works. There are long hours, unpleasant conditions, and minimum wages, but it’s steady. And that’s more than I can say for some of the families in this neighborhood.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

I have a simple breakfast of bread and coffee, and head out. I hop onto my brothers- now my- old bike, my bag on my shoulder, and make my way to work. I ride my bike on the edge of town, right on the beach. This part of District Four is crowded. Small cabins with rickety porches and crumbling roofs pack next to each other by the ocean. Elegant palm trees stick up between the packed houses, and sand, sticks, and rocks litter the ground. The neighborhood is quiet now, the only sound is the whooshing of the wind and waves crashing, but that all changes in a couple of hours. Downtown District Four during the day is an explosion of dirty kids, hollering parents, and tired, crabby fishermen that mutter and mumble while walking to work. It’s certainly not the Capital, but it’s been my home for as long as I can remember. And I love it for that.

As I get further along, the scenery starts to change. Small cabins turn into beach houses turn into town houses turn into mansions. This is uptown District Four. We don’t have buildings or condos like One or Two. Instead, the population of rich uptowners mostly live in expensive mansions or townhouses that only take up one level. The houses are modern looking, pure white structures that lay on the very outskirts of town by the beach.

The houses I pass by are the usual career families of District Four. They rent them out to capitol citizens, as the beaches are a popular vacation stop for rich capitol citizens looking to waste their time.

They own boats and stay as far away from the rest of us as possible. Rule number one living uptown: never risk letting the dirty downtowners mess up the precious, pristine boats or houses by getting near.

I detour into the center of town, and stop my bike slowly once I reach the tailor shop I work as seamstress at. It's right near the Justice Building, and smaller than most of the buildings around.
Its old awning painted in blue and white stripes, and the cartoon images of needles and thread painted on the front, make it clear that it's not the classiest place.

However, our low prices make it a well-respected and popular spot in my District.

I go around to the back, park my bike, and push my hand inside my bag, reaching for keys. I open the backdoor, and see a sour faced woman, glaring directly at me from behind rows and rows of patterned dresses.

“Your shift doesn’t start till 6:30,” she snaps. She’s sitting down next to a sewing machine, one long red nailed hand gripping a patch of fabric. Jane is always bitter and angry. She grew up in uptown District Four as a girl, and always aspired to be a career. However, she never got a chance to volunteer, and now only owns this shop she inherited from her family.

Still, more than I might ever have in my lifetime.

“I woke up early, I thought I could come in,” I reply patiently.

She stops wiping for a second, and looks me up and down.

“Alright,” she finally grunts, “But don’t think I’m giving you anything extra for this. I have too many other girls to worry about anyway.”

I smile at her slightly.
The inside of the store is crowded today, and I would much rather be huddled up by myself, mending, old tattered dresses behind the rows of dry cleaning In the back. However, Jane, somehow reading my mind, pushes me to the counter.

I make my way across the room, taking instructions, and answering questions about the quality and prices of fabric. We do almost everything from tailoring, to fitting, to selling fabrics. However, only a few, full articles of clothing are up for display.

Most of them are my creations.

I’m almost done with my shift when a lady in the corner heads over to me, and I'm instantly struck with an eager, pearly white smile.

She looks fake, with bright violet eyes and matching highlights in her shiny, straight bob. It’s obvious this lady is Capital. Although her appearance isn’t nearly as extreme as some of the people I’ve seen on television, she has that bizarre, off putting look. I’m surprised she’s in District Four, she should be in the Capital getting ready for the games like the rest of her friends.

Why is she here, in a some small tailor shop in District Four?

“Oh hello, darling!” she says in a too-chirpy voice, “You had me waiting so long I thought I might have had to outright get up and leave. I was simply looking for a dress, though your options are rather... outdated.”

I put on my sweetest voice, “I apologize, Ma’am, we're not fit for your standards. Unfortunately, we were also extra busy today. What can I help you with”

She brightens, not catching my insult, and instead nodding her head along with my words when she hears my manners.

“Well finally!” she exclaims, “Someone from District Four with actual manners. I’ll swear, I thought the career districts were supposed to be civil and well-bred. I mean, One and Two were never like this. Sure, they were a little stuffy, but at least they knew how to use a simple ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’” she continues on not noticing my obvious discomfort,

“I mean, there was this one boy yesterday, I ask him to hold my bag while I was at the train. A simple favor! And he just plain ignored me. Turned right around and walked away.”

I shift uncomfortably on two feet. This woman is so oblivious and privileged it’s almost painful. Most people here have actual jobs they have to spend time on, not standing around holding some Capital lady’s suitcase. Everyone thinks District Four is like the rest of the career districts. That we’re all rich and live in luxury. But the truth is, most of District Four is as poor as the other districts. I resist the urge to throw something at her, and force out my biggest, fakest smile.

“Again, so sorry Ma’am, we..,” I struggle to find the right words.

“we… well.. it’s close to the games.” I settle on again. She seems to buy into it, nodding her head furiously.

“Yes, yes. It’s all very tense. Who’s gonna get picked this year?”

My stomach turns inside out.

“I mean the very thought is practically exhilarating,” she squeals excitedly, and leans in closer to me.

“You seem like a sweet girl, so can I let you in on a little secret,” she continues before I can respond, “District Four has always been my favorite. I mean, Mags Flanagan, Finnick Odair, Cassandra
James. You’ve games have always been just so…” she struggles for words

“Exhilarating” I respond slowly. Her eyes brighten up.

“Yes, just that,” she looks around the room suggestively. It’s empty except for Jane still wiping the counter. I’ll swear, that’s all the woman does.

Finally she looks back to me and whispers in a low voice, “And apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. You see, my husbands a gamemaker, and apparently the arena they're planning this year is… special. And showing a, well, certain favoritism.”

“You mean…” I begin to say, but she cuts me off.

“Yes, they're planning a tropical setting. Or, coastal,” she frowns, “I’m not sure the difference.” She reaches over and tugs on a curl on my head.

“You people from District Four are always just so… alluring.” I want to shiver. The way she looks at me like I’m some exotic animal. They way she treats me like one.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” she says, looking at me like I’m a piece of meat. She stops to think for a moment, perfectly manicured hand under her chin.

“Yes, just lovely. I could see you in the games, blood on your face. It would contrast wonderfully with your eyes.” She looks trance-like into the distance.

I stay frozen, dumbstruck. How am I even supposed to respond to an insane woman? She breaks out of her hypnotic state, and grins at me.

I just stare at her.

“Now, I was wondering about that dress upfront?...”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

My shift ends, and I walk outside. My mind is still buzzing with the encounter with the Capital lady when I see my friend waiting outside. Ciara lives uptown with the rest of the careers, but she's nothing like the rest of them. Her parents would never let her volunteer for The Hunger Games. She’s too important to them. I met her when I was five, and started school. When being with only brother got overwhelming, she became a second sister to me. She has completely liberated herself from anything career-related. Instead of wearing her hair in tight updos or braids like most uptown girls, like me, she has it brown, messy waves. Along with that, she also has caramel skin and chocolate colored eyes.

She beams when she sees me, and starts walking in my direction. As soon as she gets close though, she notices my stunned expression, and stops. She narrows her eyes.

“Are you ok? You look like you just saw a ghost," I'm about to respond but she cuts me off.

“Wait, is something really wrong? Is it your mom, Daryn, Teo… Griffin? Her eyes widen.

“Wait, please don’t tell me something happened to him on those awful boats! He’s too young, it’s…”

“No!” I burst out, “No, nothing like that. I just…” I can’t stop stuttering. I can’t imagine her thinking about anything like that happening, ever. I wouldn’t even know what to do.

“No, it’s just the strangest thing happened to me, Ci, while I was at the diner.”

I see her body relax at my words, and I take that as a sign to dive into my story.

Once I finish, she looks at me quizzically. “And she just told you all of this, this random Capital lady you’ve never met,” she inquires.

“Yes.” We both pause for a moment, taking it in. Ciara has this thing where she’s not just smart, but observant. Though she can be rash and judgemental at points, she has a level of understanding that's deeper than most other people.

“I think…” she finally says, “I think this year is important somehow, and I’m not just saying this because of that lady. I can see it with the way the whole Capital has been acting. There’s been so much suspense towards it. These games.” She pauses again, lifting her eyes from the ground to my face.

“I think that whoever gets picked as tribute this year, whether they die or not, is going to be completely fucked.”

Chapter Text

Me and Ciara make our way to school quietly, not talking much. The school is right in the center of town, so it’s a quick walk, and we get there soon. Though we barely say a word to each other, we’re thinking the exact same thing. Uptown, downtown, rich, poor. It doesn’t make a difference. It could still be either one of us up on that stage.

The school we attend is a wide, flat building that is so ancient the Capital isn't sure when it was constructed. It’s a stark contrast from the buildings around it with its bright red brick, and rounded doorways. All of District Four attends the same school, so when we enter it always feels tight and crowded. However, it’s the day before the reaping, and somehow the energy has managed to escalate to spazzy and wild. Tall, thick bodied career boys fidget in the hallways, pushing each other or screaming to their friends. Me and Ciara hurriedly walk in, trying to push through the chaos around us, but it doesn’t last long.

“Hey wait, Ciara,” I hear a deep voice call out from behind. She just rolls her eyes, blatantly ignoring him, and we keep walking.

He must be mad now, because his tone has a mocking edge to it.

“Yoohoo, Ciara. Ciara and her little friend.” I clench my teeth. I know I’m not exactly tall for my age, but I despise people pointing out my rather petite frame. Being around towering careers all the time makes it an delicate subject.

“Caspian, it’s the day before the reaping. Why can’t you just leave us alone. One day,” Ciara says spinning around suddenly, her hair a dark whoosh around her.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with an overstimulated misogynistic toddler right now,” she spits.

I look behind my shoulder to see a tall, muscular boy with dark skin leering at Ciara in front of a crowd of other career boys. Caspian Evers is Ciara's ex-boyfriend, and coincidentally neighbor. She went out with him for a few months, meaning he knows who I am, and vice versa. He’s practically the exact clone of every stereotype that comes with being a career. Loud, obnoxious, dangerous. He’s sixteen, and he’s probably going to be selected to volunteer this year. If you're rich and from uptown you get invited to enjoy a school program to train for the games. Ciara got an invite, only to quit after one class. She called it demonic. My face begins to heat up. I know exactly why he’s doing this, and it’s not just because he’s a jerk.

“What, you scared you’re gonna get picked,” he taunts. Ciara’s nostrils flare, and her hands clench. The group of boys around him laugh. None of the careers like Ciara, because of her direct refusal to participate in anything Hunger Games related. Whatever happens, it is going to escalate quickly.

“Come on, Caspian,” I hear a distinct voice mutter, “Do you really have to pick on younger girls just to make yourself feel less insecure.”

Oh no. It’s Banks.

He pushes her way through the crowd of kids, and rests his hand on Caspian’s shoulder once he reaches him.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere training to put knives through twelve year olds,” he says. God, his accent is horrible. Most people in District Four have accents, so I barely notice it, but his is hard to avoid. The way he pops some sounds, and lets others roll off his tongue in a slur. His messy blonde hair falls in a sticks out all around his head, and has begun crawling down his neck. It’s clear he hasn’t bothered with a haircut in months. He’s wearing baggy clothes like usual. He practically wears the same outfit everyday, and people joke about him having a uniform.

Caspian snarls, his mouth twisted into a scowl.

“You know I don’t want any trouble with you, Downtown,” he snaps, shoving Banks. The blonde haired boy takes a few steps away before stopping to raise his hands in the are and smirk.

“Oh, sorry, my mistake. I know how it is before the games. All hail the Capital and all that crap. It’s probably just me who can’t imagine the honor of decapitating a bunch of hungry, poor kids. What was it you get again? A plastic crown?”

Caspian actually growls.

The other thing about Banks is people tend to avoid him. He’s deep downtown. Deeper than me, which is saying something. I’ve known him my whole life and being around him means only one thing, danger.

Ciara is frozen on spot, murder in her eyes. And she’s staring directly at Caspian. Caspian’s glaring at Banks. And Banks… Banks is smiling at me?

"You know what,” I finally say. “Thanks for the help Banks, but we can take care of ourselves.” I grab Ciara’s hand, and steer her away.

I drag her down the hallway once we're out of sight, and shove her into the first open classroom. As soon as the door closes I wheel her around and grab her arm.

“Ci? What just happened? That was not normal, even for you?” She looks up at me. Her dark eyes are glassy and she looks to be on the verge of tears.

“Come on, Ciara, you have to tell me. Something’s bugging you. I know it.” She turns her face away from me, and rubs her face.

“I just can’t stop thinking about that lady. I mean, I know I always get mad at careers and everything, but I really just hate the games.” She stops for a moment before continuing.

“This is all the Capitals fault. All of it. We’re just kids, and I hate that I have to live around the careers. I have to see them sacrificing themselves to a government that watches them brutally kill each other, every day. I hate it.” She’s desperately trying not to show emotion, but it's not working. Her voice cracks a little as she talks.

“And if I get chosen, I..I…” She’s visibly shaking now. I swallow.

“Ci, your name is in there three times. You’re not gonna get chosen…” She interrupts me suddenly.

“No. There’s still a chance. There’s still a chance my name will get pulled no matter what. And it’s just not me. If you… or Daryn and Teo…”

For a moment, she looks down at our joined hands, her brow furrowed.

“Are you okay with all of this! You always seem so calm,” she says finally pulling away “think of how much more you have to lose.”

“Me?” I question. Ciara rolls her eyes.

“Your name is in there twenty times. And if you get picked, you’re not a career, and you have no fighting experience. You're a walking target,” she states bluntly.

“Wow, thanks a lot,” I reply, and her eyes widen in realization.

“Oh, shit, I didn't mean that,” she stutters, “Crap, I just made it like ton worse for you- I didn’t mean-”

“-it’s ok Ci,” I interrupt. “I may not talk much about the games, but, believe me, I know what it would mean if I got picked.”

She looks up at me slowly, and I can see that she understands her privilege better than ever now. And I can see the guilt she has because of it.

“Hey, you can stitch together seams better than anyone I know. Who knows, if either you get picked that might come in handy,” I say, nudging her and trying to lighten the mood. She laughs, relief in her voice as she shakes her head. Ciara is always so tough, so resistant, it’s so strange to see her shedding her skin. She’s a whole new, delicate person underneath. Her eyes light up as she remembers something, and she’s back to being normal Ci again.

“Oh, guess what! I completely forgot to tell you-” she squeals, putting her hands on her head.

“What?” I say confused. She bites her lip, and looks at me eagerly, one eyebrow raised coolly.

“The mayor asked us to tailor his wife’s dress, and he's offered to pay us by the hour! My heart skips a beat at her

“No way!”

There’s only a few opportunities in District Four to get paid for being a seamstress. It’s either working at Jane’s shop, or patching up rich, up-towners old wedding dresses and suits.

And believe me, the second option is much more tempting. Especially when it’s the mayor who is rather generous with tipping.

You see, me and Ciara want to open our own boutique, or somehow buy Jane's. We’ve always loved fashion, and though I’m decent at sewing, Ciara is wicked talented at needle and thread.

I remember as a little girl I always hated the Capital issued tv-programs (who doesn’t), but I always loved when seeing the strange, bizarre outfits on stage. The gorgeous women in glittering ball gowns and jewels, and beautiful men with classy, form-fitting suits.

And though I always knew I wasn’t going to be the one inside the outfits, I thought I could at least be the one behind them. For Ciara, it's a way to distinguish herself from the steoreotypes of living in a uptown, career dominated world. For me, it's to help myself, and my family find a way out of Downtown District 4. It’s my dream. Right now, that dream doesn't help pay the rent, or put food on the table. But for now, my hope is enough.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

I get through the day tediously, making my way through one class to another. The teachers drone on about the importance of representing the district and the honor of being a tribute, but I don’t listen. It’s the same exact textbook speech every year. Plus, I know they don’t really mean it.

In one class I start to feel people’s eyes following me, and turn around slightly to see a union of career girls glaring at me. They're all tall, with expensive shiny clothing and tight hair updos. Word must have spread of me and Ciara’s encounter with Capsian. I shiver a little seeing three piercing gazes directed towards me. I hate to admit it, but I’ve always been intimidated by career girls. They're always so deadly serious, and that even their thoughts could rip you apart in a second.

A black-haired girl a row behind me rolls her eyes when she sees me staring, but leans forward to whisper in my ear.

“I don’t know what you and your friend are up to, but you made both you and Caspian look silly in front of the whole school.” Her breath is hot behind my ear as she mutters this, and I squirm in my seat. But what did I do that’s so bad? All I did was drag Ciara away after she called him a toddler, and that's not nothing new. Even his friends joke about his ability to throw temper tantrums like a three year old.

“I know you’re downtown. Some seamtress.” she says sneering, and she leans a little closer, “but even you should know how important the games are. What your friend said was dangerous, and he’s stupid as hell. He’s gonna get thrown in jail.”

He? It hits me then. She’s not talking about Ciara, she’s talking about Banks. I guess his whole “I don’t care about my life. Here, come murder me right now Capital” speech people actually paid attention too.

The girl finally leans back and I let out a breath. To be honest, she isn’t wrong. The Capital keeps close tabs on District Four, and if we were anywhere but a crowded schoolhouse what he said might’ve been picked up on.

Before we leave, the teacher tells us we have an assignment to discuss in pairs why the Capital makes districts participate in The Hunger Games. I hear me and Banks' names called out, and I almost groan. Please no. Not after what happened this morning.

I reluctantly move my body towards his desk, using my time slowly. When I get to the other side of the room I see’s carving something against the dull wood of the old desk with a net knife he uses at the docks. He looks up when he sees me get closer, and grins. Before I can sit down he has already stopped carving, raised one hand slowly, and begun to blurt something out.

“I already know the answer. The Capital makes us participate in the games because their insane psychopathic pedophiles. It’s as simple as that.”

He pauses thoughtfully. “Also I think all that surgery somehow messes with their brains.”

“Wrong,” I say.

“Really. Then what is it? They just like watching Television?”

“It’s to show us no matter what they have the upper hand. To pin us against each other, and to show us that after all, all we really are inside are murderers,” I state.

He stares at me nonplussed. I feel my face start to flush. I think I’m turning red.

“It’s true,” I mutter.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his feet on his desk. He looks at me suspiciously, and his eyes narrow. In a way, he seems as if he already detect my emotions.

“Is something wrong?” he inquires thoughtfully. I bit my lip, turning over in my head if I should tell him. Finally I settle on an answer, and lean closer to him.

“What you said this morning is dangerous. You could’ve got yourself, and others in trouble.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

I grind my teeth. He really has no limits. Does he not know about the consequences of his own actions? Does he not know about the beatings, the torture, the….

I shiver just thinking about it.

…the whippings.

I'm so angry at him that I almost don't hear it. Over the speakers the mayor is saying that there has been an accident down by the docks, and anyone at school who works or has family at the docks is to report there immediately.

My whole body freezes.

It’s as if my thoughts and emotions have slowed down. They move sluggishly and struggle to keep up.

Someone taps me, and I look up. It’s Banks. He clears his throat.

“Uhh. Your brother works on the boats, right?

He’s the only one standing up, and I’m hit with the sudden realization that everyone is watching us. We're the only kids from downtown here.

Docks.

Accident.

Family.

Daryn. Teo. Griffin.

Oh my gosh, Griffin. He always works the most dangerous jobs, the ones that pay more. He always does that for us.
It hits me.

I jerk up suddenly and leave the classroom. Banks follow close behind me. I run through the halls getting faster as my heart beat speeds up.

“Hey, wait up,” he calls behind me.

But I can’t. I try to stop, but I can’t. I need to know if Griffin’s ok.

I burst through the front doors finally, and stop when I’m hit with a bucket full of freezing cold rain.

It’s falling down in mountains, and in a second I’m completely soaked.

The storm above looks like molten rock, oozing and seeping in the sky. I can’t believe it was sunny a few hours ago.

Banks catches up to me, panting. His hair clings to his face, dripping wet.

“I can take you there, you know. To the docks.”

“I know how to get there myself,” I say sharply.

“Yeah, but if it really is bad, you think they're gonna let you through. I work there, I can get you answers.” He pauses.

“Do you really wanna take the chance?” he continues.

I don’t respond. The sky above me crackles.

“You have a bike,” I ask.

“No,” he responds.

“Well then you better run fast.”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Luckily, Banks is a pretty fast runner, so we manage to get there in under fifteen minutes.

When we arrive, It's chaos, to say the least. People run this way and that, calling out names, screaming for answers. We try confronting a few people, but everyone seems to know as much as we do.

There was an accident at sea. People were presumably hurt. All families and ship workers were reported to the docks.

No one tells us anything else.

I can’t even get us remotely close to the water, as I’m blocked by a hundred other screaming men and women in front of me. I’m suddenly annoyed at District Four. We’re all strong, and prideful until one little incident and it’s complete mayhem. Why can’t we just work together sometimes?

A lady in front of me is sobbing, choking while she mumbles something about how she lost her last husband this way, and clutching a little girl.

The girl is truly adorable, with a couple of missing teeth and little braids going down each side of her head. I lock eyes with her, and see her face is stained with tears. Her brown eyes are wide with confusion and sadness at her mothers pain.

My stomach twists inside itself, and I feel suddenly guilty. This isn’t my district's fault. It’s not our leaders either. No, it’s the Capital. If we had better homes, if we were paid more, if we had the right resources…

I’m getting really angry when suddenly I feel Banks pull me in another direction.

“What’s happening,” I yell through the noise.

“You’ll see,” he screams back.

He takes me away from the crowd and pulls me through an alleyway. It smells like fish and other rotten sea creatures, and I want to throw up until I see where he’s taking me. He moves a wall of crates in between buildings, and suddenly I see the water come into view. Foamy and dark and crashing back and forth in a constant battle.
It’s even more crowded than before.

At the same time I see multiple ships coming and coming out, making it hard to tell if there's a purpose. There are sopping wet people with seaweed clinging to their clothing having bandages wrapped around them. Many are shivering besides friends and family as they sit by a fire someone made. There are stretchers and bandages and first aid kits…

That’s when I see it.

My heart drops.

The ship.

My brother’s ship. The one he works on.

It’s hard to call it a ship anymore, more of a pile of debris. The panels and edges hang off the center of it awkwardly, like broken arms and legs. It was rusted before, but now it’s paint looks completely scraped off. Like blood. Like someone skinned it alive.

My stomach is a deformed creature now, twisting in and out of itself .

I leave Banks' side and rush off dodging between stretchers and broken piles of glass. Smoke clouds the air, heavy, making it hard for me to breathe.

“Griffin, Griffin!” I scream till my voice is hollow and hoarse. I push my way further and further until the crowd starts to hollow out. My head starts to spin. It becomes a blur of ships and crashing waves and blood.

Lots and lots of blood.

“Felicity?” A voice says weakly.

I spin around. He’s there. Sitting on a cart holding a bloodied bandage to his head, but he’s there. I almost cry in relief, but I can’t spare tears right now.

I rush forward to hug him, and wrap my arms around his neck, and my words spill out.

“They told us to come here from school, but they wouldn’t let anyone through so I had to get Banks to lead me through a stinky alley to get here, and then I saw your ship and couldn’t find you, but you’re okay.” I laugh a little, and grip him tighter.

“You’re okay,” I repeat.

Eventually, I release him, and he tells me what happened. They told him to work on a different boat today because it was too crowded. He was trapping lobsters when the storm started and they were told to head back for the rest of the day off, and that’s when it happened. The boat he usually worked on drove right into their side, and was completely smashed to pieces.

“We couldn’t see them, and I guess they couldn’t see us,” he says, gulping, “The boat was obliterated. Completely.”

He looks down, tears running from his eyes.

“We tried to rescue some people, but it was cloudy and raining. Plus, the ocean…”

He stops, ducking his head in shame.

“What happened to your head,” I say worriedly, touching the swelling red split on his forehead. I can tell it’s gonna get infected if it doesn’t get medical attention.

“I can fix this up for you, you know I’m good at healing.” He swats my hand away, angrily.

“I don’t care. So what, I hit my head when the crash happened. It doesn’t matter. You know we just left after that. Didn’t care about the drawing people. Tried to save ourselves as fast as we could.”

It’s all I can do to sit and watch him in pain. It’s no use comforting, telling him it’s not his fault. This isn’t the first time an accident like this has happened, and he never listens.

“To think, It could’ve been me on that boat. If just a few less people had shown up that day. Those were men and women I worked with every day. We barely talked, but I know them so well. So many of them had families. Spouses. Children.”

He pauses for a moment, deep in thought.

“There’s probably gonna be a memorial for them. The families will get money” I say

“So what,” he says, his voice laced with pain, and now, anger. “Give them just enough to get by while they grapple around for a job they're never going to get. No, it’s not fair Felicity. It’s not. We should do something. Make a stand.” He shouts standing up suddenly, and it’s all I can do to quickly pull him down by his arm. My brother is so stubborn sometimes.

“Shut up, Griffin. Shut up. I know you’re passionate, but this is just plain stupid.” I say in a whisper, desperately trying to shush him. I lower my voice, putting my mouth right next to his ear when I say the next sentence.

“If they even hear you thinking about the possibility of a rebellion, I know what they'll do. You do too.”

I try to look away, but it’s no use. He’s already seen that my whole face is red and wet with tears. I see his features soften at my obvious pain.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be an asshole,” he says apologetically. The steady flow of tears only grows thicker at his forgiveness.

“No, really. Please, I’m sorry,” he begs, getting increasingly concerned. I shake my head, wiping my face with my skirt.

“It’s not your fault. It’s the world, sometimes. You know.” I say sniffling.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, then he laughs and points to his forehead. “I know better than anyone.”

I can’t help letting out a giggle, and I reach my hand out to him, and he takes it limping up.

We walk away from the docks, through the crowd, and back into the village. I see Banks helping unload a ship on the way back. We lock eyes and I whisper a quick “thank you” in his direction. He just nods his head, smiling a little. But I can see the relief in his clear blue eyes at the sight of me and my brother.

“Who’s that,” Griffin asks curiously,

I think about everything that happened today. The capital lady, the career boys, the incident Banks back and I can only think of one thing to say.

“Just someone from school,” I reply, and we head back home.

Chapter Text

That evening I can barely sleep. I toss and turn in my bed all night.

The rest of the day had gone by smoothly. Being as I've been been patching up dresses all these years, I knew a few things about sewing stitches, and I manage to (hopefully) clean up Griffin’s injuries. I also picked up my little sister from school, and helped prepare dinner. We even had potatoes for dinner, my favorite food, which are also a rarity in District Four. Usually, my mom would scorn my brothers from snatching them from a smuggler, but today she’s too hungry and tired to complain.

I desperately want sleep, as I know it will be key in surviving the long day ahead of me. However, my exhausted body refuses.

I try breathing, and reassuring myself inside. I’m alive, sleeping in my own bed, with a (slightly) full stomach, and a roof over my head.

However, I know that could all change in a couple of hours.

Eventually, I can't stand it anymore. I throw the thin sheets off my body, and climb out of bed. My brothers and sister are sleeping peacefully as I creep around them, ease open through the backdoor, and stealthily slip through it.

The cool, damp smell of the salty ocean night hits me almost immediately. A faint, almost metallic salty spray of ocean water drifts through the air. I breathe it in, feeling my rushing heart soothe down along with the breeze.

From between the crooked houses and palm trees, I can see the ocean swaying softly in the moonlight. It’s serene, and a completely different world once the sun has set. The moon and stars provide the only light, and the surface of the water is dark and still, reflecting the sky and sparkling like a mirror.

I sit down on the hollow wood of the porch, stretching out my legs, and let my eyes drift close. The ocean sounds of the crashing waves wash over me, and I feel my body relax at the familiarity. I enjoy the tranquility of the District Four night, and often come out here when I need peace.

Suddenly, I hear a crashing noise echoing behind me, and my eyes snap open as I jerk around, hands splayed in front of me.

I’m met with a familiar head of blonde hair, stumbling in the dark around the scattered continents of a rusted metal trash can. They try to bend over to pick up the fallen objects, but the trash blows this way and that in the soft breeze.

The sight of Banks chasing flying pieces of garbage is so strange that I let out a high pitched yelp.

He looks up when he hears my exclamation, his eyes wide in surprise. So far stretched I can see the pure whites of them clearly, as they sparkle in the moonlight. His irises are so dark, a deep brown, that I can barely see the pupil .

I’ve never noticed his eyes before, that's odd.

A broad smile flashes across his face when he recognizes me, and he straightens up, moving closer to me.

“You’re here,” he says.

“I’m here,” I confirm, my voice still squeaky from surprise.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he admits.

“Oh, so now you know where I live?” I joke wryly, crossing my arms across my chest.

He doesn’t say anything, and just laughs lightly, holding out his hand instead.

“Want to go on an adventure,” he asks.

“Too where?” I question suspiciously, but I stand up and take his hand anyway. My white cotton dress flutters up in the cool breeze, and I realize I’m only wearing undergarments and a nightgown.

“I don’t have any shoes,” I remark simply, staring down at my bare feet.

“We won’t need them where we’re going,” he responds, and leads me by the hand away from the house.

He weaves me through the packed, rickety cabins of our neighborhood, and for once, I enjoy letting someone else take the reins.

Finally, we arrive at a small beach. A rather peaceful, closed off section off the coast that I’m sure we would otherwise be denied entry too. He’s lithe and graceful as he ducks under the plastic tape, and I follow him. I have a feeling he’s been jumping over fences his whole life.

He stops and whips around, smiling as he holds out a hand in a displaying manner. I follow my eyes from his extended arms towards a small boat, floating delicately in the water.

Sorry, not a boat. Rather, a large sized dinghy. It’s almost the same size as a canoe, except it has a motor, so it must be somewhat more modern.

“Is that a dinghy,” I say hesitantly.

He rolls his eyes.

“No, it’s a skiff boat. It’s different,” he says, and reaches into his back pocket to toss something on the ground. It’s actually multiple things. A small lighter, switchblade, and a scrunched up fishing net.

“Sure,” I mutter under my breath, and walk over to him.

We stand at the very edge of the ocean, water lapping at our feet, as he eases the boat in by pulling on a soggy net.

“It was my fathers,” he says before I can ask.

“He bought it back when I was little. When he still thought he could actually provide for me with a small, self-owned fishing business.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve heard the rumuors that go around town. That his father never paid for a meal in his life. That his father is a mean drunk. That he leaves bruises and marks on his son’s arms. I want to comfort him, but I don’t know how.

Instead, I move myself to delicately fit into the small vehicle.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

We trail the calm water leisurely, letting the boat gently rock with the rhythm of the waves. After a little while, we stop, and dip the net into the water. Drifting in one spot, the only sound is the
occasional creak of the boat and the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. I dip my fingers in the water, and find it surprisingly warm.

Banks reaches under the hull, and slips a bottle from a compartment.

I don’t ask him where he got the liquor, as alcohol is almost as accessible in District Four as food.

He brings the yellowed glass to his lip, tilting it slowly as he gulps down the liquid. He swallows, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips as he lowers the glass.

He notices me watching him, and he holds out the bottle to me.

I take it slowly, waiting a few moments before pressing the cold glass to my mouth.

I’m met with a strong liquid that burns a hot, flaming path down their throat. It’s so intense I almost gag.

“This is revolting,” I mutter, but take another sip.

He laughs, his lips curved into a slight smile.

“You’re still drinking it, aren’t you.”

I can’t deny that. Every time I take a swallow, I feel a warmth spreading through my body. I swirl the remaining liquid in the bottle, before taking another deliberate sip. The complex flavors mingled in my mouth, a potent blend that hinted at both sweetness and a fierceness, and I began to feel myself relax.

We pass the bottle between us, talking about school, careers, and the Capital. With each sip I feel my tongue begin to loosen up.

Soon enough, we’re both laughing. I’m practically doubled over, and holding my cramping stomach. He’s trying to shush me. The waves have gotten stronger, and the tiny boat is wobbling so much it
might topple right over.

I look up at him from the corner of my eyes, and I notice a few things about him.

One, his hair is extremely thick and curly.

Two, for having such light hair, he has thick dark eyebrows and lashes.

Three, he has a surprisingly handsome, sincere face.

“Can I touch your hair?” I say, still giggling.

“Is this your first time drinking, or something” he says, trying to steady me from falling off the boat.

I laugh even harder, wriggling out of his grasp, and standing up.

“Not my first time.”

“Don’t do that,” he yelps, trying to pull me down.

I ignore him, moving my feet carefully as I tiptoe slowly towards the front of the boat. I stretch out my arms to steady me as the boat rocks gently beneath their feet. Finally, I perch delicately on the edge of the bow, and lower my outstretched arms.

“So, wait, you’ve drunk alcohol before?” he says from behind me curiously.

“My dad used to slip me some. He did it with my brothers too,” I scream against the rushing waves.

“Your dad? I didn’t know you had a dad?”

“Well, a step-dad, until seven years ago. My mom kicked him out when she found she was having my sister. At least that’s what she tells me. Pretty sure he just picked up and left.”

"What about your real dad?"

I pause.

"Ever heard about Orion Baker?"

"No.."

"Didn't think so. He was a tribute for the 56th Games."

Banks is quiet behind me.

“Sorry, that sucks, about both your dads. My mom is.. gone too. But I guess your step-dad must have not have been a very good guy if he was giving seven year olds alcohol.”

I laugh.

“Yeah, no, he was pretty bad. Couldn’t hold a job for his life, and treated my mom like crap.” I pause for a moment.

“Not many places to go in District Four though, so I still see him around.”

I never met my real dad. But my step-dad, I think I did actually love him at one point. Now all I think when I see him ever so often, is disgust.

The wind whips through my hair, and the spray of waves hits my face, but I remain steady, eyes fixed on the horizon. I squint trying to make out where the glassy, moonlight surface of the ocean ends.

“How far do you think it goes?” I yell against the sound of the rushing waves.

From behind me, I hear Banks, who has been mostly silent, responds,

“We're at the very edge of Capital’s limit. A hundred more yards and we would be electrified.”

“Not the force field,” I respond, “The ocean, the horizon. Do you think it ends?

There’s silence for a moment, him assumedly having paused in thought. The line or the horizon is fuzzy in the darkness of the night.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought of it. It probably stops at some point, or there’s another piece of land.”

The thought is so strange, I’m not sure how to respond. I’ve never thought about life anywhere else. Hell, I’ve never thought of life outside of District Four.

“Well, either way,” he says from behind me, “The Capital doesn’t want us there, or even knowing about it.”

I almost don’t hear him, as I’m so lost in thought. What would life be like not contained in the borders of Panem?

Would there be anything?

Is there anything?

Is it even possible?

A large wave jolts the boat forward, catching me off guard. I gasp, trying to regain my footing on the slick surface, but my bare feet fly out from under me.

For a terrifying moment, I’m suspended in mid-air, the dark sky and churning ocean a blur around me.

Then, with a sudden impact, I’m plunged into cool depths.

The world is a chaotic swirl of blue and white, the sky a distant, fading memory. Then, the icy water hits my system, instantly stealing my breath in a gasp. Saltwater fills my every pore, stinging my eyes and burning my throat.

I flail my arms and legs, pushing myself upwards as I try to break the surface.

Finally, my head bobs above the waves, and I gasp for air, spitting out a mouthful of seawater.

“Felicity!” A voice screams.

I look over to see the drifting boat, a few feet away from me. Banks is desperately flailing his hands, reaching to me.

I paddle my way quickly over to him, and he helps me hoist myself back into the boat.

“That was dumb!” he yelps.

“Why would you do that? I told you it was dangerous. Even with your size, the bow can’t support that much weight…”

He continues ranting, and I just sit there, smiling goofily.

I’m soaking wet, water dripping from my now transparent dress onto the bottom of the boat. My curly hair sticks in stringy clumps around my face.

He stops talking when he notices my content expression, and surprise flickers across his face.

“You’re drunk. This was stupid. I should just take you home.” He switches on the motor, and is propelled forward.

“No,” I say matter-of-factly, “This was fun.”

I stare at him directly, locking my aqua eyes with his powder blue ones.

“Thank you.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, perplexed, before he realizes I'm serious. A thin smile begins to creep back on his lips.

“Alright then. You want fish?”

He holds up the net full of squirming salmon.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Once we get back to the beach, we dock the boat.

Banks start a small fire, and attempts to cook the fish. Surprisingly, he’s rather good at it, and I have a feeling this isn’t his first experience making dinner for himself with a fire.

I stand by the fire, soaking up its warmth, and watching the smoke puff up in clouds.

We probably just look like two lost kids, messing around on a trespassed property.

Maybe that’s all we really are.

“Wait,” I say surprised, jerking up suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he says confused. His face is all crinkled up in bewilderment. In the distance, a soft melody is being played.

“It’s a violin,” I state, and I close my eyes.

The tone is a somber one. Emotional and fluid, like a trickling stream, or no… soft waves crashing on a beach.

Yes…

Yes, I know this song.

It’s a classic in District Four. An old tune that has been repeated for decades.

It’s almost too perfect for this night.

I begin to sway my hips softly in unison with the rhythm, and I run my hands softly through the ends of my hair. The flow of the violin picks up, and I find the words rising from my throat.

“I got my red dress on tonight

Dancin' in the dark, in the pale moonlight

Done my hair up real big, beauty queen style

High heels off, I'm feelin' alive

Oh my God, I feel it in the air

Telephone wires above are sizzlin' like a snare

Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere

Nothin' scares me anymore

Kiss me hard before you go

Summertime sadness

I just wanted you to know

That, baby, you the best

I got that summertime, summertime sadness

Su-su-summertime, summertime sadness

Got that summertime, summertime sadness

Oh, oh-oh, oh-oh”

As I finish singing the first part, I wonder if the violinist can hear me now? Can anyone hear me?

“I'm feelin' electric tonight

Cruisin' down the coast, goin' 'bout 99

Got my bad baby by my heavenly side

I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight

Oh my God, I feel it in the air

Telephone wires above are sizzlin' like a snare

Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere

Nothin' scares me anymore

Kiss me hard before you go

Summertime sadness

I just wanted you to know

That, baby, you the best

I got that summertime, summertime sadness

Su-su-summertime, summertime sadness

Got that summertime, summertime sadness

Oh, oh-oh, oh-oh”

My voice picks up, shrill and clear in the quiet night. I probably sound terrible, but I'm too much in a trance-like state, to care. I can feel soft tears streaming down my face.

"Think I'll miss you forever

Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky

Later's better than never

Even if you're gone, I'm gonna dri-i-ive, dri-i-i-i-i-ve

I got that summertime, summertime sadness

Su-su-summertime, summertime sadness

Got that summertime, summertime sadness

Oh, oh-oh, oh-oh."

The song finishes, and the violinist stops playing, having assumedly retreated back into bed.

I plop down on the soft sand, feeling wrap around my head and body like a warm blanket.

I lay there for a few seconds soaking in the beautiful land of pitch black sky and glowing little stars that sparkle like diamonds.

Right now, that’s all my world is.

I giggle a little, and get up. I feel loopy, and out of breath. Almost as if I’m in a dream. Then, a wave of dizziness washes over me.

The world tilts and spins, and I stumbled back, clutching my stomach as nausea rose in my throat.

I barely made it to the bushes before body convulses, expelling the contents of my last couple meals onto the sand. The force of the vomiting leaves me weak and trembling, and I close my eyes, wishing the dizziness would pass.

“You’re weird, you know that,” I hear a voice mutter.

Boy, am I tired.

“You should go home,” he says.

I should.

Chapter Text

Banks walks me home, leaving the smoking fish behind for some other hungry soul to find. It’s still late, but the sun is making a small entrance into the sky, so it must be sometime in the morning.

Before I sneak back into the backdoor of our cabin, he whispers something in my ear.

“You’re a really, bad singer. We should do this more often.”

Then, he grins and walks away.

I’m so exhausted that the moment my head hits the pillow, I instantly fall asleep.

At first, my dreams are a tangle of leering, distorted capital women with vivid eyes. After a while, they become more peaceful. I float in the deep, murky abyss of water, watching sea creatures swim by, and miraculously holding my breath.

I’m woken up with a jolt by my little sister, who’s tugging on my hair. I feel my body drenched in a cold sweat, and my throat feels dry and parched, although I’ve been wandering in a desert for days.

“Come on, Fi,” she babbles, “You promised you’d help me get ready for the big day,”

That’s what she calls the reaping, “The big day.”

I force my aching muscles out of bed, and I’m met with an intense, throbbing headache that makes me want to immediately crawl back into bed.

It’s the morning of The Reaping. Nothing is ever fair.

Lacy waddles after me as I sluggishly make my way to our sink, rambling about a dress and how excited she is to get dolled up. Lacy hasn’t really gotten the concept of The Hunger Games yet, but her innocence can sometimes be refreshing.

In the mirror, my eyes have heavy marks underneath them, and my hair is frizzy and clumped with sand.

I sigh.

“Sweetie,” I say looking down into her doe eyes, “Your sister is very tired. I’ll be with you in a second, but for now, Mommy can help you.”

She frowns, and crinkles her little button nose. Her blond hair curls around her head in a little halo.

“But mommy’s sick.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

Lacy lets out an exasperated groan, but turns around and skips away anyway.

My mom has always had health problems, but lately it’s gotten worse. Sometimes, she struggles with the simplest of tasks.

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my aching head. Everything I hear is too bright, too loud. My stomach tosses and turns in my stomach, and I think I might throw up again.

Suddenly, I hear someone cough, and I look over.

It’s my mom, and she’s not trying to get my attention, but actually hacking into a small, woven handkerchief.

She stops, and looks up at me, her eyes are wet and red-rimmed.

I guess we both had difficult nights.

“Uh, sorry honey. Do you want breakfast? We don’t really have anything except some leftover bread.”

I shake my head, my curls bobbing up and down.

“Is it cause’ you were out all night?”

I jerk my head back, staring at her at shock. I’m surprised to see her expression isn’t angry, rather thoughtful and curious.

“I’m not clueless, and you’re not as sneaky as you think. I could hear the door slamming when you came back in.”

She tilts her head a little, and her wavy caramel hair falls in strands in front of her face.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say simply, “I was with a friend.”

“Someone more than a friend?” she inquires, “Because if it is, I don’t mind if you’ve found someone. You’re almost fifteen. You’re gonna be expected to be an adult in a few years.”

In District Four people settle down young. It’s a custom to have a career, get married, and even sometimes have children before you even turn twenty. I’ve always despised the tradition, as it leaves no room for your own happiness or needs. My mom got married to my dad when she was seventeen, and look what happened to her.

Of course, I don’t say that to her. I don’t say anything.

She looks a little disappointed as she nods her head.

“Okay well, I found a dress for you. It was your mine when I was a little girl, it’s laying out on the bed.”

She walks away.

Griffin’s girlfriend Leanna arrives a little while later. She’s a shy, polite woman with the silkiest straight hair I’ve ever seen.

She helps me wet and comb my tangled hair until it becomes a long glossy wave, and we make gentle chit chat until Ciara arrives.

Leanna doesn’t didn’t comment once about the fact she has to pick bits of sand and crushed seashells out of my hair.

Ciara makes her entrance in an expensive-looking crimson dress adorned with sparkling embellishments. It's elegant and flowing at the embodiment of uptown luxury.

The moment she steps in we lock eyes, and she immediately runs over to embrace me in a tight hug. I’m relieved to see her as well.

“I heard about what happened at the docks yesterday. Thank god for Griffin’s luck,” she whispers into my ear, and leads me back to the bedroom.

My headache has begun to dull down, and I can stand to look at bright lights for more than two seconds. However, inside my stomach still squirms nervously.

Ciara runs over and yanks up something on my bed, holding it up victoriously with a dazzling smile on her face. The artifact is a vintage cocktail dress that is a pretty mint green color.

I try it on, surprised when I find it fits like a glove, narrow at the waist and flaring out at the bottom. For the last few years, I’ve worn the same oversized, cotton dress that itches like nothing else in the world.

However, this dress, though flimsy, is attractive with its light mint color and delicate flower lace detailing. White buttons trail up the front of the dress. I'm used to being the one sewing and repairing dresses like this, not the one inside them. So the fact that I'm wearing this rather beautiful, elegant artifact catches me off guard.

“It’s pretty,” I say wryly, as I step out into the bedroom.

“It’s more than pretty,” Ciara says matter-of-factly, “It’s gorgeous.”

It’s been our tradition to do each other's hair on the reaping morning. So, she sits down on the bed while I weave an intricate french braid into her thick hair. She powders her face with makeup, and applies a striking shade of red lipstick that I’m too shy to ever think of wearing.

When I’m done, she turns around and looks at me, her eyes tracing over my hair and features attentively. I usually leave hair down, with a braid woven in here or there. Ciara, suggests otherwise.

“Pin it up,” she declares, “I’ll do something fancy. You’re not a little girl anymore. Believe me, you want to look mature.”

I know it’s no use arguing with her, and I let her take over.

Everything today feels like a dream. Like I’m floating in space. The only reason I know last night actually happened is due to the obvious evidence left on my body.

I’m so tired, so drained.

I just want everything to be over already.

Once Ciara finishes with my hair, she insists on applying makeup to my face. While I’m sitting there, something hits me suddenly. In almost exactly a week, I'll be turning fifteen.

I almost forgot entirely, as I’ve never enjoyed my birthday.

Who wants a reminder that you get another year to live, while those twenty three kids on the screen don’t.

My thoughts are interrupted when a blur of bright pink skirt and blonde curls dashes into the room.

Lacy jumps on my lap, giggling and pushing Ciara away.

“Hey,” Ciara yelps, brush in hand “You’re destroying my personal art project.”

I glare at Ciara jokingly, and push Lacy closer into my arms.

“It’s ok, Lacy-bug. Ignore the mean girl.”

Ciara sticks her tongue out at me, and turns around to root through her packed bag.

Lacy giggles, and sticks out a miniature, pink brush to me.

“I want you to do my hair,” she orders.

“Whatever you want Miss Lacy Leigh Baker.”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

In the end, my reaping clothing comes together. My hair is pinned up in curls that wrap around to a loose bun. The dress is fitted and elegant, and goes well with my off-white cone heels.

The makeup on my face is light, but highlights my wide set eyes, and cheekbones. Plus, Ciara gives my lips and cheeks a little rose flush.

Lacy looks absolutely adorable with her little bobbing ponytail and puffy bright skirt, and I’m reminded how we still have a few free years with her.

The Reaping starts at 10:00, and before we leave, Ciara stops me.

“It was supposed to be a birthday gift for you, but I couldn’t help it. It just works too perfect for you.”

She holds up a pair of delicate pearl earrings, and I gasp.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures, “I know how much you hate me giving you rich people stuff, so I got the pearls from a lady at the market. I attached the hooks to them, and made them into earrings myself,” she says pointing to the small objects excitedly.

I look up to her, grinning ear to ear.

“Thank you, Ci. They're perfect,” I say, and attach them to my ears.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Me, my mom, Griffin, Daryn, Teo, Ciara, Lacy, and Leanna arrive at the town square, and make our way through the buzzing crowd. We’re a big group, but we split up and take our designated places. Out of all of us only me, my twin brothers, and Ciara names are in the glass bowls.

Lacy, however, sticks to me, and since she’s young enough, they let her stay. I scoop her up, and she wraps her tiny arms around me, silently resting her head against my shoulder. The town square is actually quite a pleasant place. During the day, it’s a marketplace, and filled with food, laughter, and all kinds of smells. Brightly colored booths selling seafood and any other necessity cramp up every corner of the square.

However, the booths have been packed away, the sweet scents gone, and any sign of color and life has been stripped away.

Now, it’s simply a gray, cobblestone vicinity with a large, empty stage looming ominously up front.

Me and my brothers go separate ways. They go to the thirteen year old section, and we head for the fifteen year olds.Technically, I’m not yet fifteen, but I don’t think they really care.

I recognize nearly everyone in my section from school. It’s easy to tell the stark difference in wealth in my district by the clothing of my schoolmates. Some were simple, faded blouses and khaki pants. While others, the careers, while elegant, tailored suits and gowns. Their hair is up, slicked back, or curled.

I spot Banks at the back of the section. He’s wearing a worn, threadbare jacket, and his hair has been very unflatteringly flattened down.

I don’t dare walk over to him. My face flushes just thinking about what happened last night.

“Who are you looking at,” Ciara says, and I look away.

“No one,” I respond. She eyes me suspiciously anyway.

Like me, many of my peers' younger siblings have decided to stick with them. Little kids clutch to their older siblings legs or arms.

It hurts me just knowing that in a few years, it’ll be one of them up on that stage.

I nervously wait a few seconds, staring up at the sizable stage. Four wooden chairs have been set up in the center of the stage alongside a podium, microphone, and two glass balls.

I signed up for extra tesserae, so I’m reminded how the glass ball on the right holds my name in it eighteen times.

Lucky me.

I’m waiting for District Four’s usual escort, a young man with pink tattoos named Orion to make his entrance, when I hear a click-clacking sound echoing loudly on the stage.

A stout, pear shaped woman teeters on stage in the highest purple platforms I’ve ever seen.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to focus on the bright purple figure bouncing onto the stage, before I realize I’ve seen this woman before.

She’s the Capital lady from the tailor shop yesterday.

She wobbles towards the microphone, and struggles to lower it to her height.

Even though she looks to be in her forties, she wears a clingy, violet halter dress with a plunging neckline. Her bright purple eyes and matching highlights are a striking contrast from the dull grey stage and banners.

“Ahem,” she squeaks. Her voice is nasally and rings throughout the square.

The chatter dies down immediately.

She flashes a fake pearly white, smile.

“I’m the new District Four escort, and since you haven’t met me, I thought it would be just cheery to introduce myself now!”

I wince at her over-the-top accent, and I’m reminded of our encounter yesterday.

“My name is Wilhelmenia Whiffle and I am just positively overjoyed to be here!”

She giggles, and I notice her nose scrunches up rather unflatteringly when she laughs.

Even her name is ridiculous.

“I’ve always loved District Four. I mean you’re just so fabulous and luxurious- and your tributes are always so charming. Oh, and the beaches are simply-”

Before she can continue chattering on, Mayor Clayton, a balding bespectacled man runs onto the stage, and whispers something into her ear. She squeals and wobbles back towards her chair, folding her hands on top of each other when she sits down.

The mayor welcomes the past victors who we’ll be joining us as mentors this year. Like every year.

Finnick Odair takes his place calmly with a small wave, leaning back and crossing his legs. He looks basically the same as he does every year, attractive. His bronze hair looks effortlessly windswept back, and he’s wearing a white dress shirt and loose pants.

Lately, I’ve been hearing rumors about him and the poor girl that won a few years back, Annie Cresta.

Looking at him now, you would never guess they’re true.

However, the female mentor this year, Cassandra, takes a different approach on entering.

She’s a dark haired woman with a powerful, athletic built body, and the darkest almond-shaped eyes I’ve ever seen on a woman.

She stalks on the stage menacingly, glaring at the audience, and throwing herself down on the chair with a heavy thump.

I notice Finnick Odair roll his eyes slightly.

Just as it hits 10:00, the mayor steps us to the podium and begins to read the opening speech. We hear the same thing every year. He talks about the history of Panem, the country that rose up from a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained.

Then, came Panem, a shining Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts, which brought peace to its citizens.

The Hunger Games, however, were the result of the dreaded Dark Days. The districts started a rebellion, and while twelve were defeated, the thirteenth was destroyed.

The Treaty of Treason gave new laws to guarantee peace and our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated. The rules of the Hunger Games are supposedly simple. As punishment for the districts, each of the twelve must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate in the games. The twenty-four tributes will be put in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland.

Over several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Though those are the words the mayor says, the real language and meaning is a lot different.

You better hope your children don’t get picked, because once they're in our hands, we’ll do whatever we please with them.

To make it even worse for us the poor, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a holiday event to pit every district against the others. The last tribute alive is allowed a life of comfort when they get back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, mostly just food.

All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar and candies while the rest of the districts mainly battle on surviving the next year.

After the speech, Mayor Clayton reads a list of the District Four victors. There are quite a handful of us, as we’re a career district.

The list of male victors goes on and on. Mainly, I remember them as older boys that were both brutal and spiteful in their games, and won quite quickly.

However, the list of female victors from our district is quite brief.

Mags Flanagan. Sixteen years old. Victor of the 11th Hunger Games.

Cassandra James. Eighteen years old. Victor of the 66th Hunger Games.

Annie Cresta. Sixteen years old. Victor of the 70th Hunger Games.

The female victors are supposed to rotate going to The Capital and mentoring. But since Mags is nearly ninety years old, and Annie is in a, rather, unstable mental state, Cassandra James seems to be up on that stage nearly every year.

Finally, the mayor finishes the speech, and before he can even step off the podium, Wilhelmenia is pushing him to the side.

She’s practically bouncing up and down as she says the classic,

“May the odds be in your favor! Happy Hunger Games!”

My heart skips a beat as I see Wilhelmenia skipping up the glass bowl on the right.

“Ladies first!” she says chirpily.

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my palms felt clammy wrapped around Lacy’s tiny ones. My other hand fidgets on the collar of their dress, as I’m unable to keep my hands still. A nervous tic made my leg bounce uncontrollably.

I look over at Ciara, and see she’s wringing her hands so hard, her knuckles are turning white.

She looks over at me, her eyes wide but blank, and we lock hands at the same time.

I want to whisper, “It’s ok. You’re ok. There are thousands of names in there and your name is only in there three times,” but my throat feels dry and empty.

On the stage, Wilhelmenia sticks her hands into the bowl, squirming it around until she grabs something and triumphantly yanks it out.

I hear her sigh satisfactorily and mutter something about how exciting this is.

Finally, she totters back to the center of the stage, her heels tapping against the wood, and clears her throat.

The air crackles with a thick, unspoken tension. A heavy silence hangs around the square, broken only by the nervous shuffle of feet and the shallow, almost imperceptible breaths of those around me.

All eyes are fixed on the screen, and the thin purple-painted lips of Wilhelmenia Whiffle against the microphone.

No one in this whole square has any hint of what was to come.

A single cough from a little kid a few feet away sounds like a gunshot in the stillness. It felt as though time itself had slowed, each moment weighted with the unspoken dread of what was imminent.
At last, she opens up the paper, eyes flicking across the name, and announces the name in a clear, strong voice.

“Felicity Mae Baker.”

Chapter Text

That moment I hear my name come out of her lips, the dreamlike bubble I’ve been floating in, pops.

Her words, my three letter name, hang in the air, heavy and sharp, like shards of glass. Time seems to stretch, each second elongating into an agonizing eternity, and the world around me seems to dim.

People seem to recognize my name, and turn to stare. But their faces only blur, their features and expressions morphing into dull, figureless blobs. The colors have leached away, leaving only a muted, gray reality.

My breath hitches, a shallow gasp that barely disturbed the stillness. I try to swallow, but my throat felt tight, constricted.

I look over at Ciara, and her face is pale, expressionless. Her eyes have somehow grown comically large, her pupils dilated and fixed on me.

I know exactly what we’re both waiting for. For someone to volunteer, because that’s what’s supposed to happen.

That’s what always happens when someone like me is chosen.

Before I can react, two figures suddenly appear on either side of me, their hands yanking my arms with surprising force. My feet skid against the cobblestone ground as I’m pulled backwards and sideways in a swift, coordinated motion.

I yelp, and almost drop my Lacy from my arms, but she latches onto my hand. I manage to turn around. I see two white-armored men dragging me by the arms through the crowd.

Peacekeepers.

I take a deep breath, and use all the force my small body can produce to implant a sharp jab of my elbow to the peacekeeper. It works, and he releases me quickly, clutching his stomach. I jerk around and apply a swift kick to the other one’s leg. He stumbles back clumsily and trips onto his back.

I wobble forward, trying to regain my balance.

I look down and see Lacy trailing after me, her face scrunched up in confusion, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Fi,” she says, “What’s happening? Where you going?”

Ciara appears suddenly, a whoosh of braids and red fabric, and she grasps Lacy’s arm.

“No,” Lacy wails, jerking away from Ciara. Her tiny hands grip the fabric of my dress with surprising strength.

“I don’t want to go!”

I lean down and hold her small body tight, softly whispering in her ear.

“Lacy-bug, please go with Ciara. Please, baby girl.”

Lacy looks stricken for a second, her face red and eyes wide, but she nods and allows Ciara to gently pry her from me.

I slowly stand up from my kneeling position, and as I look up to see that everyone,

everyone,

in the square is watching.

The citizens of my district have cleared a small path to the stairs of the stage for me. I see up ahead, Wilhelmenia Whiffle is looking down at me, mouth slightly agape and completely absorbed in the scene.

Perhaps District Four is more interesting than One or Two.

I start to stumble slowly down the path, one wobbly heeled foot after another. All around me, faces turn. Girls, boys, men, women. Eyes of every color piercing into me, scorching my soul, and reading me inside and out.

A girl I recognize from school catches my eye, and points her hand to something above.

I look up.

Hundreds of cameras are directed at me. Their gaze is ten times as terrifying as any human’s could ever be.

Not just everyone in the square is watching,

everyone in Panem is.

I feel myself panic, my breaths uneven and ragged. My body shakes and trembles only slightly, but noticeably. It’s all I can do is bow my head, fold my hands over each other, and try to focus on my shoes.

But I can’t help it, as the stairs near closer and closer my eyes keep flickering towards the camera.

Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't try and help it.

I take a deep breath, arch my back, and unclasp my hands. I steady myself, and stare fiercely at the camera lens directly in front of me.

I turn the corners of my mouth up in a polite smile. I give a subtle wave, picking up my hand and wagging my fingertips.

Finally, I mount the stairs, climbing up them steadily. I would hate to be the tribute who tripped during The Reaping.

Wilhelmina immediately runs, or well, stumbles over to me. She rushes me to the podium, and proceeds to push the microphone into my face.

“Tell us your age, honey,” she says, bursting with energy.

“Fourteen,” I say, looking out towards the crowd. The majority of District Four looks around dazed, shuffling their feet and coughing.

They aren’t just confused why no one volunteered, they feel actually bad for me.

A fourteen year girl from the Downtown gets picked, and not one career volunteers in her place.

What are the odds?

“Well, goodness gracious, I’ll be darned! I just met this lovely young lady the other day!”

“How delightful. Let’s give her a round of applause!” she squeals.

A few sharp cracks of hands echoed through the square, but for the most part, nothing happens.

Wilhelmenia, looking disappointed, accepts the audience's solemn reaction and heads over to the other glass bowl.

She plants her head in the bowl, and quickly latches onto a paper, zipping back towards the podium in a matter of seconds.

“Tho-” before she can even finish the name, a deep voice interrupts her.

“I volunteer!”

At the very back of the square, towards the sixteen year old’s section, the crowd starts to clear quickly. I recognize the dark, thick bodied boy almost immediately.

It’s Caspian.

He struts his way through the crowd triumphantly, smirking and his hands tucked casually in his pockets.

Then, I finally get it. Of course.

One less career volunteer, one less powerful opponent to worry about.

He makes his way up the stairs quickly, grabbing the microphone before Wilhelmenia even has time to introduce him.

“Caspian Evers. Sixteen years old,” he states, and pumps his hands up and down victorously. It's obvious his been practicing this exact moment in the mirror his whole life.

He drops the microphone, and takes his place beside me. He crosses his arms in front of himself, and stares straight ahead, not daring to meet my eyes.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, but I don’t pay attention.

All I think is, why me?

I get that the person whose name belonged on that slip was destined for the chopping block, but why did it have to be me?

Finally, he finishes, and we’re told to shake hands.

Caspian doesn’t even look at me when our hands meet.

Then they play the anthem, and a thought crosses my head almost as quickly as it leaves.

I hope it’s not him who has to kill me.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

After the ceremony ends, we’re immediately swept away by a group of peacekeepers. They drop me off in a large room in the Justice Building, and leave me alone.

The drapes in the room are lovely white silk, with detailed drawings of shells printed on it. I stare at seashells, examining them down to every detail, and trying to keep the tears in.

Finally, there’s a bang on the door, and my family comes bursting in. Immediately, my mom staggers over to me, and wraps her long arms around me. She’s wailing, and her face is blotchy and swollen.

I think she’s trying to comfort me, but I can barely understand a word slipping out of her mouth. Instead, I try to soothe her. Her sobbing turns into coarse hacking, and my brother gently pries her away from me.

Before she’s led out of the room, I share a few last words with her.

“Thank you for everything, mom. Everything you did for our family, alone.”

My brothers are next, and we squish our bodies together on the small couch, grasping each other's hands until they turn white. Daryn and Teo, always the hopeful ones, try to reason with me. They jabber about my, fairly okay, chances.

After all, I’m not that small.

Griffin is mostly silent, but throws in a few jokes here and there.

“I guess what happened yesterday doesn't seem so bad after all,” he quips, and I try to respond with what feels like a half smile.

“Griffin, I need you to do one thing for me,” I whisper to him.

A tear trails down my cheek.

“Make sure everything runs smoothly once I’m gone. Make sure mom, make sure Daryn and Teo, make sure everything doesn’t fall apart.”

My voice cracks on the last sentence.

“I couldn’t live with myself if you starve to death.”

His eyes, the exact same shade of aqua as mine, are intense. He doesn't cry, doesn’t talk. He just nods.

It’s the best thing anyone could do for me.

He makes room for his girlfriend, Leanna, who walks up to me silently. She holds something small in her outstretched hand, and I look at it.

It’s a hairpin. Small and slightly rusted, but beautiful nonetheless.

I take it from her, and see that blue diamonds are dotted around its top in an elegant star shape.

“I thought you would like it,” she says. “It can be your token, if you want.”

I’m overwhelmed at the fact that this girl, who I barely know, would give this to me.

It hurts me knowing that I’ll never be able to give it back.

“Thank you,” I croak out, and she smiles sadly.

Ciara enters, grasping Lacy by the hand, who unclutches it to run over to me.

Our last encounter is a painful,

and short.

I hug Ciara one last time, and let Lacy sit on my lap. I wrap my arms around her, closing my eyes, and swaying her.

For a few seconds, I feel like I’m back at home again. Sitting on the porch, rocking her against the ocean breeze, both of our lives open in front of us. I always thought my dreams were insignificant. Now, I realize how privileged that was.

At least I had dreams. I was a seamstress, going open a store, and design clothes.

And why I took that for granted, I don’t know.

Lacy asks me one thing in the entire time we’re together, and since I know it’s her dream, It breaks my heart as I respond yes. Ciara watches us, pain laced in her expression and body.

“You’re coming back, right?”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

My last meeting with my family just happened. It feels hypothetical, yet painfully real at the same time.

That dream-like bubble I was trapped in, I want it back. Now that my family’s gone, I let everything pent up in me loose.

The tears and snot begin to run down my powdered face freely, and I have no choice but to bury my face in my mother’s beautiful lace dress. The intensity of everything that’s happened to me today makes me want to do something aggressive, something violent.

I want to tear this stupid room apart, rip those pretty drapes off the wall. I want to see this elegant, luxurious building up in flames. I want to burn it down till it's just a pile of ashes.

I’m going into The Hunger Games.

Oh God.

I sink into the corner of the couch, and curl myself into a tight ball. I start to focus all my brain power into wallowing in self-sorrow, but I’m interrupted by the door creaking open.

Banks steps in awkwardly. His hands stuck in his pockets in all his flattened hair and dirty shirt glory.

He bites his lip when he notices me in the corner. I probably look like a gross mess, all shrunk up on the coach, my lips, nose, and eyes swollen.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to take up too much time. I just thought- ”

Surprisingly, I’m relieved to see him.

“It’s okay. My family just left.”

He stumbles to the couch, and clumsily throws himself down.

“I’m not sure what to say, I mean, I don’t want to be the guy who says ‘I’m sorry’ when you’re going to the Hunger Games,” he jokes.

I don't laugh, just wrap myself closer to my legs.

“I just wanted to say goodbye. I think we’ve gotten to know each other a lot in the past few days. I mean, you have a crappy parent like me. What are the odds of that?”

More than a lot in District Four.

“You want to be seamstress, that's something”

“No, I want to open my own boutique.” I correct.

“Did you just come here to rant, or…”

“You’re snappy,” he says, wincing.

“I’m allowed to be snappy when I’ve just been reaped for The Hunger Games,” I fire back.

I can tell I’m being difficult. But with each word, I feel my pain dull just a little. Maybe I should be grateful he’s letting himself take the blunt end of my misery.

If I were him, I would’ve stood up and walked right out of this room the moment my mouth opened.

He takes a deep, shallow breath.

“Fine. I just wanted to apologize for what I said the other day. You were right. It was dangerous, and stupid,” he finally lets out.

“Whether you come back, or… not. I just feel like I had to say it.” He looks away awkwardly.

“I’m not coming back,” I say. He looks back up, his face filled with hurt and surprise.

I have no idea why this is so shocking for him.

“Don’t say-” but before he can finish his sentence, I lean forward and press my lips to his. I'm not sure why the urge is so strong, but it feels right.

At first touch, his mouth is soft, like warm pillows. Our movements are slow at first, tentative. Almost as if I’m asking him a question.

His lips answer for him. He pushes forward, wraps his hand gently in my hair, and suddenly the kiss deepens.

On the cramped couch, our lips moving against one another feels slightly messy, but perfect in its own way.

I feel a spark ignite in my chest.

Then, that sparks grows into a flame.

And right when that flame begins to turn into a burning fire, I push away.

“Why are you really here?” I ask. I’m serious, and I really want to know. I can tell he didn’t walk in here just to apologize for something that doesn't make a difference to either of us.

He leans back, and wipes the slight stain from my lips on his hand.

“Felicity?” he says.

“Yeah,” I respond, my throat hoarse.

“You have people who care about you in District Four, right?”

“Yeah?” I repeat, but now as a question.

“I mean you have a mother, an older brother, two younger brothers, a little sister, and a best friend. So for the sake of them, can you please care?”

And I don’t have to ask him about what, because I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“I mean, if it was me up on the stage instead of you, I would have zero chance. Because I have nothing to come back to in this place. But you do. And that alone is a weapon right there.”

I look down.

He’s right, but I’m not sure how to respond.

“So, please. For them. For me?” he says desperately, his voice low and weak.

I don’t respond, and he tilts my head up so I’m forced to look him in the eye.

“I promise that if you at least try, try to fight, I’ll be waiting right there at the train station for you when you get back.”

“You can promise that?”

“Only if you do first.”

I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t want to try. I want to desperately give up right here and now.

But the thought of him, my friends, my family waiting for me when I get back is tempting.

So I give in.

“Okay.”

He grins, and leans back in.

Chapter Text

The Peacekeepers eventually return, and yank Banks out of the room. They fill me out of the Justice Building, throw me into a car, and drive me to the train station.

In the car, I stare out the window at my district zooming by. I take a last final look at the golden beaches and azure waters that stretch across District Four.

In the reflection of the window, my face is swollen from crying and kissing, and I hope it’s faded by the time the car stops.

I’m right to wish, because the moment my feet hit the pavement, about a dozen reporters with cameras flock up beside me like hungry seagulls.

I try to smile and wave innocently, hoping the screens won’t catch the pain and emotion that swells inside me reflected on my face.

Caspian, however, takes a different approach, ignoring the camera’s completely, and strolling right past them.

Too good for a second of their time.

We’re mercifully shoved inside the train’s pretty quickly, and they zoom off almost the moment their feet touch the soft carpeting. The speed is almost terrifying for a girl who’s only been in a car a few times. But I have little time to absorb it all, as Wilhelmenia almost immediately rushes me into a compartment interiorized with plump, velvet couches and chairs.

I almost gape as I sit down on a luscious red chair, running my hand against the silky softness of its pillowy surface. I have to admit I’m a little too excited about the opulent comfort of my new life. Living in a one-room cabin for your whole life can wear down on a girl.

If I die, why shouldn’t I be able to exit with some style.

The luxury doesn’t seem to faze Caspian though, and he throws himself down on an armchair, still looking in my opposite direction. His house is probably the exact replica of the train, expensive and grand.

Wilhelmenia tells us we're waiting for the mentors, and much to my despair, decides to squeeze onto the coach with me. She sips tea while chattering to me about how much of a privilege it is to have

Finnick and Cassandra as mentors.

She offers me something to drink, and I politely accept. Caspian, on the other hand, doesn’t even respond when she addresses him.

I’m not sure what his problem is.

Isn’t this what he’s always wanted to happen, right?

Finally, Cassandra James and Finnick Odair enter through the door, and Caspian jumps up to meet them, offering his hand. His eagerness is almost disgusting, and I can practically see his puppy tail wagging back and forth.

Finnick smirks at Caspian, and shakes his hand smoothly, seemingly used to this kind of behavior from others. The other mentor looks reluctantly at his outstretched hand at first, but eventually squeezes his hand so hard I can see Caspian wince.

“Alright, let's get down to business. Where is the other one?” she says, releasing his hand, and crossing her arms tightly across her chest. She’s changed into a form-fitting black jacket, and tight braids trail down her back.

Caspian rolls his eyes, and points to the other side of the compartment. Cassandra eyes follow his hand to where I sit in the corner of the room.

I squirm in my seat as I feel her scan me up and down. I probably look ridiculous sitting daintily on the couch and clutching my flowered teacup. As much as I hate it, her presence makes me want approval, yearn for it.

“What are your names?” she says, eyes still locked on me. Her indifferent tone is agonizingly painful to my ego.

“You were at the reaping, right?” I ask. It’s really more of a question, than a sarcastic comment.

She doesn’t take my response as curiosity. Instead, she growls and takes a few steps closer. All the time those dark, almond eyes narrowed intensely at me. She’s not mad, more so daring me to go further.

I’m sure how to react to her hospitality against me, so I freeze. I look to Wilhelmenia for help, but looks even more terrified than me, still gripping the teapot to her chest.

Finnick eyes flick between us, reading the thick tension in the room, and he moves to my side quickly.

“How about I show the tributes to their compartments.”

As the train whizzes by, we all stand frozen like statues fixed into the ground. Cassandra’s body is still motionless, her arms crossed tightly across her chest and eyes still fixed tightly on me.

“Which one do you want, Finnick?”

“Huh?” Finnick says. By the look on his face, he’s just as confused as me.

“Which one do you want to mentor, Caspian or…”

“Felicity,” Wilhelmenia pipes in, “Her name is Felicity.”

“Cass, I don’t-” he starts to say,

“Fine. Then we’ll go by gender. You take the boy, I’ll take the girl.”

“Alright then,” Finnick pauses, before waving me and Caspian over to a doorway.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Finnick shows me and Caspian our living areas, large champers with their own bedrooms, bathrooms, and changing areas. However, while he puts on a good presentation, it’s obviously just an excuse to get us away from Cassandra.

He instructs us to wait in our chambers until supper, when Wihlemenia will come and get us.

Caspian throws open his room and slams the door shut almost immediately, but Finnick grasps my wrist when I try to enter my own.

“One more thing Felicity. Cassandra, I know she can be difficult, but at least try. She can teach you a lot.”

No she’s a nice person, no she’s good at heart, just she can teach you a lot.

I guess it makes sense. She’s my mentor, and I’m not here to make friends.

However, he looks sincere. His bright, green eyes sparkle as I look into them, and I’m transfixed. I finally understand all the hype the Capital gives this victor. Everything he does is mesmerizing, and
you can’t help but echo his every need. I fall into the same trap, and nod to his request readily.

He flashes a pearly white grin at my response. Not fake, or surgically-altered like Wilhelmenia, but a real, perfect, human smile.

“Great,” he says, and releases my arm.

I stumble back into the room, leaning back on the door till it shuts with a thud. I slide down against the smooth wood.

Perfect Felicity. You just threatened a trained victor, who was also a career, and happens to be your mentor. Then, you agreed that you’d get along with her in addition.

At least I have a few more hours until I’m forced to interact with her at supper.

I walk around my chambers, finding they are even more elegant than the first compartment. The walls are a dark azure, similar to the ocean back home. Large silk drapes hang from the windows, and I push them away, peering out the glass at the ever shifting landscapes outside.

I take a shower, and find the sensation of the soft flowing water on my skin relaxing. I let it soothe the buzzing in my head. Finnick told me we were allowed to use whatever we want, so I throw open the dresser, and skim through the rows of lush, extravagant dresses.

Eventually I find a simple white one, and I strip off my snot stained cocktail dress to throw it on. It’s softer than anything I’ve ever worn before, but fits sharply, contouring my body perfectly. There’s a vanity table in the corner that lights up when I place myself down on the stool. I press a button, and shelves unfold neatly from what seems like empty air. Inside, rows and rows of powders, lipstick, and eyeshadow are stacked up. Most of the makeup is colored in bright neon shades, but I dig around for a while, and find a passable blush palette.

A rose-tinted lip gloss that smells strongly of sugared candy is layed out, but looks all right, and I put a thin layer on.

I pull my hair down, and find it’s knotted and damp from the shower. I strangle a comb through it while trying to figure out how I’m supposed to “get along” with Cassandra in a few hours.

I rack my brain for any memory I have of her outside for reapings and school, but very little comes to mind. I remember her games vaguely from watching them as an eight year old on a small screen at school.

She was a career during the 66th Hunger Games, scored high in training, and took out quite a few of her opponents.

I barely remember her interviews, but I’m pretty sure she went with a calm but deadly demeanor. The moment she stepped in that arena, however, she went full out savage.

She took out six different tributes on the first day alone.

That’s about as far as my knowledge of her games goes, but that alone is enough to make my stomach drop. I’d even rather have freaking Finnick Odair as my mentor, because at least he hasn't tried to threaten me yet. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make small talk with a brutal killer, who probably hates me, but I’ll have to give it a shot. For all those stupid promises I made, she might save me.

She could be my ticket back home.

Eventually Wilhelmenia yanks me out of my chambers to the dining room with a swaying glass chandelier. I’m not sure what her hurry is, because we’re the only ones there at first.

Slowly, Finnick and Caspian arrive, but it’s another ten, awkward minutes before Cassandra walks in and slumps down in her chair. I guess my assumptions were correct, because she directly avoids eye
contact with me.

The meal comes in courses, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of food. Soups, mashed potatoes, roast beef, and butter cakes all stack up on the table, and Wilhelmenia tells us to save room because it's only the first course.

The food has an intoxicating aroma, and I dive into a dish of beef and potatoes, a rarity in District Four. It’s delicious. In fact, everything is. Creamy, rich, and buttery. I've never eaten like this, so by the second course, I’ve already stuffed myself full.

I sit back to nibble on a platter of cookies, watching my supper companions carefully. They don’t seem to be as enthralled in their meals as I am, and there's an eerie silence over the dinner table.

I decide to this is my time to jump in.

“I like your jacket, Cassandra,” I say pointing to the leather piece of clothing. She doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on her carrot soup, which she’s sipping tediously.

God, even I know that's the stupidest thing to say.

I look around readily for help, only to find Finnick staring at me, a light smile on his face. He nods his head at me, as if to tell me to go on.

“So, you know when we're getting to the Capital,” I say, still looking at Cassandra, “Who’s gonna be our stylists.” I know enough about the games to know each tribute gets a personal fashion designer to dress them up, and then parade them around the Capital.

Cassandra still doesn’t even respond, and I’m about to open my mouth again, when Caspian cuts me off.

“Who cares?” he says, bitterly. He places his fork on his plate with a shrill clatter. Wilhelmenia winces.

“What we should be talking about is my strategy for The Games.” His eyes flick between Cassandra and Finnick.

“Perfect!” Wilhelmenia says, clapping her hands, excited for the interruption. “How about you start by telling us each a little about yourselves.”

Caspian jumps right in, informing everyone about his perfect fitness, and excellent sword skills. I wonder what happened to the childish boy I knew yesterday that taunted my best friend.

I go back to nibbling on my cookie, seeing that my attempts to start a conversation with Cassandra failed miserably. I’m thinking of calling it a day, and just trying again tomorrow, when Wilhelmenia interrupts my thoughts.

“And what about you?” she chirps.

“What about me?”

“Well what do you do, you know,” she says it like it's obvious. “What’s your weapon, your skills.”

Caspian snorts, shaking his head and shoveling roast beef into his face.

“I.. um…” I stutter. Finnick has stopped picking at his roast beef, and is now peering at me curiously.

Do they not recognize that I’m clearly not a career?

Wilhelmina sighs.

“Well, let's start at the fact that you’re a seamtress. You know, I first met Felicity at this charming, little tailor shop the other day!” she squeals.

Oh god. Please no.

Don’t bring up the fact that my only attribute is that I work minimum wage in a small tailor shop.

“Well yes. I do, you know, have a job,” I say low, staring at my half eaten cookie.

“You know,” Caspian says abruptly, looking right at me, and smiling devilishly.

“Felicity has a boyfriend.”

I feel my stomach sink at his words. Not now of all times.

“That’s not-” I start to say, my tone no longer hushed, but croaky.

“Oh yes,” Caspian interrupts. “Banks is a real treat. Just the other day, he gave the most fascinating speech about the cruelty of The Capital and The Games. He’s quite the rebel.”

Wilhelmenia recoils, dropping her fork to stare at me, her mouth hanging open in horror.

“Is that true?!” she exclaims.

I look around seeing now everyone,

everyone,

has drawn their attention to me. Cassandra’s head has even tilted in my direction, and her dark eyes gaze at me with seems like, well, curiosity.

The eyes following me makes me flush red. I drop my cookie on my plate, suddenly having lost my appetite for dessert.

The seconds stretch by agonizingly as I try to swallow and speak, but nausea rises up in me. My stomach lurches, and suddenly I spring up from my seat, bolting to the bathroom before the queasiness can overtake my body.

It’s only when I’m retching in the toilet, when I realize that my upset stomach might be the result of something more than the sheer amount of food I’ve eaten.

It’s a great reminder that I’m off to the perfect start.

I’ve just finished vomiting my guts out when I realize there’s someone watching me from the door.

I yank my head around, expecting it to be Wilhelmenia here to detail just how sickened she is with my “boyfriend”, but it’s not her.

It’s Cassandra.

She’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded.

“Hangover,” she says simply.

“No-”

“Don’t lie,” she snaps harshly.

I figure it’s best to stop talking, and I drape myself across the bathroom tiles in exhaustion.

“Why are you trying to make small talk with me?” she says, reading right through my whole agenda.

I gulp.

“I told Finnick I would get along with you.”

“Finnick is full of crap,” she responds as quickly as I finish my sentence.

“Do you really want to win these games? Your fourteen year old girl from downtown District Four, wouldn’t it be easier to just give up.”

I feel it’s more to prod an answer out of me, than as a snarky comment.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want to try.”

"Why.”

“Because I made a promise to someone. Someone’s, actually,” I say in the steadiest, most confident voice possible.

“To that boy?”

I don’t respond.

She stops leaning on the wall, and takes a few miniature steps towards me, leaning down to eye level of where I sit.

“Here’s the deal, you don’t lie to me, I won’t lie to you. You be honest with me. I will be honest with you. Then, I’ll be your mentor. I know you think that I’m a savage killer, and you’re not wrong. But I also might be your ticket back home. So, what do you say?”

Oh my gosh. I can’t believe it. She actually-

I nod my head hurriedly, excitement coursing through my veins.

She flashes me the first real smile I’ve seen her have, and gets back up. She pauses abruptly once she’s at the door, resting her hand on the frame, and turning around.

“One more thing, I do this for you, and it works. You have to take over mentoring for the next ten years.”

She doesn’t even wait for my response, and walks right on out.

“We start tomorrow,” she calls after me, before she vanishes from my view.

Chapter Text

I grit my teeth as an orange skinned woman named Dorcas scraps her long nails across my skin. She’s attempting to apply lotion to my body, but her hands are talons and the cream burns, feeling like wasps are repeatedly stinging me.

The other two members of my prep team, whose names I can’t remember, stand back. Their arms are crossed and they whisper to each other as they observe me like hawks.

This morning I was jolted awake by Wilhelmenia, and immediately ushered off the train. I tried to throw on an acceptable outfit, grab the pearl earrings and my reaping dress, before we had to duck through the crowds of screaming Capital Citizens to get to the Remake Center.

I waved sweetly at them from, and the crowds went wild. Luckily, there were Peacekeepers to hold them back until we were mercifully shoved into the ornate doors of the building.

From the moment I walked into this room, I’ve been stripped naked, scrubbed clean, and I am about to be plucked hairless.

The trio is ruthless with the prepping for the Opening Ceremonies, and takes their job quite seriously.

As Dorcas explains to me, plucking eyebrows into an arched line, District Four has a reputation, and there's quite a lot for the three of them to live up to. Because of the way she violently pokes and prods away at my body, I don’t doubt her.

I tilt my head slightly to the clock, and see I have two hours till the Ceremony. My body squirms with nervousness for it, and discomfort as Dorcas applies hot wax to my legs.

The Opening is the first time I’m going to see my actual competition. In dramatic, silly Capital costumes of course, but face to face nonetheless.

Last night, after I finished vomiting, me, Caspian, our mentors and escort sat down to watch the tapes of the Reapings. I still felt uneasy, so I wasn’t as attentive as I should've been. However, I noted a few who seemed to stand out.

From District One, a career girl with flowing red hair stepped forward to volunteer. Even on screen she was intimidating, with sharp angular features and body. The boy from her district turns out to be a rather sickly, skinny boy. Surprisingly, no one volunteered, but from the way he slinked up to the stage, his twisted smile creating a devilish look on his gaunt face, I don’t think anyone dared.

Then, District Four came and there I was, with my big show with Lacy, and I realized just how little I look up on that stage. Even Caesar, the Games host, commented on it.

I remember Wilhelmenia gave me an aggressive thumbs up when he mentioned the tragedy of such a young, beautiful girl getting reaped.

I flinch just thinking about it.

After a while, all the tributes seemed to blur into one another, and I forgot most of them.

However, I remember a girl from District Six tripping and falling on her way up the stairs, and I’m again thankful that isn’t me.

The tributes from Nine seemed like a threat, as they were both eighteen and muscular.

District Ten reaped two little kids younger than me, and my heart wrenches when they pan into a close shot of their wailing families. However, for their age they both looked rather clever, so I make sure to keep a mental note of them.

My head is whirling in the memories of these kids I will be expected to murder when my leg hair is viciously yanked out from its roots.

I yelp, and Dorcas rolls her eyes.

I have a sudden urge to punch her in her stupid, orange face.

Eventually, after I’m skinned bare, she focuses on the slightly more pleasurable task of applying makeup, and filling my nails.

Finally the other two members of the prep team stroll back to me and announce to me in loud clear voices,

“You’re beautiful, and just perfect for what Odette has planned for you.”

Odette must be my stylist, but I have no further information about her than her name.

“We weren’t sure at first if you were attractive, or just extremely ugly.”

I blink a little, stunned at their confusing analogy.

Then, one of the women places her spindly finger on my face, and smiles. I flinch away, reminded of my first encounter with Wilhelmenia, my now escort.

What is it with Capital people and their touching?

They seem to think you take pleasure in them petting you, although your some lost puppy dog.

“You didn’t complain as much as the last one,” she says, and Dorcas nods readily to this.

“Plus, you’re small. Less space to cover for us,” she says, and they all burst into a fit of giggles.

Finally they yank away my thin robe that covers my body, tossing it in the trash, and admiring their work.

“Just lovely,” Dorcas says gleefully, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

“Oh, everyone’s gonna want their hands on you.”

The thought makes me nausea, and I gulp, hoping I don’t get sick all over their work.

I almost hate and love all this attention I’ve been getting for my looks. Back in Four, it was an unnecessary attribute. But here in The Capital, you flash a spotlight on me, and I’ll go with anything I got.

I smile sweetly, and force out my most sugar coated reply.

“Oh, thank you. You’re truly incredible, and should all be stylists.”

This makes them very emotional, and the short woman, who’s name I still can’t remember, dabs her face with her puffy dress.

They whine and moan about the unfairness of the system, and how they should have been promoted after all these years.

Oh yeah, the system is so unfair for The Capital.

Eventually, before my stylist enters, they grip my arms and tell me how lucky they were to have a beautiful tribute, and that If I win, they are all thankful of how famous I’ll make them.

Suddenly a swirl of white lace and blond hair swooshes into the room, and they scatter away.

I’m taken aback by how beautiful my Stylist is.

Odette is a young-looking woman, with cascading golden hair, and her catlike green eyes. She wears a long, flowing ivory gown that ripples like water.

Slowly, she circles around me delicately, with an air of both grace and authority. Her eyes study my naked body, flitting this way and that.

Everytime her head tilts, her diamond speckled ears and necks sparkle and flash brilliantly in the small room.

Finally, she stops, turns around and snaps at the prep team.

“You three, get the dress and accessories.”

Oh good. It’s a dress, not some humongous whale costume like the costumes last year.

She sits down on the chair next to the bed, and starts applying more heavy makeup on my face.

Apparently, from Dorcas’s long monologues, Odette requested to do both my makeup and hair by herself, something usually left to the prep team.

Finally, she speaks to me in a hushed voice, much unlike the commanding tone she used with Dorcas and the others.

“My name’s Odette. I will be your stylist for the games.” She stops to pick up a tube of thick, black mascara.

“I saw your reaping, quite the performance. Were those girls family?”

“Younger sister and friend”

“Hmph.”

Somehow, I don’t mind the mellow air to her. It’s kinda refreshing compared to the rest of the bizarreness of The Capital.

“Well, your look at The Reaping was lovely. Most tributes don’t give a second thought about what they wear, but every detail matters." "I'm a seamstress, I been around my fair share of clothes before." She smiles. "Well, regardless, you’ve got a reputation from The Reaping.”

“Really, what?” I ask, genuine curiosity in my tone.

“You’re the darling, princess girl from District Four. It fits you well, and as my as Stylist, my job is to take that to the next level.”

“So no whale costume?” I joke, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she smiles at me, placing the makeup down and resting her other hand on my arm.

“No whale costume, or any other hideous sea animals get ups. You, my dear, are too special.”

The prep team interrupts, scurrying back in with a large bag, and Odette turns away from me, waving the over.

She unzips it slightly, revealing silky fabric underneath. It’s beautiful, with swaths of azure, pale cerulean, and prussian blues fabrics sewed together into a thick garment.

The fabrics are mixtures of lace, silk and tulle, and it’s almost reminiscent of the ocean back home.

It's the type of thing I've dreamed about designing back home, if I only had the materials.

“It-”

“Looks like the sea at Four,” Odette interrupts, “I know. As soon as I saw you at the Reaping, this idea popped into my head. You, my dear, are going to be a mermaid.”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

I suck in my breath as Odette pulls on the strings of the corset.

Odette’s costume idea seemed strange, but at first I could live with it. However, the moment I saw the tight, death trap they wanted to put me in, I immediately paled.

For the past hour, it’s been a constant stream of powders, paints, and tight compression garments being forced onto my body.

It gets better though when Odette lets me snack on caramel candy, which is addictive with its sugary sweet flavor. Surprisingly, she doesn't make me hold back. She instead advises me to eat as much as possible, as I’ll need the extra weight in the arena.

She finishes tightening the corset, and helps me into the flowing skirt. It’s surprisingly thick and heavy, and makes my movements sluggish.

My prep team paints intricate patterns on my arms, glue acrylic extensions onto my nails. They weave beads, gems, and fake strands into my hair.

Finally, they all finish, whipping me around to a full length mirror.

I gasp.

The girl, no goddess, standing before me in the mirror, is so unfamiliar that I almost don’t recognize her as my own reflection. For once, I'm the girl in the jewels and ballgowns you see on TV.

Her every curve is highlighted, much unlike any fourteen year old I’ve ever seen.

A silky, ivory corset that illuminates her small waist, and flares at her hips. The top part of the skirt coils around her waist and thighs, the green cloth shifting like real scales in the light. It flares out at her knees, an explosion of lace and tulle blues that trail behind her like shifting waves.

Her flowing, hip-length hair is woven with diamonds and pearls, glittering like the ocean, and sparkling tiara has been placed delicately on her head.

Thick dark lashes and sharp eyeliner surrounding big, glossy bright eyes, and her lips and cheeks are cherry colored.

What happened to the girl I saw in the mirror yesterday?

The one who was sneaking out in the middle of the night, getting drunk, then lying to her mother.

The one making out with a boy she had been talking to for less than a day, vomiting into a toilet, and having multiple meltdowns in one day.

The messy girl, who was so amazingly un-perfect. It’s funny how different your whole life can become in 24 hours.

“You’re a siren,” Odette says, flashing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her.

She reaches out, and twirls the ends of my hair.

“I think you’re one of my finest pieces of work.”

I don’t hate Odette. In fact, she’s my favorite out of all of the Capital citizens I’ve met so far. It’s a low bar, but it means something to me.

Yet, I hate her for doing this to me. Making me so…

beautiful, so wantable, so irresistibly attractive.

I thought compared to hunting and killing other innocent kids, this would be a breeze.

A walk in the park.

But the idea that I’m being dolled up just to look appetizing to the eyes of the Capitol citizens, is revolting. I haven’t even gotten to the parade yet, and my stomach churns at the thought that I’ll have all those eyes eating me in. All I really am is a piece of meat being prepared for the platter.

Maybe the whale costume wouldn’t have been that bad after all.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

My prep teams shove me into some platform heels, insisting I’ll need the extra height for the chariot. Combined with my tight, heavy dress, I barely manage to stumble down the hallway to the elevator, tripping over my own feet.

Odette decides it would be better if she helped carry me.

Finally, we make it down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, and I hobble out into the stables where we’re supposed to wait.

The rest of the tributes are here, all having seemingly had an easier time with their costumes than me. It’s strange being together with my fellow tributes for the first time, and they all seem to feel the same way.

Everyone stands awkwardly around the horses in pairs, avoiding eye contact and talking to the district partners in hushed voices.

I see Caspian talking to his stylist next to a Chestnut horse, and I make my way towards them. Slowly, to not cause a commotion by being one tribute who trips and falls.

He turns his head when he sees me, and his eyes trail up and down my outfit.

“Pretty costume,” he says, dully, and I’m taken aback.

Wow, he actually acknowledged my presence.

“Thanks…” I say, trailing off, not sure how to respond. I look at his costume for inspiration.

He’s wearing little clothing. Most of his skin being covered with painted tattoos, or plastered in pearls and seashells in a rather peculiar way. The bright gold trident with a matching crown seem to be the only flattering parts of his outfit.

“We should swap sometime, huh. Maybe for the interviews?”

He rolls his eyes, and tries to keep a serious, unresponsive expression.

However, as he turns his head back to his stylist, I see the beginning of his real smile creep back onto his face.

Caspian eventually leaves to introduce himself to the rest of the Careers. Also, presumably to also start an alliance that I will, certainly, not be a part of.

In the meantime, I distract myself by petting the beautiful, chestnut horse in front of me that pulls our chariot. The animal is quite calming, and finding it soothing as I scratch its velvety ears and
mane.

I’m so entranced in the animal that I barely notice the hot, slow breath that creeps on me.

Suddenly, I become aware of the person behind me, and I yank my head around to be face to face with the lean boy from District One.

His face is even more gaunt and thin in real life. The skin is sallow and waxen, almost like a corpse. His eye sockets are like craters in his face, bruised in a dark, purple shade and accentuating his bulging, vacant eyes.

His lips curl into razor-thin as his empty eyes trace over my rounded, curved figure, landing on my pinched waist.

I shudder a little, and instinctively wrap my hands around my chest. I fix it a little by crossing my arms, and leaning on one foot in what hopefully seems like an irritated stance.

“Your stylist is very talented,” he says, finally looking away from my body.

He’s about a foot taller than me, and it takes me a minute to comprehend his outfit.

Silver steel armour that has covered every inch of his body except for his head. His stylist has tried to make him look less thin by stacking thick layers of armour on his body, but it doesn't work.

It only makes him look even more sickly, and his greasy-haired head awkwardly poking out from the mass of metal.

“You too. They’ve actually managed to upgrade you from a slimy snake to..”

I pause.

“... a lizard.”
His smile only slightly falters for a moment, and he leans back in, his hot breath back next to my ear.

“You can pretend to be all tough and all that shit, but I know all you really are. These outfits, the cute little waving. All you are is a slut.”

I freeze, his words hit fast and hard, like a slap in the face.

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, being poor, and a girl from downtown District Four.

But a slut?

Never.

Suddenly, a clear voice rings out beside us.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?”

It’s Odette standing there, a grimace painted across her face as she points to the other chariots, where tributes are being loaded onto.

He slowly jerks away from me, slithering away back to his chariot. She raises her eyebrows as she watches him trail away, and then she turns back to me.

I quickly haul myself into the chariot, unable to to look her in the eye. I’m sure my cheeks are bright red as I feel my body heat up, shame flooding me.

She grabs my hand anyway, pulling me closer.

“Don’t do that. Pretend you don’t care, then spend the rest of the night sobbing. I take my work very seriously, and this,” she says gesturing to my outfit.

“Is all for a reason. Don’t let your beauty be your weakness, otherwise this whole costume goes to waste. Let it be your weapon, your strength.”

She releases my wrist suddenly, not waiting for my reply, and I almost fall off the chariot in surprise at her arbitrary speech.

I straighten myself out just in time to see her strolling away, her lace fluttering behind her in the breeze.

Her words barely register me at first, and my nerves even worsen. I no longer just a few butterflies in my stomach. My clammy hands gripped around the railing are the only thing steadying me as my whole body shakes and wobbles.

I barely register Caspian getting on the chariot with me, the music starting, and the horses jolting forward. My legs seem to tremble, and my feet planted against the floor of the chariot feel light, almost invisible. My head is dizzy, as if I might pass out.

I can imagine thousands of screaming Capital people behind the closed doors ahead of me, their hungry eyes waiting to eat me up, bombarde me with the word “slut!”

Finally, the massive doors slide open. Since we're close, I can spot the roaring crowd packed into the lined bleachers and streets ahead.

Brightly garmented men, women, and children all wave their hands in frenzied, animated motions, and my heart drops.

But wait.

They’re not angry, but instead ecstatic. Their eyes wide with adrenaline, and their mouths open and screaming chants.

I breathe in and out, but my breaths come out ragged and uneven.

Stop it. I command the voice inside my head.

They want to see you, they want your attention, just as Odette said.

District One heads out in sparkling diamond-embedded costumes.

You’re good, I repeat.

District Two jolts forward.

I tell myself I’m not excited, not nervous. And even though I know it’s a lie, it manages to soothe the rapid, pulsing heartbeat buried beneath my chest.

District Three is gone in a whoosh, and my heart is back to a healthy pace as we make our way the last few meters.

My body relaxes,

My eyes lock forward,

and my chin tilts back slightly.

The crowds were loud before we enter the city, but they roar at the sight of us entering. Around me, faces and bodies blur together in a rush of colors as our chariot speeds by.

The citizens of the Capitol make the loudest noise I’ve ever seen a group of people manage to produce. Their cheering, whooping and every sound in between, comes as a shock to my system.

At first I’m not sure if their reaction is directed at us. Even so, I doubt that it's me, and presume it's all Caspian's doing.

But one quick glance at the large television, and I’m startled by how breathtaking I look. On the screen, the heads turn my way, pointing, and screaming “District Four!” in wild voices.

It is me, and I’m every bit the siren Odette molded.

My stylist's words from before flash in my head, and I put her commands into action.

I put on my most winning smile, teeth out, mouth curled sweetly. I grasp the railing with one hand, and wave into the air with another, fluttering the tips of my fingers delicately.

They go absolutely nuts, and it shocks me how easily I can manipulate them.

A decide to take it a step further, testing my limits.

I blow a few little kisses into the crowds, and the whole crowd thunders in excited screams and cries.

Burying us with heaps and heaps of red and white roses, and they begin to screech my name. I recognize a few other tributes being called out, Caspian being one of them, but mostly it’s my four
syllable first name that’s chanted.

The blaring music, the cheers, and the movement all around me makes my blood heat up in euphoria. However, I mostly feel relieved.

That I managed this all, and that they accepted me.

Having them all want me, is better than any reality where they chew me up and spit me out like I so vividly imagined.

Maybe, just maybe, this might work.

Finally, we reach the city circle, and the twelve chariots loop around. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow’s mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

President Snow gives the welcome from the balcony directly above us. He’s a small man with paper-white hair and heavy lines cracked into the skin on his face.

He always intimidated me, for such a small man, his presence is so…

menacing.

It is traditional to cut away from the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that I am getting way more than my share of airtime.

The camera holds on District 4 as the chariot parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we’re engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us, me in particular, withering stares.

It confirms what I’ve suspected, I’ve literally outshone them.

I notice Cassandra standing in the corner of the room, talking to my stylist, Odette. I’m surprised she managed to get in here, but I tilt my head a little, as if I’m asking a question.

Did I show you enough?

She doesn’t nod, or answer in a way where I’m sure she’s been fully convinced of my skills.

But she smiles ever so slightly, and it's enough for me to beam right back.

Chapter Text

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This will be our home,

or prison,

until the actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto the elevator and press the number of your district.

Easy enough for me to remember.

The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It’s exhilarating and I’m tempted to ask Cassandra if we
can ride it again, but somehow I know she wouldn’t approve.

Odette and Caspian’s designer leave to retire for the night, and were left alone with Wilhelmenia Whiffle. Her duties don’t end after the Opening Ceremony, and all escorts are supposed to chaperone us all through before the games.

Our quarters are even more luxurious than the train. It has a spacey ceiling, luxurious velvet furniture, and glass practically everywhere, not just the ceilings.

Glass tables, glass ornaments, glass kitchen appliances.

The pure expense of all of it is dizzying, considering there are people living without roofs over their heads back in the districts.

Before we can head to our own rooms, we are forced to sit down for a long, and tedious dinner.

From the time all through from the first course to last, she gushes over our performance.

Well, mostly mine.

And, to hear her tell it, Whilelemenia has a deep knowledge of everyone who’s anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to score us some sponsors.

Apparently, my show at the Opening Ceremony made her job a hell of a lot easier.

Finnick and Cassandra don’t say anything to either of us, picking and their food quietly, while Wilhelmenia yapps at no one in particular.

I turn and notice our mentors eyeing each other. Nervously, and sharing the same flicker of recognition across their features.

“I’ve had to be very mysterious, though, ” she says, her eyes squint half shut. “Because, of course, no one has bothered to tell me your strategies, or come up with some. But I’ve done my very best anyway,” she says proudly.

“The perfect balance of you two. How strong, and serious Caspian is about The Games. And then, Felicity, of course. How for such a young girl, you have handled it remarkably well. Not to mention just how darling you are.”

“All of this,” she says waving her hand erratically in the direction of my body. “Going to waste would be such a shame. Your beauty is the next tragedy of the Capital. ”

She tuts, and shakes her head.

“A lot were skeptical of course, because you’re so young. But I told them-” she laughs, shaking her head.

“I told them the most obvious thing. That the youngest victor to ever win, is District 4’s very own Finnick Odair. And he’s your very own mentor.”

“Cassandra’s my mentor,” I correct.

“Oh, well, close enough. Oh, and-” she abruptly screeches, jumping up and down.

“I came up with the cutest, little nickname for you.”

“Nickname?”

“Yes,” she squeals,

“You have a title. I’m calling you, ‘The Pearl of Panem.’”

“Ahh.” I say.

“Pearls, how they come from the ocean, and they sparkle” she says, clarifying. Confused as to why no one has praised her.

Regularly, I would’ve cared less what stupid nickname the Capital gave me. All it really shows is that they’ve officially branded me, like cattle.

But, I’ve already established that I want to win.

If I’m going to win, the best chance I have is going along with whatever the Capital hands out to me.

So I smile, and nod along.

“Very clever. I bet they just loved it.”

“They did,” she says, practically screaming. “In fact, you’ll never believe who took an interest in you. Who’s, actually.”

“Who?” I say, faking shock.

“Jace Sharnstaff and Ambrose Crane. The manager of peacekeepers, and the very own brother of Seneca Crane!” she exclaims, her hands on her head.

“Oh yeah,” I say, my fake enthusiasm faltering.

I truly have no idea who these people are. Suddenly, Finnick interrupts.

“What do you mean they took an interest in her?” He says, and I notice his usually casual tone changes completely.

His voice sounds deeper, rougher, and his brows are slightly furrowed.

Cassandra has the same solemn expression, and her gaze flickers between me, Wilhelmenia, and Finnick with intensity and focus.

“Well, Ambrose, of course, was very complimentary about her costume. He’s always such the gentleman, but really it’s no wonder why. The design was simply-”

“Yeah, I know, but did he say anything about sponsorship? Anything in particular about a deal?”

The room goes silent, and Whilehmenia stares at Finnick, her face scrunched in confusion.

“Well… I… I’m not sure, exactly. It was all a very exhilarating night, and I don’t quite remember.”

Suddenly, she eyes Cassandra, who has been fixated on the conversation intently this entire time.

“Why the interest, both of you?”

Finnick brushes her off.

“I just know him well, that’s all,” and he goes back to poking at his peas.

The conversation drifts off after that, but I’m glad for the silence, as I have time to take in everything that’s just happened.

Surprisingly, the Opening Ceremony was a breathtaking experience. Standing on that chariot electrified my every vein and nerve, and gave me a sense of power I have never felt before back in District
Four.

The amount of influence I can have over others is almost thrilling, but I also know it will evaporate the moment I’m dropped into that environment.

I’m still not sure those capitol men Wilhelemnia mentioned are, or why Finnick and Cassandra paid clear attention to their possible sponsorship to me.

But it’s made one thing abundantly clear.

As much as I think I understand the Capital. As much as I think I have control over them, that I can influence them with a simple wave of my hand, it’s not remotely true.

I belong to them, not the other way around.

The adrenaline from this night almost made me forget I don't belong here. As many kisses, winks, and waves I do, I’m still out of place that’s my supposed “new home.”

I should be with Ciara, giggling and chatting while we patch together an old, dusty wedding gown.

It’s sad knowing even in the slightest chance I do win, I’ll never have the dream we both always desired.

However, it’s nice knowing that at least one of us has a chance at it.

Out of the two of us, she’s tougher than me, and much more talented. If our situations were reversed, I don’t think I could stand seeing her on the screen.

I look over at Caspian, only to see him staring intently at his food, unnaturally absorbedly in a large chunk of steak.

Even though he’s been cold to me this whole trip, I can’t help but wonder what emotions are swirling up inside of him.

Does Caspian miss District 4?

His friends? His family?

I don’t remember knowing much about his life outside school, even when he was dating Ciara. At school, he was obnoxious and cruel, but outside, he was very reserved. That is, until my best friend
dumped him.

So far for the games, he’s dropped most of the obnoxious behavior he demonstrated at school, but who knows how he’ll act in the arena.

After all, it’s mostly him that’s the reason I’m sitting here. Somehow, he managed to convince all of the other careers at school to not volunteer, just to exemplify his chances.

I’m well aware of the fact that the female name on the paper was meant to be worthless to him. Simply, an easy kill for any career.

But I don’t hate him.

Instead, I pity him.

All of this for some stupid government that would toss him to the side in a moment. I’d love to see what's going through his head.

He notices me watching him, and his eyes, filled with fury, lock onto mine.

Suddenly, I have my answer.

He does care about me, and finally understands my worth, but not in the way you’d think.

He cares because he’s jealous.

And he cares because I am a threat.

I out-performed him, in more than one way, and got myself more than a couple of potential sponsors. All the while, he was left sitting in the dust.

I’ve clearly made myself an enemy, but instead, I don't shame myself internally. I just smirk back at him as his intense glare tries to see through me like glass.

His anger can’t affect me, because I just truly feel sorry for this boy who has sacrificed his life and freedom for these games.

And now, he feels outsmarted by a 14 year old girl from downtown District 4.

Even though I know it's wrong, seeing his face flinch away from me gives me a burst of confidence.

I’ve been learning to make do with scraps all my life, so why are games any different?

I am a performer, and the games are the greatest show of anyone’s lifetime.

Maybe, I can survive this after all.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

After dinner me and Caspian try to slyly retreat back to our rooms, done with human interactions for the day, when Finnick and Cassandra horde us back into the main room.

We still have our strategies to figure out.

“It’s training tomorrow,” Capsian grumbles, reluctantly sitting back down on a plump lavender armchair.

“Exactly,” Finnick responds, throwing himself on the couch, and massaging his temples. “How you act in training is key. If you seem to be weak and helpless and can’t hold a weapon for the life of it,

then you’re a target-”

“Well,” Caspian says, moving to get up, “Then I guess I'm covered.”

“Ah ah ah, not so fast.”

He pushes Caspian back down.

“You act like too much of a show off,” he says, while staring pointedly at Caspian.

“And everyone’s gonna want to get a knife in your back.”

“So you’re saying we’re basically supposed to have no personality?” I finally snap. I guess the stress and pain from the day has made me crabby, and craving sleep.

Everyone looks at me, surprised at my sudden outburst.

“No, I’m saying you have to play it carefully. Both of you.”

“Caspian, I hear you’re good with a sword.” Cassandra remarks.

I wonder how she knows. He definitely hasn’t mentioned it only ten thousand times.

“So, I would recommend staying away from that area for the most part. Try to learn something new.”

“There’s nothing new to learn. I’m a career, I’ve been training for this since I was five.”

His voice is low, like a deep grumble, and I can tell he’s down to his last straw.

“Well, then get creative.” Finnick replies sharply.

“Hey, that’s a skill you could work on for the arena.” I chime in, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Ok, hey!” Finnick interrupts.

“I don’t know what you two’s problem is, and I don’t really care. However, right now you’re a team. So please, at least suck it up for the next few days.”

He breathes in and out, running his hand through a few gold strands of hair. His clear green eyes glisten a little as they half close.

I bet he’s used to difficult tributes, coming from a career district in all. Still, if I were in his place, I would strain myself just thinking about dealing with us.

“Felicity, is there anything you can do?”

Everyone pauses, curious as to if I have some secret, magical talent that I’ll be able to unleash in the games.

Unfortunately, they’re about to be extremely let down.

“Umm…” I look back and forth at my team. I desperately search for some invisible person to give me the answer.

“Well, I can... do many things...”

Caspian snorts, and even claps his hand over his mouth.

I glare at him fiercely, but don’t say a word.

Finnick’s lips twist into a smile, and Cassandra even…

Was that a giggle?

“You can...??” Finnick struggles to get out.

"I can sew together rips on a dress without you barely even seeing the stitch marks." I say irratibly.

Everyone breaks out laughing, and even though I know it’s stupid, I can’t help but grin.

It’s nice to be able to laugh for once. Right now, I’m eager to try and soak up as much fun as I can get the next few days, as little as that may be.

Maybe try anything else a little more relevant, game-wise? For now, just try to stick to Caspian, and pick up as much as you can. Hey, if you can maybe even make a few friends along the way.”

“I have to babysit-” Caspian starts, but Cassandra interrupts.

“Just for a few days. You don't have to be best buds in the arena, or . Hell, I don’t even care if you two kill each other in the end, I’ve seen it a thousand times before.”

“Just for a few days.” She points to both of us fiercely, and walks out.

Me and Caspian both take that as our cue, and I’m getting up, when again, I’m interrupted.

“Felicity, wait a moment.” It’s Finnick, and by the look on his face, I’m guessing it’s serious.

“What,” I say slightly annoyed that getting to my bed has been delayed yet again.

“Your performance at the Opening Ceremony was… breathtaking.. of course. But are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“Sure, this is how you wanna do it. This is the angle you want to take?”

“You mean do I want to appeal to the crowd by making myself pretty, cause I’m not sure we have a choice.”

He tilts his head a bit, his bright eyes locking with mine.

“No, you know it’s more than that. Have you ever looked in a mirror before?”

“Actually, the one I have at home is blurry, so that might be it.” I joke.

He frowns.

It’s strange seeing him in all his seriousness. Finnick Odiar becomes an entirely different person, and I take it as a sign to shut up, and listen to what he has to say.

“These men, like Ambrose Crane, see a young, attractive teenager like you, and they're eager to sponsor. Especially, if you play that angle up. But you have to understand it doesn’t just end there.”

“Okay,” I say, understanding what he is saying, but not quite yet getting the point.

He sighs.

“Pretend you win, and I’m not saying you will, but let’s say you do. Then, what happens?”

Suddenly, it hits me like a ton of bricks. For a moment, I’m stuck in this moment of disgust and anger by what I did.

“They expect something in return.”

“Exactly. They think that they are the reason for your victory, for your life, and therefore they own you. Or, at least a part of you.”

Nausea rises up in my throat. I’m overly repulsed by those men, those predators, even though I’m merely the recipient of Finnick’s words.

These men truly expect teenagers to fulfill their perverted, sexual motives.

“How do you know?” I ask, even though I’m sure I know the answer.

“I was, and still am, in the exact same position, which I’m sure you know. It’s one of the cleverest strategies you can play in The Games, but it also has a lot of consequences. But if you’re sure, then

you’re sure. I just want to make sure it’s really worth it to you.”

“I want to win. As much as I hate it, I have too much to lose if I lose. I’m not a career, and I know you were.” He nods, and looks away slightly.

“I don’t have the same options that you did. I can’t fight. I’ve never even held a weapon besides a switchblade. And god, if they drop me in frozen terrain, I can’t imagine. I’m willing to risk the
consequences of whatever comes after The Games to win.”

“After all,” I continue, “I could never have the burden on my soul, even in death, knowing that I didn’t try as hard as I could’ve. Didn’t exhaust my very best weapon, this” and I gesture awkwardly to
my body.

“I guess that’s just me.”

“Not just you, that's most victors.”

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

After that, I make my way back to my bedroom. My own private bathroom is bigger than my bedroom back home, and I strip down, and drag myself into the shower.

I fiddle with the knob for a while, till eventually I get the right temperature. I relax and let the warm water flow down on me. I’m eager to finally wash off the makeup and tattoos. Glitter and black ink collect in puddles at the shower’s marbled floor.

I decide to be adventurous, and press a few unknown buttons, but immediately regret it. Yellow, lemon-scented foam sprays down on me, and I have to gag to get it out of my mouth. After pressing a few more buttons, and getting met with an entourage of steaming hot water that I have to dodge to avoid getting pummeled with, I finally turn the shower off.

I grab a fluffy town, and am surprised when the mechanical rack automatically hands it to me. It’s shocking how everything in the Capital is done for you. It makes me wonder how the Capital people aren’t constantly bored, you don’t even have to try for anything.

Before going to bed, I sit by the large window. I hate to admit it, but the city outside is dazzling. Glass and silver skyscrapers twist into the black abyss of the night sky. There are colorful lights in every direction that twinkle and replace like the stars that dotted the sky back in 4.

Somewhere, out there, my family just finished eating dinner.

Griffin probably is tucking my little sister into bed, and my mom is probably stressing about where the hell my younger brothers are.

It’s strange knowing how everything at home is probably going exactly the same, just without me there.

The thought doesn’t make me sad though. It’s actually comforting, and I’d rather everything not fall to pieces when I’m gone.

What does upset me, though, is knowing that my fifteenth birthday is in a little more than a week. My birthday is supposed to be on the fifth or sixth day of the games, if I even make it that long.

Maybe I'll stay 14 forever.

What’s worse, is for the first time in my life, I’ll be away from my family on my birthday. Tears slip down my cheek, and I wipe the stains.

Remembering my birthday coming up is a cruel shockwave, and it sets me back into reality. All the adrenaline I felt today, dies down, and I come back to this moment.

I lay there, my face wet, staring by the window. My battered body surrenders to the exhumation, and I fall asleep shaking, my body curled up in a fetal position.

In my dream, it’s my fifth birthday, almost ten years ago. It’s exactly as I remember, my family and Ciara are all squeezed into our small backyard.

I switch between watching my younger self in my dream, and being her.

Younger me is giggling as she dips her fingers into the frosting of a little, squat strawberry cake. Then, she and Ciara pluck the strawberries of the cake with their chubby fingers, and stick them down their throats, all while ten year old Griffin runs around us. The sky is a vibrant blue, the sun bright, and fluffy clouds dot the sky.

It’s a fond memory to say the least.

Suddenly, I’m younger me again, and I turn around as somebody ruffles my hair, a halo of honey brown ringlets. I look up, and see an attractive boy with olive toned skin that glints in the sun and a pearly white, clever smile. I take in his features, and it takes me a few moments to identify the face of the person looming above me. It's my dad, and a pang of excitement hits me. He never made it to this day, my fifth birthday. He never even made it to my first. However, the more I look, the more I realize all he is, is a cold smooth robot of a person. Flesh and bone replaced with with dull, holographic eyes. His face an exact replica of the once two-dimensional world confined in crumpled photographs. His face, the time frozen, black and white pixelated features now possess some depth and movement, but barely even so.

Unable to look at this statue, I turn around, and see my mom. She’s pointing at me and my brother, her pregnant stomach bulging as she doubles over in laughter. She’s younger, her skin is smooth, the cracks in her skin from years in the sun completely invisible.

But something isn't right, and the scene is off-putting. My mom’s still laughing hysterically as my robotic dad reaches down to pick me up. His hands are too cold and rough, his nails sharp against my small arms, and try to squirm away.

Griffin continues running around me, chasing my toddler brothers, and Ciara continues grabbing fistfuls of strawberries.

I screech, but the voice coming out of my throat is, squeaky and quiet, one of a childs.

No one hears me.

He grips even harder, and yanks me up. Everything spins, and my world topples over into a 360, the setting blurring.

Suddenly, I’m slammed down onto the ground, and my head smacks sickeningly against the hard ground.

Eyes closed, I grip the ground beneath me. I come up with sharp blades of grass that pierce my fingers, instead of the fluffy sand of District 4.

I open my eyes, and see that the grass had cut wounds on my fingers, and I watch as the blood trickles down my hand and wrists.
I’m somewhere new.

I hear footsteps, and yank myself up just in time as a glistening metal sword slams down with an echoing thud against the soft grass where I just laid.

I’m in an arena, the one from last year with towering pines and thick forests, but something’s off.

Everything is enormous from my angle, towering above me menacingly. It seems as if everything from the elegant trees to the slow, flowing stream is a threat.

The person with the sword charges after me again, and I whip around, to meet them face to face.

It’s not my dad anymore, but Caspian. He’s a giant compared to me, his eyes bloodthirsty and narrowed as he drives towards me with his sword stretched out in front of him.

I look down at me, and realize everything has changed, except for the fact that I’m still in a child's body.

He finally gets to me, and though I try to duck out of the way, he hits me with such a force that we both slam onto the ground.

He pins me down, and twists my arms behind my body. I’m trying to scream, but again, my voice is coming out soft and hollow.

Somehow I know where the last two tributes are alive, and this is it. But in the dream, my consciousness forces me to simply cease fighting.

My body is screaming for me to fight, but my mind is dull. Flat.

He drags me to the stream, and flips me around, staring at me as he dunks my small head into the water.

I know it must be cold, as it engulfes my every sense all at once, and numbs my thoughts. It’s deeper than I thought it was, but I don’t feel it, or fight.

Instead, I look away as my body is drowned, pushed deeper and deeper and icy darkness. The world slowly begins to dim, and just as it’s about to blank out, I look back up to surface.
The person leaning down through the sealed, ice surface is no longer the massive, dark skinned boy with the close cropped hair.

Instead, I make out a crown of blond hair, around the head of the figure, and dark brown eyes watching me sink further and further.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Dawn is glaring through the window when my eyes open, and the sunset in front of me startles me awake.

I’m curled up in a fetal position on the floor, the only thing covering me is my velvet bathrobe.

Again, my head aches, and I must have bitten my lip. My tongue licks the ragged flesh of my torn lips, and I taste blood. I must have been crying, because I touch my face and find it damp.

Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault
me.

When I’m dried I find an outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight black pants, a matching tank top, and leather shoes.

I leave my hair as it is.

This is the first time since the morning of the reaping that I resemble someone normal. No fancy hair and clothes, no suffocating corsets.

Just me.

My mentors didn’t give us an exact time to meet for breakfast and no one has contacted me this morning, but I’m hungry so I head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food.

I’m not disappointed. Caspian is already there, chewing on some toast.

While the table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. I’m surprisingly hungry, having not eaten very much the night before, and I divulge into the feast.

I load a plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in raspberries, slices of colorful fruit.

As I gorge myself, I try to distract myself from Training and the disturbing images of my dreams last night, with the sunrise over the Capitol. Staring at the city, especially now when it’s so quiet, calms me.

My mentors enter, together of course, and Finnick waves to me. I find it easy to smile back at him. I guess our talk last night loosened something in both of us, and thinned the tension.

Cassandra, on the other hand, I'm not so sure.

Whilelmenia comes strutting in then, wearing a very unflattering neon pink jumpsuit.

“Good morning Finnick, Cassandra, Caspian..” She chirps, and turns to me.

“Felicity!” She gasps, and shakes her head.

“You look simply ridiculous!”

“What?” I say shocked. I look down at my outfit, pulling on the tank top consciously. It seems simple and classy enough, the same as Caspian wearing. And plus, we didn’t really have a choice.

“This is what they laid out for us to wear?” I say, confused.

“Not your outfit, dear, your… hair and face!”

It takes me a moment to process what she says, but then I get it. And I’m immediately insulted.

Even if I probably do look like crap from last night, who is she to comment on it.

“I didn’t hear you say one thing to Caspian, and I seriously doubt he put makeup on.”

“Young lady! You know just what I mean. Go back into your room and properly get ready, no excuses!”

I grumble, and purposely slam my chair loudly against the table. I stomp away, making sure that my footsteps are loud enough so the people below can hear us, even though I seriously doubt the walls
are that thin.

When I get to my room, I realize Wilhelmenia wasn’t wrong. My face is red, there are heavy bags under my eyes, and my hair is frizzy and a mess.

Still, the fact that it's the first day of training, and I’m the only one expected to look attractive. I’m just gonna get all sweaty anyway.

I use one of the machines in the bathroom to untangle my hair into a glossy curtain. Then, I put it up into the tightest, highest ponytail.

I know I look ridiculous, and I feel a slight victory knowing that my escort will most certainly agree.

As I put on minimal makeup, I think about the training. I’m nervous, to say the least.

There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon, we’ll each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers. The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to face again makes me queasy.

Especially a few in particular.

It’s almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again, and make my way out to the rest of my team.

Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Finnick, Cassandra, and Capsian at the elevator, I catch
myself biting my nails.

I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses.

Although it’s not yet ten, we’re the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle.

They each have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Most people are wearing loose t-shirts and pants.

I’m the only one wearing skin-tight, black tights and a matching tank top.

Curse you, Odette.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Jules steps up and begins to explain the training schedule.
Experts are placed in each skill to remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor’s instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, others
fighting techniques.

We are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute, and I can see why.

I can’t imagine the problem a dead tribute in the pre-games would cause for The Capital.

When Jules begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can’t help flitting around to the other tributes.

It’s a lot different seeing them now, then stuffed into some elaborate, embellished costumes like last night. The feathers, diamonds and thickly coated makeup have being stripped away from their faces and bodies. Most have plain, makeup-less features, and short or cropped hair.

We are all just children, yet twenty-three of us are about to be sent to our deaths.

After a quick survey of the room, I notice almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls seem older than I am.

However, even though many look older and taller than me, you can see many of them have never been fed properly.

You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but my family’s overall resourcefulness has given my figure a healthy, rounded look.

The exception is, of course, the careers. My stomach sinks as I see the sheer size tributes from Two. Like Caspian, they're big and bulky, and with hands so thick I’m sure they could snap my head in a matter of a second.

However, the girl and boy from One aren’t towering giants like their fellow careers.

The female tribute, with her mane of vibrant red hair, and angular features, is rather thin and pretty at first look.

Although, the closer I study her, the more I realize it’s just a guise.

She’s slender, but her long arms and legs are rippled with coarse muscle from years of training.

Like me, she reads the room, eyes flicking across her surroundings. All the while, tapping her foot impatiently in a way that tells me she’s ready to pounce at any moment.

And the boy…

Well, I already met the slimeball last night.

I can tell they're going to be threats. Careers always are, but there's something interesting about District One in the way they distinguish themselves by standing right, squat in the center of the circle.

When the girl from One notices me, I jerk my head away, automatically straightening my back.

My age and height may give me a disadvantage, but that doesn’t mean I still shouldn’t stand my ground.

The slight edge I held coming into the Training Center, my dazzling entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition.

The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because I’m amazing, because Odette is. Now I see nothing but contempt as the other tributes, careers in particular, start to glance at me.

Jules finally releases us, reminding us to stick close to our mentor’s instructions.

The circle splits up, and each individual tribute seems to head directly to specific sections, already having some sense of what to start with.

But I’m stuck in the same spot.

It seems most mentors actually gave their tributes advice on what skills to work on. But I’m confused, because why would Finnick and Cassandra give us merely scraps of advice, if they knew that.

Caspian is next to me. Glaring, with his arms crossed, but still here. He senses my unease, and obviously waits for me to come to a decision.

I sigh.

“It’s ok, Caspian. I’m not your responsibility.”

With that, he takes his cue to go over to where the other Careers are. Straight were the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym.

I notice an empty area, the knot-tying station, and I decide that it’s as good enough start as any.

The trainer is a small, polite man, who seems pleased to finally have a student. However, that student title soon changes when I get my hands on the rope.

Being from District Four, I’ve gotten quite used to using ropes and nets on boats. And even though I don’t work on the docks, I’ve picked up quite a few useful knots from Griffin over the years.

He’s pleased with my progress, and watches me idly as my delicate fingers weave the rough rope into elegant twists and turns.

When he realizes I already know the extent about boat knots, he starts me on snares. Showing a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree.

I concentrate on this one skill for an hour until my aching fingers have mastered it.

Then, I move on to camouflage. I pick this up quickly, but knowing as it’s probably one of the less useful skills in the arena, I decide to quit after a half an hour.

I go through all the survival-focused stations, picking up some valuable skills. From starting fires, to making shelter, to spotting edible plants.

Still, I haven’t even touched a weapon. And I don’t have to be an idiot to know that it’s the most crucial part of surviving The Games.

I look over to the tributes from the other districts. At first, most struggled shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax.

Slowly though, most tributes have found their strong spots.

The eighteen year olds from District 9 are practicing with scythes in the corner. They’re both tall and muscular, and obviously skilled in the way they effortlessly slash and jab the blade in sharp,
rhythmic movements.

I’m so mesmerized, that I wince as the boy’s blade hisses against the through air, and rams against the metal wall in a sickening screech.

District 9. Wheat, of course.

They’ve obviously been swinging scythes around since the time they could toddle.

I notice a few more.

District 7, in particular, also aren't that bad. Since lumber is their trade, most know the way around an axe by the time they are reaping age.

I’ve surveyed most of the room, before my eyes land on the careers. I almost don’t want to see how good my competition is, because I’m pretty sure either way it’s going to be a painful reality slap.

I’m not wrong. The Career Tributes, including Caspian, who are clearly showing off, have seemed to already be trying to intimidate the field.

Most other tributes steer clear of the sections they’ve dominated. Swords, knives, spears, bow and arrows among the few.

I know I should be practicing now, but I can’t help but I can’t help to look away when my eyes fall on the District One girl.

She moves through every skill possible, effortlessly.

Throwing knives. Check.

She hits the bullseye every time with both ease and elegance. And yet, instead of being happy, she seems almost bored, and moves on almost immediately.

In a matter of minutes, she’s done the same thing with spears. And axes. And bow and arrows.

She even manages to beat Capsian in a sword fight, drawing the blade up close to his neck.

She beats her district partner, the slimeball boy I met last night, in a wrestling match as well. Though, that isn’t much of a surprise, as his only tactic is to viciously attempt to scratch her face as she pins him down.

A sense of satisfaction fills me as I see him, begrudgingly get up and shake her hand.

“Nice one, Love.” he grumbles.

Love? Her name is Love?

Even for District One’s ridiculous names, it couldn’t be more ironic.

I let out a little snicker from my spot a few feet away, and the boy of course notices. I feel my heart sink as he turns, and sees me watching them like a creep.

My blood runs cold as he smirks, and talks a few steps forward.

But before he can make it over to me to do god knows what, I’m jerked from behind.

I yelp as I feel someone drag me away from my spot, and spin me around.

It’s Caspian, of course, and I’m not pleased to see him.

“What the hell, Caspian! What was that for?” I say, and I yank my arm from his tight clench.

He just glares at me, seemingly angry that I didn’t appreciate the sticky situation he just saved me from. To be honest, he was quite chummy with the other careers earlier, so the fact just did that
makes me slightly grateful.

“Onyx’s a jerk,” he says simply, and proceeds to drag me to the sword fighting station.

I presume Onyx is the District One boy. Of course he, and also numerous other tributes, are watching this interaction between me and Caspian. It makes it all the more embarrassing.

“Well, I didn’t need you to tell me that,” I mutter in a hushed tone.

“And- Ow!”

I yelp as he twists my arm. I struggle, but I can’t seem to break free from his iron grip as he drags me towards the ring in the center of the room.

“That hurt!” I complain, and he ignores me. He lets go, finally, and simply walks over to the rack of swords, picking up a medium-sized one.

He holds it out to me.

“What's this?” I question.

“We have a long way to go if you don’t know the answer to that,” he replies sarcastically.

“No, really Caspian. What are you doing?”

He shrugs.

“I’m tired of seeing you huddled off in the baby stations all by yourself. Believe me, I saw what happened last night in the stables. If you’re gonna stand a chance, you're gonna need someone to teach you your way around a weapon.”

Even though I would normally be offended by him referring to “baby stations”, his sedateness and the fact he’s actually offering set me off guard. I thought he would hate me after last night, be glad about the way Onyx treated me, like dirt. Yet he saw what happened, and felt bad?

More so, enough to want to help me?

“Well… ok.”

It's no surprise I completely, and utterly suck at swordsmanship. In our first match, Caspian manages to get me down in a matter of seconds, but the sword's unexpected weight practically topples me over anyway.

Even when I’m downgraded to a smaller size, I barely manage to swing the sword without losing my footing immediately.

After a few more unsuccessful tries, Caspian decides to take a different approach.

“Well, think of it like steps. Focus your feet, your torso, your arms, and combine them all.”

That helps me a little, and I begin to think of although we're partners in a routine.

When he moves forward, I move back.

When he lunges over my head, I bend down.

Instead of awkwardly jabbing at him like before, I duck his attacks. It works, and since I’m flexible I can bend into the most uncomfortable positions to dodge his slashes and stabs.

But, my only strategy is to avoid, avoid, avoid. And after a little while, It’s clear this isn’t the weapon to give me an edge, and we move on.

I’m slightly better at archery, which isn’t saying a lot. Caspian shows me how to pull back on the bow and aim.

At first, I miss the targets every time. But slowly, my shots inch closer and closer until I finally hit close to the bullseye.

The Bow is certainly a lighter weapon than the sword, which makes it much easier to use. But I’ve never even touched one before, so it’s clear the movements are too unnatural for my body.

We move on.

Axes and Tridents are an automatic no-go, and we head to the Knives station. So far, they're the least heaviest weapon I’ve held, which seems to be my weakness.

Using knives in hand to hand combat, I don’t excel at. However, I find I have a talent at throwing them.

After a few minutes of testing the weapon, by twisting and twirling it through the air with my wrist, I finally take my first throw.

Caspian tells me to always know what part of the body you want to hit. So I close one of my eyes, and focus on the dummy’s heart.

Slowly, I extend my arm backwards, before shooting it back forward, adding a small flick of the wrist.

It hits its stomach. Not perfect, but good enough.

Caspian actually smiles, applauding lightly.

“Might not kill them, but that‘ll cause some lethal damage.”

His praise only confuses me even more. Jeez, to think I knew this boy. I'm about as far as you can get from it.

I practice it a while, my shots getting closer and sharper every time, before Jules announces it’s time for lunch.

I’m grateful, because I feel hot, and uncomfortable. Underneath, the tight, black cloth Odette placed me in, my body is red, itchy, and sticky with sweat.

The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice. Caspian joins them.

That’s okay though, because I’m glad for the peace and quiet of my singular table. In addition, most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep.

Unsurprisingly, no one says a word to me, but the careers watch me often.

I try to ignore them. It’s clear from my age and skills that I’m not fit for the statues of the Career pack. They seem confused though why Caspian was actually helping me, before.

Honestly, I’m not sure either.

I don’t eat much, instead fiddling with the breadbasket in front of me. I find something comforting about finding a familiar object within.

The fish-shaped loaf tinted green with seaweed is common in District 4. I’ve never had the bread, as it is much too expensive for its minuscule size, but I've seen it In the hand soft careers kids at school.

I smile a little, before realizing the careers must think I’m crazy grinning at a loaf of bread.

Lunch is over, and I’m about to head back to the knives station, when Caspian stops me.

“Hey, try the spears station instead.”

“But… I’m already good with knives.” I state, confused.

“Good is a stretch. Okay, you’re not bad at it. You obviously have some skill throwing, and I think spears would be the perfect weight. Trust me, I think I know more about this than you do.” He rolls his
eyes, and walks away.

I stand there, pissed off and perplexed. I’m a little annoyed at his arrogance, but more so by the fact that he’s taking an interest in helping me.

Did Finnick, Cassandra make him? Did he have some random change of heart?

Even though I hate to take Caspian’s advice, his knowledge on weapons has proved to be trustworthy already, so I decide to try spears anyway.

Someone’s already there, a boy from District 6? No, 5 maybe?

Either way, he’s not very good at it, and struggles to even throw the thing in the direction if the target.

I slowly pick it up, and test its weight. Caspian’s right, It is the perfect size. Not too heavy, not too light, just the perfect length a little shorter than my arm.

I’ve seen my brother use one of these before, after school when I picked him up from the docks. He could weave and twist it all around his body in graceful, elegant twirls.

I try to mimic it, and find that’s pleasantly quite easy to do with my petite size. I twirl in between my fingers and on my wrist a few times before taking a carefully deliberate shot.

I extend my hand, and…

Boom.

It hits the target. Not in the middle, of course, but close.

The boy beside me stares a little before trying to replicate, exactly what I just did.

I smile a little.

Hey, maybe I am getting the hang of this.

Chapter Text

That night, Me, Caspian, Finnick, and Whilelemenia chat as we sit around the glass dining room table loaded with food. I scoop chunks of lamb, dunked in some type of foamy broth, from a gold platter as Finnick speaks. It has actually been quite a nice evening, and I’m enjoying the company of my team for once.

Of course, minus Caspian, who hasn’t said a word to me since Training.

Finnick is an entertaining storyteller, as he narrates the tale of an encounter of a fan, who asked him to tattoo her face, on the spot.

“Did you actually do it?” I question, as I shove spoonfuls of the rich lamb into my face. I’ll never get used to the quality of the food here.

“I had to, I didn’t have a choice!” Finnick replies, leaning forward and chuckling.

“Of course, my hand was shaking so bad that you could barely read my initials across her forehead, even up close.”

“The poor lady, God!” I say, actually horror laced in my voice. Who even has the guts to go out in public with Finnick Odiar’s name tattooed across your face.

“Actually, she seemed quite pleased with the result.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head. Even Wilhelmenia giggles a little, though she tries to cover it with her embroidered napkin.

Ever since me and Finnick talked last night, things between us have been lighter. There’s something about having a deeper understanding of someone, that makes everything simple. Still, I wonder.

Was it him who told Caspian to be nice to me? Was it Cassandra?

I desperately want to know, as it’s picking me apart, but I obviously can’t say it now.

“So did you guys find your secret, hidden talents at Training?” Finnick asks, grinning wickedly.

“Yeah,” I lie, “I can throw a spear from over 70 feet.”

“Really?!” Wilhelmina squeals, surprised.

“No.”

She looks back to her plate disappointed, and Caspian rolls his eyes and my dumb joke.

“I can hit the target, though, with a knife.”

Finnick nods in approval, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Those things are a pretty good distance. Not too bad. And Caspian, I’m assuming you got your hands on some weapons as well.”

Caspian doesn't look up from his plate, responding dully.

“Yeah.”

“And how was it?” Wilhelmenia asks, eager for some good news.

“Fine.”

Jeez, this kid’s mood goes up and down. I didn’t expect him to be going off about our fun little experience together today, but he’s hardly managed to get out a few words in the past twenty minutes. The room goes silent, and I rack my brain for a question I can ask.

“Hey Finnick, why didn’t you give us instructions, or strategies for Training? Most of the other tributes mentors told them exactly what stations to do, from start to finish.”

He shrugs, almost as if he hadn’t given a second thought to it.

Sometimes, everything he does tells me he’s still trapped in the mindset of a teenager, even though he must be almost twenty years old.

“I don’t know. It was mostly Cassandra’s idea. She wanted you guys to be independent, scope out the skills you can use in the arena on your own.”

“Speaking of Cassandra,” Wilhelmenia chimes in.

“She’s late for dinner,” and she taps her watch expectantly.

Finnick just rolls his eyes, although this is to be expected of the 26 year old woman, but the look in eyes suggests otherwise.

Anger? No, Fear.

“She’s in her room, probably, but it’d be best not to bother her. She’s either tired, or crabby.”

Suspicion flicker through me when I hear his statement. Tired and crabby are the only moods Cassandra seems to rotate being through, but it’s still unlike her to miss dinner.

Plus, if she really was skipping dinner, I bet Finnick would be all over her for it. Not telling us to leave her alone.

“I have to be excused, I need to use the bathroom.” I get up quickly, throwing my napkin down, and slamming my chair.

I head in the direction of the bathroom, but detour once I know I’m out of sight from the eyes of the dining room.

I ran up to her bedroom door, knocking on it swiftly.

“Cassandra?”

She doesn't answer.

“Cass?”

Normally, she’d probably scold me for using her nickname. But maybe, on the slight chance she thinks I’m Finnick, she'll open up.

She doesn't, and I truly have no choice but to use all my weight to slam the heavy, oak door open with my shoulder.

Inside, it’s a mess. I almost gag from the sight of clothes, objects, and food scattered on the velvet carpeted floor. For someone so strict and rigid, you'd think she at least has a tidy room.

Obviously, Finnick lied, and easily too. He's protecting her, for whatever it is, and I can see he must care about her if he's taking that risk.

I scan the wreckage in front of me, before my eye catches a piece of parchment on the floor.

I leap over a pile of glass to pick it up, and fold it open, scouring the contents inside.

Going down. Be back in a while.

So she isn’t here, or on our floor, but wherever down is. Somehow, my curiosity only flares up even more. I know it’s stupid, but I have the sudden urge to find her, although I’m searching for clues in a treasure hunt.

Before I know it, I’m making my way down the hallway, carefully slipping past my team in the dining room, and pressing the elevator button.

It’s probably against the rules to leave your chambers, now, this late, or ever.

But the Training Center is our supposed “new home”, so why shouldn’t I get to explore it.

As soon as the doors slide open, I’m met with a conundrum. Cass never specified what “down” was in the letter, but I decide to play it safe and press the button for the ground floor. When the elevator finally dings, and the doors slowly slide open, I realize how out of place I am.

Around me, the lobby is filled with servants, avoxes, and staff members zipping by, carrying everything from boxes to wide platters of food.

Some eye the strange, barefoot girl with a big red, 4 pinned to her back, but no one says a word. After stumbling around for a while, I make it to an area that seems to be some sort of lounge/bar for the mentors.

Of course, there, curled up on a barstool, is Cassndra. Her face is red, and she’s hunched over, taking large swings from a fancy-looking bottle of champagne.

It’s more than clear that she’s drunk, and has consumed her fair share of alcohol. I don't know much about the rules of being a mentor, but I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to skip dinner and get drop-dead drunk at 8:00 at night.

She only notices me when I inch closer, and jerks back immediately, spraying the liquid through the air.

“You aren’t allowed to be here!”

Her shrieking freezes me in mid-air, electrifying my nerves. I can’t help but scream back.

“I just came to find you! You weren’t in your room, and I just thought, that, I would-you-”

I breathe heavily, and Cassandra, seemingly recognizing me as not a threat, slouches back down on the counter.

“I-well, I…”

“Did you tell Caspian to be nice to me today, to help me?”

She doesn’t answer, instead just shakes a little, spilling more foamy champagne. I’m stuck on what to do next, so I say the first, dumbest thing that comes to my mind.

“What were your games like?”

That certainly get’s her attention, and she shifts her body so that those sparkling, obsidian eyes can stare through me, as if I’m made of glass.

“My games? I don’t really remember them, and for a good reason too. Just what came after.”

I feel guilty about exploiting her when she’s drunk, but I doubt she’ll remember. Cassandra is calmer, less on edge, and definitely won't remember this due to inebriated state.

“So, tell me what came after?”

I inch closer to her.

She takes another swing of champagne, and starts right up. She doesn't give me anything but the cold, hard facts.

“I volunteered because I was lonely. I had family, but no friends. I thought the games would fix that.”

She takes a sip.

“It didn’t, of course. I was eighteen, I came back, and I was more alone than ever.”

Another sip.

“I didn’t want to follow the Capitals' sickness, little games of prostituting me out like they wished, and so they took away my family. Slowly, one by one.”

The last sip.

“My mom, my dad, my sisters, my cousins.”

She drowns the bottle.

“Then, I was alone.”

I gulp, not sure of how to respond. Finally, she thrusts herself up and out of the chair, and stumbles to a cabinet. She swings the doors open, and shoves her hand inside, wiggling it around as she
reaches for another bottle.

I take this as my cue to step in.

My hand draped over her shoulder, I help her hobble out of the lounge, and hopefully towards the direction of the elevator.

She’s not a mean drunk, luckily. More so, a fatigued one. She looks pale, and even nauseous. She’s shaking a bit too.

I try to move quickly as too avoid getting vomit on my expensive, Capital clothes.

I barely have to try though, as she doesn't resists as I shove her back into the elevator.

When the door shuts, I turn to face her. Her lids are half closed as she leans against the glass walls for support, clutching the railing with one hand.

“Was it the same for Finnick?” I ask.

I know I’m pushing it, but my curiosity always gets the better of me. It’s my best and worst trait at times. Right now, it’s what’s allowing me to finally understand at least part of this woman.

“No. He already had no one.”

“No family?”

“Yep. They were gone long before the 65th Reaping.”

“Hmm.”

Though it intrigues me, I decide not to question it further. I desperately want to know if his family died, or left. I want the backstory, but instead I shove my curiosity down to the very pit of my stomach, along with all of my less desirable traits.

But Cassandra surprises me by continuing.

“Except for Annie. She’s how they get him.”

“The crazy girl who won two years ago?”

“No, the broken one who was lost in The Games. ”

Who knew, drunk Cassandra James is so poetic? I don’t remember much about Annie Cresta, or her games, but what she said seems plenty accurate.

In District 4, the two victors' close connection is no secret, and no rumour. Their relationship is common knowledge to us citizens, and they’re almost idolized. To me, it seemed perfectly normal that two victors would find each other, and fall in love. But I never thought of how deep it boils down to.

Cassandra said “how she is how they get him.” It’s depressing, that thought, thinking that someone's love for another human being would be used as a weapon against them. To think this was the man I was joking with only earlier this evening.

Only the Capital.

“Love is very, very strange.” I mutter, thinking out loud.

Cassandra chuckles.

“You think you know.”

I sneak her back into her room, managing to not get thrown up on the entire length of our trip. She falls back on her bed quietly, cocooning herself within the thick, fluffy blankets.

Before I leave, she speaks up one more time.

“Oh, and Felicity.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t tell Caspian to help you. He’s either doing it out of kindness, or hate.”

I stand there, a little perplexed, and letting her words sink into me.

“Thanks?”

I say, and walk out.

Chapter Text

The morning after my “experience” with Cassandra, she doesn’t say a word to me except for a weary good morning. I decide to take this as a sign that she either has no memory of the incident, or refuses to acknowledge it.

My money’s on the second option, however.

My team also doesn’t mention my sudden disappearance from the dinner table last night, but sends me questionable glances when I sit down at breakfast.

The next day of training passes with me going quietly from station to station.

I can identify multiple edible plants, build a shelter and a fire, and hunt game. Although, only really small rodents like squirrels.

Caspian doesn’t talk to me, and hangs back with the rest of his career buddies, laughing as they practice shooting arrows through the hearts of dummies.

But his advice sticks with me. And Coincidentally, I get quite good at knives and spears, hitting closer and closer to the bullseye with every aim. My confidence soars, only to plummet back down when people start watching me.

Suddenly, Finnick's advice about flying under the radar becomes blazingly clear, and I decide to hit pause on practice while I’m at it.

Plus, I feel confident enough with the weapons to know a thing or two for my private session.

The Gamemakers appeared early on the second day. Twenty or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering about, jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of us.

In the front of the stands, a bearded man with a shining gold pin sits proudly on a velvet chair, watching us more meticulously than his companions.

This must be the head gamemaker, Seneca Crane.

They keep their eye on me and Caspian. Oftentimes, I look over to see him fixated on me. He seems young, but his gaze is piercing in a way you’d only expect from a wise, mature adult.

By the second day, I had made a whole round of the Training Center, and I’m back to knot tying again. I’m cross-legged on the floor, so captivated by weaving a basket, that I don’t see the shadow clumsily stumbling towards me.

Only when they awkwardly plop down next to me, and grab a handful of synthetic seagrass, I look up.

Luckily, it’s not a career, it’s a girl from one of less prominent districts, either 5, or 6. I remember her tripping on stage at the reaping.

She’s around sixteen, and shockingly pale and thin for someone her age. Her stylist clearly tried to hide her skeletal frame with oversized clothing, but failed miserably.

Instead the loose fabric seems to accentune her protruding joints and bones, a sharp contrast to her frizzy black hair that engulfs her entire face and shoulders.

She leans back, and for a second, her gaze locks with mine. Her eyes, a dark, mossy green, bulge from the sockets, and freckles dot her pale, ivory-skinned nose and cheeks.

I drop her gaze, and focus back again on my basket. Slowly, I notice her stealing glances at me, trying to mimic the way my fingers nimbly twisting the dead grass, but doing so unsuccessfully.

Eventually, I can’t stand it anymore, and open my mouth.

“You have to hold and twist, not the other way around.”

She looks up, surprised by my outburst, but nods her head gratefully.

“Thank you.”

We don’t say a single word for the rest of Training, and I never learn her name. However, after observing her for a while, I learn she’s from District 6.

⭒ ⭒ ⭒

Things seem to run smoothly until the third day of training, when they start to round us up for our private sessions with the Gamemakers.

I’m sitting at a table by myself, bouncing my leg by habit as I wait for my name to be called out. The night before, Cassandra asked me if I had thought of a strategy for the Gamemakers.

And me being me, of course, I didn’t.

Yet, I shrugged if off anyway, and told her I already had a plan for my session. Mostly, I just wanted to avoid conversation with her. Especially after the little “Cassandra getting drop-dead drunk” incident the other night.

But now, the whole “go with the flow” attitude I had last night, isn’t serving me quite as well. Because, now, I have absolutely no idea what to expect once I walk into that room.

I suppose I could get my hands on a weapon, and attempt a reasonable score. Though, I risk the slight chance of completely embarrassing myself in front of twenty, high-ranking Capital citizens.

Or, I could take the Johanna Mason route. Pretend to be completely useless with anything lethal, and receive the very minimum score. Yet, I would have to factor in the fact that I’m not actually talented enough in physical combat, to make a rebound in the arena.

My mind buzzes as District One, Two, and Three go in. First the boys, then the girl tributes, and suddenly, Caspian’s heading for the door.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium.

The Twenty-Four Gamemakers are positioned on elevated stands, chattering with one another as they sip glasses of cherry red wine. They're clothed in deep purple, and sitting on
plump, velvet cushions, the very epitome of luxury.

With a bang, the door behind me slams shut, and all twenty four pairs of eyes fall on me. But instead of ceasing their conversation, their eyes light up theatrically, and they begin to point excitedly.

The dark-haired man beside Seneca Crane leans forward, to whisper something into The Head Gamemaker’s ear.

Suddenly, Crane throws back their head’s back, and croaks out a deep-bellied laugh that echoes through the gymnasium.

He bends over, still chucking, but waves a hand to signify I can start.

Perplexed, I turn around and stumble to a station, grabbing the first weapon I see. Luckily for me, it’s a knife for throwing.

I pick the weapon up, passing it from hand to hand, and testing its weight. It’s a little heavier than I’m used to, but will have to do.

Shakingly, I extend my hand, and…

It hits the target. Again, not in the middle, but a few inches off.

I look back expectantly at The Gamemakers above me, hoping for signs of approval on their faces, but find none.

Their expressions are blank, disinterested, and one even begins to pick at his nails. My mind wanders back to the other districts, and the amount of skill they demonstrated at
training alone.

The girl from One that could handle almost any weapon with complete ease. The massive tributes from Two.

Caspian, his determinedness, and undeniable talent as swordsmanship.

It’s without a question that they're far more skilled, and experienced than me.

Yet, The Gamemakers expect the same, and more, from me, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Frustrated, I try once again. This time, I take the smaller, slimmer sized knife, gripping its handle between my palm and pointer finger.

I extend my arm behind my head, squinting to make sure I’m perfectly lined up with the target, before glancing back at The Gamemakers.

I make sure they catch my quick smile, before abruptly releasing the weapon, letting it fly through the air in a graceful arc. To my delight, it hits the target, only a few inches closer
than my last try.

It’s barely an improvement. However, the Gamemakers seem more than pleased. They whisper excitedly to one another one more again, and Seneca Crane even gives a few, subtle
nods of his heads.

The next time, I pick up a spear, doing a few fancy twirls in between my fingers and on my wrist a few times before taking a carefully deliberate shot. Even though it’s slightly further off than my last shot, the embellishments I add seem to satisfy the gamemakers, who begin to jot down notes.

By the end, I’ve all but missed the target once. Not quite perfect, but hopefully enough to grant me a reasonable score.

Yet, somehow, I walk out of that room even more anxious then I came in feeling. Weapon-wise, I might have performed reasonably, but somehow I know there’s more to it than that.

It’s all about how the Gamemakers see it, and being as their Capital, and I’m District, I’m guessing it’s very different.

But as I make my way past the blurred faces of my fellow tributes, and up into the crystal glass elevator, I decide to ignore the heavy feeling in my gut.

There’s nothing I can do now, but wait and see.

I spend the rest of the evening in my room. Door locked, shades pulled down, and huddled up in the mass of blankets on my lofty bed. After a while, I decide to switch on the large television, only to be met with the grinning face of Caesar Flickerman.

Curious, I watched for a little while as he explained the odds on each tribute's score. The careers, as usual, were favored for getting the top scores. Caspian and the District One girl, Love, being expected to score a 10 or higher.

The capital seems to have high hopes for me, putting me at a 7 or above, the top 30%. It’s not unreasonable, but I’m not sure the Capital has caught on to the fact that I’m not
career.

Caesar rants on about how my compact size, and low muscle-mass, deems me less athletic than the average career.

“And, we all know her strengths lie elsewhere,” Caesar quips, turning to Claudius Templesmith as they chuckle.

I turn the Television off.

Wilhelmina bangs on my door soon after, beckoning me for dinner. After about a minute knocking with no response, she gets the message, and stalks off.

I think about my family. My mother’s soft voice, and calloused hands wrapping around my shoulder. Griffin's contagious laugh, as we sat around the table and bet on what time my younger brothers would get home by. Bouncing Lacy on my lap, her vibrant blond hair in electric corkscrews. Joking with Ciara, as we sat next to each other at school, or layed propped up on the warm sand of District Four’s beach.

These small details, once comfortable parts of my life, now seem dire to me. More so, then being in the Capital, about to be shipped to the slaughter.

The only thing that soothes me, is thinking about Banks.

Surprising, yes, but not an impossible thought. We had barely a fling, and yet, a thousand miles away, I’m certain that he’s the only one who could understand how I feel at this moment.

Eventually, after an hour or two of laying in my bed rotting, I muster up the courage to get up and leave my room.

In the sitting room. Caspian, Wilhelmina, Finnick, and Cassandra crowd around the television, where Caesar Flickerman is about to announce the scores. Odette, and Caspian’s stylist Circe, along with the rest of the prep teams linger around the sidelines, sipping on glasses of champagne.

Wilhelmina almost immediately notices me, and grasps my arm, dragging me into the center of the room.

“Quick! They're just about announcing the scores!” she screeches.

“Thought to finally join us, huh?” Finnick jokes. I know he’s just trying to lighten the mood, but it rubs me the wrong way. I clench my jaw, as I seat myself on a leather chair.

The program starts, and photos of the tributes flash up, followed by their score below it.

The District One Boy, Onyx, is first. He receives a six, a shockingly low score for a career. Love, the girl, gets a 10.

The rest of the careers receive nine’s.

Then comes District Four, and Caspian, who gets a 10. I wait anticipatingly for my score, as everybody around me erupts in cheers, congratulating Caspian with slaps on the back.

I get an 7. One of the lower score out of the careers, but not too horrible.

The rest of the districts receive scores between 4 and 7. Besides District 9, who both receive 8’s. And the District 12 girl, who gets a 2.

After the scoring, everybody leaves. Nothing was particularly shocking about this year's televised scoring. No outlier districts making a remarkable comeback.

The only slightly note-worthy incident, was the fact that one career tribute, besides me, got such a low-ranking score.

Before I retreat back to my bed, Cassandra stops me.

“Felicity. Thank you.”

Last night, she remembers it.

Three simple words, but it’s all I need. Her dark almond eyes stare at me with genuinity, and I can’t help but nod my head in acknowledgement.

I sleep peacefully that night.