Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To anyone else, Reaping Day would be a cause for mellow contemplation, or to some, even grief. To me, it’s cause for celebration.

I turn eighteen soon, which means I will soon escape the clutches of the reaping. Get through today, then one month to eighteen, then just one more Reaping Day after that to survive- and then I am free to continue my life, as it were. Whatever that will end up being. And truly, this year is more forgiving than most. Despite the grand fanfare of what they call a Quarter Quell, the conditions seem apt for a quick getaway. They introduced a special condition, that being that the tributes reaped this year will be voted in, instead of plucked from random. I was getting nervous- the amount of tesserae I take out would make anyone nervous- but that doesn’t matter. For now, at least.

Even though there’s no work going on today, in the morning, on account of the big day, I still want to make myself useful. 

The cabin is cold today, despite the warm weather. I can only assume it’s a draft coming in due to the clearing it’s situated in. I hope the square will be warmer, and I dress accordingly. An old blue dress shirt that belonged to my Papa, and his father, and his father before him. It’s missing the two bottom buttons, but as he used to say- ‘Nobody will see them anyway.’ It was a mantra on Reaping Day, and he would simply tuck the bottom of his shirt into his pants, and I now do the same. I wear my working boots underneath it all, as they’re the only shoes I own- as will many others today. Even if we could afford more, you can’t really see them on the cameras, and even if you are reaped- who’s going to care about a dead person’s shoes?

I head out the door, but instead of turning left for the center of town, I head right. 

Not even a few steps down the path, I am stopped in my tracks.

“Where are you going?” I hear a pitchy squeal ask. 

I turn around to face Acki Saynor, staring me down with her beady brown eyes. Acki has never liked me, and I've had the misfortune of being her neighbor for the last and only seventeen years of my life. Despite her being a foot smaller than me, and ten times more frail- she’s had all kinds of opportunities to see me trodden on, both figuratively and literally. I’ll never like her. Sometimes I hope she gets reaped- but that’s a horrible fate to wish on anyone. And she has too many friends to be reaped this year anyway. Another year with Tacky Acki.

“To the Orchard.” I respond. I don’t want to over-explain. It’ll just get me caught.

“It’s closed, bough-boy.” Acki scoffs. “What are you actually doing?”

“No, I'm serious!” I reply, putting it on a bit. “I left-” What did I leave? What could I leave? “I left my jacket at the gate yesterday. There was a chill.”

Acki raises an eyebrow. “Hm.” She turns her nose up, and turns around. I expect her to poke and prod me with more questions, but I don’t want to waste time. I continue on, but from behind me, I hear her voice again. 

“Whatever you say, bough-boy.” Is her last word in. 

I hate it. They call us all that- us who dutifully harvest the produce in District 11. I don’t see the reason for it- we’re feeding Panem, one fruit or vegetable or crop at a time. It’s an honorable job. It’s hard work, but it’s honest work, and I don’t care for the degeneracy placed upon it from people like Acki. Just because she was fortunate enough to be born into money, it doesn’t make her more special. 

I don’t turn to rise to her bait- it’s just not worth it. However, her nagging makes where I go even more worth the risk.

In the woods, deep down, where paths cease to exist- lies an abandoned shack. Forged of wood and tin and tar, it used to be an old Peacekeeper base in the early days of the district. It used to be a home for all the men who would come here to whip us into shape, alongside their wives and children. It’s big- it’s horribly constructed, but it’s big, and airy, and the storms that blow through in the colder seasons have charred a hole into the roof so large that in the summer, you can stand underneath the beams of the sun during lunchtime and feel the sun deep in your throat when you tilt your head to greet it.

It is my favourite place in the world. Not just for this, but for the one intact machine left inside. 

Can it be considered a machine? Perhaps not- but it is made by man, with strings and ivory and varnished wood, and it bends to your touch like a willow in the wind. I discovered this place when I was a young boy. Me and my mother had come here together, and it was clear even she did not realise the place existed. We later brought my father, and despite his excitement, he told us that we shouldn’t come here again- just in case. 

I wanted to listen, but it drew me in. It was my beautiful hideaway. Existing in the abandoned space just before the forest thins out and becomes rocky coastal outcrops, it’s my home away from home. 

I don’t know how to play the piano- I don't know how it’s supposed to work, but I know what it sounds like, and I trust my ears. Over the years, I would shut all the doors, all the windows, and try to map the instrument out with my fingers, scaling it, taming it like an animal. Sometimes, more embarrassingly, I would tell it my stories. I would sing folk songs I had learned from the older men in the fields, and I would make my own. They all seemed to fall flat in comparison to all that I had heard, but they were mine, and the piano was mine, and the music was mine, and that’s all I needed. It’s all I'll ever need. 

I can’t close the music off now. The hinges and the walls and the roof have begun to fall apart, and the piano itself becomes a victim to the elements. I try to preserve it the best I can, but I can only do so much. I play a little, just feeling out what I need to release, and I let what I produce float off into the treetops like a dove from a cage. 

However, I can’t stay long. 

They’ll go to find me if I don’t show up for the reaping- somehow, they always do. Not that I know from personal experience, but others have been punished for their absence, and I don’t want to be the next. The sun only just rises through the treetops, but it’s a ticking clock. 

I hurry back through the woods, hopping delicately over thick bushes as to preserve the neatness of my clothes before rejoining the small, trodden-on paths, and then the paved ones that lead into the square.

The square itself is positively dominating, as opposed to the street I live on. The street I live on can barely be called a street, just a gathering of cabins tucked away neatly on the border of a swamp. The square is large, paved in grey brick, and surrounded by tall white factory buildings. That, and the administrative buildings of 11, which are formed in the same industrial shells. Immediately surrounding them are nicer houses, lined up and pristine, due to the people that clean them regularly. Houses the likes of which the well off and their families live in. I can see her now, at the front of the crowd, the backs of her neatly beaded braids swinging as she gossips to friends on either side of her. Those colorful beads must have cost her father a fortune to obtain, and she wears them with pride as bragging rights. Her spoils. Technically, they wouldn’t be allowed at all- but bribery gets you far in a surveillance state like ours. 

Mounted up high above a platform is the screen they use for the games- and only the games. It stays covered and stagnant, even during mayoral elections. That screen is an indicator of darker times, a beast emerging from its cage to take its sacrifices and make sure you watch as they squirm. It doesn’t take a genius to feel squeamish about it. 

I join the crowd of boys, and it doesn’t take long to end up squished in the middle- just a part of a sea of squirming bodies. I see boys I recognise, whether that be the schoolboys I see at the end of the day, or coworkers I talk to on occasion. I have no bonds with these people. I’ve always been considered too big, too loud, or too weird to talk to, so polite niceties are all I get from boys my age willing to turn a kind eye. I get it. I don’t mind. I don’t really care. I get on well enough by myself, anyway. I just focus on the screen, just watching the ripples of static interrupt the glassy feed of the Panem logo.

The level of chatter around me increases in a blur as some boys spot movement from behind the stage. Apparently, they’ve gotten a new girl to pull the names this year- and there are rumors her predecessor kicked it from disease. I’m not sure if I believe that- as i’m not even sure Capitol citizens are the type to succumb to illness at all, but I can’t even tell if it’s the same woman or not from the dazzling flash of turquoise I get from the gap between the Panem banner and the back of the stage.

Suddenly, as if taking advantage of our distraction, the large speakers on either side of the stage blaze the national anthem at a volume to combat a bomb going off- and I can’t resist reaching for my ears before reminding myself to stand tall.

Hands to hips, spine straight, and sing. That’s the advice I was given by my coworker, Durian, when I came of reaping age. You gotta sing, and look like you mean it- or they’ll single you out, fella. He had said. There’s not many people in the world who look out for me, but Durian does. He pretends not to, for some reason I can’t quite understand, but he does. He has done. He taught me how to sneak razors to shave with, how to ration my tesserae, how to tie my shoes, how to be efficient, quick, and quiet. I owe him a lot, and I wonder if he has parsnips for after the reaping. Baked, they’re a nice snack before or after work, but it’s hard to single them out for recreational purposes such as feeding oneself. Special occasions only. 

When the anthem- and all the horrifying visuals that come with it- recede, a woman climbs the steps to the top of the stage. She stands in the middle, taking a moment to survey the crowd. She is indeed new- or, at least, looks newer than the woman who came before her. The previous one, a woman named Hermia, was a pinch-faced, angular woman whose skin was pulled tight over unnatural lumps in her skin, who would stare at anything that moved with large, glass-blue eyes that could pierce cowhide. Every move she made seemed puppeted, and her voice was like nails on chalkboard.

This woman is much her opposite. Visually. She’s dressed in Capitol attire, an exaggerated teal blouse with impossible shoulders, no sleeves attached, but floor-length ruffles at her cuffs despite the lack of anything covering her arms. Her turquoise skirt pans outward, like a lopsided saucer, and is decorated with all manner of ruffles and sparkles, matching sparkly tights and heeled shoes. Atop her monstrous apple-red hairdo lies a blue headpiece, ribbons dictating the number 25, to mark the special occasion. It’s all… so much.

Despite the amended reaping system this year, two podiums are brought out in the style of every other year- the only change being that they don’t have glass bowls atop them with names stuffed in. The woman approaches a microphone and taps it, to check it’s working, and then grins widely through plum-colored lipstick. 

“Good morning, District Eleven!” She cheerily calls out. Nobody responds. “Today is a special day.” she continues. Her manner of speaking is nicer than Hermia’s was, but it’s so covered in thick sugar that it’s impossible to take seriously. “My name is Ophelia Folio, and as I'm sure you’ve noticed, I'm taking over from our dearly departed Hermia- may she rest in peace.” Ophelia takes a moment to let that statement sink in, though I'm sure it’s purely for her own benefit. “Today is the dawn of the Twenty Fifth Hunger Games, and as I'm sure you’re well aware, changes have been made to ensure an extra-special year to mark this incredible milestone.”

Ophelia approaches the podium to the left of the stage, and picks up a creamy, embossed envelope, sealed in red and gold wax. She then walks to the other end of the stage and picks from the other podium another identical envelope. She holds them both aloft, returning to center stage. She waves them as if we can’t already see them. “In each of these envelopes is a candidate that every single one of you, reaping age and above, voted into this year's Hunger Games. You all came together and selected the best of the best in order to put your personal mark on this historic event. You should all be incredibly proud of yourselves.” She puts the envelopes over her heart. Her manufactured sympathy is sickening. 

She clears her throat. She holds up the first envelope she picked. “And without further ado, your female tribute from District Eleven for the Quarter Quell is-” she picks at the seal and delicately plucks out a card, and grins. “Tulip Delora!”

There’s a murmur through the crowd, on both sides. I instantly find myself scowling. Tulip Delora ? As in-

I look across as a piercing wail echoes from the other side of the square, in the girls section. I see Tulip, frantically trying to calm her little sister as she screams and cries and tries to stop Tulip from moving. Eventually, a fellow from the crowd holds the little girl’s sleeve back, and Tulip confidently walks from the divide in groups up to the stage, though she displays absolutely no sense of real pride as she stands in front of the podium to the right. Her chin twitches occasionally. It’s a shame- her family are nice enough people. They didn’t deserve to lose another daughter, but it’s a shame for anyone to lose anyone to the Hunger Games. Especially if she was voted in by a majority in the district. It’s hard to conceptualise, now that I think about it. There’s maybe hundreds if not thousands of us- and they all chose her? 

Before I can keep overthinking it- Ophelia is talking again, and I have to remind myself to look alert as she goes.

“And your male tribute from District Eleven for the Quarter Quell is-” as before, she picks the seal, lifts the card, and reads the name.

“ Huck Ploughman! ”

And in an instant, the world begins to spin.

Chapter Text

I don’t remember them pulling me up onto the stage. I don’t remember waving. I don’t remember Ophelia Folio grabbing my shoulder and leading me off the stage. I don’t remember not returning to the crowd. It all seems like a dream I’m living, but as I’m shut up in what feels like a blindingly grey cubicle in what I can only imagine is something adjacent to one of our government buildings- it’s all I can think about.

I was supposed to live and die in District 11. I could even dare say it was a dream of mine- something that has been taken from me by the very district itself. 

It’s a terrible thought, and I’m angry about it. Of course I’m angry about it- this wasn’t random, it was targeted . The majority of people in the entire district decided they wanted me to die in the most exposed and horrible way imaginable- and we are subject to witness almost bi-weekly executions in public. 

Who did it? Is my first question. The answer is generally obvious, but I want to know specifics. Am I being punished? 

It’s no secret that I’ve been without my parents for a long time. It’s no secret what they did. Born during the Dark Days, my parents knew their fair share of horror, and they used to tell me all about it, because they believed that if I knew the stories, I’d be able to stop horrors like that from happening again. It was a lofty goal, but as a child I was only dazzled and horrified by tales of war and death and persecution. 

Like a steady group of people in the district, in the early days, my parents were loud children, and louder adults. Unlike a lot of them- they were smart about it. I wasn’t aware of this when I was growing up, of course, but I found out that when they worked in the Orchard, they, as well as a network of others, would smuggle produce out of the farms and factories, in order to give them to those who had been exiled, starved and made homeless. Even to our neighbouring districts, if contacts allowed. They ran a smooth operation until they were caught, almost eight years ago now. 

They were both executed in front of the Justice Building. Both hanged, however the custom is executed by firing squad. According to someone who had stood next to me in the crowd as I watched- they wanted to make sure it was slow. To make an example out of them.

I got to say goodbye to them that day, but I would do it all over again now. I didn’t understand the weight of it, then. I say goodbye to them again, in my head, as if they were still here to see me go. 

A door closes somewhere near me- and I hear crying. Little crying, like an abandoned animal. I can only assume that it belongs to Tulip’s little sister- the one I saw in the crowd. She’s such a delicate thing, only just past reaping age, and I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I want to open the door and offer a few words of encouragement, but I can’t. There’s no point. It doesn’t get better, and anyone who tells her that is lying through their teeth, plain and simple. 

All I can do is sigh, and drop my head into my hands, and accept my fate. 

I think about my shack in the woods. If I had known that was the last time I would play any music, would I have played differently? Would the notes have sounded the same? Would it have resisted my touch, and rejected me, just like District 11? I won’t ever get to tread that path again, and see the crests of waves peeking out from the treeline, and I'll never get to daydream about faraway lands where I am free to roam without consequence, and eat what I want and speak how I please. I belong to Panem now, and Panem alone. 

The door opens, and a Peacekeeper is standing at the door. However, I didn't notice him first, as the eye-offending whirlwind that is Ophelia Folio is also stood there, grinning at me. I stare at her, waiting for her to say anything, and then I realise- she can’t enter the room. Her skirt is just too wide. I amuse myself briefly with that, but she clears her throat to speak, and I instinctively pay attention. 

“Earth to Huck?” She chuckles. Her voice constantly sounds like it’s stuck within the deep recesses of her throat. I thought Hermia’s was worse, but the more I listen to Ophelia- I find hers less and less appealing. “Now, I'd love for you to sit and rest some more, truly, I would, but the train will leave without us if we don’t get a move on! So, if you’d kindly come with me…?” She urges, beckoning me forward.

My body stands up before my brain does, and I feel a rush, as if my body wants to do what it did back in the square. I can feel the urge to shut down completely overcome me, and I teeter, but it doesn’t take me. Unfortunately. Unfortunately, I must remain conscious for this particular endeavour. 

I walk out into the hallway, and as I follow Ophelia and the Peacekeeper down a marbled hallway, I realise we’re inside the Justice Building itself. I suddenly feel sick. After thinking about my parents, and where they were held before they were killed, where I had to say goodbye- 

I stop moving as the hallway joins the stomach of the building. I turn around and I try to recall which room I was ushered into all those years ago, but in my naivete, I didn’t latch on to that. I was so out of it then that I barely recognised the holding rooms now. I don’t want to leave it- or rather, them, behind. It feels wrong. I want to say goodbye again, for good measure. 

I am grabbed by the wrist. I flinch my hand backward, unmoving. I am grabbed again.

“Come on now, Huck!” Ophelia urges, pulling me, now. 

Goodbye, Mama. Goodbye, Papa. Goodbye. Goodbye.

I begin to cry as Ophelia plants me by the door of the Justice Building. She notices, and pulls a handkerchief from inside of her blazer. It’s a baby blue, and fringed in gold ribbon, and embroidered with her initials. 

“Oh, come on, now.” She fusses. She dabs my face, and it’s too hard for me to register it as comforting, but it shocks me enough to get me to stop the tears. “You don’t want to ruin your pretty face by crying, now, do you Huck?” She asks, but before I can open my mouth, she moves on. 

“Shall we?” She beams, clasping her hands together with an air of finality. Tulip, who has been standing a few paces to the left this whole time, stands by my side. I look down at her, but she doesn’t look up. Taking that as a yes, Ophelia thrusts open the doors to the Justice Building, and the sun blinds me. So does the armor of Peacekeepers, as they jostle both me and Tulip in order to get us moving and on our way to the train station.

I’ve never been to the station before, and for all its mystery, it’s nothing special. It looks like a factory loading dock, split only by large cables and tracks that urge the train onward. The train itself is silver like gunmetal, a sleek creature of misery, a chariot of death, come to take us onward into the dark. Tulip steps on first, and then I follow. 

Ophelia ushers us into a carriage that’s unlike anything I've ever seen before. It’s more luxury in one place than I can dream of. The floor is lightly carpeted, and despite us being the only people in the train car, there are tables of dark wood lined up delicately around the space, with plush chairs to match. They all have matching tablecloths, candelabras and ornate tabletop decorations, made of materials so fanciful that they’d probably shatter in my hand if I so much as grazed them.

There’s a bar to the front, and it’s simple, but refined. The types of glass on display is mesmerising, and I can’t help but stare. I just stand around a barstool and try to identify all the types of liquor- a dizzying number. 

“A purveyor of fine goods, are we, Ploughman?” A new voice asks, right up to my ear. I can’t help but jump. 

A tall, fair man stands next to me, looking at my face over and over, as if analysing it for weakness. He shifts me a borderline mischievous grin upon witnessing my reaction, and just straightens himself, folding his hands behind his back. He turns his head to Ophelia. “A good reaping, I assume?” He casually asks. 

Ophelia holds out her hand and tilts it side to side. “Good for my first, but nothing spectacular.” she notes. 

“Your first? Congratulations to you.” The man nods in her direction.

“Oh, thank you.” Ophelia bashfully giggles. “Well, it was a clear day, but my god, that wind. You’d think the walls in 11 would be enough to keep the conditions balmy, but just my luck…” She mutters. 

“Well, you still look fabulous.” The man comments. “So, nothing spectacular?” He looks at me, and then Tulip, who’s sitting at a table by one of the many windows, staring out into the station. 

“No.” Ophelia sighs.

“Not even a little kerfuffle?” He gestures to me without looking. “He looks like he’d put up a right row.”

“Oh, he’s a sweet thing, though. Aren’t you, Huck?” She focuses on me, and I don’t know what to say- but in typical Folio fashion, she wasn’t really asking me anything. “The poor thing was crying on the way here.”

I suddenly feel embarrassed in front of this man. I don’t know what triggers it- maybe the general shame of the day - but I feel like crying again. The only thing that stops me is the fear of further ridicule. 

“Crying, eh? A gentle giant, are we?” The man prompts, leaning back over, rusty curls falling over his face.

“Um-” I begin, but then a screen over the bar crackles to life. It displays the Panem logo- just like in the square. 

“Ah!” Ophelia scrambles to her feet, trotting over on her heels like a pony. She barges right between me and the man she seems to be familiar with to get a good glimpse of the screen. Capitol News introduces the program, and after playing a sort of recap-clip of President Snow announcing the terms of the Quarter Quell, the screen opens up to display footage of District 1, and their reaping. 

“Strange, isn’t it?” The man comments. 

“Hm?” Ophelia absentmindedly prompts, still laser-focused on the screen.

“To see careers being voted. D’you think it’s anything like usual?” He muses.

“Oh, kind of.” Ophelia nods, as the District 1 reaping wraps up, and progresses to a small break. District 2’s reaping then swiftly progresses.

“Yeah?” The man tilts his head, leaning against the bar.

“It was a lot like, well…like an election.” Ophelia determines, taking a while to choose her words. 

“An election? Makes sense.” He nods. 

“Lys said it was neck and neck in District 4. Some very strong campaigners.” 

“And Lys is…?”

“He- oh, there he is!” Ophelia gleefully claps her hands together, and points at a man on the screen. He’s dressed in lavish silks, a deep navy blue, and when he gestures his hands, ruffled gloves move like waves. He’s as heavily powdered as Ophelia, if not even more, and moves like a cartoon character. “I’m so proud of him. He worked hard to get selected for the Career reapings.” She sighs, dreamily. 

“I’m guessing he’s your special someone?” The man asks, with a lilt that makes it apparent- to me, at least -that he’s not taking it seriously. 

“Mhm!” Ophelia beams proudly. “I have a sneaking suspicion Lysander will propose to me after the games are through!” She holds out her hand as if to display a mock ring. 

I can’t help but scowl. To her, the games are just a small blip in her very busy year. To us, to those who are crushed under its mammoth shadow, it’s everything.

The carriage lurches, and I find myself gripping the bar for support. 

“Ah, finally. Off we go.” The man nods. 

The train is moving, and I hurry to the window in order to see the last glimpse of District 11 pass by. We pass by the square, and I can only catch shadows of the tops of houses and trees over fences and smaller dividing walls, and when the trees form a more orderly fashion, I know we’ve already passed my house and are progressing past the Orchards. Somewhere in the distance, my piano waits in its shell for the next young dreamer to possess. I hope it stays intact that long. We then approach the large, imposing walls that surround the district. Rebellious children in school craft tall tales of one day scaling the walls and breaking free- and they’d be punished for just that spoken idea. To escape its clutches is a strange sensation, because they’d become part of life, and to live a life outside of the walls, for just a week, is a novel concept. The train slows to a stop as we hit the wall, however, it quickly reaches top speeds as we are cleared to pass. There’s a shocking bolt of darkness as we pass through the concrete and metal, and then we’re out- and it skids away from me, and it’s at this moment I feel myself turn from boy to tribute. 

By the time we clear District 11, District 10’s reaping is almost over. 

“Oh, there we go.” Ophelia says, bracing herself. She watches herself on the screen, her doll-like face scrunching up into itself in embarrassment, her round cheeks making her eyes even less visible as she scrutinizes every second. “Ugh…” She comments.

“It’s perfect.” The man assures her.

“They got all the wrong angles.” Ophelia mourns. 

I watch as Tulip is reaped. As her sister clings onto her. It seems longer than it was in real life. More intimate. I now wonder exactly where the camera was to get that angle. It seems violating how much detail I can actually see. 

Then they move on to me, and shockingly, despite having blacked it out- it’s very much like I could remember. I stand there in shock, I look around at my peers for help, for anything, for a single word of support- and as I begin to feel the ground fall from beneath me, the boys nearby pull me out and into the center. And miraculously, I walk on. I join Tulip and Ophelia on stage, and then I am ushered away- and just like it began, District 11’s reaping moves on to District 12. I stay there, thinking about what they televised as I watch the last reaping. I watch a white-blonde girl dressed in a grass-green pinafore hang on to the girls around her before being ripped from their arms and toward the stage. I wonder how much of that was cut out, or extended. I then watch a scabby, spindly boy in plain rags slink up onto the stage, a sly squint plastered across his face. Before I can form my final thoughts, the feed cuts, and the commentary begins. 

I breathe deeply. I could’ve been taking the time to analyse all my competitors from the very first looks- but I don’t want to. 

In the time I was distracted with the reapings, Tulip has stood up, and has made her way to the center of the room. I watch her, and she’s staring daggers into the mystery man, and if she could, she’d be boring holes into the collar of his red velvet suit. The man takes a sip of liquor from a decadent frosted glass. He sighs. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know.” He drawls, and I wonder how exactly he saw Tulip staring- and it’s clear she’s thinking the exact same thing. 

He turns around, and tilts his head. 

“Who are you?” Tulip murmurs, and I realise it’s the first thing I've heard her say. 

“I really was wondering how long it’d be until either of you asked me that.” He laughs. He gestures to himself, hand over his heart. “Godot Futhark. I’ll be your mentor.” 

Me and Tulip glance at each-other, quizzical looks on both of our faces. Now, while I may not be the most well connected member of District 11, and even though our district is large by nature, you always know someone who knows someone. Which is why I wonder how a Godot Futhark has slipped through the cracks. Futhark isn’t a surname I've ever heard in 11 before. 

“We don’t have a Victor.” Tulip comments. 

We used to have one. A man by the name of Teo Granary, who used to work tilling machinery in the Fields. He won the 6th ever Hunger Games with his impressive strength, and some say the turning point is when he found a sickle, and turned it on his remaining competitors. He was our poster boy for a long time- until he passed away a couple of years ago. I can’t remember how, but I know that people stopped talking about him after that. All I know is that his parents still outlive him, and his mother works in an Orchard near mine. 

“I know. Unfortunate- I had the pleasure to meet him on occasion, and he was a good sport. No- see, I’m from District 3. However, we had a winner not too long ago, and she’s mentoring 3 this year, and so they shuffled me here.”

“Charming.” I decide to comment. He makes it seem like we’re just a chore for him, and I don’t care for that. 

Godot winks at me playfully. I feel the urge to retch. 

“Now, we’ll be able to talk strategy later, but for now, I want to get to know you both. You see, I only know of you what can be written on paper.” He gestures to Tulip. “Mid-height, sleek build, from a family of five…” he gestures to me. “Tall, broad, strong, and as I know it, alone in the world.” He shrugs. “It’s not a lot to go off of.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t make a very good first impression either.” I clap back. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not making us any more willing to tell you anything.” 

Godot raises an eyebrow. He waves a finger in the air. “That may be so, but once you realise I’m your only hope, and the one person you can trust to turn dying into winning- you’ll change your mind.” He finishes his drink, and picks up the glass. The bottom of the glass isn’t frosted, but isn’t clear, and as he holds it up toward me, I can see myself in the reflection. 

I don’t know exactly what point he’s trying to make- but he’s clearly making it. 

“Anyway, shall we eat?” Godot looks around at us. “I’m sure you’re all hungry.” 

He doesn’t take any answers, and disappears out of a side door. He then quickly re-emerges, and takes a seat at the one slightly bigger table in the train car, at the head of the table. He gestures for us all to take a seat. Ophelia sits to his immediate right, and I decide to sit at the end of the table, to the left. Tulip sits at the other end of the table, eye to eye with Godot. 

Godot leans over the armrest of his chair, eye attentively affixed to the closed door he came from. “They're supposed to be ready.” He comments, absently.

“Oh, but you know them. Slackers.” Ophelia chimes in. 

“Mm.” Godot keeps himself situated exactly where he can see the door. 

After a moment, two people come through the doors, pulling carts of food behind them. One of the attendants begins to quickly lay plates of food on the table, and the other sheepishly approaches Godot. 

“I’m so sorry about the mix-up, sir. You see- we didn’t get in the shipment of vegetables that we asked for, and even though we were fortunate enough to be stationed in 11 this time- it just didn’t work out-” she fumbles.

“That’s no excuse!” Ophelia squeals. “This is quite possibly your most urgent day of the year, and you can’t even fix one wayward shipping mistake? 

I clear my throat. “Nobody works in the morning of the reaping. You wouldn’t be able to get anyone to do anything, because we’re too busy trying not to get our heads blown off for not watching the reaping and the programme.” 

“I- but-” Ophelia stammers. She’s obviously not used to people getting in her way. 

I shrug. 

“You expect someone to risk their lives just so we can eat a specific type of food?” Tulip goads, joining in. She shakes her head. 

“Okay, okay!” Ophelia waves her hands in the air, dismissing our protests. “What’s happened has happened.” She grumbles, sinking a little lower in her chair. The large black and teal feather protruding from her headpiece almost sinks too, as if an extension of her bad mood. 

The other attendant finishes setting down what food was on his cart, and reaches over to the other cart to continue what his coworker hasn’t done, but she turns around to intervene.

“Leto, I’ll do it, it’s fine.” She nods, ushering him onward. She then doles out the remainder of the food, and I notice that she takes a moment to smile directly at Tulip, and then me. I smile back. She may be Capitol, but work is work, and I can’t help but feel slightly sympathetic. 

I turn my focus to the food, and strangely, my first instinct is dread. 

There’s a large chicken, marinated and stuffed, on a silver platter of lettuce and surrounded by roasted potatoes, golden and crispy. There’s a stack of handcrafted sandwiches, smaller than usual but double in normal numbers, with all kinds of fillings. Nearer to Tulip, they’ve set down slices of beef, and a dizzying array of dips and sauces, accompanied by what looks like savoury dipping pastries. Nestled in between is a fish still sizzling from the grill, a sprig of herb on top to garnish. On Godot’s end is an army of pitchers and bottles of drinks in all colors, of all kinds of smells, and some fizz so much that at the top, it almost appears to be smoking.

All of this- all of this had to come from somewhere. Back home, you know that the food you get, even tesserae, had to come from someone working hard, long hours in order for you to receive it. Every time I signed up for tesserae, I would take my ration home and truly ponder the people in District 9 who provided the grain. Were there children like me, forced to turn to work as the only option to keep themselves afloat? As for the oil- I know where it came from. It came from somewhere within the processing factories, where people work all day in order to create a manner of vegetable and olive oils. They supply those out to every district, so that their swathes of people who sign up for tesserae can have their fill, too. 

And it goes without saying that the food comes under the same conditions. The chicken and the beef are probably from animals in 10, the fish from 4, and the wide variety of other food and drink from 9 and 11. I feel the urge to thank anyone and everyone who had a hand in this meal, but if I did that, I'd be stuck doing that forever. A much better fate than the Hunger Games, though.

“Dig in, Huck.” Godot says, too far to physically nudge me, but moving his hand in my eyeline to compensate for the fact. “You’ll need your strength.” 

I look up at him. I think about saying something, anything- but for just a moment, Godot looks genuinely concerned. I swallow my pride, and I gingerly lift a sandwich from the platter they’re towered on, and take a bite. I am met with creamy, rich cheese, light butter, and freshly-washed lettuce. I resist the urge to tear up- it’s all so carefully manufactured, but it tastes so good. In my haze, I almost choke on my food, and have to quickly maneuver myself to stop it from happening. I look around- but thankfully, nobody saw.

I feel happy, indulging in all this. The more I eat, the less I care that I'll die within a week, and I only care about the wonderful food I'm eating. Everything is so rich, so tasteful, so expertly crafted that eating it is like appreciating art. I catch a glimpse of Tulip, now full in the swing as I am, polishing off the last of the fried fish. I get lost in the meal, and when I can’t eat any more, I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling light fixtures as they gently sway with the rock of the train. 

Ophelia turns to look across the table at Tulip. “All done?”

Tulip nods silently, using a napkin to wipe something out of the corner of her mouth. 

Our escort chuckles proudly to herself, and claps her hands together joyfully. “Godot?”

“Yes?” He responds, waiting. 

“Can you…?” She motions for him to leave the room. Godot perks up. 

“Ah, yes.” He shakes his pointer finger, as if remembering, and strides out of the room.

“Was it good?” Ophelia asks the both of us.

I nod. Tulip nods. 

“Gooood….” Ophelia nods back. 

Godot re-emerges from the door, the attendants from earlier at his heels. He leans against the headrest of his chair, and watches them. The man, Leto, clears the plates and trays and makes a swift exit. The woman then pulls another wheeled cart into the room, and Godot holds a hand out toward it.

I watch the woman lower the platter onto the table like a crash happening in slow motion. Something gets stuck in my throat, and it’s no longer the food from earlier. 

“Thank you, Yara.” Godot smiles, ushering the woman- Yara -off where her associate left from. 

“Look, I pulled some strings.” Godot says, casually. “I managed to get you both some fresh fruit, direct from District 11.” He goes back to leaning against the back of his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. 

On the platter are grapes, both green and red. Cherries, bunched up and piled high. Oranges in their plenty, and more bananas than i’ve ever seen in one place outside of the greenhouses they’re grown in. The thing I focus on, however, are the otherwise unassuming gala apples piled up to the left. They scream at me. I can tell exactly what variation they are, just from looking at them. I know them well- i’d like to think so, at least. Not my favourite kind, but Durian’s. He says he likes them the way they are, sweet, mild and semi-soft. Common and popular, they’re always available for surplus rations, and I've had them as a break snack at his behest more times than I can count. He alone harvests them, in our Orchard, at least- and I've grown to associate them with him. 

I pick one up and turn it over in my hand. I end up holding it so hard that my nails make little crescent-shaped indents in them. The cropped stems are his trademark. Capitol citizens like them low, but not gone- it’s part of the look, Huck. He says, in my memories. I ask him why. He says, I don’t know. But that’s just how it is. One little thing will keep your head above water, boy. You should take care to remember that.

“Huck?” Someone asks, trying to shake me. It feels as if someone has shoved a lightning rod down my spine. 

I hear the skidding of my chair as I stand, and I throw the apple far across the carriage, where I can’t see it. I hear it crack open somewhere behind a table. I can’t control my breathing and I feel sick, I feel surrounded, I feel choked. 

Someone tries to grab my shoulder- I look to the side and see Godot, his calculative stare now being used to analyse every bit of my movements. I can’t take it. 

I push him aside and I make for the door, but as soon as I'm out, I don’t know where to go- so I just aimlessly stumble myself forward. In the middle of a hallway, I fall to my knees, losing the strength to continue. I want to cry, but I just heave, dryly. 

I see Tulip above me, and she’s a hazy vision, haloed by the setting sun that streams in through the train windows. She squints down at me from above, and holds her arm out to me- but a gut feeling tells me not to take it. Instead, she then gestures to my side, and slides a side door open, and directs me to enter with a tilt of her head. 

On my hands and knees, I slide myself across the floor and through the threshold into a compacted bathroom, and I sit against the wall with my legs sprawled out in front of me. She crouches next to me.

“I hate him.” She says, as if plain fact.

I sniff back tears. “Me too.” 

“Was it yours?” She asks.

“No. My…” What is Durian to me? Truly? Not ever officially family, but somehow something closer. The man who picked me up when I was nothing but dust. I just sigh. “Durian. The man who used to look out for me. I know those are his. They have his cropping style. And they’re his favourite variation.” I explain, mournfully. 

Tulip nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I pause a little. “I don’t usually have outbursts like that.” I assure her. 

“It’s probably useful.” She shrugs. “At least they think you’re worth something. He had nothing helpful to say about me. He even got the number of my family members wrong.”

“Right…” I realise. I feel guilty for not picking up on it immediately- of course it’s not. It’s four, now. 

“Well, whatever the case, it was going to be wrong anyway. Five, four, three- it just keeps going.” She sighs, finally taking a seat on the floor and leaning her head back against the wall. 

“Do you think we should tell him more?” I ask. Tulip seems smarter than me. More put-together. I trust her judgement on this.

She doesn’t answer me. It’s clear she’s weighing it up. “I don’t know.” She finally answers. “I don’t know.” She repeats. 

I’m about to open my mouth when I hear footsteps. A blinding flash of teal signals our lack of privacy. 

“Oh- oh! There you two are! Tulip, I sent you to go and find him, not join him!” Ophelia squeals. She holds her hand out and beckons us forward rapidly, as if trying to reign in unruly children. We share a glance, and stand up to obey, trudging out of the bathroom. We just stand in front of Ophelia, waiting for what she has to say. 

“Look, I know that was…chaotic. Huck, you really shouldn’t do that. I know something upset you, but you must have some decorum, especially when you arrive at the Capitol! Save all that energy for the games, okay?” 

Her attempt at saying anything productive falls on deaf ears. 

Ophelia realises this, and sighs. “All right. That’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s get you two some rest.” She then shepherds us further down the hallway, and sequesters us in a small compartment. 

Inside are two cots that look like the ones they use in local hospitals, covered with plush grey blankets, neatly tucked into thin mattresses. On top are folded clothes- and I hope they don’t ask me to abandon my current clothes as I approach them- but they end up being pyjamas. 

I look across at Tulip. “I’ll use the bathroom and get changed, I guess. I’ll knock three times when I come back.” 

She just looks at me and nods her head, and then I leave to do exactly that. The pyjamas aren’t the most comfortable clothes I’ve ever worn, grey-blue, thin and starchy, but they do the job. Frankly- they’re better than what I wear at home. 

It doesn’t help to ignore the looming sensation that, piece by piece, I’m slowly being replaced by the Capitol itself until I get sent to die in the arena. I try to savor what light I can of the situation, but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. 

Eventually, I splash my face with water, and trudge back to the impromptu bedroom, knocking thrice on the door as I promised. Instead of a verbal response, I hear three knocks from inside the room, and slide the door open. Tulip is already sitting on her bed, staring at her hands. I feel like she’s waiting for me to do something, but I don’t know what to do, so we’re stuck in a very absent impasse. 

“Can I turn off the lights?” I ask. I like to sleep in total darkness, but she might not. 

“Go for it.” She nods. 

I switch the lights off, and there’s a moment of adjustment before the moonlight from the train window carpets us in its pale sheen. Drawn to the outside, I try to see what I can see from where we are.

“What district do you think we’re in?” I ask Tulip.

“I have no idea.” She asks, but the drawl in her voice as she too approaches the window tells me she’s just as intrigued as I am. 

We stand there for some time, just watching the trees near the tracks whizz by in the night- with the occasional structure passing by in the distance. I try to place it- where we are- but there’s too much monotony to guess. 

“There’s less stars.” Tulip notices, and I look up. I’ve never been a stargazer, but there’s a slight haze to the sky that’s never been there before. 

“Yeah…strange. Why do you think that is?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Tulip responds.

I suddenly feel bad to make her repeat herself so much. Half the words she’s said to me are a repetition of those exact three. I take that as a sign to go to bed. I slink away from the window and try my best to tuck myself into the sheets, but they’re largely uncomfortable. Whatever the case, sleep I will. Or- I’ll try. I stare at the ceiling.

“Do you want me to draw the blinds?” Tulip peeps, still at the window. 

I smile a little, as I didn’t really expect that sort of consideration. Not just from her, but from anyone. 

“Yes.” I respond. “I can’t sleep when there’s light in the room…”

“Neither can Lily.” Tulip responds.

“Lily?” I prompt.

“Daylily. My little sister?” 

“Oh. Right, yeah.”

I hear Tulip settle into bed after drawing the flimsy blind. 

“I heard her in the Justice Building.” I blurt. I instantly regret it. 

Tulip is silent for a while, and in that while I think she’s fallen asleep. 

“…She’s going to have to watch another sibling die. She’ll have to take care of herself.” Tulip delivers, as if there is no changing that fate- which there isn’t. 

“Do you hate them?” I ask.

“Hate who?”

“The people who voted you in. That majority who determined you’d come here and experience all this misery.” 

“Yeah.” She responds, bluntly. “I thought this was a good thing, for a second. That Lily wasn’t reaped, and she’d be safe. Now that I’m gone, there’s nobody to protect her from whoever hated me so much they wanted me in here.” 

“…I’m sorry.” I respond.

“Well, you didn’t vote me in.” She’s flippant. Then serious. “Did you?”

“No- no. No.” I splutter. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you didn’t abstain from the vote either, seeing as you’re alive right now.” 

“ For now.” I correct, half-joking. “Um, no. I voted Acki Saynor in. Because I couldn’t think of anyone else…” I cough out a hollow chuckle. “She’s bullied me all my life. I can’t stand her.”

“Oh, her. Okay. Makes sense.” Tulip laughs with me, the same spiritless laugh. 

“Who did you vote in?” I ask, curious.

“…I forgot.”

“You forgot!?”

“…Yeah. Whatever the case, if it matters, it wasn’t you. Nobody told me anything bad enough about you to make me want to vote you in, anyway.” 

“…Bad enough?”

“Aside from the usual rumor mill.”

“Right.” I say, venomous. 

“But I know it’s not true. It doesn’t seem true.” 

“I mean, yeah, it isn’t true- but I don’t know how much you could possibly believe that from my mouth.”

“I can.” She replies, simply. “Your parents supported us after Daffy died, and without them, we would’ve been starving to death.” 

“They helped you?” I turn over to try and catch a glimpse of her in the dark, to read her. She’s blurred in the dark, and I can’t. 

“Yeah. They were…executed soon after, though.”

“Right…” I sigh. 

We lie in silence for a moment more. 

“Do you think we would’ve been friends? If we met earlier?” I ask, meekly.

“I don’t know.” Tulip says. I should really stop asking questions. “But,” she continues. “I think it would’ve been nice.” 

I’m suddenly glad she can’t see me beaming in the dark. “Yeah. It would’ve been.”

“Goodnight, Huck.” Tulip finalises, and I can hear her turn over and adjust her sheets. 

“‘Night, Tulip.” I respond.

I then do the same, trying to settle in the bed I’ve been provided. It takes a while, and I spend too much time wasting space on horrible thoughts- but eventually my body decides enough is enough, and I fall asleep. 

Chapter Text

I am awoken to fervent knocking on the door. Half of me expects to see my manager there, reprimanding me for my lateness, when I go to open the door. However, as my hand fumbles for a door handle that doesn’t exist- I realise exactly where I am, and end up staring at the grey slab that separates me from the rest of the train I’ve been on. 

And Tulip, of course, who’s now sitting upright in bed, hair awry and currently attempting to rub sleep out of her eyes. The carriage is still dark, but a sort of dark that alerts you to dawn. I can see slightly more detail. 

What I don’t expect is the door opening without my intervention. It slides away with an unnatural haste and I am standing face to face with Godot again, almost nose to nose. He’s in another plush, matching suit- however this one is a rich navy with gold embellishments instead of a deep red. I stumble backward, and he just laughs. 

“You’ll have to work on your reaction time if you want to get anywhere in the games, Huck. Good morning.” He smiles. I curse in my head. I can’t make up my mind about Godot, but for the most part, he evokes an instinct in me that I can only equate to a threatened animal. I don’t know why. I only know to run- and I don’t want to run. 

“We’re heading out in 10, guys.” He informs us, moving past me to set down two piles of clothes on my bed. “Be ready, alright?” He tells us, swiftly moving out of the room as quickly as he arrived. I sigh, and I go to pick up one pile of clothes. I lift one bit of fabric aloft, and discover that it’s a dark green jacket of some kind, the number 11 stamped on the back in large typeface. 

“Like cattle.” Tulip comments. “That’s too small for you. It must be mine.” 

“Yeah…” I respond, handing her the jacket, and the rest of the clothes in the first pile. I then turn to mine, and take inventory. Dark green pants, a black t-shirt, the jacket, new underwear, some socks and a pair of shoes. Dark green is decidedly our district color, and I don’t mind it. It reminds me of the trees deep in the woods. 

I’ve been trying not to think about my special clearing, but it seems all roads lead back there, in my mind. 

Tulip stands and heads for the door. “I’ll be back.” She announces, and she slips out and away. The door softly closes with a metallic thunk. 

My body resists as I go to pick up my own shirt, but I know that if I don’t dress now, there could be major consequences. Reluctantly, I slip it on, along with the rest of my outfit. As I’m tying my shoelaces, there are three knocks on the door, and I almost trip over myself in order to get it open. I let Tulip in, and sit back down. 

Tulip stands by the window, and opens the blind a little. She gasps- and I turn around, craning my neck. 

“What is it?” I ask.

“The Capitol.” She mumbles. 

At that, I spring up to get a look.

It’s glorious- that’s the only word for it. Towering spires of sparkling metal that glitter in the early light. Even from afar, you can see masses of colorful crowds go about their day, jostling this way and that. As we rapidly approach the train terminal, I can see lines of other trains already stationed there. As I count, I can tell they’ve sent the trains to terminals in order of district- they must do, because there are ten trains already parked in their own lanes.

I continue to stare as we pull in, and from the train in the row in front of ours, I can see the tributes from District 10 as they step outside. There’s a tall, well-built boy with cropped curly hair on the platform, aimlessly looking about him. There’s a sudden chaos, however, as two Peacekeepers manhandle a skinny little girl with black hair, no taller than my chest, as she flails and screams and tries to injure the Peacekeepers. They have her in handcuffs, and the boy with her holds some distance as he watches what they do to her. An additional Peacekeeper joins them, and escorts the boy behind her. 

I guess some people refuse to go quietly. 

“Poor girl.” Tulip comments.

“Mm.” I reply.

“She can’t be older than 15.” She guesses.

“You never know. Malnutrition.”

“Think she’ll win?” 

I shrug. “Anyone could win.”

Tulip sighs. 

Another knock to our door, and Godot is there again. Or- he would be. I expect him to be. 

However, a Peacekeeper is there, beady eyes focused on me and Tulip. 

“You two- let’s go.” He barks, gesturing for us to leave. Not eager to meet the fate of the girl from 10- we comply. As I follow Tulip, I look around and inside every room I can get my eyes on to see if I can get a glimpse of Ophelia or Godot. Nothing. 

The Peacekeeper is met by another, and they both flank us as they herd us out of the station. Clearly not through the front entrance, as I can hear the distant cheers of a crowd. They’re too far away, as I can’t make out exactly where they are, or what’s being broadcast to them. I wonder if they can see me now, so I look behind me, to see if it invokes any noise, and it doesn’t. 

We walk through barren, empty halls meant to receive thousands of people. Blank terminal boards now display the message: WELCOME, TRIBUTES OF THE HUNGER GAMES! 

They’re so oppressive and the number of screens is so excessive that it’s very hard to feel welcome at all. 

A resounding cheer echoes from the crowd, now even further away, and I continue to look around me for a sign. I then realise- it must be the trains. I see the last train, the one from 12, now at the station. I can’t see the tributes, but they must have entered the platform, where they can be seen.

Not one moment will be private. You are on show. 

I debate making a run for it. I know those tracks are dangerous, laced with electricity. I could run, and throw myself upon them, and be done with it. I want to be done with it. But, my feet keep moving, and the station is cut off from view. The Peacekeepers have us exit out of a back door and usher us into the back of a small, black van. I’ve lost my shot. I can’t control my leg as it bounces, and the only noises I can hear aside from my foot on the van floor is the sound of streets passing by. 

“Training, next.” Tulip states.

“Yeah.” I utter. I then look up at her. “Are you not scared?”

“Terrified.” Tulip shrugs.

“Then-“ I stutter. I then lose my sentence, ashamed of myself. 

Tulip doesn’t seem to offer any reasoning or consolation, so I leave it. 

I expect the van to stop at some point. I don’t know how big the Capitol is, but it’s certainly smaller than all the other districts, so it shouldn’t take too long to cross it. However, every time I think we’ve stopped for good, we keep moving again, and it gets to a point where I feel as if I'm being constricted in the dark, cold insides of the vehicle itself, like food being digested in a system. 

Just as I think I can’t take it anymore, the van stops, and there is a bang against the back doors we entered through. The doors then open, the light from outside blinding me momentarily. However, as the Peacekeepers begin to yell commands, I trust my limbs to help me stumble my way out. My legs have fallen asleep from sitting, and I wobble, praying I won’t fall. 

“This way.” A Peacekeeper directs, and I turn in the direction he wants me to.

In front of me is a small building, rectangular and surrounded by absolutely nothing. The ground is what feels like gravel, and the only thing that breaks it up are small patches of withering grass, desperately holding on to their last legs. I try to look behind me to see how far out of the Capitol we are, but I am then yelled at again, and I stay on course. Me and Tulip approach the building, eyeing up dull grey steel walls and glass windows and doors, and are then ushered inside. 

Inside the grey building is more grey, dark grey tile and concrete beams. We’re in some sort of foyer, a small section that’s cut off from the bulk of the building from another large steel wall. This one has no windows of any kind, prohibiting us from looking in. 

“District 11.” The Peacekeeper informs a staff member, standing by the door.

“Huck Ploughman and Tulip Delora?” The staff member asks, but not to us. She taps her pen impatiently against the top of her board.

The Peacekeeper nods, and the staff member nods back, writing something down. She then eyes us both up, and clears her throat.

“When you enter, you will go left,” She points her pen at Tulip. “And you will go right.” 

I expect her to say something else, anything else, about what’s about to happen- but she doesn’t, and the doors open. Without a word to anyone else, I go right, and Tulip goes left, and we both disappear down what feels like two dark navy sorting chutes, made out of a tough ribbed plastic. I touch it as I pass through, absolutely bemused by the circumstances. 

I enter into another long, bright hall- longer than I could’ve imagined when looking at the building from the front. It’s slim, and to my right there’s a dark blue partition wall right up to the ceiling- presumably leading to where Tulip has ended up. The floor is a varnished, light wood, and to my left is a large concrete platform anchored high against the wall it sits against. I can see the tops of heads moving, but no faces. 

“11!” Someone yells, and I stand to attention like a soldier. I was caught so off guard by my surroundings that I failed to register my situation. 

Yet another Peacekeeper directs a baton to me, and as I stare down the room at him, I realise we aren’t alone. A whole slew of boys of various ages and types line the walls, silent and still. I am incredibly scared by this- they all look like mannequins. 

The Peacekeeper points his baton to the air, and I notice there are banners above squares on the floor, and there’s two empty squares- one for me, I assume, under the green 11, and one across from it, under a black 12. I take the hint, and I shuffle into my square. I follow the lead of the other boys, shutting up and standing in place. 

After a few minutes, someone else comes through the tunnel, and as expected, it’s the boy from 12- the one I didn’t get to see at the station. He’s much unlike the boy who was reaped last year, who is frankly everything this boy is not. This boy is small, skinny and shaggy, his jet-black hair cut in such a way that he looks like a soot-covered dust bunny, and dirt inlaid on his skin that pokes out of his black uniform. The most striking thing about him, I notice, are his big grey eyes. They examine every inch of me as he is directed to stand right across the way, under his banner.

The Peacekeeper at the head of the room tells us to take off our clothes, and while some tributes immediately follow the command, I don’t. I don’t like it at all- I don’t want to be exposed like this to the people out to kill me, but as a few people clothed in white approach me, I know I don’t have time to protest. I gingerly take off my new clothes and shoes as instructed, and one of the people puts them behind me, to the side, in a box. I shuffle awkwardly on my feet, but before I have time to react, someone else douses me in ce-cold water. I let out a yelp I can’t contain, but I’m not alone, as I hear shouts of protest and pain all the way down the line. No second to waste, however, as someone instantly begins to prod and assail me with a sponge that’s rough and abrasive, getting into the nook of my neck to the point where I feel a rash coming on. They scrub me down, and then douse me again, and soapy water gets into both my eyes and nose, and I cough and rub at my face, no help provided. 

They then begin to towel dry me, roughly tousling my hair and scrubbing my face, and it somehow gets even more soap into my eyes. I begin to cry it out, letting my tears of irritation wash the foreign liquid out of my eyes. When they are done drying me, I feel even worse than when I started. At least I had my dignity, then. They hand me the towel to use to cover myself with, and take the clothes I was dressed in away. They were such elaborate uniforms- and to see them gone in just a second makes me feel a little bad, somehow, for not wearing them enough. However, it isn’t my choice. 

Logically, training should come after this. After the reapings, a day or so later, you get training scores and recaps, and then tribute interviews.

I stand, waiting for someone to hand me my clothes back, hopefully. Instead, I am visually assaulted by a flash of neon yellow, and suddenly a man in an architecturally complex suit stands beside me. “Huck?” He asks, in a lilting, high voice.

“Yeah?” I reply, wary.

“Wonderful!” He claps, and then reaches for a long baton attached to something in the ceiling, and when he tugs it, a partition is divided around my square, sequestering just him and me in the square set out for District 11. I feel trapped.

“Right! Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Huck! I’m Tamrys, and I’ll be your prep assistant today!” 

“Prep assistant?” I echo, dumbfounded. 

“Yes! Oh, it’s incredibly exciting, you see-“ Tamrys begins, but then he is stopped by what I can only assume is his own train of thought. “Oh, whatever. It won’t hurt to tell you.” I raise an eyebrow, and he lowers his voice. He leans in to whisper to me, trying to be cheeky- but I lean away. “They’re doing something very new, this year. It requires an extra pair of hands, and they decided to select students from both the Academy and the University to be part of it!” He squeals.

“What?” I feel like a stunned owl, constantly hooting my own confusion. 

Tamrys doesn’t look like a student. He looks older than me, face caked with glittery yellow makeup, jagged in points and bright as the sun. His dark hair is slicked back and coated in stripes of yellow glitter- and I start to notice a theme as I look at his delicate neon yellow suit. He looks like an overzealous bumblebee. The distinction is important, because while wasps are slick and deadly, bumblebees are plump and harmless. Tamrys is not a wasp. 

I then think about what it is they’re doing that requires someone to ‘prep’ me. Much less a student. 

“So…you’re not my stylist?” I ask.

“Oh, no, heavens no. No. I’d have to train for years to get to that point, but someday, I hope so! But no. No.” Tamrys answers, having turned around to fish inside of a box of tools. 

“So what is this, then?” 

“I’m not supposed to say!” Tamrys chuckles. 

“Then, what are you going to do to me?” I shiver, still freezing.

“Just neaten you up a bit!” Tamrys chirps, standing up and brandishing a pair of robust clippers. They look like the ones meant for trimming hedges, and I feel scared all over again.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Huck- it’s good for you! It’s stylish! Neat and trimmed, that’s what we want.” 

“I don’t want that!” I protest. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just what I’ve been told to do, Huck. But trust me, when I’m done with you, you’ll look absolutely fabulous!” Tamrys stresses each syllable of that last word, enamoured with the idea in his head.

He takes a photo of me, for evidence, and then I am subjected to a metaphorical chicken plucking, stripped of all my feathers. Tamrys takes a razor to what facial hair I have, and then clips off the hair on my arms, chest- everywhere I can see. He buffs my hands and nails, and pushes my hair back, despite me keeping my hair cut very short. He makes a crude comment on how thick it is, and I momentarily feel self-conscious. More so than I already am. He takes a little brush to my hairline, making a smooth, singular curl with what he can manage. It feels ridiculous. It’s all ridiculous.

“Very good…” Tamrys murmurs, examining me from the edge of the box, nodding his head. He takes another photo. “From farm-boy to fighter!” He quips, that obnoxious smile plastered on his face. I just huff. 

“Okay…” He sighs. “Moving on. Where is…” He begins looking around him for something, and then pokes his head out of the curtain. 

“ Varian !” He calls. 

I hear the curtain next to mine- District 9’s -shuffle, and the person Tamrys is calling presumably pops out. 

“Where’s Dido?” He asks.

“Dido?” Varian replies. “Still across the way, I’m sure.”

“It was supposed to be me first! We’re running out of time as it is!”

“Well, what are you going to do? He’ll get around to you eventually. You’ll still get your grade.”

“I can’t afford to fail!” Tamrys whines. “Whatever!” He cries, storming back inside the curtain. Tamrys just crosses his arms, and fiddles with his outfit, clearly taking his frustration out on me in the way of silent treatment- but I couldn’t be more happy to hear him shut up, for once. 

Dido is a name I recognise. They interview all the stylists as part of pre-game press junkets, and mostly, the stylists remain the same for a long while. Dido has been the District 11 stylist for as long as stylists have been a part of the games, and from what I heard of my parents mutterings- he’s infamous, too. I can never tell how old he is, but I think that’s the point. 

I stand there for a while more, to the point where I’m acutely aware of the fact I am now completely dry. Due to the awkward change of pace- my mind spirals backward, trying to hold on to District 11 in my head. I can’t get too lost in the haze of the Capitol. In all honesty, I think they have us on such tight rotas in order for us to tunnel our focus on our impending death match- and it’s working. I can’t let it. 

However, the memories already begin to haze. Memories of grunt work in the Orchard with Durian, memories of my mama and papa singing together in the kitchen, memories of being bullied at school, memories of my piano in the woods- all tinted with a ring of light, as if a degraded photograph, crumbling away in the dark. It scares me. 

I am jolted back to the cold, bright hall when the curtain is thrust open, and I am suddenly extremely cramped inside the box drawn out for me on the floor. My heels touch the edge, and the back of my head brushes the curtain behind me. Tamrys is too, practically flattened in his attempt to also stay inside the square, arms clutched to his torso as he examines the other man- Dido. 

Dido is much taller than me, and while this would usually be a feat of marvel, a quick glance reveals that he is wearing heeled shoes of an obscene height. They’re dark blue and stretch right up to his knees, giving him a tilted posture as he balances weight between his feet- never both at the same time. His high-waisted grey trousers are more of a concept than functional garment- as they are split in two at the knees, so that as he walks, the boots poke through. They’re fringed in gold, spiralling accents of fine thread. He wears a frilly white blouse that, despite having sleeves that billow outwards, come together at the wrists. He also dons an overcoat in the same blue as his shoes, and the collar is swallowed by an immense ring of grey-black fur that consumes his neck and shoulders, pinched together at the collarbone. The coat itself hangs off of his shoulders, once again not functional at all, and purely decoration. As are most things of the Capitol. 

I try to look Dido in the eyes, but he wears sunglasses that obscure his gaze. His skin is painted in a thin sheen of white that is a jarring contrast to his fairly tan complexion. 

“Now this is what we were missing.” He drawls, a gravel to his voice that hums deep within his chest. He lifts a sleek looking object in his gloved hand and uses the thick, open end to lift my chin upward. I jolt again at the surprise, and Dido does this a few times, directing me wordlessly to look side to side. 

“Turn around for me, Huck.” He commands, and I do as told. “Hold your arms out.” He commands again. I only hold one of them, as to preserve my dignity with the other. I then switch arms after a moment, and it seems to suffice. “Turn.” He orders, again. And again, I do. 

He takes his sunglasses off, finally, and a pair of beady amber eyes look me up and down. He nods, slowly. He then throws the sunglasses at Tamrys, who eagerly catches them. 

“The last boy was barely human. You, Huck- you could be carved from marble. Do a lot of manual labor, do you?” He asks.

I feel embarrassed. “Er- yes.” I curtly respond. 

“And that voice- you must use it in your interview. They’ll hang onto every single word.” Dido grins, revealing sharpened, gem adorned teeth.

I suddenly feel endangered.

“Right. No time to waste. Your other half- she’s a stubborn one.” Dido places the object he’s holding between his teeth and takes a deep breath in- and then I realise he’s smoking from it. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and I’m momentarily distracted, but then he puts it into his pocket and clasps his hands together. 

“What’s your name?” Dido looks at Tamrys. Before he can respond, Dido just waves his hand. “No time. There’s a box just outside, bring it in for me, would you?” He instructs, and Tamrys does as asked, shortly dragging a plastic box into the square, and when I thought it couldn’t get more cramped in here, it does. 

Dido lifts a costume from the box and weighs it up against me. “Perfect.” He presses it against my collarbone. “Well? Take it, Huck. Get dressed.” 

I instinctively hesitate.

“A prude, are we?” Dido laughs. 

I feel a prickling on my back. I hate being made fun of, but I don’t have the spine in me to resist. By the time I matured, all the children who knew me in District 11 knew to tease me, and so my new appearance did nothing to shield me from ceaseless mockery. Dido is just another bully, but he scares me too much for me to find the fight in me to resist. I almost look forward to the arena- at least I won’t have to endure this when I die in there. 

A silent resistance, I let go of the towel, and I get dressed awkwardly. 

From what I can see, I am dressed in a loose, tan tunic of silky fabric, brown leather belt at the waist to give it some structure. It’s hemmed in a darker, oakier brown fabric, plush like velvet. I wear brown leather gloves and elbow pads, linked together with a series of garter straps with intricate gold designs of various plants and crops. The garter straps run under the sleeves of the tunic to end at a strap at the neck that resembles a collar too much for my liking. There’s a similar system at my legs, with a pair of leather sandals with a matching set of delicate leather strap designs that travel up to my thighs. Clipped to my belt is a wicker construction that looks like a horn, but full of fruit of all kinds. I go to touch it- but the fruit is all fake, shiny and plastic. It depresses me endlessly to see such a poor, horribly lifelike fake. Around my hair is a crown of wheat spikes, painted gold in such an intimate fashion that even each individual awn sparkles. 

“Beautiful.” Dido sighs. “Absolutely beautiful. Stand still, Huck.” He instructs, and he pulls from a bag a few different pots and trays, and hands Tamrys a few little bags. From these bags Dido procures a few brushes, and a little round sponge, and he begins to assault my face with all kinds of makeup. Despite constant reminders to stop closing my eyes and scrunching up my nose- Dido gets the job done. He rings my eyes with black powder, and with his thumb paints a line of glittery gold from the center of my bottom lip, down to my chin, and down my neck to where my throat meets the collar. He then rings the middle of my arms in the same gold, so that the strap that goes down to the elbow pads intersects them. It’s a laborious process, and I wonder how much time we’ve spent on this, and what awaits me next. Whatever it is- it’s nothing anyone in Panem has ever seen before, and that in itself is a bad omen. 

“Alright. That will have to do.” Dido sighs, taking another drag from his smoke-stick. He thrusts his equipment at Tamrys, who scrambles to sort everything back into their pouches and boxes. After he’s done with that, he takes out a camera, and takes another photo of me. 

“Ah- Dido, sir?” Tamrys tries to get his attention. 

Dido sighs. “Yes?”

“Would you mind very quickly signing off on my report for the University?” Tamrys asks, holding out a sheet of paper. “They won’t grade my work unless the stylist overseeing the tribute I got assigned can vouch for me.” 

“You’re from the University?” Dido tilts his head. “I didn’t know they were scraping outside the Academy.”

“Er- yes. Only a select pool of Academy seniors got to prep District’s 1 to 5. District’s 6 to 10 went to University seniors, and 11-12 went to some of us in lower years.” Tamrys nods. 

“Hm. Fine, give it to me.” He snatches the report from Tamrys and crudely signs the bottom of it, and hands it back. Dido then reaches across the square, to the long baton from earlier, and tugs it counterclockwise, so that the curtain disappears into a bunch, hanging from the ceiling. 

When the curtain is pulled back, I am able to survey the rest of the boys in the hall. Only a few curtains are still drawn, namely District 3 and 6, and District 1’s boy has left the hall, but everyone else is on show. I can tell they all focus on me momentarily due to the curtain shift, and I try to challenge their gazes. The boy from District 4- clad in a floor length robe of shifting blue hues -flashes me a smile, but I don’t return it. Whatever he wants, I won’t give him. 

I look across from me at the boy from District 12, and what I observe of his styling is that whoever styled him isn’t trying to give 12 a good impression to the masses, at all. He’s styled in a pair of coal-black overalls, a black shirt and black boots, with a thick miners helmet atop it. The only fascinating part of his outfit is a blinking light buried in the dome-like helmet, but the blinking is clearly less calculated and more…an afterthought. I would feel very bad for him, but he doesn’t seem to care about the fussing from his obnoxious stylist and his equally obnoxious prep assistant. 

“Magno!” Dido calls. 

The stylist for 12- Magno -turns around. “Dido! You rat bastard, there you are!” 

Dido sighs. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Magno. What is that?”

“What, this?” Magno gestures to the boy. “This-”

“No, Magno. That .” Dido gestures to the writhing mass around Magno’s neck.

“Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, isn’t he wonderful? What a specimen.” The positively bloated snake, currently wrapped around Magno’s shoulders, slithers lazily about him, in circles, like a caged animal. 

“And they let you out with that?” Dido asks, disgusted.

“They can’t say no to me!” Magno cackles, and he confidently strides up to us. Dido stretches an arm across me, to stop Magno from getting any closer.

“Hey, now!” Magno gasps. “I’m just being friendly.” He clutches his chest, offended. He then leers across Dido’s arm at me. “Very overprotective of this years’, Dido.” He laughs. “Last years’ might as well have been dirt to you.”

“He didn’t deserve it.” Dido simply answers. This makes me think- who was it, last year?

Last year, a boy from the processing factories was reaped. He had never gone to school, and only knew his parents and those dingy factories. He was young- maybe 13 or 14, and clearly malnourished. His brown skin was dulled from lack of sun exposure. He had cried and wailed all the way through being reaped, on television, and in the arena, where he met an early death somewhere far away on the sands of District 4. The girl who was reaped with him lasted a little longer, but even she didn’t get very far. I think she was drowned by a boy from District 2.

Why was that little boy not worth Dido’s full attention? The answer isn’t complicated, and I hate the implication. I try not to dwell on it.

Magno retreats back to his tribute, who is still being talked at by his prep assistant (to deaf ears), and Dido just sighs again. He checks a watch, previously buried in his sleeve. 

He then watches as the boy from District 10 is ushered away. 

“Right. I shall see you and the girl on the other side.” Dido nods. “You- come with me.” He beckons Tamrys, who beams as if he has won the lottery, and the two leave me without a second glance. I am left alone for a few moments before one of the white-clad staff members comes to my side and asks me to follow them. I obey, and we walk to the end of the hall, and out a set of doors. 

I expect to be blinded by sunlight, as I assume that beyond the wall is the outside of the building. The back wall had two windows near the top that let the light in- so when I step into a pitch black hall with a relatively low roof, I feel a sense of unease. The building was extraordinarily long to begin with, so for there to be even more is discombobulating.

What is even stranger is the sheer amount of horses packed into the space. 

They whinny and shuffle and attempt to resist the restraints on them, all being restrained by a number of the same assistants in white. The one escorting me ushers me down the line, and I pass by tributes, horses, and their shouting array of handlers alike. I am stopped close to the end, as I expected, and I finally see Tulip again. She’s stood by the flank of a slim palomino, and doesn’t hear me approach. I clear my throat, and she startles a little, before just nodding at me.

“Looking sharp.” She comments.

I chuckle. “Back at you.” 

Tulip is wearing an almost identical outfit, but her tunic is more of a floor-length dress, pleated under a belt. Her hair has been artificially lengthened, in long, long braids, woven in with golden beads. She wears the same crown I do, with the same kind of makeup, but they seem to have painted her eyelashes gold. 

“So, Dido.” I try to open a conversation on our stylist.

“Yeah.” She nods again. 

“What’d he say about you?” I ask, probing.

She shoots a look at me. “Why- what did he say about you? ”

I sigh, and shake my head. “He…was really fascinated with how I look.”

Tulip squints. “He didn’t really say much about me. He said I had great potential, but that it would never amount to anything in any situation- as it will be wasted on the games, or wasted on hard labor.” She shakes her head. 

“That’s rude.” I huff.

“That’s the Capitol.” Tulip corrects. She reaches a hand out to pet the horse’s flank, and is clearly delighted when it doesn’t kick. 

There are a steady stream of horses in District 11, but their breeding and usage are strictly Capitol regulated, and exclusively for farm use. Some of the Peacekeepers in 11 own a select group to ride around on. So to see a horse that isn’t bred for work, so close up- it’s a novelty. I join in, and I immediately feel the appeal. I brazenly walk toward the head of the horse, making sure it can see me before petting its nose. 

“Poor thing.” Tulip says. “Strapped up to entertain, huh? We get it.” 

I nod, as if the horse can understand that. 

“11?” An unfamiliar voice asks. 

We both turn around to see yet another nameless attendant. 

“This way, please.” They instruct, and we are led back to where we stood before, but this time, there’s something different. 

A wheeled platform sits behind the horse, built from sturdy, varnished, dark wood. It’s painted with golden patterns and adorned with more of that eye-offending fake fruit. 

“If you’d both stand here.” The assistant gestures to the platform, and we both warily step on. It moves slightly with the horse, and I don’t feel very safe, so I use the raised front for support. 

The assistant with us pulls up a panel at the back, closing us in. 

“Chariot 11, standing by.” She calls out. 

Presumably, as always, we are waiting on 12. I then see the little boy and his district partner pass by. The girl with him is also dressed in the same miners outfit, and keeps pulling at it, clearly uncomfortable. Her rice-blonde curls poke out at odd angles from her helmet, and she keeps tripping over overall pants that are a little too long. They get put into their slate-grey platform- their chariot, and their assistant calls out in turn. 

Once all of the chariots are loaded up, the entire back wall- to which the horses have been facing- lifts up, and despite the sun on its way down- I am still blinded by the light I expected earlier. The dark environment dulled my eyesight, for those short minutes. 

I can still see the same arid grassland that I saw at the front of the building, but after our chariot begins to move as part of the procession, and we turn left, I can see the Capitol again. Much closer than it was from the train, but far enough away that it’s still shocking. As we hit the border, a small car slips in front of the District 1 chariot, guiding it through the streets. With the sunset at our backs, the buildings illuminate and sparkle in bright oranges, pinks and purples.

Crowds cheer and flock out in droves, so much so that I can’t quite believe it when every single street we pass is full to the barricade of colorfully dressed Capitol citizens. As we pass, crowd members make a point to yell our district number to get our attention, and I can’t help but feel slightly smitten by the attention, and I begin to wave to them, which elicits reactions from many. Tulip also joins in, and for a moment, I'm swept up in the adoration. Nobody’s ever liked me this much, and admittedly, I fall for it.

We turn into a large boulevard, and my jaw hangs open as I see stands upon stands of people, stretching up to what feels like skyscraper level on either side of the road. The road is wide, newly build, never before trodden upon, and it’s clear by the edges of the stands still under construction that they’ve built it just for today. 

As we fly down the road, we eventually spread out in an order at the top of a concourse. In front of us stands a large tower, with a marble stage on top. Large Capitol banners hang off of it, fluttering in the breeze. The sun has since set, and the platform is lit in high beams. 

The anthem of Panem plays from a vast array of speakers, and then the crowd hum picks up considerably- and then we see him. 

Right on top of the stage, at a pulpit designed just for him, is President Coriolanus Snow. 

Well-kept and dressed in the finest suit in all of Panem, he is brighter than the spotlights shining upon him. Every camera is positioned to face him, like sunflowers toward the sun. If you were oblivious to everything he’s done in his term, he would seem like all the cheeky young man he still paints himself as. I used to hear my parents say that he’s still yet to outgrow the image he set out for himself when he was elected, and seeing him in the flesh now, I can’t help but agree. He wasn’t elected very long ago, but he’s made quick work of his presidency, and I can’t help but get a sinking feeling that he will continue to do so, for as long as he can.   

He smiles and holds his hands up as if to hold the crowd, and gently gestures a downward motion. The crowd takes the cue, and quietens. 

“Welcome all, welcome. Welcome, Panem.” He only gets one sentence out, but the crowd roars in response. He laughs, curtly. “And a special welcome to our tributes, for this very auspicious Hunger Games.” He looks down at us, and tilts his head, as if observing weak baby animals. He then looks back up at his eye level, at a drone with a camera a few feet away. “You may be wondering exactly what it is we have chosen to do today, and I invite you to acknowledge the first ever chariot-led opening ceremony to the Hunger Games. A fitting first look and celebration of our beloved tributes.” Another wild frenzy from the crowd. “As you well know, when the Games were established, there were terms set, and while I won’t bore you with the entirety- there was a special term that required a variation of the Games every 25 years- something they wanted to be called The Quarter Quell.” He pauses for effect, and continues. “Now, we have been hard at work, as you can imagine, planning out the grandest of changes and festivities- but I must implore you to remember that under the spectacle is symbolism. We hold these games to remind ourselves that the Dark Days, and everything they entailed, can never happen again. The Hunger Games are more than just that- they are a humbling declaration of our commitment to peace.” 

The crowd screams again, and at this point, I begin to bore of it. You don’t fully agonise in the irony of President Snow’s speeches until you are a tribute, I realise.

“So once again, I welcome our tributes, and I welcome you to behold them in full. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds ever be in your favor.” 

The crowd begins to chant, scream and stamp so loudly that I can feel the ground shake from where I stand. President Snow recedes, and the anthem begins to play again, and before I know it, the chariot pulls away. 

Eventually, we end up behind a tall, grey building, nearly identical to every single other building that sits around it. It’s a weird contrast- all these glittery costumes and decadent chariots and all these horses piled into what seems like an empty loading dock for whatever this building is. We are ushered off of the chariots and then into the building, into a pristine white-and-blue lobby. All the electronic screens inside are blasting that same ‘WELCOME, TRIBUTES!’ message from the station, but all dressed up in fancy fonts and moving graphics. 

Out of the haze of bodies, I see a familiar face come toward me and Tulip with a giant smile stuck right on. In the same blue suit he parted with us in is Godot, with Ophelia trailing behind him. 

“Oh, how darling you both look!” Ophelia squeals. “It’s a shame Dido isn’t here- I'd just love to compliment him on his work! So vintage!” She gushes.

“Isn’t it?” Godot chuckles. “You two were brilliant out there.” He compliments.

“We didn’t really do anything…” Tulip squints.

“Trust me, Tulip. Inaction is just as much an action as anything else. And I'd say you excelled.” Godot assures.

I am overcome by a sudden yawn, and clasp a hand in front of my face in sheer embarrassment. I haven’t been keeping track of the time, but I realise I haven’t had one moment of rest since I woke up at dawn.

“I’ll take that as a sign that you’re eager to see your living quarters.” Godot laughs. “Let’s head up.”

Godot leads us to an elevator, but a group of people are already inside. It being a large elevator, we hop in anyway.

“Godot Futhark. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” A tall, brown-skinned woman dressed in silks of mint green says. 

Godot winks. “So they tell me.” He chuckles. “Your tributes?” He asks, and I then turn my attention to the tributes against the back wall of the elevator. One is a tall boy dressed in a sleeveless, cream colored, neck-high jumpsuit and decorated with all kinds of amber jewellery. His district partner, a small, skinny girl with corn-gold hair up in bows, is dressed very much the same- as are most district pairs. 

“Indeed. Say hello.” The woman directs. 

The boy, much to everyone’s surprise, sticks his hand out. Toward me. I startle somewhat, and I don’t know if I want to accept it, but politeness and the eyes of everyone else on the situation gets the better of me, and I shake his hand.

“Bran Hoffman. Hello.” He says, simply. 

“Huck Ploughman. Hello yourself.” I respond, feeling obliged. 

Tulip and the other girl just exchange waves of recognition. I wish it was as simple as that.

Godot turns his eye to a counter that’s been going as we ascend floors.

“What district did they give you?” He asks.

“Nine.” The woman responds. “I didn’t expect to end up this low, but they obviously hate you more.” 

Godot laughs. “Whatever. I don’t care. The more victors there are for the highers, the more of us there’s going to be schooling the lowers. That’s just how it’ll be, until we eventually get stockpiled in storage.” He shrugs. 

“At least it’s not Twelve.” The woman jabs. “Who got Twelve?”

“Er…” Godot thinks. “I don’t know, actually. I’ll find out.”

“I know you will.” 

The elevator dings, and the doors open. The District 9 escort hurries the tributes out of the elevator, and the woman leaves last. She kisses Godot on the cheek, and gives him a flick of the chin as she departs. “Good luck!” She calls, sauntering off, her extremely high and long ponytail fluttering in her wake. The doors close and we continue to ascend. 

“Who was that?” I ask. 

“Oasis Kilmer.” Godot nods. “They called her the Desert Barbarian.” 

The pieces click somewhat, as I remember that nickname, but not the games itself. Whatever the case- all I know is that there are serious mixed opinions about her. She seemed nice enough, but in the same way Godot is nice enough. There’s something missing below the surface. 

The elevator dings again, and we step out onto our floor. 

“You get the entire floor, just to yourself. But your suite is up here.” Godot walks ahead of us, and opens the doors to a lavish room. It’s incredibly large, with a dinner table piled high enough to feed a family of 8 for a month being the first thing I see. I then look around, and see a plush sofa, a television, many intricate carpets and paintings and plant decorations, and multiple doors leading off into other rooms. 

“Now, let’s get you both freshened up before dinner, shall we?” Ophelia claps her hands together. “Tulip, I'll take you to your side, and Huck- go with Godot.” She instructs, and I hover near Godot as he watches Tulip and Ophelia disappear into a door to the right.

Godot lets out a small sigh, and then smiles at me. “Shall we?” He says, in an accent that mocks Ophelia. I give him half a smile for his efforts, and then we venture off through a door to the left.

Inside is a large bed that covers half the wall, piled high with brown and cream cushions, with a plush bedspread to match. The wall that faces outside is completely covered in glass, which would unease me, but the option of curtains is greatly appreciated. There’s a large closet to one wall, and although I know this building is probably used for regular citizens most of the time, I laugh at the irony. What could we possibly even put in there? 

“Shower room is in there.” Godot gestures to a small door to the side. “I’ll let you navigate that yourself. Fresh clothes, towel, toiletries- all in there. Take your time.” He says, nodding, as if recalling a script. 

He then looks me up and down and approaches quite close, but then unclips the fascinator from my belt and steps back. He examines it closely. 

“So, the cornucopia, eh?” He muses, holding it up to the light. 

“What?” I ask. 

“This.” He tosses it lightly, catching it as if it were a light sack. “The fairytales that they come from have been all but lost, but they come from myth and legend. I don’t know the specifics, but as far as i know, there was a story of a horn that could produce anything you wanted when you reached into its endless depths. Another nickname was the Horn of Plenty. It’s usually associated with fruit, vegetables, daily necessities in mouthwatering quantities- which is probably why Dido chose to incorporate them into District 11.” Godot explains.

I just shift the weight on my feet. A symbol of Capitol propaganda, more like it. It’s not all they pump it up to be. 

“There is one thing, though.” Godot adds. “I always thought the story was too good to be true. When you give people everything they want at all times, no matter the day, or the cost -“ He tosses it again, toward me. I catch it. “Who first falls to the blinding quality of insatiable greed?” 

Godot just looks at me, as if scanning for a response. Usually rather aloof, his incredibly serious gaze is piercing, and I look away. 

“I’ll leave you to it then. If you need anything, I’ll be out there.” He gestures to the main room, and promptly dissapears. 

I turn the cornucopia over in my hands. A fake grape falls off and bounces lightly across the floor, skittering under the bed. I just toss the entire thing onto the bed, and disappear into the bathroom. 

I’m only used to bucket washes, so a fully pressurised shower, with hot water and soaps of all kind readily available feels nice. I scald myself almost to the point of burning, as if any heat could get the touch of the Capitol off of me. Making the most of it, I fill the bath a little, and sit inside. I then use the shower again, to get the bath suds off of me. I could do this all day- but I long to eat something, and the steam from the hot water isn’t helping, and I begin to feel somewhat faint. 

I dress in what they provide me- loose linen pants and a comfortable, short sleeved shirt, and I go to rejoin the group. 

I’m clearly the last one out, as Tulip, Ophelia and Godot are already sitting at the table, talking amongst themselves. 

“Oh, there he is! We thought you got lost in the sewer pipes!” Ophelia jokes. 

I shrug. “Sorry.” I apologise.

“No need, Hucky.” Ophelia waves it off, and beckons me closer. “Come. Sit! You must be hungry.”

“Yeah…” I admit, taking a seat next to Tulip. 

“Eat as much as you want. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.” Ophelia nods. 

I begin to fork some incredibly fragrant chicken onto my plate. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Training and scoring.” Godot pipes up, mid bite of some green beans. 

“Right. I thought that was going to happen today.” I say. “But then…”

“A curveball for all of us, I can assure you.” Ophelia rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, I am obsessed with it- I think it’s a beautiful way to open the Games season to the public, but they could’ve given us more advance notice. You two looked amazing, though, I must say that again.” 

I just nod my thanks, shoveling as much food as I can get into my mouth. 

“What about the interviews?” Tulip pipes up. 

“The day after.” Godot confirms. 

I turn my fork over in my hand, and I focus in on Godot. “You’re our mentor, right?” 

Godot furrows his brow in confusion. “That much I thought was quite clear.” 

I just nod, shrugging my shoulders. 

Tulip catches on. “Then mentor us. You haven’t told us anything remotely useful about the games, or how to get through this, at all.” She rests her elbows on the table, leaning in.

Godot stares blankly, and then begins to laugh. He even wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh- oh, okay. Alright then. Cheeky. I see.” He nods. “Well, okay. Where to start…” 

“How did you win?” Tulip prompts.

Godot purses his lips. It’s clear as day that he begins to relive it on command, a cold, faraway look in his eyes. He nods slowly. “How much do the both of you know about the thirteenth annual Hunger Games?”

Tulip shakes her head. So do I. I was only five years old, and Tulip was 4. There’s no way we were conscious of Godot or his victory in any capacity, nor did we learn as we grew. 

“Well,” Godot begins, stretching his fingers individually, until each knuckle pops. It’s an uncomfortable sound. “Our arena was contained in a forest in District 5. Although forests are an extremely common environment in the games, you can’t rely on every single one being the same, nor can you rely on a forest at all. Let’s use Oasis for an example- her arena was in a desert in District 2. If not for her ripping her competition apart, they would’ve died from heat exhaustion anyway. The forest I was in was fairly abundant, but arid. The dryness was good for making fires, but thirst was a massive issue- and if not for some well-timed sponsors, I likely would’ve gone out from lack of hydration. That’s another thing-“ he rambles.

“Sponsors. You’ve done well to show face in the parade, yes, but it’s up to training and your interviews to really win people over. Curate yourself. Single out qualities. What do you have to offer?” He picks a toothpick out from an olive and brandishes it toward Tulip. “Why should people want you to live?” 

Tulip bristles, and furrows her brow. 

“Come on, Tulip. They won’t wait for you onstage.” Godot goads.

“I’m stubborn.” Tulip settles, sitting up straight. 

“And? So are half your competitors.” 

I see what Godot’s doing, but I don’t like it regardless. It’s working, yes, but it’s ever so cruel. But so are the Hunger Games. 

“Tulip, what exactly makes you the upstart young woman you seem to think you are?” Godot leans back. “What brought you here? Why do people want to see you dead, and why should they regret that?” 

“I-I-“ She stammers, and I can see her clutch the tablecloth away from Godot’s line of sight. She shakes her head. “I just wanted to take care of my family.” 

“There we go. And what about that landed you here, do you think?” 

“I…my sister. My oldest sister. She died after a fall. My little sister…I didn’t want to see her crumble, or get hurt- it was up to me. I had to protect her at all costs, and…I guess people didn’t like how…I became…”

“Self involved?” 

Tulip scowls. 

“I see. Now, firstly, I'm sorry for your loss. I understand why you must have felt the need to work so hard.” Godot nods. “But the Capitol loves a sob story. If you tell them your side ,” Godot emphasises the word with air quotes. “Of a girl who was just trying to protect what little precious family she had left to protect, and that everyone who hated her for it should feel sorry for what they did- you could score a whole slew of pity points. It’ll help if you learn a few tricky skills in training, too. If you prove you’re both smart, well adjusted and well intentioned…” Godot sits back, and nods. “Do you understand?” 

Tulip just nods. 

“Now, Huck. Anyone who’s anyone will look at you and see how strong you are. It’s clear as day you’re a contender.” Godot begins. 

“Really?” I scoff. 

“You don’t think so?” 

“I…know I’m a hard worker, but I'm just as strong as everyone who works the Orchards with me. I’m nothing special.”

“Not to the Capitol, you’re not.” Godot waves his toothpick. “They still have the memory of that sickly little mope from last year stuck in their heads. That poor boy would never last. Your look, combined with the fact that people see District 11 as a serious underdog contender anyway- you’ll have eyes on you. I guarantee. Sorry, Tulip.” 

Tulip shrugs. She then eyes me up, and then returns to her dinner. 

“Well, then what? I show them how strong I am?” I sigh. 

“Partly. Focus on weaponry in training. Your brute strength speaks for itself- learn a skill or two to compliment it. Your interview however- much like Tulip, you’ll need to show another side to you than the straight-faced stronghold from 11. Why do you think your District voted you in?” 

“Is it always about that? Does it have to be?” I roll my head back. 

“Of course it does, Huck. It’s everything they’ll want to know. Everyone is itching to learn all the gossip from the 24 most hated children in Panem. Aside from the Careers, of course.”

I sigh again. It’s horrible. I hate it. 

“So?” Godot asks.

“My parents. I’m sure.” I shrug. “They were executed a while back for smuggling produce to the needy and underfed, not just in District 11, but our bordering ones too. There’s rumor they were part of a Panem-spanning network.” I mumble. “I’ve been bullied into oblivion ever since. Nobody really likes me, except for my coworker Durian.” 

Godot leans back and breathes out, a whistle to it. “Wow, Huck. That’s big.” 

“You’re telling me.” I quip, fed up. 

“Now- you’ll have to put it delicately. Capitol sensibilities about rebels…this can either be to your favor or to your defeat. Put more emphasis on the feeding the needy part, when they ask. Frame is as an ‘ I never did anything wrong, it was their fault, and they were good people. I fight to survive because they couldn’t.’, sort of situation.” Godot advises. 

I just shrug. 

“Is this your strategy?” I ask. “You won from playing a smile in front of the people?”

Godot challenges my gaze. He takes a deep breath in. “Pretty much.” He smiles, horribly fake. He leans across the table to me. “Of course, I had to ram a couple of iron pikes into a couple of innocent skulls, but.” He sits back down. “Who’s counting?” He takes a bite of an olive. “If it weren’t for the pristine personality I put on for the cameras, I wouldn’t be here today. I’m sure of that.” 

He lifts a goblet of wine and takes an extremely solid gulp. “One thing I can tell you both is that whatever I can tell you about the arena itself, its location, its ins and outs- none of my advice will help you. None of it.” He shakes his head, and it’s now I realise he’s pivoted to genuine sorrow. 

“What?” Tulip says, confused. 

Godot pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m good with the people. I’m good with the Capitol. I’m practically one of them. I’ve been able to weed information out of those related to Gamemakers before- but this year, it’s a complete dead zone. Whatever’s happening this year, it’s something that Panem will remember for years to come.” He takes another sip. “And that isn’t good news.”

We all sit in silence for a moment. 

Ophelia clears her throat. “I’m sure your advice is worth something.” She tries. “Your games were a triumphant win.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Godot shrugs. He’s pulled himself together in a fraction of a second. “Stick to weapons and skills adjusted for your builds- Huck, focus on the heavy and the hard hitting, Tulip, focus on the light and crafty. Learn survival skills if they offer it. Clean water, shelter, fire and food are essential to your success. You cannot run on fumes. Try to learn from their offerings- you learn after winning that they try to adjust the trainings each year to favor your projected environments. I will be there. I won’t be able to talk to you or help you, but I will be watching. After your training sessions, they’ll evaluate and number you, and then tomorrow night they will broadcast them live to Panem. After we get those results, you’ll have to keep them in mind for your interviews. You will be discussing them.”

He clears his throat. “Any further questions?” 

I have the good sense not to provoke Godot any further. He’s gone from overzealous Capitol sympathiser to cluttered live wire within the span of a few hours. Is this what victory does to a man?

Me and Tulip shake our heads. 

“Alright. Good luck for tomorrow.” He nods, standing up and making to leave. 

“You’re not staying here?” I ask.

“Me? No, this room is for you and Tulip. If you need me, I’ll be in one of the many other rooms on this floor.”

“So will I.” Ophelia smiles. “It’s a bit of a downgrade from my apartment, but…they require us to all be shut up in here in close proximity. Just in case.” 

“Just in case?” Tulip asks.

“Mhm!” Ophelia answers, vaguely, promptly getting up and following Godot out the door. She stops before leaving to face us again. “Sleep well, loveys.” She waves, and then closes the door. 

I look across at Tulip, and she looks at me. 

“That’s our mentor.” She says. It’s not a question, not a comment. Not even a statement. The words just float. 

I purse my lips together. “That’s our mentor.” I respond. 

“I should’ve brushed up on Hunger Games history.” Tulip jokes. 

“Right? How were we supposed to know?” I laugh.

“Do you think he was being real about the…iron pikes?” 

I scratch the nape of my neck. “I don’t want to, but…I think he was telling the truth. It’s definitely hard for him to relive- otherwise why would he have reacted like that? He immediately diverted his attention off the games.” 

“Yeah.” Tulip sighs. “Oh, well.”

Tulip begins to walk off. 

“Goodnight!” I call, walking to my side of the room.

“Night!” She calls back, from inside of hers. 

I draw the curtains in my bedroom, and I lie down. I lie on top of the covers- I reject the notion of being comfortable, here. 

My brain unspools all the events from the day in one long reel, replaying them for me to see. The train station, the long drive to the hall, my prep assistant and Stylist. The chariot, the crowds, Godot’s ‘advice’. 

I think about Godot’s reaction to my arrogance the most. He tried to act flippant about it, but I think I got through to him. Past that outer layer. The thirteenth Hunger Games… how old was he when he won? Was he my age? Younger? Older, even? What drives a man to kill someone so violently and come out smiling? Is our mentor insane, or simply bruised fruit? 

The latter, I assume.

It hits me again that there can only be one Victor. Godot was part of a pool of 24, just like us, and only one made it out- and it was him. He lived, and 24 other children that year died. The only difference between that group- every group -and ours is that we were chosen. As Godot said- the 24 most hated children in Panem. 

I’ve been hated all my life and I didn’t mind one bit. I was content living the rest of my life as a recluse, and I was excited to work until I died, just living a humble life as a provider to naught but myself. But now, because of selfish human interest, I am trapped in a snare that burns and twists and pulls at me and won’t rest until all my guts are strung up in place like a marionette. 

I’m up on my feet, now. 

I walk back into the main room. I look around listlessly. I walk in circles. My head doesn’t tell me anything, it’s vacant, but my heart pulls me to and fro, and I float like a ghost. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. 

That’s all I can think about.

It’s not fair. 

I walk around some more.

It’s not fair! 

At some point, against my best interests- I fall asleep.

Chapter Text

“Huck? Huck!” 

I seem to be plagued by rude awakenings. 

Someone shakes me awake, and I see the wide-eyed Tulip standing above me, hands now on her hips. 

“What are you doing out here?” 

I sit up, and look around. I seem to have finally fallen asleep at the dining table, and I can see a trail of my own drool across a place-setting that I used as a pillow. 

“Bed not up to your standards, Huck?” Another familiar voice says. Godot is standing on the other end of the table, arms crossed, observing. 

“I-“ I stammer. How do I excuse my behaviour? “I couldn’t sleep, so…” 

Godot and Tulip just silently look at me. 

“Well, they need to set the table for breakfast, Huck, so unless you want to be washed with the dishes, I suggest you get up and at ‘em.” Godot urges. I then notice a new person by my side, a small woman dressed in dull turquoise. She hovers about the table, taking dishes and place settings and putting them on a tray. I almost think it’s Yara, from the train, but on further inspection, it isn’t. Just someone assigned to do a job. 

I get up and take a few steps back, so that my back touches the wall. 

“Clothes are in your room.” Godot directs, and I take the instruction. 

I feel shame burning up my ears as I close the door, and in my shame, I feel an equally shameful urge to be violent over it. I want to throw something, kick, destroy- how could I have been so stupid ? 

I go into the bathroom and splash some warm water on my face, and then return to the bedroom to assess the clothing situation. 

To my surprise, they’re the same clothes from the train- the branded green jacket, the shirt, the trousers- all freshly washed and steamed. They’re the same shoes, too, and I can tell because I scuffed the new rubber soles inside of the white van. Just buffed and polished to seem like new. It figures that they wouldn’t have ten copies of the same outfit for one tribute- why waste those resources? 

I dress, and join the others for breakfast. Ophelia has re-appeared, and when I thought her outfits couldn’t get more ridiculous- they do. Today seems to be themed around birds, with a big feathery boa, feathery dress, large feathers in a small hat and miniature model birds all adorning her. She looks like a mobile aviary. She waves to me as she spots me come out of my room. 

“Good morning, Hucky!” She calls. I hate that she’s chosen to give me a nickname. She’s also taken to calling Tulip ‘ Woolip’, and I'm not sure which I hate more. 

“Good morning.” I reply. It pays to be polite, I’ve learned. 

I sit down, and I indulge in the offerings for this morning, which consist of plump sausages, crisp potato discs, fresh tomatoes and fried eggs. As is custom, I stuff myself. I’ve never considered myself a glutton, but I have a deep appreciation for food that I’ve never had a chance to sample, and I find myself deeply excited when eating in the Capitol. It’s something I can find some joy in, for now. 

Tulip eventually joins us. 

“Where’s Godot?” I ask, after finishing. 

“Oh, he had to shoot off to the Training Center early.” Ophelia explains, wiping her mouth with a napkin. After reapplying her lipstick, she continues. “He told me to tell you to remember what he told you yesterday. Both of you.” She nods.

“Hm.” I hum. 

“You don’t seem to like him.” Ophelia probes, looking between us both. We both remain silent.

Ophelia sighs. “Well, I understand. This is my first year doing this, so I may not have a good range of observation- but what I do know is that all of the victors that have been gracious enough to participate in helping you all have at least some good advice. I’d advise you don’t shut it out, despite how much you might not like him.” 

Me and Tulip share a glance. Maybe Ophelia isn’t as dull and baseless as we seem to think. 

“I wish I could help you more.” She languishes. “You’re my first tributes, after all. I think I’ve become attached.” She chuckles. 

And there it is again- that lash of detachment. For every good word said is an insensitive second punch. 

“Right- are we ready? It’s about time we leave. We don’t want to be late.” Ophelia stands, grabbing a nest-like handbag from the table. 

Tulip and I get up and Ophelia insists on straightening out our uniforms before we leave. 

She ushers us into yet another white van, but doesn’t get in. We endure another anonymous, boring drive to the Training Center. To my surprise, it’s the exact same building from yesterday. I feel somewhat like I'm living in a time loop as Tulip and I are ushered toward the doors. Unhelpfully, the exact same woman is there to do intake, and checks us off a list just like last time. 

That is, however, where the similarities stop.

It may be the same building, but the insides have been completely remodeled overnight.

For starters, the room isn’t divided into two, and is now just one large hall. At the back of the hall are a circle of tables and sections all piled high with different kinds of weapons and equipment. I suddenly remember what Godot said last night- something about the things on offer being a clue to the arena location. However, I’m too distracted with observing the room to focus in on that. On the raised platform, just like I noticed the first time around, are many moving heads- however the clothing and hairstyles are far more elaborate, filled now with what I can assume are assessors and mentors alike. 

I squint to watch, and as if sensing our presence, I see a flash of bright orange curls pop over the concrete railing, and Godot shoots me a smile, and then points me out to someone with him. 

“Huck! Come on!” 

I snap back into reality, and Tulip beckons me onward. I stand with her at the edge of the circle of tables. 

“What do we do?” I ask.

“We?” Tulip echoes.

I suddenly feel self conscious. Of course, we’re not bound at the hip. Allyships don’t last in the Hunger Games. I don’t really blame Tulip for that reaction. 

“Let’s focus on what Godot told us.” She redirects. She points a section out to me. “Look, there. Godot said hefty and hard-hitting, right? There’s a station over there with weapons just like it. I’ll go find something else.”

“Oh, okay.” I nod, working out where she wants me to go. “See you later, then.”

“Yup.” She nods, disappearing off to a table to the side. 

I sigh, bracing myself, and head over. 

There’s already a boy there. He’s a little shorter than me, in a purple variant of the uniform I'm in, and immediately takes stock of me as I approach- something I don’t like at all, so I shoot him a quizzical look in return. He pretends as if he wasn’t eyeing me up just now. 

An attendant approaches us both. “Hello, boys. Interested in learning how to handle one of these?” 

The attendant picks up a heavy iron club, and handles it as if it weighs nothing.

The boy next to me nods eagerly. “It’s something my father suggested I brush up on.” 

I just nod. 

“Alright, then. Now, let’s start by assessing how much weight you can handle.” The attendant holds the club out to the other boy. “Try and lift this with your arm outstretched in front of you. One hand.” He places it in front of the boy, holding onto it gingerly so it stands upright. The boy grabs its handle and clearly displays some effort in trying to hold it upright. He buckles after about 15 seconds, and the club makes a bang as it hits the varnished wooden floor. He whimpers in pain, and then cowers in shame. 

“Maybe you should engage in some strength training before handling this.” The attendant advises. “There’s a station over there to help.” 

The boy in purple, miserable, plods off without a further word. Whatever he was trying to prove, he’s not there yet. 

The attendant turns to me. “Now, let’s see you do the same. One hand. Right in front of you.” 

I grab the grip of the club, and adjust my hold before I dare lift it. It’s extremely heavy, that’s for sure, and I can see why anyone would struggle. I struggle. It’s about the weight of four or five crates of produce, and there’s a reason why the limit is 3: both for sight obscurity, and weight. But after carrying around that many back and forth for years on end, you build up natural strength to go with it.

I hold the club out in front of me for thirty seconds before I'm able to really feel the burn. I last maybe ten seconds more before the attendant gestures for me to stop. 

“No need to over-exert yourself- that’s all I need to see.” He nods. “You’ve got quite an arm on you!” 

I feel encouraged. This attendant is nicer than most. 

“Hand it back here for a moment.” He instructs, and I do. 

“There are two, maybe three types of strikes that are effective with this. One blow, and you’ll knock someone clean off the map.” The attendant begins.

The happiness I felt disappears in a second. The mental image he’s conjuring is slightly sickening. 

“The first is as such.” The attendant widens his stance slightly, and holds the long club at chest level, between two hands. “Start upright, centered.” He then lifts it back over his head, so it now points down. “It’s important to take it slowly over your head, both for your safety, and to adjust balance.” He then adjusts his stance again. “The next part is quick.” He adjusts his hand grip slightly, and then swings it with force over his head, and hits a mat on the ground. “Of course, it won’t go that low, as contact will be made wherever it lands on your target.” 

I just stare. He then holds the club out to me. “You try it.”

I hold the club as he did, with the handle at my chest, in both hands. The attendant adjusts my stance for me, and then steps back. I lift the club back over my head, although it takes me a second to remember to be slow. I hesitate to strike it, but then the burn of holding it still gets to me, and I swing with all my might. I do miss the mat, however, and leave a dent in the floor instead. 

“Oh,” I comment. 

“Don't worry about that. This is what this place is built for. Good job, though! A good arm, and a good memory! Those will be more helpful than you’d know in an arena.”

It comes to me again- what exactly is this an omen for? When will this come in handy? I suddenly feel the urge to jump ship and learn something useful, but i'm stuck in, now. 

The attendant teaches me two more strikes. One in the reverse direction, like the strike version of an uppercut punch, and a side strike- for when I need something quick and the club isn’t in my hands. I mourn the specificity of this task- i’m losing time as it is, and now I feel exhausted. 

“I hope you learned something valuable.” The attendant says with a smile as he ushers me off. I sigh with relief, finally through with that task. 

I am momentarily distracted, however, by a screen way above eye level. On quick assessment, it’s clearly mounted so that the assessors in the higher level can see it. It has a handy list on display, with a color, a number, and two names for each district. I might as well try to memorise it now. 

FIRST QUARTER QUELL

TRIBUTE ROSTER

DISTRICT 1

Boy: Lampus

Girl: Brutus

DISTRICT 2

Boy: Terce

Girl: Calliope

DISTRICT 3

Boy: Fuller

Girl: Faraday

DISTRICT 4

Boy: Montauk

Girl: Windlass

DISTRICT 5

Boy: Kaplan

Girl: Joule

DISTRICT 6

Boy: Spoke

Girl: Solder

DISTRICT 7

Boy: Woodrow

Girl: Canopy

DISTRICT 8

Boy: Linen

Girl: Bevel

DISTRICT 9

Boy: Bran

Girl: Sorghum

DISTRICT 10

Boy: Trough

Girl: Shank

DISTRICT 11

Boy: Huck

Girl: Tulip

DISTRICT 12

Boy: Mica

Girl: Betty Zaffre

I try to put names to faces. That boy from earlier must have been District 2’s Terce. That surprises me- that kind of behaviour from a Career tribute seems slightly odd. However, he did seem eager to undertake training like this, so he must have been preparing for this for years. It seems sad, I think, to spend your life focusing on something as morose as the Hunger Games. 

The girl who didn’t speak in the elevator is Sorghum, the boy from 12 across from me in prep is Mica, and his district partner is Betty Zaffre. The poor girl from 10 is Shank, and the boy with her is Trough. However, I'm fairly certain that’s all I’ll be able to recall, if that. Conscious of an invisible time limit yet again, I move on. 

As I walk across the hall, I hear a muffled yelp echo from somewhere to my left, and I turn to try and find the source of the noise. Some of the other tributes do too, and this event becomes a little bit of a spectacle. 

I see a little girl in bright blue, blindfolded, sitting on the floor. She scrambles to her feet and pulls at the tightly knotted blindfold. The attendant supervising rushes to her side and begins to try to quietly shush her as she undoes the knot on the cloth covering her eyes. 

Looming over the little girl is the District 1 boy, a tight scowl on his face. When the attendant gets the blindfold off of the little girl, he scoffs. “Clearly not cut out for that, are we?” He mocks. “Maybe you should-“ 

Before he can continue, a tall girl in green- his district partner -grabs his shoulder and hisses something in his ear, and then gives him a disapproving shake of the head as if to suggest: She isn’t worth it. 

Clearly not happy with being told off by a peer, he backs off, following his partner to practise with some weaponry. 

I go to approach a table, but out of the corner of my eye I can see Tulip again, talking to the girl from earlier. Despite her straight face, she has a kind heart. Maybe being an older sister never truly dies. 

Knowing that the situation has resolved itself, I turn to a table I’ve been eyeing up since I began to regret my decision for heavy hitting. 

“Hello there!” A chirpy attendant waves. 

“What’s this about…?” I ask, knowing the answer, somewhat. 

“Well, I’ve got a few things here for you.” The attendant straightens a few things out on the tabletop. “A couple of different water purification methods.”

“Okay.” I nod. “How do I get started?”

“Well, method one has very specific circumstances.” The attendant brandishes a small tablet. “This tablet is a purification tablet. You just drop it in, leave it for a bit, and the water is clean. However, there’s a high chance you won’t run into any at all, so you have to consider alternative methods.”

I nod again. The assistant hands me two items, a metal loop, and a rock. I turn them both over in my hands. The loop is dull, and open at one end, and the rock is brown and grey, flecked with white. It’s razor-sharp at one end.

“That there is a flint striker.” She points to the loop in my hand. “Now, anything can stand in for flint, so long as it’s a type of compatible rock, and relatively sharp.” 

“But this is fire-starting,.” I point out.

“We’ll get there, don’t you panic.” The assistant laughs. 

She picks up her own striker and rock, and prepares a pile of kindling. She strikes the rock until it sparks, and eventually makes a small flame. 

“Now, it’s likely you won’t have a stand of any kind to balance on, so you’ll have to hold whatever water you have over the fire. Boiling the water destroys bacteria, and will make it much less likely to kill you. Not impossible- but very low. Whether you let it cool before drinking it is up to you.” She explains.

“Oh…” I nod. That makes sense. Like making tea, with fewer steps. 

I then demonstrate to her my flint striking ability, which I manage to get a grip on after a few attempts. I then make a small fire, and this pleases the attendant. 

“Well, there you go. Also, in a pinch, using a cloth to filter out debris in water is also a good call- so be sure to keep it in mind.” 

A loud whistle sounds from the other end of the hall. A Peacekeeper calls out for a lunch break. I didn’t think they’d be benevolent enough to feed us, but my assumptions are wrong. 

“Good luck!” The attendant calls as I walk off in the direction of the Peacekeeper. I turn around slightly, not sure how to feel about that. When I turn back, I find the boy from District 4 shooting me a raised eyebrow as he passes me by. He obviously is confused by the sentiment too, and I just shrug. He shrugs back. 

By the time I get to the other side of the hall, they’ve wheeled out a table containing some juices, water, and some very plain sandwiches. I take a bite into one and I find it’s just buttered white bread, extremely processed cheese, and lettuce I can tell is not quite fresh. Whatever the case, food is fuel, and I take what I can get. I sit on a bench and simply horde a few sandwiches to myself. 

I think about checking in with Tulip, but I decide to leave her be. Besides, the little girl she was talking to earlier is now hovering around her. 

“Scoring will occur in 5 minutes!” A Peacekeeper declares, loudly. “District order, girls first.” He gestures to where the horse enclosure was before. “Enter and exit from there. You will continue to use the training facilities until your district is called, at which time you and your partner will line up by the entrance.” 

He then promptly goes to stand by the entrance to what is now the scoring block. 

The boy and girl in green from earlier- District 1’s Careers -jostle each other playfully, teasing the other due to their imminent evaluations. Eventually, they jog off to their places, and the girl confidently strides into her private session. 

It suddenly hits me that I’ll have to do something to impress the judges, and not make a total fool of myself. I look up again, hoping I’ll catch another glimpse of Godot- as if he could give me any sort of hint from all the way up there, but he’s nowhere to be seen. 

I stand in order to make my way back to the training stations like many others, but my heart isn’t in it. I just decide to observe, this time. It feels rebellious- you’re supposed to cram as much training into this session as humanly possible, as it is the only mandatory one, but the act of resistance sets my nerves on fire. 

“What are you smiling about?” I hear, and I turn my head to see Bran Hoffman- from the elevator. He sounds genuinely curious, so I just shrug.

“I’ve had enough of training for today.” I explain, and sit back down.

Bran just looks back and forth between me and the training tables. He then shrugs in return. “Okay.” He then walks off. 

The rest is just a waiting game. I watch the boy from Two lean against the wall to the session, eyes closed shut and foot completely restless. He comes out with the blankest expression that could possibly be painted on a face- as if he were replaying his session in his head from the moment it ended. I see the girl from 3 come out sniffling, and she goes directly to her district partner to whisper about her session, which evidently did not go to her liking. 

The boy from 6 comes out of his session and then looks up to the platform, and a couple of faceless hands loom over the balcony to point and wave, and he waves back, and even flexes his muscles, which elicits sounds of glee from above. When he’s done entertaining whoever it is, he returns to the bench, and it’s not just me who stares and squints and tries to comprehend him and what just occurred. 

The girl from 6 enters and exits coughing and hacking into her sleeves. I can’t help but notice the dried blood that coagulates at the corners of her mouth. The girl from 7 comes out limping and crying, much to our collective concern, and we watch as her now sprained ankle is tended to by an on-site nurse. I can see the pair from 1 snigger at her behind her back. Bran comes out of his session and shoots me a thumbs up, and I just return it with a curt smile. 

I watch the tributes from 10 dip in and out of their session, and before I know it-

“Huck- come on.” Tulip urges. I look up at her, and I sigh. I nod. I know- it’s time to go. 

We inch our way over to the doors, side by side, and I just shoot her a quick smile, as if that will help at all. I don’t offer her any words of encouragement, as I feel that they’re almost distasteful. I just let her focus, and she promptly disappears. 

I can feel the eyes of my fellow tributes on me as I wait for Tulip’s private session to end. From the end of the room, I can see a few faces at the end of the balcony, and I watch prissy Capitol folk mingle between themselves. I can hear inside the other room a little, the walls being relatively thin, but all I can hear are sounds of effort being made. 

After a solid five minutes or so, Tulip re-emerges. She looks slightly out of breath, and just a little sweaty. She tilts her head in the direction of the door. 

“Don’t freeze.” She warns.

“What?” I reply, but she’s already walking off. 

There’s no time for me to dawdle, so I brace myself and head inside. 

The room looks jarringly different from the time where it used to hold horses. They’ve removed half of the length of the room and bolted the back panel that we left out of last time. They’ve added a partition and heightened the ceiling to the height of r the balcony in the other room, and it clearly has a door to the side so people can move from watching the tributes to watching the private session whenever they’d like. The Head Gamemaker, Orlando Willit, stands when he sees me, and leans over the balcony to observe. He even pulls out a little lens in which to view me closer. He’s clad in a white robe, as are all the other gamemakers, but he wears a bright blue pair of gloves, and the collar of his robe is fitted in blue velvet. 

“Huck Ploughman?” He asks, in his deep bass. 

I nod. 

“Nervous, Huck?” He asks.

I don’t move an inch. 

Orlando seems unfazed by me, and tilts his head in the other direction. A grand spill of tightly woven gold and brown curls cascades down his shoulder and off the balcony itself. He shrugs, and grabs a clipboard. 

“Go on.” He shoos me, and I turn to observe what I have to work with. “Five minutes. Starting now.” 

Contrary to Tulip’s advice- I freeze. 

I try to decide which of these items around me would be useful to show off with, but there’s too many options, and my wires fray. 

Once again feeling the damned pressure of a time crunch, I pick up a single barbell. It’s 50 pounds and relatively hefty, but I have no problems lifting it. I then take another in my hand, and lift them above my head. However, I feel stupid doing this and decide to take some action, and swing them at a training dummy with force. I shock myself at how realistic the dummy is, gooey insides erupting out. I blink away the stress of the scare, and realise there are weapons on a rack- so I decide to apply one of the two skills I had learned. 

I grab a heavy club and demonstrate the strike patterns I learned earlier, and I try not to falter and retch when the dummy continues to fall apart. Shaking under the effort of trying not to focus on mock guts, I turn around to face Orlando, knowing my time is up by a buzzer that goes off a few seconds after. My stomach turns further as I realise Godot is a face in the crowd too, arms crossed over his chest and an expression I can’t read across his face. Has he been there the whole time? Watching me stumble? Did he watch Tulip too? 

“You can go .” Orlando commands, impatient, as if I had missed a cue. Scared of him and what he could do to me, I just nod and re-enter the training hall. 

I just wait on the bench again, not wanting to unpack the uneventful and frankly sickening training session I endured, and it seems by the lack of Tulip near me- she doesn’t want to either. 

I watch the girl from 12 disappear into the room, and then the boy- and as soon as he exits, everyone seems to loosen up a little. There’s a collective understanding that now that he’s finished, we can wrap up and go. I’d be wrong to say I wasn’t also looking forward to leaving this place. 

A Peacekeeper enters the hall and after getting our attention, he directs us to yet another nondescript set of vans. These are bigger, and it seems they aren’t separating us by District this time. Six kids a van, so me and Tulip end up in a van with the pair from 10 and 12. Before they let her into the van, they handcuff the girl, like they did on the train platform. 

The girl from 12 leans forward, and clears her throat. 

“Forgive me for askin’-“ Her voice comes out whisper-soft. “But…why do they do that to you?” 

The little girl from 10 stares at her through her eyebrows, mangy black hair forming a stringy curtain in front of her face. The boy next to her makes eye contact with the girl and shrugs- but he shrugs knowingly. 

The blonde girl just tilts her head and purses her lips. 

I try to remember names again. Tulip of course needs no remembering- but I conjure the board in my head to the best of my ability. Mica, the boy from 12, comes easy. I remember his name because of how much I saw his face beforehand. Betty is his district partner, but the pair from 10 get lost in translation. 

Betty shuffles in her seat as we roll over a bump in the road- something I wouldn’t expect the Capitol to have. “I think it’s cruel.” She adds, pouting.

The girl from ten chuckles ruefully. It’s sharp and seedy. I truly wonder how old she is- but her age doesn’t matter, and I agree with Betty. It is cruel, no matter what. 

We remain silent for the rest of the drive. When the back doors open, we’re once again in the back lot of the building we’ve been staying in. 

When she makes eye contact with us, Ophelia waves us over. 

“A productive day?” She prompts, and the skin where her eyebrows should be perks up hopefully. She’s stencilled in bright pink ones high above the mark. 

I shrug. Tulip utters an incomplete noise. 

Ophelia sighs. “You’ll have to be more articulate than that for your interviews, y’know. I won’t have you up on that stage umm’ing and aah’ing.” She pats us both gingerly at the backs of our shoulders, ushering us inside. 

This time, the elevator is empty. We rise to our floor and enter our suite with no further words said. 

When we enter, Godot is there, sitting on the plush couch like a caricature of elegance. The television that stretches an entire glass wall panel is now on, and the news is droning on. I personally have never owned a TV, but sometimes Panem’s daily news would be displayed in a crude old box inside the building where I'd go to file my earnings, closer to the center of the district. 

Godot leans back over the couch to get a look at us. He tilts the glass in his hand and gives us a nod. He then gestures for us to come and sit. 

Ophelia sits on a smaller couch chair to the right of the couch, and Tulip and I sit to Godot’s left. We both sit atop the couch, gingerly, not used to the luxury. 

“How long until the broadcast?” Ophelia asks.

Godot finishes a sip before answering. “Mm,” He hums. He tilts his free hand back and forth. “Not long. He’s on the weather, so any minute now.” 

It’s true- it’s become some sort of signifier through the broadcasting week. It’s always the weather. I decide to pay attention. It’s incredibly warm this year, and I just know that back home, people are scrambling to get their affairs in order so that production can withstand the dry season. There are some particularly strong trade deals that go all the way back through districts 4 and 5 in order to delegate 11 a decent chunk of hydroelectric and solar power. Some say that there are even plans to try to get 3 involved to engineer some sort of power system based on food waste. 

“It’s warm.” Tulip mumbles. I turn around and nod.

I open my mouth to comment on the situation back home, but she continues.

“Arena wise- this is a problem, no?” She tries to catch Godot’s eye. He just glances to our side. 

“Problem, how?” He murmurs, interested in her train of thought. 

“Hydration.” Tulip points out.

“Mm.” Godot hums again. “Yeah.” Is all he will add.

Me and Tulip both sigh. I decide to change the subject.

“Godot- what do you know about District 3’s trade deals with other districts?” I ask.

Godot furrows his brows. “Depends. Why- looking to do some insider trading before the arena?” He chuckles.

“I was just wondering about something I had heard.” I explain. “About 3 and 11 partnering to create refuse-based energy sources. Some guys I work with were getting all worked up about it.”

Godot chews at the inside of his cheek. “Well, I'll tell you this- it could be incredibly lucrative. Wouldn’t be hard at all to engineer and test and redesign.” He leans back, and there’s the hint of a smile on his face. “I mean- it’s just biogas, essentially. I think. I’d have to consult, of course, but…no, I haven’t heard anything.” He shakes his head, and shoots me an empathetic look. “It’s a nice thought, Huck.” He shrugs. “But the fact of the matter is-” He looks across to Ophelia, and then sighs. “It’s…just not a priority.”

“And besides!” Ophelia buts in. “You don’t need to worry about that, Hucky.” She smiles. It makes my skin itch. 

I turn back to the television just in time to see the end of District 11’s forecast. No cloud cover. Blistering heat. It’ll be a rough summer. District 12 looks no different. 

“And that’s the weather.” The announcer says. “We’ll be back after the break with all you could ever be waiting for- the next exciting installment in the Quarter Quell. Grab a drink, some food and some company, and prepare to pick your favourites. The scoring, after the break.” 

The screen cuts to the logo of Panem, and then a commercial break starts. 

It feels as if the temperature in the room has dropped a few degrees, because a shiver runs up my spine. 

“Ready?” Godot asks.

No responses from either me or Tulip. Godot polishes off his drink and leans forward, elbows on his thighs, jaw in hand. Ophelia’s leg bounces uncontrollably.

The anthem blares, and the man who was once a newscaster is now standing in front of a pearlescent desk, as he is every year. A screen behind him displays all of our faces, crude snapshots taken at the reaping ceremonies. My own deadpan, slack-jawed face stares back at me, and I momentarily look down. 

“Good evening, everybody. I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman, the man who needs no introduction. You’ll know me as your favourite weatherman and ameteur magician.” Lucky throws a coin into the air, as is his trademark. “This afternoon, we have witnessed a scintillating array of talent from our many beloved tributes. And while I would love to sit and chat with you all about everything to do with what occurred- I thought this news best to be delivered to you by a woman we all know and love, the fantastic, the incredible, the monumentous -”

The camera pans.

“ Dr. Voluminia Gaul! ” The anthem plays faintly as a woman walks onto stage. I’ve seen her in posters and clips before- the woman who pioneered the major spectacle points of The Hunger Games. Revered and famous beyond her many, many, many years. She’s practically a relic now, and she’s already entered myth and legend although she still lives and breathes. 

“Thank you, Lucky.” She rasps. She doesn’t make eye contact with him, and stares directly into the camera. She’s caped in a deep blue, with patterns etched into the large robe that shift and reflect. Her gnarled hands peek out from the folds to grip a quartz-white cane, imposing and delicate all at the same time. “I do not have to explain the system to you all. Our tributes are ranked from 1-12, after some time of careful deliberation. Due to the nature of this year's games, even I was involved in dictating this years’ rankings.” She walks over to a screen, and Lucky slides away as if on ice, to make way. “Pay attention, now.” She snarls, and smirks toward the camera. She gestures her cane about as if reprimanding children. I hate the way she smiles. To her, this really is only a game.

I swallow a tense lump in my throat.

“She’s right, you know. Not just to yours. To everyone’s number.” Godot mumbles, under his breath, eyes fixed to the screen. 

I hone in, on command. 

“District 1 male, Lampus.” She waits for the number to appear next to his mugshot. “Eleven.” 

I feel myself wince. Expected, in a way that incites dread. His district partner, Brutus, also scores 11. Both District 2 tributes score 10. I see Godot get antsy when they call District 3, and he fully leans all the way back in his seat in true disappointment when the girl scores a 4. The boy scores an 8, but it’s this low number that seems to kick him. It’s apparent now that he’s not used to not mentoring his own district, and feels deeply for the tributes that were supposed to be his. I can’t blame him. 

“District 4 male, Montauk. Nine.” Dr. Gaul announces. “District 4 female, Windlass. Ten.” Montauk- that’s his name. I don’t know what it is with him, but he seems to want to be friendly with me in a way I don’t like. I get a bad sort of feeling about it, but I don’t quite know and I can’t quite tell if he’s targeting me or if this is his demeanour. Either way, his high score and career status doesn’t help my unease. 

The scores feel like they both speed by and go on too long. Every name feels like a million years and each number feels like the hair's breadth of a second. However, it all screeches to a stop when the last District 10 tribute is rattled off. The tension rises, and when I was once cold I am now burning up. I feel my jaw shiver as my mugshot is blown up large onto the screen. 

“District 11 male, Huck.” Dr. Gaul wheezes. “Seven.” 

“Seven.” I echo. 

“District 11 female, Tulip.” A pause for the number. “Seven.” 

“Seven…” Tulip repeats.

The entire room lets out a collective sigh. 

“It’s not over yet.” Godot warns, still facing the screen.

“It’s just Twelve left.” Ophelia whines. 

“See it through.” Godot commands, and for once, Ophelia listens. 

Mica gets a 5, and Betty gets a 6. I wonder what they did to earn those numbers. 

“And that is it for tonight folks. Thank you, Dr. Gaul, for your continued time and patience.” Lucky bows his head comically. “Be sure to secure your bets, rally your troops, and decide on which tributes will be the subject of your devoted sponsorship. Happy Hunger Games, and…” He intentionally leaves room for continuation.

Dr. Gaul continues to smile, and continues to stare. “...And may the odds be ever in your favor.” she finishes. 

“Oho, there we have it!” Lucky cheers, and a coin falls from above and right into his palm. “See you tomorrow folks, live on air, where we get up close and personal with our tributes- and trust me, you won't want to miss it. I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman, and this has been the ranking of the tributes for the First Quarter Quell. Goodnight!” 

The feed cuts, the flag is displayed, the anthem plays. It then cuts to a recap of the rankings, names, faces and numbers sliding on and off the screen.

“So, how do you think that went?” Godot asks us.

Me and Tulip make eye contact. We shrug and shake our heads in a mixture of uncertainty.

“Unremarkable.” Godot nods, something happening behind his eyes that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“What?” Tulip tilts her head. 

“It’s not bad, it’s not good. Just above average.”

“Well, what did you score?” I ask, slightly offended despite the truth being that I really don't care. An instinct arises in order to protect what honor I have left. 

“Ten.” Godot responds.

I huff.

“If i’m being honest,” Godot shrugs. “None of that was particularly out of the ordinary. Some outliers, yes, but overall? As normal as the day is blue.” 

“So, what?” Tulip asks, out of emotional air.

“Tomorrow is more important than ever.” Godot stresses. “Winning the Capitol over will be what determines who lives and who dies. Win their favor, win sponsorships, and you could go from a 7 to a 12 in a day.”

A silence falls over us all. 

“...So. Dinner?” Ophelia suggests, and we all eventually rise and make our way to the table. I live through a haze of stuffing myself with a hearty stew of light broth and twinkling white meat. The sweet aromas of spices and flavorful accents placate my irritation for a moment. I take great pains to enjoy the sweets they lay out for dessert. 

“Right, well.” Ophelia stands from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to dash off.” 

She waits as if we’re going to ask her why, and when we don’t, she answers the question anyway. 

“I have to run off for a meeting with Dido himself, as well as your prep team, so I can have a look at what he’s prepared for you for tomorrow, and make any last calls!” She squeals.

“How exciting.” Godot adds, halfway through a spoonful of ice cream. 

“Oh I know , right?” Ophelia gushes. She flounces over to me and Tulip, and pinches our cheeks. “You’re going to look so sophisticated! Dido’s styled even the likes of President Snow before, so you should consider yourself lucky that he even agreed to take this on!” 

“ So lucky.” Tulip nods, and then she looks at me while Ophelia has her back turned to leave and rolls her eyes. I purse my lips to hold a laugh in. 

“Right, then! See you tomorrow!” She waves us goodbye, and hops out of the door and out of sight. 

Godot sighs. 

We sit in a rather charged silence now, the only sounds being utensils clanking on porcelain. 

Godot clears his throat. “I’m sorry if what I said earlier stung.” He looks us both in the eyes. “But I don’t believe in coddling you. You’re well aware of what’s about to happen to you, and i'm not going to sit here and pet you and praise you to try and get you to hope for escape.”

I shake my head and shrug. Tulip just nods. 

“But,” Godot continues. “I am proud of you.” He gestures to Tulip. “Daring to help and console Faraday has most likely made you a few petty enemies, and I know you know that, and you did it anyway. You see children descend into total anarchy when put into the Hunger Games, but you’ve maintained a steady head. I hope, for your sake, that it stays on.” 

Tulip smiles, and it’s the first honest smile I’ve seen on her in a while. 

“That doesn’t exclude you, Huck. I can see you struggling, and it’s completely reasonable that you are. The only people not in the same boat with you are probably a select few career tributes. And even they will stumble when it comes down to the wire. But if you keep persisting, I promise you that effort will pay off. I don’t want to see you give up.” 

I just sigh. Godot furrows his brows, but he doesn’t press on. 

“I won’t agitate you both with interview prep tonight. There’s no point. You’re tired, you probably feel gross. You’ll be allowed a little lie in tomorrow, unless you want to get more training in. If that is the case, there’s a small center downstairs set up for tomorrow morning. Any takers?” He surveys us. We both shake our heads. “Okay.” He gets up from the table. “Try to get some sleep, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He looks back once before leaving us alone. Well- I would say alone, but there are a few silent attendants who descend upon the table to clear it. They clearly try very hard not to make eye contact with us, and finding that uncomfortable, I get up. 

“Faraday, right?” I ask.

Tulip shoots me a sideways glance. “Uh, yeah. The little girl from 3.” She nods to herself. “What about her?” 

“…Why did you do that?” 

“Why not?” Tulip responds. “I mean- well. There was a task she was doing that involved being able to sense and do things while blindfolded. Faraday bumped into the guy from 1 and he immediately took that as an offense. That guy’s a giant bully- he and his district partner. I just think his district partner has more impulse control.” She sighs, and rolls her head over both shoulders. “I just knew that if she was left without any consolation, she’d crumble. Nobody would come to her aid. It’s no skin off my teeth.”

“Why, because she couldn’t reasonably kill you?”

“Huck!” Tulip frowns. 

“Look, I don’t know you, Tulip! I don’t know what you’re doing!” I raise my hands in defense.

“No, Huck. God.” Tulip crosses her arms. 

“Would you have helped her if she wasn’t-“

“I helped her because I saw a defenseless little girl in need of a few kind words, Huck! And besides, you don’t give a shit if you live or die anymore, I can see that as clear as day! You have absolutely no floor to stand on!” Tulip yelps.

We face each other wordlessly. We don’t make eye contact. 

“I don’t know why I said that.” I mumble. “I’m sorry.” I mean it. Genuinely. There was something that rose in me, then, and I don’t know where it came from. 

“What’s on your mind?” Tulip sighs, trying to diffuse her own irritation. “I know enough about you to know that whatever that was…was something else. Wasn’t Huck.” 

I shrug. “I- I don’t know. It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I dismiss. 

“It’s clearly something.” Tulip cranes her head to try and look at me. “Is this because I went our separate ways during training? I was just really conscious of Godot’s advice.” 

“It’s not…it’s not you.” I shake my head. 

“Then what?” She shifts her weight. “I don’t want to enter these games as enemies, Huck.”

“I don’t think of you as an enemy.” I mumble, confused. 

“Okay, good.” Tulip sighs. 

“…I just think- I think what Godot said is true. Despite…not…despite the fact that I don’t want to try to win, I…it’s anarchy. It’s a steam pot, boiling over, Tulip, I-“ I shake my head, and I pick at the seams of my shirt, anxious and feeling too vulnerable to stand up straight. “I don’t know.”

“I get it. Small fish, big pond. Sharks everywhere.” She strives to smile. I try to smile back. 

“Metaphor.” I identify. 

“Yup.” She nods. “I thought you didn’t go to school?”

“I knew a guy who talked like he was talking in tongues. Metaphors…comparisons…this and that. I was taught how he talked, and after that, he wasn’t the bother that everyone made him out to be. But that’s beside the point.” I shrug.

“Right.” Tulip nods. 

She nods again. “I'm going to, uh….get some sleep.”

I nod back. “Yeah- yeah.” I turn toward my room, objectively much closer than hers. Mine is right next to the dinner table, but hers is all the way on the other side, past the couch. 

“Goodnight.” She says, before swiftly making her way to bed.

“Goodnight…” I respond, watching her go. 

I’m somehow frustrated with how spick and span my room looks. Despite not sleeping in it last night, it seems cleaner. Things I disturbed have been straightened, and a new pair of pyjamas have been laid out for me. I get dressed, but the irritation persists. I freshen up in the bathroom, and it all itches. It’s the Capitol, it’s this process, it’s this place. It’s under my skin. I can’t control it. 

Tossing and turning in bed, I try to conjure better days. I try to hold onto going to the market with my mama. I hold onto memories of my papa making me stand on a stool and help him with his masses of coily hair. I hold onto the woods, the abandoned building, my piano, but it all slips out of reach and is overcome with this full-body irritation caused only by my own internal sense of horror. 

It gets to a point where I can’t take it anymore. I can’t be restrained to this bed, this room, or the suite. Barefoot and overcome with the urge to bolt, I simply leave the suite entirely. Nobody stops me. I tread carpet, back and forth, and when that fails to satiate me, I head for the elevator. It doesn’t open. Of course it doesn’t- it wouldn’t be that easy, but that only serves to fuel the burn I feel, deep in my soul. I feel the urge to slam doors, take nails to my skin, break glass. I find a stairwell meant to be used in the event of a fire, and I head down them. I can barely see the railing fly by as my world blurs into only my own rash breathing and I continue downward, downward, downward, and-

I find myself tumbling, veering sideways into a concrete wall as I collide with another warm body. I hear a grunt of pain as someone else goes teetering into the opposite wall. I end up sat on the floor, holding my pulsing forehead. It feels like my brain touched my skull on impact. 

Opposite me is the boy from 10- the one who didn’t speak much in the van. I forget how to form sentences for a moment, and just end up staring, mouth agape, huffing. 

The boy checks his nose for a nosebleed, which he doesn’t have. He checks himself, and then looks me over. “Are you…okay?” He asks, clearly wary.

I sniffle. I can’t control that, and it embarrasses me further. I am dizzy with the weight of my change of pace. “…Mm.” I manage. I stumble to my feet. “Sorry.” I apologise. 

The boy checks the stairwell. He then looks back at me. “I thought you might have been running from someone.” He pauses, and squints. “Are you?” 

“…No.” Not some one, at least. 

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Then what?” 

I shrug. I feel like I’ve been asked that too much in the last day. I don’t feel like sharing. He doesn’t need to know. 

“Can’t sleep?” He tries, shoving his hands sheepishly in his pockets. 

“…Yeah.” I admit. “I hate this place.”

He nods. “Me too.” 

“Huck, right?” He asks. I nod. “How’d your mentor take your scoring?” He probes.

I raise an eyebrow. “…Dunno. Okay, I guess? Middle ground.”

“Oh, yeah?” He chuckles. “Mine wasn’t impressed.”

“Unremarkable, he said.” I quote.

“Damn.” The boy chuckles. 

“…Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. I’m horrible with names. I tried to remember the board, but it gets jumbled.” 

“Trough.” He reminds me. I try to absorb that. Now that it’s come from his face directly, maybe the connection will stay. 

“Were you also walking around here, too? It’s the only place I could find to…escape my floor.” I ask.

“No. Well- yeah, kind of. I was trying to find that training room they have set up here. Let off some steam.” 

“Oh. That’s a good idea.” Better than mine, at least. I didn’t even have an idea. 

“You’re free to join me.” He invites. 

“I-uh.” I hear a danger alarm go off in my head- one that feels clearer and more precise than whatever was going on before. I shake my head. “I’ll pass. Thank you, though. I might just…go back up. I don’t even know how far down we are.” 

“Third floor. And if you choose to make a run for it for good, don’t try. I started checking floors in-depth starting from the ground floor, and that floor is locked, and there are Peacekeepers out there. Then I went up to the fourth floor, to work my way down thoroughly. My bets are on the training room being on the second or first floors. Career advantage.” He nods to himself.

“Right.” I look back up the stairwell, and sigh. “Oh, uh- Trough?” 

“Yeah?” He looks up, already a foot down the next flight of stairs. 

“What's the deal with your district partner?” I ask. “I saw you guys from the train when we were pulling in, and- has she always been in those cuffs?”

Trough seems to bristle some. “Shank is just angry. I think we should all be as angry as her, really. She just can’t control it. She’s not a bad person.” 

I’m surprised by his immediate defense of the girl- Shank, and I wonder how long they’ve known each other. I nod. “Well…I agree with what Betty said.” I reiterate, to him “It’s cruel.”

“Yeah.” Trough nods. “I can’t do anything about it, though. Nobody will. She’s even tried chewing through the metal. I’ve been trying to search for pins to get her out- you don’t happen to have one, do you?” He asks.

“No, sorry. I wish I did.” I shrug. 

“Damn.” He sighs. “Well…good luck, Huck.” He shoots me a half-smile.

I return it. “Yeah. Good luck to you too.”

I watch him descend the stairs and quietly enter the second floor. 

The itch has dissipated some, and the remaining feelings of discomfort have gone straight to my exhaustion, and I realise that if I don’t get into bed now, I won’t manage to sleep at all, tonight. 

Every step is monumentous, but I manage to get back up to the eleventh floor. I stand and stare at the hallway from behind the glass on the door for some time, but as I stare, it becomes increasingly clear that there’s a light on, somewhere. Either a door is open, or someone has a flashlight- but my curiosity overcomes my hesitation, and I carefully walk round the corner.

I hear mumbling under breaths, and I see two men talking in the dark, a door ajar, letting light out just enough to make out their faces. The man facing me is one I’ve never seen before, and he notices me. He gestures at me, and the second man- now immediately recognisable as Godot- immediately tenses up.

“Huck-“ he hisses. “What are you doing out of bed? How did you- where did you go!?” He asks, erratic. 

“I- uh. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to go for a walk, and the elevator wasn’t working, so, uh. I went down the stairs and back up again.” I explain, sheepish. 

“The- the emergency stairwell? I-“ Godot pinches the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t do that again, Huck.” He warns. 

I nod, caught out. “What are you…doing?” I ask, wary of the stranger who watches us. 

He’s about as tall as Godot, and both men are about an inch taller than me, so I can look them both in the eye. He hides behind a scruffy brown haircut, and scratches nervously at a barely-maintained beard. When he’s not fidgeting with his hair, he fidgets with his pockets- he’s not very imposing. 

“Right…” Godot drawls, now conscious that he too has been caught out. “Huck, this is Bauer Rourke. One of the best data analysts Panem has to offer.” 

“Ah…” Bauer scratches at his neck. “One of . I don’t think…anyway.” He waves his hand. 

“Why are you…?” I trail off.

“Oh- do you think im- no, Huck, no.” Godot chuckles. “I’m flattered that you think I’d be up to conspiring to rig the games. No. Heavens, no.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “Bauer doesn’t work within the games. And besides, he’s a good friend from my hometown, and he was in the area, and you know as well as I do that I am extremely busy keeping up with your every movement, so i'm taking this opportunity to get a word in.” He lifts his hands to either side of him. “Does that satiate you?”

I just nod, letting it go. Wether Godot is telling the truth or not, I’m not stupid- I can tell that he won’t say much more.

“Off to bed with you.” Godot urges, and he shoos me with his hand toward the direction of the suite. 

I say my polite goodbyes and head back for the door. Godot and Bauer make the point of not talking until I am safely shut inside, because when I press my ear to the door, I can hear a faint hum of talking resuming. 

I never put Godot above rule-breaking, but it’s still a strange interaction to have. I don’t even know what a data analyst does, and the need to sneak one inside the building for a talk only raises further suspicion- but who am I to say anything about it? There’s no point. 

I walk quietly as to not disturb Tulip, and I slip back into bed. I momentarily fear that my window for exhaustion has passed with that hallway run-in, but as I turn the events of tonight over in my head, at some point, it all fades to black.

I dream that night. I dream of a discordant song. A new song. All the notes are wrong, and all the lyrics are in a language I can’t understand. My hands are chained together, and I can’t play a single thing right. It’s all void, save for my limited view of the keys and my fingers. I begin to bleed from under the nails, and blood begins to meet me, seeping out from the innards of the piano and between the ivory and both streams of blood connect and cover me completely. The song turns into screaming, and I can hear my parents, Durian, Tulip, Godot, even Trough- they all screech in this language I cannot understand. All I do know is that it hurts. My hands hurt, my wrists hurt, the keys hurt, the wood hurts- and I drown in it, completely.

The second I run out of oxygen, my eyes snap open, and a flood of daylight blinds me momentarily. 

I am not dead. The Hunger Games are still on, and it’s maw is wide, and I am not dead. 

And I think that is a damn shame. 

Chapter Text

I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit on the edge of my bed for quite some time. I watch the bustle of the Capitol far, far below me. I’ve noticed throughout my time here that masses swarm the edges of the building every day just to see if they can get a look at us, and I suddenly feel as if I’m in some sort of zoo- more than I did already, of course. 

When I can’t take it any more, I peel my eyes away from the warm, wriggling mass of furs and patterns and stare at the back of my bedroom door. I trace the varnished wood grain until my eyes tire, but I can’t avoid the inevitable. 

I expect to see the regular- Tulip, Ophelia and maybe Godot at the breakfast table- but what I’m actually regaled with is something entirely different.

The walls must obscure some of the noise, or I must have been so unfocused that I wasn’t paying attention- but a heated conversation is unfolding at speeds faster than a fly moves. 

“You have absolutely no authority to tell me how I work!” Dido shouts, having reached a breaking point. A man so well regarded- it’s strange to see him in such close quarters with the riff-raff. 

Ophelia crosses her arms across her chest, sticking her nose clean in the air. Even with her heels on, she’s still smaller than Dido, who is also wearing heels- but tries to out-posture him. “Well, maybe not,” she retorts. “But I know fashion!”

Dido scoffs loudly, shaking his head. “You’re an overzealous schoolgirl who has no experience besides tidying up her peers in the mirror before they go off to occasions she’s not invited to!” He jabs a finger at her. 

Ophelia gasps and clutches at her necklaces. “Only the best of the best work in the Hunger Games- you should know that! Or perhaps they’ve misjudged you and I, and are simply just letting anybody in! You’re a senile old man who’s lost his grip on what the public needs, and I will not stand for it!” 

Godot rises from the couch in the corner and finally decides to intervene. “ Alright! ” He yells, above them both. They both swivel his way. “It’s too early for this, seriously!” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look. Ophelia is right- the outfits are outdated.” 

Dido tries to interject, but Godot raises his hand to shush him, and surprisingly- Dido lets him talk.

“That is not to say they aren’t good. They appeal to the tastes of the older generation. That in itself can be useful. Ophelia, I know you’re desperate to breathe some life into this, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we are running out of time. There will always be another Hunger Games.” 

I frown. There will always be another Hunger Games. It reminds me of my insignificance in this machine. All this arguing, all this prep, all of me and Tulip- it’s extremely temporary. Two more kids from our district will be fussed over just like this, this time next year. It seems our escort and stylist also realise that, and both grumble to themselves just out of  collective earshot. 

Tulip, who was sitting where I couldn’t see her behind Godot on the couch, takes a bite out of what she’s eating, the crunch echoing above the silence. Everyone looks at her, and when she meets their stares, and gestures at me to deflect the attention. 

“Huck.” Godot acknowledges.

I clear my throat and shift my weight. “Hey.” I nod awkwardly. “Good morning,” I correct. It’s now that I realise Tamrys and another woman are also in the room, and they crane their necks to see me. The woman starts whispering into Tamrys’ ear, and he enthusiastically whispers back.

“What’s going on?” I ask, already having an inkling. 

“Trouble in paradise.” Godot chuckles. “Arguments over you and Tulip’s outfits for tonight. Hungry?” He doesn’t let me answer. “I suggest you eat now, we have a packed day.”

“Packed? But, it’s just the interview in the evening, right?” It’s just gone dawn- how much can there possibly be to do?

“It’s more of a media day. You’ll see.” Godot smiles curtly, and gestures behind the table to the kitchen counter. “Your stylist needs the table, so food is out here today.” 

I circle the table awkwardly, passing everyone in the room to get to the kitchen, because that’s the only route I can take. 

The spread in the kitchen is lighter than it usually is when on the table, but nonetheless decadent. I feel my nerves alight at the sight of all manner of fruits, and I am thrust back into the thoughts that plagued me on the train. It shouldn’t bother me this much, but I allow it to. I’ve earned that much. 

“I told them not to.” Godot mentions.

I look up, and my mentor is watching me closely, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s- they like to include healthier options, but I told them, y’know- it’s 11. There’s a sensitivity issue. They listened for the most part, but logistics slipped today. Evidently.” He explains. 

“‘‘Preciate it.” I mumble. If my Ma was here, she’d flick the back of my neck and tell me to embrace my pleases and thank yous. My Pa would remind me that manners are the border between life and death. 

Godot just nods. “One rogue fruit toss, and you’ll take someone’s eye out.” He chuckles. “Save that for the games.” 

“Yeah…” I laugh, nervous. I pick up an apple, and habitually scan it. Not his. I plate it, feeling as if I can’t put it down for the life of me. Someone back home provided this for me, and I’m  just grateful for the food in the first place. They didn't use to feed tributes at all, anyway.

I take some more fresh fruit, as well as some eggs and meat. I take a seat on the couch, where the TV ambiently plays some form of entertainment that I can’t decipher. Some form of other, non-lethal game show. It’s a program I’ve never seen before, but then again- I don’t watch television unless it’s mandatory viewing, or I so happen to be near one. 

As I ingest food and mediocre TV, I am startled by a wad of green, and I realise it’s just Ophelia’s hair as she leans over the back of the couch to catch mine and Tulip’s attention. 

“Hello chickies- I hate to interrupt you while you’re eating, but we are in need of our favourite little tributes!” She brightly smiles, standing back upright. 

Me and Tulip know the procedure by now, and we just set our plates aside and follow Ophelia. 

They’ve set up a green sheet by the door, held aloft by a system of thin poles. 

“Right, so first things first.” Ophelia claps her hands together. “We need some photos of you in your uniforms.” 

I begin to head for my room, to go and retrieve it from where I had left it yesterday. 

“Huck- where are you going?” Ophelia stops me, and I turn around, raising an eyebrow.

“To get my uniform?” I reply.

She looks momentarily confused, before laughing and swatting the air with her hand. “Oh- oh, no, Huck. Not that one. Your arena uniform!” She squeals.

Dido, who is rather invisible when he is silent, moves forward from the table, holding two large bags on hooks. He holds one out to Tulip, and as I approach, hands one to me. 

“They’ve outdone themselves this year.” Dido mentions.

I half expect them to demand I get dressed right here and now, but they graciously usher us back to our rooms to change. 

I unzip the bag and remove the hook, hanging it on the back of my door. The strange phenomenon about the arena outfits, I notice, is that they all look the same, but each year is different. 

The bulk of the outfit is a greyish-black, but there’s dashes of dark green on the seams of the shoulders and the bottom of the shirt. There’s a pocket on the front with the Panem logo embroidered into it, with an added symbol underneath the bird. I didn’t know what it meant initially, but when the broadcasts for the First Quarter Quell started, I attributed the symbol- the XXV -to the number 25. On each shoulder is embroidered a stark white 11, and on the back, there it is again, even larger. We’re given utility trousers, multiple pockets on each side and plain grey-black, save for a stripe of green on each leg. 

I notice they haven’t provided me with a belt or shoes, which means we won’t be wearing these anywhere important today. 

I step back out of my room, and Ophelia claps her hands when I walk over. 

“Oh, you’re so right!” She agrees, nodding.

Dido nods back. At least they can agree on something. 

“Come, Huck.” Ophelia points to the green sheet. “Stand right there for me.” 

I obey, standing right in the middle. 

“Okay, now turn to the right, just a little.” Ophelia directs. “Perfect! Just stay right there, don’t change a thing!” 

I do as told. I don’t move a muscle. However, I find that when I concentrate on holding myself in place, I twitch from being tense. I don’t know how to solve it, but when Tamrys takes a few photos, nobody seems to mind. 

“Okay, now face me, Huck. But don’t look at me- just look right off into the lens, there.” Ophelia instructs.

I turn back to the camera, and I gaze into its eye. I can see the machinery moving, ever so slightly. Capturing me. I blink at the flash, and they have to take a few more.

Ophelia cranes her neck over the camera display. She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why they ask us to do face-forward ones. Nobody wants to remember a dead tribute that way.” 

A shudder goes down my spine- of course that’s what these are for. 

When a tribute dies, you see their image in the night, plastered on your screen. It’s not the reaping, it’s not the interview, and it’s evidently not the chariot outfit. It’s the arena outfit they die in.

I never thought to wonder about when those images were taken, or what poor tributes before me had to stand and pose and know that this will be their last chance to be seen and remembered by Panem. 

Should I have smiled? Should I have scowled? It’s too late now. My pensive, far-off stare is what everyone back home- everyone, anyone- it’s all anyone will remember me by. 

Huck Ploughman, hated by most, liked by few, loved by none- died in the First Quarter Quell, far-off and disengaged. 

Tulip exits her room, wearing an identical outfit, and joins us. 

“Ah, Tulip, just in time! Stand right there for me, would you?” Ophelia asks, pointing, and she directs Tulip just as she did with me.

I circle round to Godot, who’s observing from the table a few steps back. 

“Alright there, Huck?” He asks, passively. 

“Watching the games, you don’t think about this stage.” I say. 

“Nobody does.” He sighs. “Mine were the, uh, the second games they started doing this. They realised they needed to start polishing up the image. Slowly, slowly, they’ve added more and more spectacle. More for the consumers than it is for the…initial intent.” He explains, under his breath. 

I lower my volume instinctively. “Like the chariots.” 

“Like the chariots.” Godot nods. He pats my shoulder. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but just purses his lips into a strange smile instead, and goes back to resting against the table. 

“Huck?” Ophelia beckons me forward. I sigh, and return to her side.

“Okay, just stand next to Tulip, there. Step back a little- you’re taller, so we need to just-“ Tulip inches in front of me a little. “Oh, good girl, Tulip- you read my mind.” 

Tamrys takes some more photos. I choose to remain pensive this time, instead of doing it naturally. I want to feel some sort of control over these pictures. 

“Right- now we just need some video footage. Nothing too complicated- just a few simple poses, and just posture at the camera a little.” Ophelia makes me go first, and Tulip just stands to the side and has to watch. 

“Huck?” Ophelia clicks her fingers. 

“I-“ I scratch the nape of my neck. “I’m not sure what you want me to do?” I shrug.

Ophelia sighs. Godot walks up to me and begins to manually adjust me. He makes me stand slightly off center, arms crossed. 

“Face off to the side, look at the camera, challenge it a little, face forward, then put your arms down.” Godot instructs. 

I nod, trying to internalise it. 

“I’ll count you off.” Godot says. “One…two…three.” 

I try to do as he instructed, but it must not have translated, or something, because they make me do it a couple of times until they’ve amassed a library of takes to swim through. After what feels like forever, they finally let me go. 

“When you change, put the outfit back as you found it.” Dido barks at me when I pass him by to get to my room. I just nod, not wanting any extra trouble with him. I change quickly, making sure to hang the arena wear back up carefully, and bring it back outside. Dido takes it from me, checks it over, and then hangs it on a curtain rail, next to Tulip’s. 

“Now what?” Tulip asks, as I watch Tamrys pack away the green sheet. 

“Now… Lunch,” Godot decides, and eyes the breakfast buffet, still laid out on the counter. He raises an eyebrow at Ophelia, who puts her hands up in surrender.

“I didn’t want anyone interrupting! That would really gum up the works.” She pouts. 

“Fair.” Godot nods. “I’ll go and get you both something. Anyone else hungry?” He asks. Everyone else in the room nods and affirms in their own ways. 

I almost want to ask him to tag along, or scream ‘don’t leave me here!’ , because he’s the last thread of groundedness in a sea of capitol folk. And then all of a sudden I'm yearning for Godot Futhark of all people to stick around and accompany me, which also feels ridiculous in its own right.

But he’s gone before I can finish that train of thought. 

I settle on the couch again, feeling as if this time, I am just awkwardly propped on top of it. 

“What’s on?” I ask Tulip. 

She tilts her head, trying to make sense of the new program on TV. “…I…have no idea.” She nods, with a lopsided grin.

I laugh. “It all makes no sense.”

“Right?” Tulip shakes her head. “When I was little, and Lily even littler, Daffy would take us into the abandoned field near our house, and we’d pretend 11 didn’t even exist, and we were three lonely, shipwrecked sisters on a mission to make the world beautiful.” She nods. “That was our entertainment. Much better than any of this. Just us against the world, forever.” Tulip sighs wistfully. “Daffy was all about making things beautiful. The world seemed dull when she died.” 

I find myself lost in the story. I slowly nod. “I wish I could’ve gotten to meet her. Or Daylily.” 

“They would’ve liked you.” Tulip smiles. 

I hear a sniffle from behind us, and we both whip right around.

Tamrys and the other assistant are clutching each other, wiping their eyes. 

“Oh, no, no- don’t mind us!” Tamrys squeaks. 

His associate flaps her hand. “It’s just- it’s just so sweet…” she warbles. 

Me and Tulip make wary eye contact for a moment. 

“Um, well- Tulip- I need to get a start on your hair.” The woman says. Tulip sighs and gets up, and the woman drags a stool close, as well as a large, violently pink toolbox. What confuses me is the amount of wires she pulls out of said box, and I momentarily fear they’re going to turn Tulip into some kind of machine. I look at Tamrys, expecting some sort of command.

“Oh- um. Hello.” He peeps, uncomfortable with my eye contact. He then realises what I’m waiting for. “You’ll start a little later. Tulip’s hair will take for ever , so we need to start now.” 

“You got so lucky.” His colleague grumbles. “Not only is your boy one of the most handsome tributes on the lineup, he has barely any hair!” 

That statement feels like a one-two punch. First of all- handsome? Me? I’m slightly confused by the association. I reach up to my outgrown hair self-consciously. I have naturally thick, curly hair, and I have always hated the way it interferes with my work. It’s heavy and gathers sweat and heat- so I routinely buzz it down to my skull. It’s longer than it should be right now, at least a thumb-knuckles worth of growth, but I forget that this is relatively short compared to others. 

Tulip giggles. “Handsome?” 

I shoot her a look, and we both chuckle more. 

“No, it’s true!” The woman blurts. “I saw it in the Capitol Gossip paper yesterday. They post all the regular programming, but I’m just in it for all the juicy stuff they add on. Levant Monty’s hotness rankings are to die for. He spares no detail.” She giggles. She then sticks her hand out in my direction. “I’m Daphne Laurus, by the way. Prep assistant. So nice to meet you.”

I lightly grip her long-nailed hand and shake it, trying to smile. 

“Don’t weird him out, Daph.” Tamrys grumbles, bending a piece of wire. 

“Whoops.” She chuckles, returning to unbraiding one of Tulips cornrows. “But honestly, you’re not far down at all.”

I fall victim to curiosity. “…Really?”

Daphne grins- she’s caught me. “Mhm. As far as boys go, you’re like number four. Or five…hey, Tamrys- it’s in my bag, go and find the article!” 

“I’m not your lapdog, Daph!” He complains, obeying. He flicks open a colourful magazine. “Okay- yeah. Number one is Montauk from Four, then Lampus from One. Number three is Spoke from Six, then you! You’re number four!” Tamrys looks up at me and shoots me an enthusiastic thumbs up. “And as far as girls go…number one is Brutus from One! My dad is friends with her dad, they are loaded. And- woah, hey! Betty from Twelve is in second, that’s crazy. ”

“I know, right?” Daphne gushes. “But he’s right- she’d be really beautiful, if not for being from District 12. It seems even the better-off are always covered in dust, or something. And she always looks kind of miserable- I wonder if that's just the way her face looks…”

“Yeah…hey, you can go and ask Ariadne about it during the pre-show mixer today.” Tamrys directs.

“Yeah, if we get there on time!” Daphne complains, sectioning off Tulip’s now free standing sea of coils.

“What about me?” Tulip chirps, from underneath a bushel of her own hair, also roped into the curiosity.

“Oh! Yeah, right, hold on.” Tamrys scans the paper. “Sixth. Behind Bevel from Eight.” 

“Oh.” She pouts. 

“Hey, it’s not that bad!” Daphne tries to assure her. “You’re still prettier than half the competition, and when i'm done with you, you’ll be number one! That’s a promise.” Daphne pats Tulip’s head, and Tulip just nods. 

“If you’re done with your childish gossip-“ Dido pipes up, from over by the table. “Huck. Come here.” 

We all startle somewhat- we almost forgot he was there. 

I rise from the couch and scuttle over, and I feel like I’m back in the hall, shrouded in curtain, feeling small. 

“Hmm…” Dido strokes his goatee, looking me over. He clicks his fingers in the rest of the room’s direction. 

“Make yourself useful,” he directs, as Ophelia comes over. “And tell me what you think of this.” 

Ophelia looks at me, and then Dido. “…Of what, sorry?”

Dido doesn’t take his eyes off of me. He gestures to the table, where he’s laid out a few sheets of paper. Ophelia observes them. 

“Oh, hmm.” Ophelia looks between me and the paper, but whenever I lean over to see what’s on them, Dido uses his pipe to tap the underside of my chin- wordlessly telling me to stand back where I was. 

“I think the eyes….” She stabs a nail into one of the sheets. “The eyes are important. You need them to…travel.” 

“Mmm.” Dido nods.

“Travel?” I ask. Seems like a weird word for describing eyes.

“Striking, Hucky.” Ophelia smiles, lilac lipstick giving way to a big grin. She trots over and holds my jaw in her hands, her nails making my neck feel itchy. “You have such an enticing stare- we need to compliment that! We need even the people in the back to see you see them.” 

“…Right…” I sigh, through my teeth. 

“Oh, come on, now.” Ophelia pats my cheeks. “Cheer up, Hucky! You’ll look stunning.” She then flounces off to check on Tulip’s hair.

It’s at this moment that Godot graces us with his presence again, casually striding in with two heavy bags in hand. 

“Alright, you gluttons, lunch is served!” He jokes, putting the bags on the kitchen counter, that has since been cleared of breakfast.  

Daphne and Tamrys cheer, helping to unload the boxes of food.

“What’d you get?” I ask.

“Eh, some of this, some of that. Went around asking the other floors for things their tributes hadn’t touched, and there’s usually a lot of leftovers.” Godot explains.

Makes sense. I’m sure for some people, it’s hard to have an appetite here. 

I put some cold fried chicken and boiled potatoes on my plate, and I pick apart some vegetables in order to just section off the broccoli. 

“Oh- don’t you want that heated up?” Godot asks, catching me taking a bite into the chicken.

I just stare blankly- I didn’t realise that was an option. 

“Here-“ he grabs my plate from my hands and sets it aside, in a machine inside of the wall. I watch as the plate rotates in circles, and I am handed it back, blazing hot. I almost drop it. 

I am, however, grateful for the warm food. There’s a slightly strange taste to it, and I wonder if that’s due to the re-heating of it, or if that’s just Capitol food talking. Regardless, I wolf it down. 

“Alright over there, Tulip?” Godot asks, and I swivel my head to observe a slightly morose Tulip, trying to get food in her mouth without looking. 

“My neck hurts.” She whines. 

“Oh, I’m sure.” Godot nods, titling his head. “Need some help?”

“No!” Tulip protests, missing her mouth by a few centimeters.

“Are you…sure?” He doubles down.

“Nuh-uh.” She shakes her head, popping a chicken drumstick into her mouth defiantly. 

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Godot laughs.

“Sorry Tulip-“ Daphne pipes up, over her own food. “But it must be done!” 

“ Must it? ” Tulip sighs, mocking Daphne’s accent. 

“Pah…” Daphne shakes her head. “Once we’re done, you’ll get it.”

“Godot-“ Daphne begins, drawling, waving to get his attention. 

“Mm-?” Godot perks up, obviously engrossed in his own leftovers. “Yeah?” He asks, behind a hand, mouth full. 

“Did they ever put you through the wringer? Your stylists?” Daphne asks. 

Godot makes sure to finish his mouthful, and then clears his throat. “I didn’t have one.” He answers. 

“ Really ?” Tamrys pipes up. 

“Do you kids not know anything about history?” Godot sighs, and I feel like I, as well as Tulip, are included in that blanket statement. “They really only started pushing stylists around the 15th. Of course- we had people clothe us in my year, but it wasn’t…this. Nowhere close.” 

“Wow…so- Dido, how long have you been doing this?” Tamrys asks.

“…16 years.” He answers, curtly, after cutting a thread in half with his teeth. 

“See?” Godot adds. “Of course, as you know, however- Dido was well accomplished before the games.” 

Both prep assistants nod, entranced with this information. 

“So- so what did you wear? Not your reaping clothes, I’d hope!” Daphne places a palm on her chest, indignant.

“What- for the interviews?” Daphne nods. Godot is briefly lost in reminiscence, putting details together in his head. “This light blue three-piece. It had some sort of golden embroidery, but truly, I don’t remember specifics. I wasn’t exactly…focused on my outfit, at the time.” He chuckles. 

“Makes sense.” Daphne nods. 

“Time, people!” Ophelia chirps. “Time is getting on!”

Daphne groans, and returns to Tulip’s hair. 

“Alright, Huck.” Tamrys sighs, getting up and grabbing his own tool box. “It’s time we get started.”

“You’re not going to put wires on me too, are you?” I ask. Tulip scoffs, over from the stiff angle she’s positioned at. 

“Oh, no! No. These boxes are just standard supply.” He cracks it open, and I see an army of different cosmetic tools crammed inside. “Take a seat!” He directs, pulling a chair from the table and gesturing for me to sit.

I do, and Tamrys immediately gets to work, lathering my face with creams, powders and all manner of other substances I dare not try to name. He even pulls out fake stems of leaves and glues them to my face. The glue itches, but Tamrys slaps my hand away when I try it, so I sit and try not to squirm. I get so bored of this process that I find myself nodding off multiple times. 

Eventually, he finishes up, and I look at myself in the mirror. Despite the heavy layers of makeup on my face, my skin looks borderline natural. There’s a powdery texture to it, but Tamrys assures me that it’s camera-ready. My eyes are ringed in different shades of dark brown powder, blended out at the edges. He’s groomed my eyebrows so much that they form little points at the ends. He doesn’t slick my hair down this time, and instead tries to make it seem, in his words, more natural - which seems like a contradiction, but in the end he just ends up fluffing it artistically, as much as he can. I feel like a burr.

“Oh, lovely.” Daphne comments, nodding her approval. 

I look across to Tulip, whose eyes are ringed in pearlescent greens, and every time she blinks, her eyes shimmer. Daphne has planted fake eyelashes on top of her regular ones, and if she looks a certain way, her entire eye is obscured. She’s also been powdered and groomed, her rogue flyaways glued down to her head, styled in little swirls. She also has those fake leaves plastered to the sides of her face. 

Daphne and Tamrys both look to Dido with wide eyes, giant grins encompassing their faces. He nods. He beckons to both me and Tulip, and we silently drift over. 

He instructs us to undress, and I feel that same pang of ‘prudish’ embarrassment again, but Dido catches it and tells me that ‘nobody cares.’ I do! I care! 

However, Tulip has done as instructed, so I follow. I make a point not to look in her direction- I don’t think I could swallow the embarrassment. Tamrys almost shatters glass with glee as he is allowed to unwrap my outfit from its shroud. 

I think it’s ugly. 

The overcoat is made of tan brown silk, with lapels that almost fall off my shoulder. It’s embroidered with stalks of corn and fruit and leaves, all in alternating greens and reds. I’m given no shirt underneath, so my collarbones and part of my chest remains uncomfortably exposed. A velvet waistband of darker, reddish brown cuts the coat short at my midriff. The light linen, green colored pants I'm given to wear cut short at the mid-calf with a series of buttons and clasps, but I'm given large brown leather boots that cover them. The coat, despite its short front, droops in the back, with two tails covered with even more intricate embroidery. I’m fitted out with sparkling necklaces and bracelets, some of which imitate the same leaves plastered on my face. They plaster some decoratively across my chest, too, for good measure. 

“Oh, Hucky!” Ophelia swoons. “Just the picture of grace.” 

I don’t feel very graceful, I think, as I tug at the neckline to attempt to stop the wild itch that’s grown there. 

Tulip, however, looks really pretty. She’s outfitted in a plush, leaf-green chiffon gown that protrudes more at the sides than it does at the back, and it trails behind her when she walks. Daphne has given her bespoke high heels that she wobbles in, and she’s currently engaged in walking back and forth to become more familiar with them. The layers of her dress get more and more light, from green to a light lily-yellow. Her sleeves are long and drape excessively, light, willowy material that appears to be as light as air. Her hair has been artificially lengthened again, to match her regular hair, and the wires have been used as supports for a gravity-defying style, arching and curling, making her look even taller.

“I can’t breathe.” She complains, huffing.

“That’s how you know it’s working!” Daphne unhelpfully adds, holding her arm to keep her upright. 

Godot, who had since left for quite some time, re-enters. He looks like he’s about to say something, but is taken aback. 

“Wow.” Is his only comment, as he looks between me and Tulip.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Tulip moans.

Daphne gasps, offended. 

“No, no! Absolutely not.” Godot says, between laughs. “You look beautiful, Tulip. And Huck, don’t you look dashing?” He nods.

I grimace. 

He chuckles again. “Right, we should be rolling out, if you two want to make the pre-show.” He gestures to Daphne and Tamrys, both busy in touching up each other's wild makeup.

“Oh, yes!” Tamrys exclaims. 

Dido approaches me, picking a loose thread from my shoulder. He just nods, and walks to leave, nothing further said. 

“I hope he can make some introductions for us tonight.” Daphne says, crossing her fingers. 

“He better! I’ve done way too much picking up after him! I was not expecting to be condemned to the meager life of an Avox when I applied for this!” Tamrys nods. 

They both follow Dido, hot on his trail. Their various appliances lie scattered across the room, like the aftermath of a battle. 

Ophelia sallies up to Godot and loops an arm into his. “Shall we, chickies?” She smiles at us. Me and Tulip just look at each other and shrug. 

We follow Ophelia and Godot as they walk ahead of us, and outside in the hallway is a Peacekeeper. He holds his hand up as we all approach, and we stand there in silence. He’s the only thing stopping us from entering the elevator. After a moment, he allows us to pass, and we quickly journey from the 11th floor down to the foyer level. 

We exit via the front doors this time- not hurried out the back like catering staff. This time, we’re fully in front of the masses that have gathered to see us go, and it is a bombardment of colors and screams. I feel the same kind of adrenaline shock surge through me from the chariot procession. I give a wave to a group of young boys vying for my attention, and they hold onto each other and yelp in surprise and adoration as I do. I wonder how old they are. Not much older than me, I guess.

We’re quickly ushered into an extremely long car, and we all breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close and we begin to move. 

“Okay, guys.” Godot begins. “This is it. I can’t really police you more than I already have without it being a total drag, but I hope you’ve remembered what I’ve told you about tonight. This is what makes or breaks your public image. Get onstage, laugh at the stupid jokes Lucky makes, shake his hand, engage with the audience. Play nice. Play too nice. Better to be safe than dead.”

I take a big breath in and out. I nod. I itch my neck.

“Huck, are you okay?” Ophelia peeps.

“Huh?” I look up. “Oh- just itchy.” I explain, embarrassed. 

“Oh, dear. Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Ophelia fusses. While the car is moving, she scoots in between me and Tulip, (already an insane feat due to the sheer size of her  marshmallow-esque outfit) and reaches for my collar. I let her, and she folds up a square napkin down to an eighth of its size and puts it between my neck and the collar. She then takes a few pins out and strategically sets it in place. 

“There.” She nods. “Any better?” 

I nod. “Thank you, Ophelia.” And this time, I mean it. 

“Oh, you.” She giggles, sitting back in her seat, next to Godot. “We can’t have you itching up there on stage, now can we?” 

Godot smiles. “No, we can’t.” 

Godot clears his throat. “Well, there’s a bit of a pre-show and post-show party for those involved with today’s proceedings. You have the choice to stay or not for the afters, but you will be involved in the pre-show. It’s truly just buffet snacks and mingling, but you’ll have to preen in front of the people you talk to, there. Some of them might be mentors, some of them might be tributes, but some of them are not, and are eligible to sponsor. So…” 

“Rather safe than dead.” Tulip repeats.

“Indeed.” Godot smiles. 

I just nod. 

We sit in silence until the car stops. As the doors open, I hear the buzz of a crowd again, but much more far-off. 

Godot and Ophelia disembark first, and Ophelia helps me out of the car, while Godot assists Tulip. 

We’re right in the middle of the Capitol now, right outside what I can only assume is the glittering golden recording studio. The car is parked right up to the door, but there's a long stretch of entry road before I see a barrier from which crowd members can try to get a glimpse of us. Despite the teeming masses of people I've seen in the last few days, they all seem to blur together, and all the crowds look identical. Godot begins to wave, and so me and Tulip follow suit as we are quickly ushered into the building.

I’m hit with a sudden blast of cold air, and a shiver runs down my spine. Outside, in the summer heat, this outfit is fine- but in this chilly complex, I feel the need to beg Godot to give me his long, translucent navy scarf to wear. 

A tall woman in an all-black outfit approaches us, and Ophelia tells her who we are, and the woman scrawls things down on a clipboard as she talks. She then barks some orders into a headset and hurries off.

“We’re all checked in!” Ophelia giggles. “Everyone is gathered just through there!” She gestures to a tall opening in the foyer wall, and I can spy people chatting amongst themselves in there. I steel my nerve as we trail behind Ophelia, stopping just past the entrance.

Ophelia swoons, and she almost looks like she’s about to faint. 

“I have always dreamed of being in this room…” She fans herself with her hand.

Godot chuckles. “Enjoy it. It’s your first time only once. You have many, many years to come.” 

She looks like she’s about to cry. “Oh, dear. I do hope so…” She takes a powder puff from somewhere within the folds of her plentiful skirt and dabs her undereyes.  

I can see Godot squint as he looks to the back of the room. I try to follow his gaze. He’s looking at a smaller room, once again without doors, sectioned off from the rest of this reception room. There’s a curtain at the back of this smaller room, and when it moves, I get small glimpses of a pristine, polished stage. 

“There he is!” I hear a familiar voice boom. 

Lucky Flickerman is here. He’s real, in the flesh, and bright chartreuse. His three piece suit is sparkly to boot, so he is incredibly hard to look at directly. Even his hair matches. 

Godot opens his arms, tilts his head, and smirks. He and Lucky collide, pulling each other in via a handshake, and patting each other on the back.

“My lucky number 13! It has been a while !” Lucky grins. His grin is so wide that I find it hard to believe that it remains contained to his over-modified face. 

“That it has been.” Godot nods. “But, alas, we are both busy men.” 

“Ah, not for much longer, I'd say.” Lucky wags his finger, then places his hand just so against his chest. 

“What, you? No. Never . What would we do without Lucky Flickerman, eh?” Godot turns to me and Tulip.

It’s now that Lucky registers that we are actually here. “Oh- your tributes, eh?” 

“Indeed.” Godot nods. “Lucky, this is Tulip and Huck. Huck and Tulip- Lucky Flickerman.” 

Lucky doesn’t reach out to shake our hands, and so we keep ours to ourselves. We just nod politely and say our hellos. 

“And their escort, Ophelia Folio.” Godot gestures to Ophelia, who is almost teetering over from joy. She sticks her hand out, and Lucky politely kisses her glove. “Enchante.” He smiles. Ophelia giggles.

“It’s a shame they waylaid you this year.” Lucky returns to Godot, and he just shrugs.

“It’s a shame to not be attached to home, that’s for sure, but I think every tribute is worth mentoring.” He smiles.

“Well said…” Lucky nods, and spares one more glance at me and Tulip. “Well- i’d love to find out more, but technically, i’m not supposed to be here. I will see you two,” He points two fingers at once between Tulip and I. “ Later .”

He quickly scampers off through the arch we came from, flanked by more assistants dressed in black as he goes. 

“So…?” Godot looks between everyone, probing us for reactions.

“I think my heart stopped beating!” Ophelia squeals.

“...Interesting guy.” I offer.

“I think I've gone blind.” Tulip says.

I laugh. So does Godot.

“Definitely an interesting color, this year.” He admits. 

The room suddenly electrifies- the noise gets slightly louder, and people lean into others to whisper in available ears. 

“Oh.” Godot looks up, toward the arch. 

Standing there, swarmed by people, is a tall man with bright blonde hair. That’s all I can make of him from above the heads of all his leeches, but they begin to part to let him through. He’s wearing absolutely nothing on his chest aside from a navy cape, fringed in gold, that falls to the floor and hangs off of his shoulders. His bare chest is covered with scars, most predominantly a giant gash that only looks partially healed. There’s a sash that matches his cape at his waist, and he wears loose linen pants, only complimented by golden sandals. He waves and blows kisses as he passes by, and is then ushered into the small side room. Security guards stand at its entrance. 

“Who was that?” Tulip asks.

“Zephyrine Domitille…” Ophelia swoons. 

“Last year’s victor.” Godot informs.

That explains the size of the crowd. Of course anyone who’s anyone wants to get a close-up look at the most recent victor. 

I remember attending his victory tour- because, of course, you’re supposed to. I didn’t really pay attention, so I didn’t recognise him immediately. And besides- his name is impossible to remember. I don’t really remember much of any of the victory tours, and all the speeches seem to blur into one continuous, hours long mumble. 

“ Hello, everybody! ” A small man on a stepstool yells, through a microphone. “Can all those who are not, I repeat, are not an escort or a mentor please go and find their seats!”

A huge bulk of the crowd begins to stream out of the room, and suddenly, only us tributes and essential others are left behind.

“Okay! Please can we ensure all the tributes are lined up, please! District order, girls first!” The man yells.

People start to fall in line, and Trough catches my eye as he lines up. We don’t smile at each-other, but there’s a clear solidarity in recognition. Tulip lines up behind him, and I line up behind her. Despite not seeing them enter at all, Betty is there to step behind me, and she makes sure to check that her district partner is behind her. 

I feel her white dress at my back before I hear her whisper in my ear, but I lean down a little to receive whatever Betty wants to tell me. “They’ve un-cuffed her.” She whispers. I lean out of line just a bit, and I notice that it’s indeed true- Shank is without handcuffs. She’s dressed in a small, light-yellow dress that paints a happier picture than her permanent scowl suggests. 

“Yeah…” I mumble. 

I hear the anthem blare, and some spotlights from the stage bleed through the curtains- signifying that the show has begun. There’s a screen inside of the reception room so that we can see everything happening, live. 

“Okay, mentors and escorts, thank you for your time- but it is now time for you to leave! Say what you need to your tributes, and then please go and find your seats in the upper level!” The staff member directs. 

Godot places a hand on each of our shoulders. “Smile. Laugh. Remember what you’ve been trying to curate. Advocate for yourself, and let them know that you deserve to be supported, no matter who put you here today, or for what.” He nods, smiles, and takes a step back. “You’ve got this.”

Ophelia clutches her hands to her chest. “Oh, my chickies. I would kiss you for luck- but it’ll ruin your makeup.” She chuckles. “You’ll do great! We’ll be right up there if you need someone to find for support in the crowd!” She adds, as both she and Godot walk away. 

We are now well and truly alone. 

I feel my hands get clammy. 

I decide to pay attention to the screen to distract myself from the fact that I will soon be on it. 

Lucky walks onto stage, and looks considerably less eye-offensive on camera than he does in person. 

“Thank you, thank you, everybody!” He laughs. “I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman, the man who needs no introduction. You’ll know me as your favourite weatherman and ameteur magician.” He throws a coin into the air. I would pay real money right now to be in the crowd so that I can see how that coin toss looks, so I can figure out how high Lucky needs to throw that thing in order for them to rig it. “Tonight is the night you’ve all been waiting for!” 

The crowd erupts into cheering. 

“Very, very soon we will get to meet this year’s special tributes, and find out exactly what makes them tick.” He smiles, and holds up a finger. “However- this show cannot go on.” 

The crowd gasps.

Lucky sniffs theatrically. “At least, for me, that is.” He produces a napkin from thin air, and dabs his ‘tears’. When he goes to blow his nose, the handkerchief turns into a white rose. “You see- I thought this was the time to announce…that I am retiring.” 

The audience begins to clamor, and Lucky puts his hands up to placate them.

“Just from the Hunger Games, my friends, just from the Hunger Games!” He assures the audience. “Your favourite weatherman is here to stay, but the Games needs a fresh face- a fresher face than this old mug, I assure you. And we have just the replacement!”

 He gestures to the back of the stage, where a box is wheeled out, dark blue and stamped with a gold capitol logo. Lucky knocks on the box. “Yoo-hoo! Is our new host in there?”

The box knocks back. The crowd laughs in excitement. 

Lucky then brandishes a giant saw from behind his seat, to which the crowd- and quite a few of the tributes in line, gasp at. He spares no time sawing the box into thirds, and pushes the thirds apart a little. 

He then pulls open the bottom flap- there's a pair of shiny black shoes that shuffle regularly. The audience holds their breaths. The middle flap is opened- there’s a shiny blue suit, with hands that adjust a tie. 

“Tough enough to withstand anything- just the host we need for these Games, I think, I don’t know about you!” Lucky laughs, pushing the thirds back together. He knocks the box again, and puts his hands on his hips. “Are you alright in there?”

The door bursts open, back in one piece, and a young man in a blue suit steps out, unharmed. He tosses his long navy hair over one shoulder, and checks his nails as if he is completely unbothered by the situation.

The crowd goes buck wild, screaming and cheering.

“Dad, don’t you think the gimmick is overdone?” The man, clearly Lucky’s son, says, a triumphant smirk on his face. He then proceeds to give up the bit, waving at the crowd. I can see a few assistants near me get emotional.

“That’s right folks- Little Caesar here has been vying for his turn as part of the programme since he was a wee thing- and I thought, now that he’s an adult, I would give him a spin, and give you a treat for the very first Quarter Quell! Caesar will be taking over all things Hunger Games from now on!” The volume of the crowd is unbecoming of human limits of noise. “You’ll take good care of him, I trust!” Lucky pats his son’s shoulders, beaming at the crowd. 

“Goodnight, everybody! I’ll see you tomorrow, for the weather.” Lucky bows. “But for now, please welcome your young and eager host of the First Quarter Quell, your master of ceremonies- Caesar Flickerman!” 

Lucky strides offstage, waving all the while, and Caesar waves him off.

Caesar taps at his microphone, comically wincing at the feedback. “Well, I thought I didn’t need babysitters anymore!” He jokes, and the crowd laughs. “Wasn’t that an electric start? Thank you for the warm welcome, ladies and gentlemen- truly, I couldn’t be more honored to be your host tonight. Now, the treats don’t stop with me, and it’s certainly not the last time you’ll hear a name repeat itself! Before we kick off the interviews, I am privileged to re-introduce you to, and welcome back to the stage for some final words as current reigning victor- Zephyrine Domitille !”

The anthem blares again as Zephyrine strides out onto the stage. He firmly shakes Caesar's hand and lavishly spreads himself out onto one of the small couches onstage. Caesar props himself onto the one opposite. 

“Now, Zephyrine- how does it feel to be back where it all started?” Caesar asks, wasting no time in getting into things. 

“Pff…” Zephyrine sirs up, forearms across his legs and hands clasped together. “Brings back memories.” 

“Memories, indeed! Now- you told my father a year ago today that whatever you’d go on to do in the arena, it would be for Panem second, and for your special girl first. How are things back home?” Caesar probes. 

“I stayed true to my word, Caesar. I came home to my precious Pearl, and I’ll go back home to her again tonight. All those people I laid waste to in that arena- I stand by it proudly. In the name of being able to go home.” Zephyrine smiles. “All the other benefits don’t hurt either.” 

“I can imagine! Only seventeen, and with enough money and influence to do anything you’d like! Anything in particular that’s been of special memory to you?” 

“Well, I’ve been able to ensure my parents retire well, for starters. My victory certainly has done wonders for business, I tell you that! Speaking of-“ Zephyrine pulls something out of his pocket- a necklace that’s dripping with a positively ludicrous amount of jewels. It looks like a string of intricately placed, giant gems, but on closer inspection, each big gem is surrounded by hundreds of smaller ones. The crowd oohs and aahs at the reveal. He hands it to Caesar. 

“Pass this to your mother, will you? And send my regards.” He winks.

“Wow!” Caesar yelps, genuinely taken aback and totally surprised. He handles the necklace as if it might explode. “This is beautiful, Zephyrine! She’ll love it. Isn’t that great folks? Look at this beauty!” He holds it up again for the world to see. 

“We take great pride in our pieces, Caesar, and I hope you’ll consult us directly, should you ever want something bespoke of your own. We don’t believe in wholesale- custom is king.” Zephyrine grins. “But- enough business talk.” 

“You’re right, you’re right.” Caesar pockets the necklace. “Well, how’s that scar holding up, there?” He points out the large, pronounced scar clearly visible in the center of his chest. 

Zephyrine runs his fingers over it. “Well, Caesar- they say it’ll be clear as day to see for years to come, but I welcome it! It’s proof that my victory was hard fought for, and that again- I kept by my word. I made that torch bearing, coal sniffing mutt from 12 pay for what he did to me!” His insult rallies the crowd, and they all yell in Zephyrine’s support. “This scar was my winning ticket, and I don’t care who sees it.” 

“Clearly!” Caesar smiles. “We all remember where we were when he fell off that cliff.” He crosses one leg over the other. “I trust you’ve been mentoring the next run of District 1 tributes, eh?” 

Zephyrine nods. 

“How’s that going for you?” Caesar prompts. “Mentor is no easy job.” 

“Oh, well, it being the Quarter Quell, this year's tributes are nothing short of exemplary, you’ll come to find. I’m proud to mentor even past classmates, so you’ll be in safe hands knowing we’re cut from the same gem.” He smiles.

Caesar nods enthusiastically. “Well, it has been ever so good to see you again, Zephyrine, but alas- we can’t keep the crowds waiting forever. Is there any word of advice you’d like to give to our amazing tributes who wait in the wings to stand where you once stood?” 

Zephyrine holds his chin in thought. “Hm.” He starts. “I guess I’ll give some advice to them that my mentor gave me.” He stands up and postures in front of a camera. The screen we can see switches so that he looks directly at us. “Keep moving. You think- you die.” He clears his throat. “Giving up is a loser's play. You’ll just make it easier for anyone else to win, that way.” 

The crowd holds their breath for a beat before they roar and applaud. 

I don’t find it something that anyone should be applauding. What was he even trying to say? Don’t stop barrelling through your competition until they’re all dead? It’s a decidedly close-minded perspective on winning, but whatever the Capitol thinks they hear- they love it.

Zephyrine walks offstage after waving and greeting the crowds, and he re-appears through the curtain, next to our line. He stops to say a few words to his District 1 tributes at the top of the line, and slows down just a little near us at the end of the line to glower. He definitely has a vendetta against District 12- one that he doesn’t even need to hide. I briefly check the tributes behind me, but they don’t seem to react much to Zephyrine. 

When I switch my attention back to the screen, a countdown begins. They’ve cycled through the break visuals, and we’re actually headed for the real thing. I feel my mouth start to water, and my stomach hurts. 

Caesar is back on screen, grinning that trademark grin that he shares with his father. 

“Welcome back folks!” He walks leisurely across the stage. “I know you’ve been so patient- and I won’t make you wait any longer!”

An assistant approaches the first in line, and she’s ushered into the sectioned off part, right up to the curtain. I see her roll her wrists and roll her head on her shoulders- mentally preparing. Even Careers need to assure themselves, it seems.

“Now, first up on the roster- she’ll certainly blind you with her brilliance- Brutus Candor! ” 

The burly girl from 1 strides onto the stage, a glittering blur. Once the camera focuses properly, you realise that her dress isn’t made of fabric at all- it’s entirely fashioned out of a million small gems. Her brown hair is delicately pinned up with hairpins of even more jewels, and her iridescent makeup further blends into her outfit. She firmly shakes Caesar's hand, and confidently props herself on the opposing sofa. 

“Brutus- let me just say, first of all, that you look stunning. Literally. I think you took a few eyes out with your shine!” Caesar jokes. 

Brutus laughs. “Well, I’ll have to save that for the arena.” 

“Indeed you should! Now- we’ve just heard from your mentor, there- do you agree with what he said? His advice?” Caesar leans forward. 

“Absolutely. I was privileged to be selected as the best of the best this year- and I won’t let a single second go to waste.” Brutus nods. 

“Talk to me about that- do you feel the selection process was any different than usual?” Caesar leans back in his chair. 

“Well, Caesar,” Brutus begins. “The selection process isn’t the kicker. Usually, it would be easier. You’re selected, you volunteer, you enter the games. This year, we had to campaign, like a mayoral candidate. Not only the training academy decided to send me here- I am the chosen tribute sent by the majority of District 1. I find that I am more superior than usual, that way.” She tilts her head and grins, proud of herself. 

“Well, you heard it here first, folks! The favoured girl from District 1, here to impress! Now, Brutus- I have no doubts that your campaign was a triumph back home- but can we, who haven’t seen it, get a little taste?” Caesar asks.

Brutus clears her throat, and stands up, positioning herself center stage. She smiles politely, and raises the microphone to her chest.

“Good evening, treasured citizens of the Capitol. The First Quarter Quell, as you know, is not just a privilege- it is a solemn part of history. The Hunger Games are in place to display that we cannot let ourselves crumble under the weight of what occurred during the Dark Days. The voting system was excellently crafted in order for you- yes, you -to choose who represents you in this auspicious Games. This is a chance for you to be seen, to have autonomy, to have authority over history. As a jeweler's daughter, I’ve seen both the lowest rungs and highest heights of our system, and I think that I am privileged to know both struggle and triumph. I know what makes the world beautiful, and the Hunger Games are just a part of that. Our struggle brings us closer together, and I have trained my whole life for the chance to prove that fact true. If you stand for anything, stand for unity. Stand for me. Brutus Candor.” 

There’s an attentive silence. Brutus smiles again, and bows. 

“Thank you.” She grins. 

The hall erupts into excitement, and Caesar stands up to join Brutus, holding her hand aloft. 

“There you have it, everyone! Brutus Candor, from District 1! Thank you Brutus, and good luck out there! We’ll be cheering you on, that’s for sure!” 

It’s a solid act, I give her that. She rushes backstage and her and her district partner exchange an incredibly loud grasping of hands and some exclamations before she pats him on the back and sends him on his way. 

“Introducing Lampus Sinclair, your male tribute from District 1!” Caesar announces.

Brutus may be a tough act to follow, but Lampus is her equal on the stage. He captivates the audience with his story of struggling from the bottom up, recites some of his campaign, and causes raucous applause from the entire room. 

The career tributes swan on and off the stage with ease, displaying a flawless outer shell for the Capitol. The boy from 2, Terce, even calls out proudly to his father after delivering his snippet of his campaign speech. It’s when Caesar is forced to begin with the non-Career tributes does the format change, slightly.

First on is Faraday. She looks even smaller in her giant, birds-egg blue ball gown. So small, in fact, that i'm surprised to learn that she’s only a year younger than Tulip. 

“So, Faraday.” Caesar begins, continuing on from the icebreakers, leaning forward in his seat. “As we all know- the Districts were responsible for voting their tributes in this year and we are just desperate to know- what did you do that was so bad that they sent you here, hm?” He cracks a smile, but this time, it feels very sinister. Caesar is only young himself, but that question is so pointedly malicious that it serves to age him. 

Faraday opens her mouth, closes it, and then her chin begins to wobble as she clearly tries to hold in tears. She mumbles something so quiet that it barely registers in her microphone, that’s now in her lap. 

“Hm? What was that?” Caesar prompts, holding his own mic close to Faraday. 

Faraday whimpers. “I didn’t do anything…” she sobs. 

“Oh, dear.” Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and very gingerly dabs at Faraday’s tears. “Just rotten luck?”

Faraday shakes her head and looks up to the ceiling in exasperation. “They all hate me…” she whispers. 

“Hate you? Whatever for? You’re so very darling, I find that hard to believe.” Caesar pouts.

Faraday falls for the bait. “I get bullied…I think…it was their last prank.” She sniffles. “I don’t know what I did to them…”

“Oh, no.” Caesar says, hand on his heart. He looks into the camera with a playfully stern expression. “Look what you’ve done, District 3- is this funny to you, now?” He taunts. He crouches by Faraday and clasps her hands in his. “Don’t worry, Faraday. We’ll all wish you the very best of luck in there, won’t we, folks?”

The crowd applauds loudly, cheering her name. She only looks more miserable as she slinks offstage. I decide to try and keep stock of the answers Caesar gets out of people, as to why they were voted in. It’s all I can do to remain sane in the face of my own interview. 

Like Fuller, the boy from 3, who admits that, “My father is a  known con artist, and that’s probably why they voted me in. Because they couldn’t vote him in.” And when Caesar asks if he was involved, Fuller doesn’t answer. “What does the past matter?” He asks. “When the future's so much more important?”

Caesar returns to the last two careers. Windlass confidently talks big game about her campaign, and seems completely unbothered by her circumstances, her relaxed attitude to being thrust into a murder competition delighting the Capitol. Montauk is very much the same, but plays it down to earth. He talks about his small, dilapidated village back in 4, and how his victory would make genuine change for people who need it most. 

I’m reminded then, of Godot’s advice. Of playing what my parents tried to do down to human error. That helping the poor and needy was a lapse of judgement. That I am without fault for their rebellious behaviour. I know I need to follow that advice to survive- but what is the point, when I will likely be killed by someone like Montauk or Windlass, who clearly deserve it more. 

The girl from 5, Joule, enrages the Capitol. She is the only non-Career volunteer, and it intrigues everybody deeply. Her interview starts out tame enough, but her already pink face goes even pinker when Caesar asks her- “Why do you want to be here, Joule?” 

She stands up out of her chair, and the pressure pot breaks. 

“To give you a taste of your own medicine!” She yells. She then addresses the audience. “My mother was killed by my father in a power plant and my father was executed, and they expected me- me! A child! To suck it up and continue to work! I’ve wasted my life providing you power so you can waste it away doing stupid shit like this! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you! ” 

She is promptly dragged away, sobbing and screaming, by Peacekeepers. We all notice that they don’t drag her back here with the rest of us- and I wonder what exactly they’re going to do to her now. 

When her district partner, Kaplan, takes the stage, he’s a complete tonal shift. 

“So…what did you make of that, Kaplan?” Caesar asks. 

Kaplan fidgets with his fingers, (of which he has some missing, I notice), and shrugs meekly. “I didn’t know her very well.” 

When asked about why he was voted in, Kaplan shrugs again. He says that he doesn’t know for sure- but he’s sure that the privileges he gets at work for not having all of his fingers and being close with his boss might have something to do with it. 

I find that the tributes from Six are more similar than others would give them credit for. 

Solder, the girl, despite being extremely level headed and polite in her answers, hacks and coughs and splutters in every other word. By the time Caesar asks her why she’s in the games, it’s clear to see the reason why. I do pity her- after she explains that morphling is the root cause of her ailments, I think about all the poor, decrepit, homeless folk back home who lay on the sides of streets and buildings, waiting for the end and begging for more substance to shove into their dying carcasses. It’s a way of life, and a generational curse, and Solder is a prime example. 

I feel a sense of injustice- this girl should not have to suffer her last days in the arena due to a problem out of her control- but then I remember: isn’t that why most of us are here in the first place, myself included? 

Her district partner could not be more her opposite. 

Spoke, despite being from a district the Capitol couldn't care less about, carries himself like he’s a Career. He’s incredibly strong, well-spoken, and his stylists have done a good job with the looks he already possesses. He’s charming, charismatic, and nonchalant. 

“Well, Spoke- you’re quite the young man!” Caesar compliments. “Why in the world would anyone want to send you off like this?” 

Spoke smiles. “You didn’t expect every district to be as idiotic to vote their tributes in out of hate, did you?” He sits up a little more. “I was voted in because District 6 is smart enough to know that a guy like me could take home the crown for us. This year, the Districts had the opportunity to do it like 1, 2 and 4, and actually put forward winning faces- but, no, of course they all want to send off their least liked. Not us. I’m strong, well connected, and ready for whatever the arena wants to pitch me.” He slyly smirks at the camera. “Bring it on.” 

I think I hate him. I don’t know why. 

District 7 flies by. Canopy is a good enough sport about her interview, although she admits that she’s not well liked despite her overall good temperament due to a big fight with a friend some years prior, and it’s probably what landed her here. She shrugs it off, and smiles, and tells Caesar that it’s okay, and that she’ll try her best.

Woodrow, on the contrary, barely says a word. I’m freaked out a little, as is Caesar, clearly, by the absolutely soul-sucking quality of that young boy’s stare. He only answers his questions in one or two words, and when asked why he’s here- he just purses his lips slightly and shrugs. Caesar frankly cannot wait to get him offstage- but I’m left wondering what exactly it was that landed him in the Games. Maybe he did something truly horrible in Seven that even he doesn’t want to reveal- and I’m suddenly considering being nosy and questioning Canopy about it, but I decide that maybe not knowing is for the best. 

The girl from District 8 causes a stir. Stir is the word I feel the urge to use, as I can’t tell if the overall consensus is positive or negative. She’s dressed in luxurious swaths of velvet in many colors, that flow off of her like waves in the ocean. Her mangy, dark blonde hair is pinned up decadently- but her big, tired eyes and perpetual knit of her brows doesn't make her look up to her glamorous appearance. She sits meekly on the edge of her couch, hands folded in her lap.

Caesar notices this, too, and decides to comment. “You alright there, Bevel? Seat not up to code?”

She shuffles back instinctively to sit more central. “Sorry…” She peeps. 

“Well, that’s alright. Not all of us are always ready to get up on stage! Feeling nervous?”

Bevel nods. 

“How’s your training gone, Bevel?” Caesar asks.

“...Could be better…” She laughs, wracked with nerves. She can’t look him in the eye.

“Well, a four is better than a zero!” Caesar tries, grinning.

Bevel shrugs, nods and smiles politely, trying her best to go along with his games. 

“Now, Bevel- I hate to jump right into the deep end, but I must ask, just like I've asked all your competitors this year- what do you think landed you in the Hunger Games this year?” 

Bevel visibly swallows, and a tight, pained look comes over her face. She just sighs. “I, um.” She clears her throat. “I have a baby back home, and-”

She’s interrupted by a ripple of exclamations and gasps from the crowd. Even the remaining tributes in line start to turn and make looks at each other. Tulip even turns back to shoot me a look of pity. I return it. It is shocking- and deeply upsetting.

“A baby !?” Caesar yelps. “But, Bevel- you’re eighteen, as am I- goodness , I can barely conceive of finding a girl to date, let alone a baby!” 

Bevel, cheeks flush with the heat of embarrassment, shrugs her shoulders, and looks out apologetically at the audience. “I- um. It wasn’t planned…obviously…but what can you do?” 

“A few things, I would assume!” Caesar fans his face. “I’m sure your boyfriend isn’t very happy about this outcome for your baby, right?” He asks. Caesar has become genuinely curious, but his genuine curiosity feels even more annoying than his fabricated curiosity- at least you could tell that the stupid questions were fake, then. 

“I don’t…he’s not…present.” Bevel decides to say.

“Oh dear…then, your family?”

Bevel shakes her head.

“Oh, my. You’re saying that…” Caesar begins.

Bevel stifles a sob. She looks fully away from any contact, toward the back of the stage.

“Oh, Bevel…” Caesar puts a hand to his heart. 

Bevel tries to compose herself. “They- they must have sent me here, because- because I had a baby so young, and…and that they- so they could save everyone else from going- they sent me …”

“But what will happen to your baby?” Caesar asks.

Bevel shakes her head again. “I don’t know…nobody will tell me…the Peacekeepers took him from me after the reaping, and I haven’t seen him ever since…” Her image starts to loosen. “...I just want to know that he’s okay…” 

“I’m sure he is. And I'm sure he’s very proud of you for being here.” Caesar nods at her. “How old is he?” He asks.

“Two.” Bevel answers. “He just turned two…” She reaches into her dress, and pulls out a pendant. She opens it, and takes a tiny square of paper out, unfolding it a few times. She hands it to Caesar.

“My word.” He pouts. “What a cherub.” He passes the photo to a camera operator, who blasts the picture up as large as he can get it. 

“What’s his name, Bevel?” Caesar’s disembodied voice asks.
“Bernie…” She whispers. “Can I have that back, please…? It’s my token…”

“Oh, dear.” Caesar gets it back to her. “My apologies. Well, Bevel, as unfortunate as it is that you’re here, you have someone back home who needs his mama to be very strong and come right back home.” Caesar smiles. 

Bevel nods, miserable. She clasps her pendant in her hands, tight.

“Good luck out there, Bevel.” Caesar smiles, waving her off. “Isn’t that tragic, folks?” He addresses the audience, as she disappears from sight.

Bevel comes right backstage, fully crying her eyes out. An assistant passes her to her stylist, right back to where we used to be standing at end of the hall, who’s come in to try to get her to stop crying, to stop ruining her makeup. 

Tulip turns around- I know she wants to say something to Bevel, but we’re too far away. 

I barely catch the boy from 8 as he does his interview- he looks like an overall sullen guy, but confesses that he is the son of a preacher- which sets the crowd abuzz with murmurs. Practising anything like that is extremely taboo- it’s something you only hear devious miscreants do. Linen expands, saying that most people knew about what his father did, but the corruption of his practice allowed it to keep going. Caesar asks if Linen believes it was right or wrong, but Linen just chews his lip. He can’t seem to come to an answer. Caesar continues to probe, but his interview isn’t very eventful after that. 

It then becomes tributes I'm slightly more familiar with. Familiar is the loose way to say it- tributes who haven’t expressed a desire to outright kill me, and have treated me with ambivalence, or sometimes, kindness.

Sorghum’s interview is a tough watch. She gets through the icebreakers fine, but as Caesar starts to get to the meat of his prepared topics, Sorghum suddenly bursts out into tears. Caesar goes to her and tries to console her and ask her what’s wrong, but Sorghum only whines and wails about how she doesn’t deserve to be here, that she’s been a good girl her whole life, and just because her family is well-off doesn’t mean she deserves to die. Caesar awkwardly shuffles her offstage as soon as he can.

I notice, however, that when Sorghum comes running through the curtain- Bran is there, waiting for his turn, and she goes running into his arms to cry some more. He doesn’t let anyone touch her- not the assistants, and certainly not their stylists and escort. However, he isn’t an iron wall, and eventually Sorghum is moved on- they need Bran to hit his cue. 

Bran strides onto stage, smiling wide, waving his arm in big arcs.
“Hello, Caesar.” He greets brightly, as he takes a seat.

Caesar seems pleasantly surprised. “Well, hello to you too, Bran! Excited to be here, are we?”

“It’s a lot of fun.” He grins. 

“Fun, you say? How wonderful!” Caesar laughs. He points to Bran, and then looks at the crowd, as if to say- look at this little unfortunate puppy! He has no idea!

“And when you say fun,” He continues. “What do you mean?”

“The costumes, the people, the food- it’s really cool.” He nods enthusiastically. 

“Well, I'm glad you’ve come to appreciate what we have to offer! Truly, all we want is for you to feel comfortable and appreciated.” Caesar smiles. Before you go to get brutally murdered, that is, is what’sleft unsaid.

Bran just nods again.

“You certainly can’t be this joyful back home- who’d want to send off a cool guy like you, huh?” Caesar asks- the golden ticket question. 

“Well, my mom was executed a while back for, uh, being violent to a Peacekeeper. They kind of started to restrict our village’s privileges after that, so…they wanted to lash out a bit. I don’t blame them…” Bran chuckles. 

Something feels wrong about this interview in particular. I just can’t place it.

“Oh, dear. Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Caesar nods, comically large in his gestures, all of a sudden. 

Bran shakes his head, still smiling. “I’ll just have to win. Then everyone’ll be proud again.”

“How brave of you!” Caesar clasps his hands together. 

Caesar continues to make an apparent dud out of Bran, who seems to not notice, and Bran practically skips out of frame and backstage, and confidently walks out to the side and out of view. I feel bad for the guy- I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake, and beg him to not let them make a fool out of him- but it’s too late, it’s already happened, and that’s what’s been done.

Shank is next, and before she leaves to go on stage, Trough turns her around and grasps Shank’s hands in his. He looks wildly nervous, and I see a bead of sweat roll off his face as he leans down. 

“Just say what he told you to say.” He whispers, before she is rushed off. Shank has missed her cue, and is leaving Caesar stalling on stage.

Despite being dressed in all her finery, Shank’s scowl is deafening. With her hands uncuffed, I feel nervous as to what she might do. The lack of information I know about her has only made my imagination run wild.

“Late often, are we, Shank?” Caesar tries, a weary smile on his face. You can tell the length of this process is getting to him. 

Shank scoffs. She doesn’t speak. 

There’s awkward mumblings rippling through the crowd. 

All of a sudden, Shank jerks, and makes a sound not quite a whimper, not quite a yell, but something strangled. She itches the back of her neck, under her mass of now thoroughly shine-treated black hair. 

“N-oo.” She manages, shaking her head. 

“Well, then.” Caesar clears his throat. “How are you feeling about game prep, Shank? You’ve earned one of the highest scores for a 13 year old in Hunger Games history! An eight is nothing to sniff at.” 

Shank eyeballs the cameras in quick succession, and itches again. 

“What exactly did you do to get there?” Caesar asks.

Shank’s nose twitches. “You guys don’t- don’t pay attention. It’s easy to p-pull the blinds over your faces.” She says, fiddling with her fingers. Her voice is much higher than I’d expect it to be- but then again, she’s much younger than I thought, too. It’s not just malnutrition- she’s just a baby. 

“Now what do you mean by that?” Caesar blurts, genuinely offended. 

“Managed to- to sneak my whole collection in. Nobody saw. I showed them to the gamemakers.” Shank scratches her neck again. “All my knives. All my weapons…” she sighs. 

“Weapons? And you snuck them in? Past- past everyone?” 

Caesar splitters. He adjusts his tie, shuffles slightly away from Shank in his seat, and faces the audience with a lopsided smile. 

“Named Shank for a reason, are we?” He chuckles. The audience laughs. 

Shank growls. She actually growls, like a cornered dog. It rumbles at the back of her throat. She then twitches again, and stares at the floor. 

“So, Shank…as I’ve asked everyone, I now ask you. Why is it that your district voted you in, do you think?” Caesar asks.

Shank rolls her eyes. She taps her heeled foot against the floor so fast and so hard that the microphone begins to pick it up. She’s silent for quite some time. 

“I’m not surprised.” Shank says.

“Not surprised?” Caesar echoes. 

Shank shakes her head. Her rueful scowl paints dark shadows across her face in the harsh stage light. “District 10 doesn’t want me. My sisters don’t want me. My parents don’t want me.”

“Oh?” Caesar prompts, greedy for information. 

“They all say I’m wild . They say that- that I can’t- I can’t control myself. They don’t- they- they all act as if it’s my fault. It’s not. If they all stopped acting like that, I wouldn’t have to- to…to get them.” Shank struggles to get her words out, as if she’s a horse with a bit stuck in her mouth. “It’s not my fault.” She adds, again.

Caesar begins to look nervous. He chuckles. “Well…” 

Shank stands up, hurrying across to Caesar. Caesar stands too, and takes some steps back, and for a second, I think something terrifying is about to happen, before Shank takes one step back, her head rolling backward on her shoulders, before standing straight up again. She lets out a groan- an angry, painful groan. 

“You’re laughing! You’re laughing at me! Just like everyone else! ” She lunges for Caesar, but is intercepted by a Peacekeeper. She drops her microphone as she is crudely grappled at, and Shank resists every step of the way, biting and kicking and pulling at the Peacekeeper who drags her offstage. All the while, she screams ‘ No!’, over and over and over again. 

She's dragged behind the curtain, where another Peacekeeper runs up and puts her back in the handcuffs I’ve been seeing her in. 

Trough steps out of line. “Don’t-“ He begins, but Tulip grabs his sleeve. He yanks it from her grip, and ignores her attempt at a warning. 

Caesar continues on screen, after an assistant whispers something to him from just offstage. He grins, shrugging at the audience, as if to say- what can you do? 

“Sorry, folks. We can’t always have the most cooperative tributes, especially this year. I’ve received word that Shank was a notoriously violent young lady back home in 10- and outbursts were a daily occurance. No wonder they sent her here! Let’s just hope that her…. special talents can be of more use in the arena than they are on stage!” 

The audience applauds and laughs, back on track. 

Shank screams in response to what she’s hearing Caesar say, and a Peacekeeper clamps his hand over her mouth, and pulls a device out of his pocket- pressing a button. 

Trough tries to object, but he’s pulled away for his own interview before he can properly intervene. 

Shank jerks again, much harder, and seizes for a moment before going completely limp. The two Peacekeepers with her drag her away into the dark of the building, and I can’t help but gulp fear down as they do. 

I look at Tulip, and we both make eye contact, not knowing what to do with ourselves. She’s barely a teenager, but to the Capitol, Shank is barely a human. Less so than the rest of us. 

I’m haunted by a deep upset after what I’ve seen, but Trough, up on stage, looks even more disturbed. 

“Now Trough- you aren’t going to surprise me with a preview of what’s to come in the arena, are you? Should I be more prepared in the future?” Caesar fake winces, hands up in front of his face.

Trough shakes his head. He just sighs. “No, Caesar.” His words seem to force themselves out. 

“Good, good.” Caesar grins. “What's got you so down, Trough?”

“If you were in the Hunger Games, I’m sure you’d be upset too, Caesar.” He says, shrugging. 

We know what he really wants to say, but we’ve seen the consequences of what happens when you speak your mind. Trough simply replies politely to the questions he’s asked, and just claims that his family was unlucky to lose business from an outbreak of animal disease, and that he was a good age, build and unremarkable enough to have been voted in. 

Trough seems to have given up his interview before it even began, and I can’t blame him. I’m starting to lose faith the more nervous I get. 

I tap Tulip on the shoulder. 

“I’ve got this.” She says, knowing what I’m about to ask. She smiles, and adjusts one of my necklaces so that it sits straight. “Just remember what Godot told you. Smile, look like you’re enjoying things, be charming, look strong. It’s going to be disgusting- but they can’t know that you feel that way.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” I whine, wanting her to show some sort of break, or crack- to feel solidarity, but she just smiles again. 

She’s about to say something else, but Trough passes by, rubbing his eyes furiously, and Tulip is ushered away by an assistant. 

I feel utterly alone. 

I fear for her, even, although I know now that she’s fatally level-headed. My heart leaps to my throat as I see her enter the frame on camera, waving to the audience as she’s introduced. 

“Well, hello there, Tulip!” Caesar calls, grinning. “Now, might I say, that is a mighty big dress you have on, there.”

Tulip giggles. I cringe- that’s not natural. “It is, yes- but isn’t it beautiful?” She fusses with the fabric, showing it off from where she’s sat.

“Indeed- you look just like your namesake. A little green tulip. Speaking of-“ he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. When he swishes it in the air, it suddenly turns into just that- a green tulip. He hands it to Tulip, who fawns over the flower. 

“I’ve been saving that, just for you.” Caesar grins.

Tulip feigns bashfulness. “Why, thank you. It’s beautiful.” 

“Now, as we all know- the infamous Dido Faust is District 11’s stylist. We’ve been trying to figure this out ever since he took the job- but do you know why that is? Dido is practically a god.” Caesar says.

Tulip tilts her head slightly, and postures a bit, one hand in the air, accentuating her words. “Well, I ask you this, Caesar- what does the fame of a stylist have to do with the importance of a District? I think it’s a little hasty to equate the value of a designer to the district they style. Dido is simply elevating us, people you’d likely not pay attention to otherwise. I think it’s a noble pursuit.”

Caesar turns to the audience, mouth wide open. He laughs. “Wow! Feisty- I like it! Is it your brains that got you that seven?” 

Tulip shrugs. “My brains, and some helpful skills I’ve picked up.” She grins. 

“Oho- smart, and sly!” Caesar is rising to Tulip’s bait, and the fake Tulip she’s deployed on stage is working wonders to raise the bar that was lowered by the energy that dampened toward the middle of the interviews. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Well…” She begins. “I’m not exactly strong. However, I think you’ll come to find that my other skills more than make up for it.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re confident!” Caesar nods. “How are you finding the Capitol?”

“Oh, it’s amazing.” Tulip nods. “But I would be lying if I said I was pleased with my circumstances…”

“Ah, yes. The elephant in the room.” Caesar nods empathetically. “Now, how does a girl like you get voted into the Hunger Games?” 

“I’m not well liked back home.” Tulip says, calmly. She just shrugs it off.

“Oh?” Caesar prompts.

“Well…” Tulip sighs. “When I was young, my older sister Daffodil unfortunately fell out of a tree, and…she passed away.” Tulip’s expression becomes smaller and smaller, until her face puckers into something mousey and miserable.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Caesar shakes his head.

Tulip pulls a half-smile, closer to a grimace. “And- the thing is, I have a little sister back home. After Daffy passed, I felt I needed to dedicate all my time to taking care of her- making sure she was safe, and had someone to look up to, like I did with Daffy. I sacrificed my friendships, my education- everything was for my little sister. But people didn’t like that. They saw an ignorant recluse- and I'm sure that’s what landed me here.” She sighs. “All I wanted was to give Daylily the life she deserved. Now she’ll have to watch another sister die…” Tulip adds, sniffling. 

Caesar traverses the stage and gently grasps Tulip’s hands in his. “Well, you’ll just have to prove District 11 wrong. I’m sure your sister is watching back at home now, and I'm sure if she were here, she’d be cheering you on.” He smiles.

Tulip smiles. “I just hope she’s okay.” She looks at the camera, a faraway quality to her gaze.

“What would you say to her, if she was here now?” Caesar asks.

“Don’t be scared. You’re a brave girl. Just like Daffy, and also like me. I’ll always be there with you, no matter what.” Tulip nods. She holds up her arm, and brandishes a bracelet to the camera- a pink, woven band, with a rusted silver charm that looks like a feather dangling off of it.

“How beautiful.” Caesar sighs, moved. “Is that your token?”

Tulip nods. “I used to make bracelets with my sisters. This was my favourite one.” 

“It’s gorgeous. And I'm sure that with your brains, you’ll see another day yet.” He rises, pulling Tulip up with him. He presents her to the crowd, like a prime harvest. “Tulip Delora, everybody!” 

She waves, smiles wide, and gracefully walks offstage. 

When she re-enters the hall, her face immediately drops, and she massages her jaw. She shoots me a look, and tilts her head- like she’s reprimanding me. “Don’t freeze.” She reminds me, just like she did before training. She reminded me then, and I froze anyway. 

An assistant comes to my shoulder, and I feel the urge to panic, like a fish out of water. I can’t freeze. Not now. 

Before I can think, I am hustled into the curtained off section, and when I look back, Tulip is gone. I feel the urge to scream, to flail, to simply disappear into thin air. 

“Please welcome the male tribute from District 11-” Caesar begins, over the mic. 

I no longer have any control of my limbs as I lurch forward, stepping right at the edge of the curtain, velvet brushing my face. 

“ Huck Ploughman!” 

Chapter Text

I try to maintain control of my breathing as I step on stage. I feel my mouth fill with saliva, a telltale sign of nausea. I battle to keep my reheated lunch down. 

I instinctively throw a hand up in front of my face- there’s a spotlight trained right on me, and I am momentarily blinded by its brilliance. It throws me off, but as the noise of the audience in front of me applauding suddenly registers, I turn it into a wave. I try to smile. I don’t like that I can’t observe myself on a second screen like I could with everyone else. I have absolutely no control over what I feel myself doing. However, I make it to the couch, opposite Caesar. 

I think the camera ages Caesar, even though it’s probably in his best interest to do the opposite. Right up close to him, face to face, he looks even younger than I do- despite being a year older. He looks well fed, not overexercised. His colored hair is treated and cut immaculately, and sits perfectly, right down to the middle of his back. Everything about him is so prim and proper- so young and eager - just what they want. 

“Huck- hellooooo?” Caesar waves his hand in front of my face, and I perk up, embarrassed. I spent so much time zeroing in on my interviewer, that I forgot I was being interviewed.

How do I play this? Goofy? Forgetful? No- I won’t end up painted like a fool, like Bran. I’m strong. I’m capable. I’m innocent. I deserve to be saved. 

The words feel disgusting in my head, just like Tulip said they would. They can’t know that you feel that way.

“Sorry.” I smile, trying to play the bashful card. 

“That’s alright, Huck!” Caesar smiles. “We watched your reaping- do you get nervous on stage?” 

I nod. “I don’t get to be in front of this many people very often.” I admit. It’s true- and I think it goes for most of my competitors, too. “But,” I continue. “There won’t be this many people in the arena.” I nod, self assuredly. “And that’s what counts.”

“Oh, indeed.” Caesar nods. He grins with all his teeth, like the maw of some eager predator. “Now- you got a seven. I hate to tell people what’s being said about them behind their back- I’m not that kind of person, but you’re obviously blessed with an amazing build, and District 11 has a history of performing well in the games, so there are a lot of eyes on you and Tulip. Your score surprised us- we expected something slightly higher out of a boy as strong as you are. Talk to me about that, Huck.”

Contrary to the nauseating salivation happening just a few seconds prior- my mouth goes completely dry. I feel like I’m trying to spit dust as I open my mouth to talk. 

“Well- it’s a lot of pressure.” I try to keep my breathing regular. “There’s not a lot of time to demonstrate the skills you learn, and not a lot of time to think about what you’re doing next. I just hoped that I impressed the Gamemakers, and I think I did?” 

“You don’t sound very sure of yourself.” Caesar comments. 

“Well, no.” I agree. I try to remember the end goal- how should I present myself? I also try to stay within the very thin lines. Better to be safe than dead, and I don’t want to seem as incompetent as I am. “But a guy like me doesn’t aspire to the Hunger Games.” 

“A guy like you…” Caesar leans forward. “And what kind of guy is that? What kind of guy ends up voted into the Hunger Games?” 

I want to throw up. 

I mean, it’s a question I’ve thought about ever since I got reaped, and even though I know the answer- and it’s plain as day to see -I keep thinking about it. 

In essence, what Godot wants me to say isn’t wrong. I am innocent of my parents' crimes. However, I don’t want to tell the entire nation of Panem that what they did was worth demonizing. My parents were noble people, who went against laws that strip people of their livelihoods in order to provide people- innocent people -a moment of relief in an existence that’s persecuted day in and day out. 

I don’t know what happens when we die, and I don’t know if I believe in ghosts- but it’s the first time I wonder if my parents can see me now. And I make a mental note that when I die, the first thing I’ll do is apologise for what I’m about to say. 

“Well, Caesar- it’s not exactly an easy thing to say…” I start, trailing off on purpose. 

Caesar nods, waiting to snap up what I have to offer. 

“…But my parents were rebels.” I hear the crowd electrify as they soak in that tidbit I give them. I know they’re wondering what it is my parents are responsible for. Most of these people in the audience have experienced the Dark Days, to some degree, and the very notion of a rebel definitely sends some heads spinning. I have to be careful with what I say next.

Caesar looks horrified. “ Rebels, you say?” He gasps.

I nod, slowly. I look down at my shoes. I purse my lips. I think about home. 

“That’s what they were called. But…they were only trying to help people. That’s all.” I try.

“That’s how it always starts. Where are they now?” Caesar asks.

“Dead, Caesar.” I say, point-blank. “As the day is long.” 

“Oh. Oh, my.” Caesar tugs at his collar, looking away. I can feel this veering into uncharted waters, but I don’t know what to do to control it. “And what exactly…did they do ?” He asks, tentatively. 

I make a mental note in my head that Caesar did not apologise to me for the deaths of my parents, like he did to Tulip when he learned of her sister’s passing. Rebels don’t deserve that kind of treatment. 

I clear my throat. I look at the audience, and it doesn’t take a lot of effort to appear wimpish. I lower my head. “They would steal fruit and vegetables from their workplaces in the Fields and Orchards, and were part of a network that distributed them to the homeless and exiled.” I sigh. “That network doesn’t exist now. My parents were hanged in the square to make an example of them- and their…partners followed suit soon after.” I shrug. “I was only ten. It’s been a while, and all the information I have about what they did is second-hand.”

Caesar struggles to form a sentence- I can see that much. So I keep going. This is my chance to control my narrative before he can.

“I was never responsible for what they did. They purposely lied to me and made me stay at the houses of people who didn’t know their true motives in order to keep me out of their business. When I had to say goodbye to them before their hanging, I barely understood what it was they were being killed for.” I twist my face into a solemn smile. “So it was easier to move on- I didn’t care that I was being bullied or ostracised- I really enjoyed my life working in the Orchards. I think it’s a noble job, and I…I was really looking forward to growing old and picking apples. It just seems that the weight of my parents' infamy led me here, instead.” 

I look up to the sky. Where there would usually be clouds, there’s just scaffolding and machinery.  “There was an old Peacekeeper base in the woods. I found it with my parents, and all it had left in it was this old piano. I was teaching myself how to use it, but my parents died before I could play them what I had learned. I was going to go there after the reaping. To spend my day off doing something nice.” I lie, trying to keep what little I have of my own story engaging for the vultures in the crowd. “But, y’know…”

I can see people in the crowd tilt their heads and pout. Some people put their hands to their hearts, or go to wipe tears. I did it. I resist the urge to smile in satisfaction- and then that urge turns sour, as I now feel in full force the malicious energy of manipulating hundreds of thousands of people. 

“Well, we can’t always choose where we come from,” Caesar starts, having gone completely silent to let me talk. 

“No.” I respond. I try not to add on to that too much- as it’s a very Capitolite statement to make. 

“Well, Huck, I’m sure I can speak for everyone here when I say we’re all incredibly moved by your story.” Caesar smiles. “And let me say,” he leans over, and grasps my hands in his- his hands are sweaty, but so are mine, and it’s a very uncomfortable sensation. “We will absolutely be cheering you on in the arena- isn’t that right, folks!” 

After the bout of silence, the shredding quality of the audience’s screams almost drive me insane. It feels like a grimace, but I manage a smile, and I stand up to wave heartily at the masses of people in front of me. I even decide to ham it up completely, and blow a kiss or two to the front row. 

“Huck Ploughman, everybody! Thank you, Huck!” 

I take that as my cue to leave, and beam all the way offstage. 

I step behind the curtain, and I instantly lose my balance. I struggle to see straight, and my legs buckle underneath me. Two assistants come to my side, holding my underarms to try and hold me upright. I dry-heave, and I hear one of the two faintly ask if I’m going to throw up, to which I shake my head to the best of my ability. I stand straight up again, trying to breathe in what I can of the heavily air conditioned breeze that wafts through the room. 

Betty is ushered into the curtained section, and as the remaining assistant with me tries to get me out of the way, she tries to catch my attention. She manages to shoot me a smile before I hear Caesar yell her name- and just like that, she’s gone. 

Only her district partner remains inside the now seemingly giant waiting hall, and I see him eye me over as I pass by.

I regain full consciousness back in the lobby, when the assistant calls my name after I once again stop moving. 

I turn to face him, and start looking around at my surroundings. All the lights have practically been snuffed out as opposed to the glittering display when we entered earlier. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Green room. Come on- we have to move, quick- people start leaving during 12, and-“ he starts.

As if it’s a self fulfilling prophecy, we both react to some exaggerated gasps to our left, and see some opulently decorated Capitol folk gawking right at me. 

“It’s really you!” A young girl in purple squeals. 

“We saw you during your reaping, and oh-“ The other girl with her, slightly older looking, fans her face. 

“Oh, wait, oh-“ The younger girl turns to the third person with them, a boy no older than 10, dressed in a frilly red suit that’s definitely too laden down with ruffles for a small kid like him. 

“Show him!” The girl urges.

The boy, obviously shy, pulls a small notebook out of his little bag. He opens it and holds it up to me. 

“Can I hold it?” I ask, and he nods. I bring it up to my face, since it’s so dark that I can’t see the details from afar- and it turns out that this little boy has drawn all of us- every tribute- in great detail for his age. I’m genuinely surprised. 

“Wow…” I nod. “This is really good.” I compliment. “I don’t know how much they televise our faces for you to have seen, but you’re really talented. You even got Tulip’s bracelet in.” I point out. I hadn’t noticed her bracelet before, but this kid has a good eye. 

The older girl pulls something from the little boy’s bag- a pen -and holds it out to me. “Would you mind signing it? He’s obsessed with the Games. If you have time, of course.” She shoots a look to the assistant, who I can tell is stressed out by my lingering. 

“It’ll only take a second.” I assure him, and he sighs exasperatedly. I take the pen from the girl and crouch down to the boy. “What's your name?” I ask.

“Marcus.” The boy peeps. He turns his bag towards me to show me the label, with his name stamped on. I try to memorise it- I wouldn’t have spelled it that way if I hadn’t seen it, and I wonder if Marcus did that knowingly. 

I turn my attention to the paper, and purse my lips. What do I even write? I look at my own face, in drawn form, staring into my own eyes. To Marcus, I start, writing just below my portrait. I don’t want to waste time, and I can’t think of anything- so I play it safe. Happy Hunger Games. I then write my name underneath, and hold the book and pen back out to him.

“Sorry- I don’t have great handwriting. I haven’t written anything down in years.” I apologise. 

He shakes his head. “I love it.” He squeaks. “Thank you, Huck.” He beams. 

For a moment, I don’t hate the Capitol at all. That little boy’s smile fulfils me, and makes me feel like I’ve done one thing right. Then I remember all the lies I told to get his smile, and I try not to let my face drop as I think of the ways in which I’ve deceived these people. 

“We have to go. ” The assistant complains. 

“Right-“ I blurt, standing up. I shake the hands of the two girls, and Marcus, and as I turn to leave I can hear them erupt into excitable chatter. I wonder how they refer to me- I wonder if they speculate about how they’re some of the rare people who have seen me alive, in person. 

We walk down a long, dark hallway and to a set of double doors. The assistant mumbles into his headset, and then directs me to enter.

I push the heavy doors open and enter an ambiently lit banquet hall. Where the last hall was obviously a waiting area that was dressed up to look hospitable- this room is twice as big and twice as lavish. Silks decorate the walls, with large blue flags and banners with the Quarter Quell version of the Panem logo stamped right on. Tables line the entire room, decked high with snacks, dinner and deserts alike. It just feels empty, at the moment, as all the people who’re in it just consist of what I can only assume is all the previous tributes and their various team members. 

My suspicion is proven correct when someone scares me by sidling right up next to me and looping her arm within mine. 

“There you are!” Daphne grins.

I laugh, nervous and recoiling from the shock. I couldn’t hear her approach over the chatter and soft music that plays from speakers above us.

“I found him!” She announces, and I see our merry band emerge from various points in the room. 

“I just got here.” I clarify. 

“Did they hold you up?” Godot asks. 

“No.” I shake my head. “I ran into…some fans, in the hallway. A little boy wanted me to sign his drawings.” I explain.

“Awww!” Ophelia squeals. “Oh, that’s so cute! Let’s hope he has a family that will think about sponsoring you, eh?” She winks. 

Tulip smiles. “Some fans, eh?” She giggles.

I laugh. “Well, not of me specifically. He drew you, too. He was maybe, yea tall-“ I gesture to just above my hip. “-but the drawings were crazy good.” 

“Wow.” Tulip nods. “District 5 has already high-tailed it out of here.” She mentions.

“Because of the girl?” I reflexively answer, remembering her mutinous outburst. 

“Probably, yeah. The thing is- she never came back here. Kaplan was here when I got here. As well as both stylists and their escort, but their mentor and Joule were nowhere to be seen.” She whispers, conspiratorially. Tulip is better at remembering names than I am, I notice.

“Do you think they did something to her?” I whisper back. I look around. “Shank isn’t here either.” 

“Ooooookay.” Godot divides us with his hands, and holds our shoulders so that we stick to his sides. “I know you kids love a good gossip, but this is not the time nor the place for any of that. Alright?” He smiles. He raises his eyebrows at both of us individually, dividing his face into two expressions, the other being one of urgency. The need to shut up is apparently more important than I would like to think. 

“Now- important question.” Godot fiddles with a decorative button on the lapel of his suit. “Do you two want to stay for the afterparty? It’s very much like what you saw in the beginning, but all the important diplomats and such who had to be whisked away before the show like to be here.” 

I think about it. I don’t know how much socialising I have left in me.

Godot continues. “And…I know tomorrow is, well- the day. I’d fully understand if you’d want to spend some extra hours…well, I don’t know. Preparing.” 

Tulip looks at me, and I catch her eye. Tulip eyes Godot and Ophelia, and our various team members, and drags me a few steps to the side. She grabs my shoulder like a shelf, with both hands, so she can lean up and talk right in my ear.

“I want to stay.” She says. “Personally, I think the more kissing up to people, the better. For longevity’s sake.” 

I look at her, and shrug. I lean down to her ear. “I don’t care either way.” I admit. “Whatever you want to do- i'll follow your lead.” 

Tulip sighs. “Where’s your spine?” She jokes, shaking her head.

I shrug again, a smile on my face. 

We walk back to everyone, and they all seem rather pleased when we tell them we’re staying.

“Oh, thank you!” Ophelia squeals, squeezing us both. We’re immersed in a cloud of candy-smelling perfume, and I feel the urge to choke. Ophelia then promptly turns around and launches herself into the crowd that’s beginning to form inside the room.

“Does she realise she’s supposed to be the one introducing you to people?” Godot chuckles. 

“I don’t think so.” Tulip smirks. “Her, Daphne and Tamrys are all birds of a feather.”

“Socialites.” Godot says, as if it’s an insult. I think Tulip and Godot get along too well, on further inspection. She’s like the little bird on the back of a large animal- along for the ride, in  eventful coexistence. 

“Well, if she’s not doing it- I'll handle you.” He holds his arms out to both of us, but I don’t quite feel like holding my mentor’s hand right now. Tulip loops her arm through Godot’s, and I just assume a position at his side, making it clear I am not holding his hand. At all. 

“As long as you indulge me. I have some friends lingering about.” Godot mentions.

“You? Friends?” Tulip quips.

“To the shock and horror of the crowd- yes.” Godot smiles. “Ready?” He asks. We both nod. 

We then immerse ourselves into the crowd. In the moments I wasn’t looking, so many people have entered and are now intermingling with one another, and the more I focus on the hum of the collective conversations, the more I regret my decision to stay. 

I shake many hands, I kiss many rings. I smile and nod and say a few words when Godot introduces me. Tulip does the bulk of the talking- complimenting people’s outfits and somehow managing to get them to talk about themselves instead. She’s a talented speaker, and if she was given more grace and  time, probably would have gone far with it. 

“You play piano?” A businessman asks, enamoured.

I shrug. “I…well- I don’t have a teacher. I just learned to play what sounded good. To me.” 

“Well, I should know a thing or two about that .” The man chuckles.

“Mr. Bluth here owns one of the largest instrument manufacturing businesses in the Capitol.” Godot informs me.

“Oh!” I react, not really as interested as I feign. 

“That’s right!” Mr. Bluth grins. “It’s a shame you’re a tribute- I would’ve loved to school you on a thing or two.”

I’m sure, I think. I just smile. “A real shame.” 

We quickly move on. 

“Sorry about that, Huck.” Godot offers. “Learning an instrument is considered very above bar for someone of the Districts, so these sophisticates are going to be all over it like ants, and also assume that they’re better than you.”

“They probably are.” I shrug. “I mean, I didn’t learn by the book.”

“Which doesn’t necessarily make you incorrect, or untalented.” Godot tries, shrugging. “Our best innovators have come from the unusual and the untamed.” 

“Well, now, that’s just making a mountain out of a molehill.” I dismiss. I think I made a mistake, bringing up my piano for pity points. I did what I needed to do- or, well, what was required of me- but now I’m facing the consequences of my actions, and I don’t like them. 

We continue our crusade through the room, and just as I am reaching my limit with the amount of enthusiastic, sweaty bodies I am forced up against, Godot gasps. He wrenches his arm away from Tulip, and widens his arms to their full wingspan.

I’ve never seen our mentor this happy. His grin creases his face so hard that you could store an acorn in there. 

“There she is!” He booms, parting people as he chugs onward. Tulip shoots me a smirk and some furrowed brows, and gestures for me to follow as we keep up the pace. 

He makes connection with someone, and in his arms is a girl in a small buttercup-yellow dress, buried deep in Godot’s embrace. They part, and he holds her face in his hands, and squishes her cheeks. She swats him off- clearly embarrassed. 

“How’ve you been?” Godot asks, hands on his hips.

“Oh, y’know.” The girl starts, waving a hand in the air. Her voice is soft and airy, barely audible over the noise. 

“That’s not an answer.” Godot chides. 

“Well…” She trails off- but then she catches sight of us two. “Oh. Hello! You’re the District 11 Tributes, aren’t you?” 

I nod. Tulip nods. 

“Right- sorry, tunnel vision.” Godot taps his own head. “Huck, Tulip, this is-“

“Theta Verne.” Tulip interrupts, with a smile. “I remember you- my little sister thought you were really pretty- she kept going on about it when you came to 11 for your victory tour. I mean- so do I. Think so, that is.” Tulip goes on- and it’s the first time I’ve heard her stumble with her words in a while.

Despite the packing of blush on Theta’s dark skin, I can see her go even redder. “That’s really sweet- thank you.” She politely nods. 

I see a little head pop around Theta’s back- and there’s the girl from 3. She smiles at Tulip, and Tulip waves at her. 

“Faraday-“ Theta chuckles. “You can- you can say hi. Remember what we talked about…? You too, Fuller.” 

I hadn’t noticed the boy from three before, and when he steps forward, he offers us a quick smile. 

“Hi, Tulip.” Faraday greets, fiddling with her chewed on nails. 

“You doing alright, Faraday?” Tulip checks in.

Faraday nods. “Yeah. All good.” 

“Good.” Tulip smiles. 

“I’m going to the buffet table.” Fuller announces. 

“Take Faraday with you- it’s important you both eat!” Theta reminds him, and Faraday gives Tulip one last wave before Fuller leads her away.

Theta sighs, loudly. Godot pats her shoulder.

“You’re doing great.” He assures.

“I’m not. ” Theta languishes. “I can’t get through to Fuller, and Faraday, bless her soul, she’s not physically or mentally meeting up to the standards of what the games can throw at her! I’m trying , I really am- but it’s going to be just like last year!” I can see Theta tear up. “They’re going to-“ 

Godot shakes his head. “Look, it’s not an easy job. You know this. I’ve told you this. You know the odds- we all do. The thing is, Theta, is that you’re responsible for not only training them and equipping them, but your kindness and respect counts, too.” He rubs her shoulder, and offers her his handkerchief. 

Theta dabs her eyes. She shoots a wayward glance at us. “Sorry…sorry. Sorry.” She shakes her head.

“It’s okay.” Tulip offers. 

“Our Theta is a big feeler.” Godot wraps his arm around her shoulder. “Aren’t you?” 

Theta laughs through her apparent upset. “I can’t help it…” 

Godot fixes a strand of her short hair, and smiles. “I taught her everything she knows.” 

“Well, obviously…” Theta mumbles, amused. “He’s a big swan- as I’m sure you’ve found out.” 

Tulip chuckles.

“Hey- what!?” Godot yelps, a hand over his forehead. “Woe is me.” 

“And you’re clingy as anything.” Theta adds, not doing anything to peel him off of her. 

“Look, I had to spend ten years alone in the Victor’s Village. It gets quiet when you’re not around, infecting my house with your own quietness!” Godot complains. 

Theta just laughs. 

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer.” Godot removes himself from Theta’s personal space, and dusts nothing off of her one translucent sleeve. “Go and find your tributes. Come find me tomorrow, after everything’s over. I don’t want you sulking alone.”

“Okay, yeah.” Theta nods. She turns to us. “It was so nice to meet you. Your interviews were nothing short of exemplary, although- if it’s anything like I remember, I’m sure it was hard.” 

Me and Tulip sigh in unison.

“Yeah…” Theta winces. “Godot runs a tight ship.” 

Godot shrugs. “Guilty.” 

Theta pats us both on the shoulders, and I almost feel the urge to bend down- she’s a short woman, even in heels, so her reaching up to me feels awkward. “Good luck.” She smiles. Her eyes go watery again, and she turns to Godot, who wipes her tears with his thumbs, and hugs her again. 

Godot waves her off as she disappears toward the buffet table, and when she’s out of eyeshot- he practically sinks an inch, deflating. 

“I really feel for her.” He admits. “She's not the type to…” he loses his train of thought. He just ends up shaking his head. “She’s only nineteen.” He says, visibly upset. 

Another aspect of the Games I’ve never considered before- of course the victors have to mentor other tributes straight after they win. The youngest of these mentors could be only 13 years old, the oldest,19. Theta must have been 17 at the time of her victory, and I am empathetic to her weariness when I think about the difficulty she probably had to experience. 

Godot waves his hand aimlessly. He looks at the clock that’s mounted up on the wall, encrusted in finery and decadent sculpture-work. “Time is getting on…” He mentions, absentmindedly. “Have you eaten?” 

We both shake our heads.

“Alright- to the buffet with us, then!” Godot decides, hands at the backs of our shoulders to herd us onward. We are repeatedly stopped by Capitol socialite after Capitol socialite, but eventually carve our way through the horde and to the food. 

As is part and parcel of the Capitol- the tables are piled high with a decadent array of edible goods. I take a plate and begin to put some shredded chicken onto it, and move on to sorting through a sea of greens. However, I can see that Tulip has made a beeline for the sweets- but I won’t stop her. I would too, if my mama’s insistence against me stuffing on desert hasn’t lodged itself into my brain. Dessert was a strange one for me- my parents couldn’t afford to regularly buy me sugary delights, so what I considered desserts were savoury cakes,  starchy flapjacks and if I was extra well-behaved, or if it was my birthday, I was allowed strawberries in honey yoghurt. 

I almost drool thinking about it, having stopped piling my plate to turn the memory of getting my hands sticky with my favourite dessert over in my head for a moment. 

Someone clears their throat behind me, tapping me on the shoulder. 

As I swivel, I’m met with the droopy, cunning hazel eyes of the Career boy from 4. The one who’s been shooting me looks all week, a look as if to say- come closer. I want to tell you something.

And it seems as if my suspicions have been widely correct- something I’m not excited to endure. There’s nothing stopping me from just walking away to either side of us, but I don’t. Something keeps me trapped here, stuck between a Career and a hard candy. 

“Huck, right?” He asks. His deep rasp is jarring, compared to his hare-like appearance and light way of walking. 

I nod. “Yeah.” I stick my nose up a little, wary.

“Montauk.” He extends his calloused, freckled hand, and I shake it. “I haven’t had the chance to speak to you yet, so I’m glad I’ve caught you.”

Caught me!? I furrow my brows. “Right…” 

“Look, I’ll put it to you straight, Huck,” Montauk begins, multitasking, slowly putting pieces of boiled broccoli on a plate. “You’re strong. I’ve seen you in training, and I was watching you on camera. I’d like to offer you a partnership- an alliance, I guess. If you’re interested.” I’m almost mesmerised by his absolutely mind-numbing task of obtaining more broccoli than anyone in Panem could need to listen to what he’s saying. 

“An alliance? ” I echo. I’ve seen alliances form in the Hunger Games before. Nine times out of ten, they don’t end well. My quick conclusion is that if you ally, you’ve most likely signed a pact that ends in the terms: kill or be killed. “Have you asked anyone else?” I ask, tentatively.

“No.” Montauk responds, quick. 

“Are you looking to?” I continue. 

Montauk squints, smiling. “No hard feelings if you’re out.”

“Why do I get the feeling that I’ll be put on a list if I refuse?” I set my plate down and cross my arms. 

“No, no.” Montauk shakes his head, simply. That smile of his is always disconcerting- it never matches up with his eyes. He really does remind me of a hare. A demente, stretched out, conniving picture of what a bunny should be. 

“Montauk.” A third voice enters the conversation, and we both turn to see his district partner. 

“Hey, Lassie.” Montauk greets, airy. 

Windlass eyes me up and down. Then does the same to Montauk. “Don’t.” She shakes her head. 

“Not your choice to make, I’m afraid.” Montauk shrugs. “Seriously, no hard feelings.” He looks around Windlass to continue to smile at me. 

“Um.” I respond. I can feel myself getting hot under the collar- I don’t like the pressure. Obviously, the answer is no. Giant no. Large, fluorescent, beaming bright no. I don’t want to be stuck to a Career as I fight for my life, not knowing when or if they’ll strike at me next. However, the weight of being observed keeps me stuck in a grey area. If I wasn’t sure if I was easy to crumble to peer pressure- I can be sure of that now.

“We need to go.” Windlass states. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She sighs. “I think Helena has left the building.” 

“Really? I thought she’d be occupied with the other stylists.” Montauk shrugs. 

“Well, she’s actually useful- not like Lysander.” Windlass rolls her eyes.

I know that name. Ophelia mentioned him- her boyfriend, or fiancée, or something. District 4’s escort. From the sounds of it, not a very engaging man. 

I feel like now is my chance to leave, as Windlass and Montauk get caught up in discussing the different moving pieces of their prep circle. It reminds me that I should locate my own, having lost track of Tulip and Godot in the haze of thinking about food. 

I take a step back, and as I do, my foot makes contact with something, and I hear a small “ Ouch !” as I do. I panic, turning around, and a small woman in an oyster grey silk dress is standing there, checking her matching heel and her foot. 

“I am so sorry.” I apologise. “I had no idea you were there- can I get you anything?” I blurt. I am absolutely mortified. I’m usually good at spatial awareness, but in my hurry to leave, I must have just not noticed her. 

She shakes her head, tapping her foot on the floor a few times. “Don’t worry.” She assures me. “I’m not made of spiderwebs. I’ll live.” She smiles.

“Are you sure?” I ask, nervous. I scratch the back of my neck.

“You’re very sweet, Huck. No, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” She nods sweetly, tucking a loose lock of curly copper hair behind her ear. 

“There you are- oh, Windlass. You beat me to it.” The woman circles me, briefly brushing my arm with her hand, to reach the District 4 tributes. Is this Helena? I wonder. 

“Yeah.” Windlass nods. “He’s bothering the boy from 11.” 

“He has a name.” The woman reminds her. I almost puff out my chest. Yeah! I think. I do have a name! 

“I am not.” Montauk shakes his head. “Am I, Huck?” He asks.

“…No.” I choose to say.

“You totally are!” Windlass nods. 

I sigh. I can’t escape. 

“Huck?” I hear a familiar voice ask. Suddenly, I’m thanking fate for Godot Futhark, of all people. 

I turn around, and actually shoot him a smile. “I leave you alone for five seconds, and- oh.” Godot stops in his tracks, and a very complex expression comes over his face. Something between diplomacy and the urge to bolt, as I just had. 

“Hello, Mags.” He greets, nodding past me.

“Hello, Godot.” The woman, Mags, greets. She has the same look on her face. 

“I heard you got hitched since I last saw you- congratulations.” He smiles. 

“Oh- yes.” Mags shyly displays a silver ring, but quickly tucks her hands behind her back. 

“Beautiful ring. You must introduce me, one day.” Godot says.

“Definitely. He’s not the type to come out to the Capitol, though.” Mags tucks the same strand of hair behind her ear again. She glances at me, and smiles again. “I just ran into your tribute, here. A very lovely young man.” 

“Oh?” Godot raises an eyebrow, looking at me. 

“I-I mean- I ran into her…” I begin. “Accidentally…” 

“Sometimes we all step on someone else’s feet. You don’t have to worry about it, really.” Mags chuckles. 

“Oh, come on, Huck.” Godot jokes. “Save it for the arena!” He jostles my shoulder. I feel myself sink. 

“Don’t hassle the boy more than he already has been, Godot.” Mags quips. 

Godot shrugs. “What can I say- old dog, old tricks.” 

“Barely old.” Mags tilts her head.

“Tell that to the Capitol.” Godot blows some air out the corner of his mouth. 

There’s an awkward pause. “Have you seen Lysander?” Mags asks Windlass. 

“He’s with Ophelia- they’re somewhere at the front of the room, I think.” Godot chimes in.

“Oh?” Mags responds.

“Ophelia is the new escort for 11. Entangled with Lysander- he’s all she talks about.” Godot exaggerates. “I told her to stay there so that I could collect our team and make a move.” 

“Ohhh…” Mags nods. “Right, okay. Thank you.” 

Godot nods. 

“Well- let’s go, you two.” Mags fusses with Windlass’ hair, but Montauk motions for a moment to stay as Mags reaches for him, too. Montauk walks back over to me. I sigh.

“So?” He asks.

“No.” I respond. “No, thank you.” 

Montauk just purses his lips and shrugs. “Well, l tried. Good luck, Huck.” He seems to amuse himself with the rhyme. He raises two fingers and salutes me with them before turning back to Mags, who seems to kindly berate him about his behaviour as they walk away.

“What did he say to you while I wasn’t here?” Godot asks. Despite his curious tone, he looks worried. 

“He wanted to ally with me.” I say.

“ Ally!?” Godot splutters. “Good work for saying no.” 

“…Really?” I’m somehow glad to have my decision reinforced by Godot.

“I’ve seen allyships form, Huck, and they are dangerous things. Remember- there’s only one winner. Everyone else dies.” Godot reminds me.

“That’s what I was thinking- I don’t know if it was a trap, he seemed well-intentioned, but I wasn’t willing to take that chance.” I explain.

“Good.” Godot nods, and strongly pats my shoulder. 

“Tulip should be over by Ophelia, so we should head over there.” Godot instructs. As we turn to the bulk of the crowd, I realise it’s begun to thin out, and people are trickling out. 

“You didn’t seem to like Mags.” I point out. I’m curious as to that particularly polite standoff I just witnessed. 

“Don’t like her? No, Huck. I think she’s a great woman. She was a hallmark Victor- the year they started making serious overhauls, the year of the Victors Village- et cetera. Mags is the poster Victor for what we know today. We only had a  single Victor’s worth of gap between us- District 8’s mentor, Woof- and I think people expect Victors who’re close in game number to be close friends. Truly, I just think me and Mags are very different people. Personality wise. You can’t always get along with everyone, but it doesn’t mean you can be outright rude to them because of it.” Godot explains. 

I nod. It makes me want to know more about Mags- but I let that thread drop as soon as I pick it up.

We continue to cross the room, but Godot stops in his tracks. “Speaking of…” he grumbles, switching directions to the wall off to the side of the entrance.

As soon as I can see what Godot’s looking at, I follow behind. Theta is the subject of his redirection, stance all slightly compacted. She looks like a doe in headlights, knees knocked into each-other, hands politely clutching her handbag in front of her. She looks up at the current reigning victor, Zephyrine, as he talks to her. It doesn’t look like a productive conversation. 

Godot is already saying a few words by the time I walk over, and when I do, Theta shoots me that apologetic expression she seems eager to give out. 

“I’m just saying,” Zephyrine says, adjusting the clasps of his cape. “Nobody expected, nor wanted her to crawl out from under Howie Goodyear. It just wasn’t right.” He shakes his head confidently. 

Godot postures a little. “Well, Zephyr.” He sighs. “I’d have expected your mentor, no, even your publicist to tell you to know better about how you speak of others. You see- it’s not all about ploughing through tributes like sheets of paper- Theta was smart enough to wait out her time until Howitzer was malnourished and injured in order to lay out a plan. She won because she earned it, just like you or me.” He lightly places his hands on each of Zephyrine’s arms, and leans in close. “And I’d like to personally urge you to remember not to make enemies. Just because you’re a Career does not save you from being District. You’re just as equal as the rest of us, whether you like it or not. One wrong move, and they’ll consume you whole, just like they have done before.”

Godot seems to have sufficiently scared Zephyrine into silence. 

“This is why we don’t like you.” Zephyrine manages, crossing his arms against his chest and pulling a tight-lipped face. I’ve seen that kind of face before, on the likes of Acki Saynor- the face of a bully put in their place. I’ve only gotten the chance to see it happen once with her, but it’s a distinctive look.

Zephyrine strides off, and launches right back into amicably mingling with citizens. It’s a jarring shift.

“You alright? He didn’t go on too long, did he?” Godot frets.

“No- you didn’t need to do that.” Theta tilts her head. “He’s just an asshole. I have dealt with my share, and he won’t be the last, I’m sure.” 

When not being actively pressured or antagonised- Theta changes. I realise, shamefully, that she’s not all quivering limbs and soft sentences. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism or stress response I’m just not familiar with. 

“He needs some severe humbling. And I’m sure he’ll get it, one day.” Godot shakes his head. “Anyway- I need to head off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Theta nods, and goes in for a hug, and Godot gleefully reciprocates, tousling the top of her head. 

“See you tomorrow!” Theta waves us off as we continue onward, across the room. 

We eventually connect with Ophelia and Tulip. Tulip gives me half a smile as I approach.

“Is that Lysander?” I ask. 

“Yeah.” Tulip nods.

I look around Tulip to look at him. Lysander is a tall, plump man who’s dressed to the nines in ocean-blue silk, ruffles and lace. Even his perplexingly curled hairdo is a seafoam color. He seems to be leaning hard into the general aesthetic of the District he represents. He’s hand in hand with Ophelia, and the two exchange words at a rapid speed. 

“I thought he was supposed to be leaving with District 4?” I wonder aloud.

“How do you know that ?” Tulip asks.

“I, er. Ran into District 4. They were looking for him.” I explain. 

“Oh.” She nods.

“Huck here is being scouted!” Godot unhelpfully adds. 

“What?” Tulip looks as if she’s been smacked.

“An alliance- but I said no!” I quickly blurt out, waving my hands around as if that helps any.

Tulip furrows her laminated brows and scrunches up her nose. “That’s stupid! That’s so stupid! District 4? Really?” She seethes. 

I did not realise that Tulip had ever felt this strongly about anything in her life before. I’m not used to her freely displaying a clear emotional bias. I stand there, staring down at her like a stray dog put out in the rain. I don’t exactly know how to respond to this. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you said no!” Tulip sighs, shaking her head.

“Yeah…” I agree, scratching the back of my neck.

Godot goes up to Ophelia. “Ready to go?” He asks.

“Oh! You can go on without me. We’re going to get drinks with some of the others.” Ophelia smiles.

“…And why is that?” Godot asks, an extremely strained smile on his face. He looks like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. 

“…Whyever not?” Ophelia asks, chuckling nervously.

“You’re an escort, Miss Folio. May I remind you that your job is to accompany your tributes. So is yours , Mr Goodfellow.” Godot points at them both accusingly. 

Lysander clears his throat, clearly ashamed. 

Godot inhales deeply- so deeply, that I can practically see the crest of his ribs. He then exhales sharply. “I just hope that you somehow vouch for Districts 4 and 11 during whatever foray you’re engaging in tonight, otherwise you’ll be a disappointment to the Capitol, and to Panem. Otherwise, don’t even bother showing up tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell you this.” 

Ophelia makes eye contact with me, and then Tulip. Despite the pitiful look on her face, I find it hard to feel sorry for her. I thought Ophelia was less selfish than she’s ended up being, and on the opposite hand- I used to think Godot was purely a vain, self-involved flaunt until very recently. It makes me truly consider the depth to the divide between the Capitol and the districts- and I wonder how someone like that little boy, Marcus, could ever grow up to be someone like Lysander or Ophelia. Someone who will forget about this with time, and will most likely do this again. 

Ophelia clears her throat after a silence. “I will be with you tomorrow morning. I promise you that.”

Godot shrugs, fixing his tie. “Well, I can only hope you will. Have a good night.” He passively addresses, and me and Tulip follow behind him without another word. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Godot looks back at us, and offers a half-smile. 

We both nod back, trying to return it. 

However, we only make it back to the entrance hall before we are interrupted again. 

“Godot!” Someone calls. 

I can see Godot’s eye twitch- he even takes a deep breath before turning around and beaming as if nothing happened.

District 9’s mentor is rapidly approaching, waving casually. Silk practically drips off of her body, and I feel the urge to look away somewhat, for with every movement, she almost ends up exposed. She doesn’t seem phased by it, and saunters right up to us. 

“Nice work out there.” She nods, nodding at both me and Tulip in turn. 

“Thank you, Oasis. Now- we really must be going.” Godot rushes. 

“Oh? Perfect. We were just heading off ourselves. Care to join us?” She offers. 

Godot lets his shoulders drop. “Sure.” 

“Great!” Oasis chirps, looping her arm within Godot’s, and they lead the charge. District 9’s stylist and escort follow behind them, their own gaggle of student assistants following suit. 

Bran and Sorghum step in time, and so do we. Sorghum hangs on to Bran, holding his hand, his sleeve, his arm- she fidgets and sniffles, but her attachment does not waver. 

I take this opportunity to voice something that’s been on my mind.

“Bran?” I ask.

He perks up. “Hey, Huck.” He says, as if he truly hadn’t perceived that I was walking next to him, until now. 

“…Do you not see what they did to you up there?” I say, point-blank. I’m not in the interest of giving it to him lightly. 

He smiles at me. “‘Course I do.” He uses his free hand to loosen his tie. “Don’t tell me you believed that?” 

I feel slightly embarrassed. “Yeah.” I admit. “I mean- they do it all the time. They make us look like idiots for their own sake. Look, I don’t know you, so. I was just…I felt…” I trail off, shaking my head.

Bran pats my shoulder. “Thanks for your concern!” He nods. “I mean, I was worried too. I hate it, but…I mean, I look like an idiot at home, anyway. I was just told…” He briefly looks to Oasis. “…I dunno- to play it up, some. It doesn’t matter to me how they see me. It matters how I see me.” He nods. “Y’know?”

I wish I could be as self-assured as he is. I am upset with myself for seeing Bran as simple. He is much more than that. 

We reach the front of the building, and the staff members hail a car to come and collect us- a larger one than we arrived in, slightly. The escort, stylist and her entourage get in first, and then we get into a different section. It’s a little squished, but I don’t mind. I’m sat next to Bran and Sorghum on one row, and we face Oasis, Godot and Tulip, who sit across from us. Tulip’s dress spills across Godot, who holds some of the skirts in his lap. 

I’m concerned with how visibly upset Godot looks, right now. He just stares at his own shoes as we pull off into the night. 

“How come Dido didn’t come?” Tulip asks.

“He left early.” Godot answers. “Once Huck left stage, he felt he didn’t need to stick around. And besides, he was swarmed. He’s probably preparing your outfits for tomorrow.” 

“Right.” Tulip says, through her teeth.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow hangs in the air. It’s been a haze on the horizon for days, but suddenly, it’s right up against us. We will enter the Hunger Games, and most likely, none of us will ever see each other alive again, after tonight. I can hear Sorghum begin to cry again. Bran holds her head close to his chest, petting her curls gently, like a wounded kitten. 

“Did you find out who has 12?” Oasis asks.

“Voile.” Godot mumbles, rubbing his face with his free hand. “The younger one, from 8.” 

“No, I know her.” Oasis chuckles. She makes an expression that simply says- yikes. 

Oasis gently puts her hand on Godot’s shoulder and shakes her head. “You are tense. ” She mentions, and begins to massage his shoulders. 

“Aren’t you?” He responds. 

“Mmm…” Oasis shrugs. She looks across at all of us Tributes. “I’d say we all are.” She nods. “But you usually keep that locked up inside you, there.” She pats his chest. 

Godot shrugs. Whatever type of information Oasis is trying to provoke, he’s not giving. 

We continue our journey in silence. 

We even exit the car in silence, and our efforts to greet the crowds (who are still there, despite the late hours) are wholly half-hearted. 

Entering the elevator brings me a sense of deja-vu, but we’re way more cramped in due to Tulip’s gown. 

“Well.” Oasis says, somewhere between the 7th and 8th floors. “It was nice to see you.”

“You too.” Godot nods. “Take care. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yep.” Oasis nods.

Bran sticks his hand out to Tulip. She momentarily reels in surprise, but shakes his hand. He sticks it to me, and I somehow feel a deep sense of appreciation for this, this time. I shake his hand with pride. 

“Best of luck.” Bran nods. “You’re both really good.” 

“For the games?” Tulip scoffs.

“Good people .” Bran clarifies, as the doors open.

I am left with a hole in my heart as District 9 moves off into the dark of their hotel floor. The door unceremoniously closes on them, and we continue to ascend. 

We arrive on our floor, and discover that our suite and floor has been thoroughly deep-cleaned, sparkling as if we had never been there. The food is cleared, the supplies are gone, and each surface is polished so devoutly that I could probably see my reflection in the dining table. 

Godot walks over to the kitchen, opening the large fridge. He takes out a surprisingly large cake, sets it on the counter, and takes a slice. We watch, not sure what to do with ourselves. 

“Would you like some?” He asks us.

“What is it?” Tulip asks. 

“Cheesecake.” Godot pulls out two more forks. 

I walk over, and take one. I cut myself a slice of cake- I barely even remember if I got to eat or not between all the conversations, but I’m hungry regardless. 

While Tulip cuts herself some cake, I watch as Godot walks over to the empty space between the dining table and couch. I raise an eyebrow as I watch him sit down on the carpet there, plate in hand, legs crossed. 

Tulip rips off her false eyelashes, sticking them to the empty space on her plate. She tears at her fake hair, ripping out extensions and wires until she’s left with the actual hair on her scalp, half in braids, half out. She kicks off her heels. She peels off her skirts, leaving just a simple corset and some silk shorts. I follow suit, setting my plate down to tear off the fake plants stuck to me, as well as taking my boots off. I want to take my itchy jacket off, but I wouldn’t be covered by anything. Remembering the itch makes it even itchier, and I can’t help it.

Godot notices, and grabs my attention. “Just take it off.” He says.

“No…” I shake my head. 

“Here.” Godot peels his airy suit jacket and scarf off, and holds them out to me. He’s only left with an armless turtleneck. 

“Thanks.” I then dutifully tear my jacket from me and toss it aside, slipping Godot’s jacket on. I set his scarf aside- while a nice thought, it’s almost transparent. 

Godot pats the ground next to him. Me and Tulip gravitate over with our plates to sit on the rug with him. We eat quietly.

“Try your best to sleep as much as you can. They’ll be getting you up early, and you might not get to sleep in the arena for quite some time. Try to find shelter- a good place to camp.” Godot mumbles, chewing on a strawberry. He sighs, and sets his plate down. 

“District 3, District 11…it doesn’t change. You’re all just kids…” he places his head on his knees, cradling his forehead in his hands. He quickly sits back up, and I realise that he’s crying. He isn’t crying loudly, isn’t sobbing, but there are tears. 

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “This probably doesn’t help.”

He turns fully to the both of us, and smiles. “I’m just really tired. Tired of this . I don’t know why they decided to make former tributes mentor the new ones- it’s torture.” He shakes his head. 

“I don’t know what it’s like to be 11. I can’t imagine the torture you’ve both experienced in your lives. And I believe that penalising you both for trying to survive in a world that won’t let you is a horrible way to go. But you both have made me incredibly proud tonight. You stuck your chins up and showed them that you’re worth something- which you are. Of course you are. Maybe my pride means nothing to you, and, well, why should it- but you have it nonetheless. And I hope that you’ll remember that when you’re in the arena, at your lowest- you are loved. You are cared for. Not by those fans who barely know your names, but-“ He holds Tulip’s hand. “By your sister.” He holds mine. “By your colleague.” He sighs. “By me.” He nods. “And we will be watching not because of the fact that it is mandatory, but because we love you, and we do not want you to continue to suffer alone. You will not go through this alone. ” 

I can’t help it. I cry. Tulip cries. 

Godot opens his arms, and we fit perfectly in them, my head on his shoulder, Tulip’s on his collarbone. 

“I’m scared.” I warble. 

“I know.” Godot whispers, wobbling. 

“I’m scared too.” Tulip adds.

“You’re allowed to be.” Godot kisses the top of her head, and holds both her and me closer in. 

For a moment, there, with all three of us crying into the night, feeding off of each other's body heat for warmth and comfort- we are just three scared children. 

I am taken back to a time where the only thing I was truly scared of were the shadows in the night. I was scared of the dark, but now I can’t sleep without it. However, when the shadows became too much, I would leave my small, cramped bedroom and run to my parents. I would watch their faces as I cried. My papa would come to me, lift me up so that I could hug his shoulders, and rock me back and forth. He used to say that no evil, no Peacekeeper, no shadow could ever get to me when he was holding me. He used to smell like the great outdoors and my mama’s scent of choice- wild jasmine flowers, which she used to rub upon her neck. He would then tuck me between himself and my mama, who would kiss me for as many times as I said I was still scared, and then push my hair back and kiss my forehead one more time- for good luck. No matter how late, no matter how many hours of work they had, I was their priority. My mama would sing to me, work songs turned lullabies, and I would fall asleep to the tune of her beautiful voice and the comfort of starchy sheets. 

I can’t wait to hear her voice again.

I cry harder. Godot holds me closer. He’s much different- smelling of a strong cologne that reminds me of manufactured, styrofoam fruit- some fake recreation of a real smell. It’s somewhere between the ocean and strong spices, and I can’t place it. But it’s him. I don’t know why I hated him so much. Maybe because of his appearance, the way he seemed to be so Capitol that you forgot he was District- but I see it now- Godot is a character . Godot is a series of events, a decades long facade. There is a boy, probably as old as I am, a boy from District 3 who’s sat with me now. Who has been trying to reach out to me, and I want to pull him out and shake him and apologise a thousand times over for not seeing him sooner. 

Eventually, we all go back to silence. We end up laid flat on the carpet, the tops of our heads all meeting at a central point. 

“This arena is different.” Godot whispers. “You’ll be off guard, tomorrow- but because of that, everyone will. Even the Careers. You’re on frighteningly even ground. I want you to run. Get distance. Persevere.” 

We would nod, if not for lying down. 

“You should get some rest.” He sighs. “Come on.”

He slowly gets up, and we follow. “Sleep well.” He holds one of our hands each again, squeezing them. 

With nothing else to say, we slink to our rooms. I shut the door, and my whole body trembles again, wanting to continue sobbing. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. The Hunger Games, fighting for my life, I simply cannot go through with it. 

I walk a few laps around my bedroom. I change into the linen pyjamas they set out for me. I watch the city power down, lights blinking off until finally, the sky is more visible than the twinkling skyline. There are no stars in the Capitol. They blind themselves so much with their own bloated expectations for their lives that they need not look up for salvation. They are obese with the weight of their greed. I remember what Godot said about my chariot prop- the Capitol is one giant cornucopia, and I am food, ripe for the taking. 

I pace some more. 

I then go to stand in the bathroom, just listening to the hum of the extractor fan for what feels like hours. I fill the bath, undress, and sit there, in scalding water. I watch the paler parts of my hands and arms go pink, screaming out in pain. I cry some more. I slam my head back into the tile wall that cradles the bath, and a resounding ring goes through my head when I do. 

I slide down, curling up, and submerge myself. The heat on my entire body makes me feel like a living blister, but I ignore it. I curl, curl, curl, until I’m stuck in the foetal position, all noise save for the deafening beat of my heart muted by the pressure of the water. 

I am taken back to the dream in which I am drowning. I am drowning in blood, I am chained to the piano, I am stuck to the piano, playing it despite it all, no surcease to the unending melody I cannot hear, silenced by the cacophony of my loved ones and those that I know. I should have never opened my mouth, I should have never smiled, waved, signed- I should’ve never been born. That would have put a stop to my plight, that is the only thing that could keep me from my suffering, because my suffering is not mine. My suffering is a product of factors out of my control. My suffering was handed to me, a final lash to my palms in the grand event of my parents' executions. They still hang in their nooses, struggling, swinging, grappling and choking, and they will for all time, until I am dead. Their suffering only ends when mine does, because their suffering is mine, and mine belongs only to them. 

The blood reaches my eyes, my head, covering me. I remember now how the blood smelt in my dream. Of iron and damp. I am submerged, as I submerge myself now. One less tribute will make it easier for Tulip, easier for her to manage, not having to worry about me. It's happened before- tributes have died before the games. I’m okay with that. 

I think of my mama and papa. I think of seeing them again. 

I try to stop from sobbing, holding my mouth shut, but my lungs buckle, and against my will, I lose a battle to my instincts. I take in a shocking amount of water and my body flails. I slip around before grappling the towel hook, and hoisting my body half over the side of the bath to cough out water and undigested cake. 

I am irate. 

I punch at the wall, shattering tile. I am so angry that I could tear the building apart with my hands- but the overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame trumps it. I don’t want to live in this world. I don’t want to live like this- I wanted to die in District 11. I wanted to die there, peaceful, alone, unbothered, having worked my life into grey hairs and callouses. It was the only thing I thought I had control over. I had no choice in ending up alone. I had no choice in working in the Orchard. I do have a choice in how I spend my life, in how I die. But now, because of the malice of thousands of people, I have had that last single shred of freedom ripped from my palms.

I stay there, half in and out of the bathtub, wallowing in my self-pity. Maybe there is no need for all of this- all of this preemptive spectacle. I’ll die anyway. Whether that be tomorrow, the day after- someone will get me. Someone like Brutus, Lampus, Calliope, Terce, Windlass, Montauk- even Bran. I would be more than happy for Bran to take my life if it meant I died . Maybe I could have made that choice for myself, but maybe now it’s too late. 

Whatever the circumstances, I will be a lamb to the slaughter for a Capitolite display of violence in the name of peace . 

There will be no peace for the children and families of the Districts so long as this system continues, I can be sure of that. I can see it in the faces of Joule and Shank. I can see it in Godot. I can see it in Tulip’s little sister. 

I don’t want to live like this. Not in this system. Not anymore. And now, I won’t. Why do I still feel horrible about that? 

As I pull on my pants and stare at my blistered, near-drowned self in the mirror, I know that to be true. My time is up. And whether I like the circumstances or not, I must console myself with that. I cannot even find pleasure in the death I so crave. 

The silk sheets feel like sandpaper against my heat-battered skin. My knuckles throb, smearing coagulated blood against the bed. I curl up without the pillows or sheets. 

I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I just stare at the open window I face as the dawn sun crests between buildings, dusty pink light flooding my room. At least this is the one consistent thing to rely on. Wherever I go tomorrow, wherever we are sent to rip each other to pieces- the sun still rises and sets on the Hunger Games. 

Before the sky even has the chance to turn blue, there’s a knock to my door. Not waiting for my answer (and I don’t intend to rise to greet it), the door opens. 

I roll over, still curled up, to witness my intruder. Godot stands there, in the same clothes from last night. He’s not wearing any makeup anymore, and I can tell that just like me, he hasn’t slept at all. He pushes his copper curls back, looking at me with the absent eyes of a chalk-faced mannequin. 

“It’s time.” 

Chapter Text

I get up.

There’s nothing much else I can do. And besides, if I resist, I will be made to. And if I can have any last sliver of consent over my own actions, I will at least walk into the fire of my own volition. 

There are no clothes laid out for me, yet. I open my door wide, and stare at the room. 

Ophelia is there, as she promised she’d be. In a floor length, black gown that shines like an oil slick- it’s not a mystery that she’s dressed for a funeral. Even her hair is less eye-offending. In a long, simple style, navy blue and graceful. 

“Oh- hello, Hucky.” She smiles. 

I just sigh. She looks away, pretending to check her nails. 

Godot retrieves Tulip from her room, looking just as exhausted as I am. 

Our whole team is back together, as we were yesterday, but the energy in the room is thick and damp with the knowledge of what’s to come. 

“Let’s get some breakfast in.” Godot breaks the silence, gesturing to the dinner table, piled high with all kinds of food. Just looking at it makes me want to retch. The idea of eating anything makes me feel nauseous. I sit, staring into the depths of an empty plate. Tulip sits opposite me, and we make what feels like unending eye contact. 

She picks up a slice of green melon, but instead of putting it on her plate, she puts it on mine. I retaliate, putting a pastry on hers. We don’t take a single bite of either. 

I feel a cold hand on my shoulder- Godot runs his fingers over the nape of my neck and my shoulder, canvassing a welt that’s popped up from my stint in the bathroom. Despite having rawed my skin in boiling water, only a few blisters emerged, one of which had appeared on my shoulder. However, I did forget to put my shirt back on after the bathroom, and forgot about it completely.

I now feel fully exposed again, and it only makes me feel worse. 

I look up at Godot, who looks down at me, probing. I don’t want to say anything, and he doesn’t press. 

“Just stepping out to change.” He announces, leaving the suite. 

Ophelia sits down at the head of the table. “You should really eat, chickies.” She urges. “I know it’s hard,” Tulip scoffs. “…But you need your energy.” 

Tulip ruefully takes a bite of pastry. I nibble at the melon. Like I predicted- I feel like spitting it back out or throwing it back up. I have to force myself to swallow. 

I see Daphne and Tamrys by the windows, armed with steamers, making sure there aren’t any creases on our arena outfits. Dido is patching some stitching in Tulip’s shirt. We’re all silent. 

“Tam.” Daphne gestures. “Can you…?” 

“What- you weren’t joking?” He hisses.

“No! I thought-“ Daphne shakes her head. “Whatever. Forget it.” 

“What are you two on about?” Ophelia mumbles, turning around to face them.

“Oh…well…she…” Tamrys begins. 

“I thought-“ Daphne sighs. “I thought it would be nice to take a group photo.” 

“A group photo!?” Ophelia exclaims.

“Well- so-“ Daphne puts the steamer down to gesture with her hands. “This is a moment in history. It’s your first Hunger Games, it’s our first and probably our only Hunger Games, and we’ve got a really famous victor for our mentor, and working with Dido , and…it’s the First Quarter Quell. I think it might be nice to look back on when we get to the second Quell. Or something.” 

And what are we? I find myself thinking. Cannon fodder? 

That is what they call them, after all. The tributes nobody thinks will ever survive. Cannons set to fire. Cannon fodder. 

“Oh…” Ophelia nods. “It’s a nice thought.” She says, with a tone that reeks: bench that idea, for now.

“Daphne?” Tulip pipes up. 

Daphne turns fully around, like she’s been yanked on a string, and I almost expect her to salute like a Peacekeeper. 

“Can you braid my hair?” She asks. 

“Braid your hair?” Daphne echoes. “Um. Why?” 

Tulip paws at her afro, deflated and wild and uncared for after its hasty unbraiding last night. “For the arena.” She states.

That’s smart, I think. 

“Oh…Dido- what do you think?” Daphne asks.

Dido shrugs. “I think Tulip is making some good decisions. Ones you should’ve considered.” 

Daphne sinks a little. “Right…” 

She walks over to Tulip, gingerly fluffing and tugging her hair. She then begins to section it, and Tulip shakes her head. “No, not that way.” She says. 

“Oh- but-“ Daphne protests.

“ You braid it for pretty. I want it protected. ” She explains.

“I’ll do it.” I interject, before Daphne can say something back. 

“You know how?” Tulip asks, turning to me.

“My mama taught me how to. For my papa- when she had her hands full.” I explain.

“Oh. Okay.” Tulip nods. 

Daphne backs off, and I get Tulip to turn around in her chair, so she’s sitting on it the wrong way around. I lean against the dinner table, and tilt her head back into my hands, so I can line everything up right. I trace my finger from the center of her eyebrows, right up to her hairline, and split her hair down the middle. From there, I part it into little boxes. I even ask Daphne and Tamrys for hairclips, which I never have had the opportunity to use- and they make the process of sectioning far easier than it used to be. Back home, it was a careful game, and sometimes certain sections would end up lopsided from accidentally grabbing too much hair from other parts. But that didn’t matter- it was just for work. 

Braiding comes as a natural flow. I do one, two, and then I’m stuck in, following a rhythm. I discard a clip, I tie a slipknot, I move on, and rinse and repeat. 

After what feels like minutes, I am done with the last one, and I examine my work closely. I miss a few loose hairs here and there, but nothing noticeable, I hope. 

“Okay.” I nod. 

Tamrys hands Tulip a mirror, and she observes herself for a few moments, with a straight face. She nods to herself. 

“Thanks, Huck.” She plays with a few of the braids at the front of her face.

“Don’t you want to seal those?” Daphne murmurs.

“They are sealed.” I put my hands to my hips, raising an eyebrow.

“But- what about the hot water?” She says.

“There are other ways to do it.” I huff. “Some people can’t afford to heat water too often. Trust me- they’ll last.” 

“They don’t even need to last that long, anyway.” Tulip pipes up, and that cuts the conversation short, plunging us into a thick silence again. 

Daphne and Tamrys do not get the memo- or they do, and ignore it- back to chattering under their breaths, between the hisses of the steamers. 

“Did you get your grades yet?” Daphne asks.

Tamrys groans. “No. They postponed them!”

“What!?” Daphne yelps. 

“Yeah! For everyone ! Not just us, the Academy, too.” He shakes his head. “New system, apparently. They want to wait until the games are won to grade us. We’re not even responsible for the costumes in the arena- I don’t get it!” 

“What, do we get extra points if our tributes last longer?” Daphne asks.

“I don’t know!” Tamrys huffs. “I don’t know, it’s stupid. I’m just going to be on edge until the week is over. I don’t think I’ll even get to enjoy the games.” 

“Ugh, right.” Daphne sighs.

The two of them finally go quiet. 

The door opens again, and Godot walks in. However, it’s the Peacekeepers he’s brought with him that set my nerves ablaze. 

They take positions on either side of the door, arms in front of them, postures straight. Their helmets completely obscure whatever expressions they might be making. Their guns glint under the overhead lights. 

I feel the urge to bolt. 

Peacekeepers in 11 do not hesitate. I’m not familiar with the way they’re trained in other districts, but fear is king, and fear is a Peacekeeper’s weapon. They won’t wait to hit you, strike you, whip you or abuse you in any way they see fit for a simple mistake. I have plenty of lashing scars myself, from simple things. Things like miscounting, underperforming and slacking- ever since I was 10. They looked me in my eyes back then, half their height, and almost smiled when they had the opportunity to put me in my place. 

It’s why I feel scared to even look in their direction, now. The longer I do, with my morose expression, the closer I get to pure panic. I momentarily wonder why they don’t leap at me for simply staring. Maybe it’s because a worse fate awaits me, soon. 

I look back down at the floor.

“Nice hairstyle.” Godot tries, thumbing the end of one of Tulip’s braids. 

“Huck did it.” She mentions.

“Did you?” Godot sounds surprised.

I shrug. “Yeah.” 

Godot nods. “Good job.” He compliments. 

It seems the color black is the order of the day. Godot seems to totally abuse one style of suit, in a variety of different colors, and today is no exception. It looks similar to the one I first saw him in, the deep, crimson, blood-red suit now benched in favor of one that is a deep black. The large lapels carry blue accents, and those navy blue flashes appear at various points in his ensemble, accented by gold buttons and fringe. He loosens a navy tie. His curls look meticulous, almost completely artificial. 

“Is it not too warm in here?” He mumbles.

“It’s just the steam.” Tamrys pipes up. “You look nice.” He compliments, weakly.

“Thank you.” Godot sighs. “So do you both.” 

Tamrys fluffs nonexistent dust off of his teal ensemble, bashful. Daphne is very much the same, twirling the ends of her dark hair in her fingers. 

Godot checks his watch. “Dido.” He says, calling his attention. 

Dido nods, not facing him, staring out the window. He’s been there this whole time. He snaps his fingers, and both Daphne and Tamrys stop steaming our outfits. They almost simultaneously take them off the curtain rail they’ve been hanging on. Dido takes the hangers off of them, and hands us our final, revised outfit. It doesn’t look like anything's changed, after all. 

As I head to my room, Tamrys flanks me, carrying a pair of boots, as well as a few other things on top. 

“What- where did you get all these blemishes from?” He comments, unable to actually touch them. I just stare at him, and Tamrys instantly deflates. He sets the pile of additions on my bed. He almost says something, but purses his lip and kind of bows before leaving. He closes the door as softly as possible as he leaves. 

I want to throw the shoes at the glass and jump out of the window. I don’t. I very, really, truly want to. 

I draw the curtains and dress myself. It’s then that I notice the few differences made to my outfit. 

The socks now have the Panem logo embroidered on them, facing outwards, despite them being covered by my boots. I really fail to see the purpose in this- it’s not like us in the arena will be comforted in the night by the sight of it. Some of the green stripes have been widened, the clothes altered to fit my proportions just so, but the biggest difference is the one I can’t directly see. When I turn around, I catch it in the mirror. Underneath the big, white, embroidered eleven is my name. They’ve embroidered my name underneath. 

I don’t know why this shocks me. I can’t place why it outrages me. 

Again, I question the purpose, but this time, I know it’s malicious. I can’t be convinced otherwise. 

I walk out, and take a seat on one of the dining table chairs, and fiddle with a hangnail as I wait. Tulip enters a few minutes later, and just stands around, looking at everyone else, who also refuse to make a sound. 

Daphne steps forward, brandishing a small camera, about two fists tall, and clears her throat. “I thought we could take a picture. Of all of us. Team 11. In memoriam of the First Quarter Quell.” She takes a shaky exhale. “If…you’re all up for it?” 

She looks at Dido, who looks at Ophelia, who looks at Godot, who looks at Tulip and me. 

“Are you?” He asks us both.

I look at Tulip, and shrug. It’s really no skin off of my back, and at this point, I’m beyond caring. She shrugs back. 

“Sure.” She mumbles. 

Everyone seems to take a collective breath. Tulip pulls out one of the chairs from the table and sets it next to mine. Ophelia, back in her element for just a moment, directs Godot to stand between our heads, and then she takes his right, standing above Tulip, and Dido takes his left, standing right above me. I hate that he chooses to put a hand on my shoulder. Tamrys comes to stand next to me, angled so that you can still see Dido. 

Daphne sets the camera on the kitchen counter opposite us, and fiddles with some settings. A large amount of beeps go off, and she hurries to stand near Ophelia and Tulip. 

“Smile!” She says, and proceeds to grin. 

As the flash goes off, I don’t make an effort. 

Daphne collects the camera, and reviews the photo. She taps a few buttons, and five glossy printouts slowly emerge. 

“I’m totally adding this to my scrapbook.” She giggles. 

“You and that damn book.” Tamrys chuckles, taking a copy for himself. He offers one to Dido, who surprises him by actually taking it. He wordlessly pockets it.

Ophelia fans her face. “Oh…” She shakes her head. 

Godot also pockets his copy. 

Of course, we don’t get any. I would have liked to look at it, though. 

A hiss of static rings out through a receiver attached to one of the Peacekeepers. He lifts it to his ear and mumbles something I can’t hear (and I assume whoever is on the other end of the receiver can’t hear either on account of the mask) and turns back to the room. 

“It’s time to go.” Godot announces. 

Dido approaches both me and Tulip, tugs at our shirts and tucks them into our pants, adjusting our belts. He pats down our pockets, checking inside them, and observes Tulip's trinket before nodding. I almost see a flash of sympathy from him before he pushes his signature sunglasses back up. 

Godot ushers us to him, and Ophelia takes his side. 

“Thank you for your work this year.” Godot says, looking behind him. 

Dido, Tamrys and Daphne nod and mumble their thanks in return. Daphne leaps forward, and hugs Tulip around her shoulders. “Good luck out there!” She says, through tears. Tulip pats her arm in a gesture of comfort. She does have to let go, though, and slinks back to Tamrys, who pats her back. 

We exit the suite for the last time. 

We’re led by one Peacekeeper, and flanked by another. 

We awkwardly file into the elevator, squished there for what feels like years as we reach the lobby. We don’t go out of the front entrance, and go through where we entered before, through the back, like processed goods. 

We’re ushered into another indiscriminate black van. One Peacekeeper gets in the front, and one sits in the back with the four of us. I space out so hard that the journey barely registers, and before I know it- the van stops. 

We file out, and I find myself shivering for a moment. The place we’re in now is freezing cold, and probably the largest room I’ve ever been in. The ceiling stretches higher than any building I’ve stepped foot in, and the room is wider than two or even three houses put together. One entire wall of this place is missing, and I can see a long stretch of concrete, and hardly anything else. In front of us is an airship, one I’ve only seen in propaganda. Large, sleek and built for transporting what I can only assume is weapons, or something of that kind. 

Another van pulls up some feet away, and I watch as the tributes from 12 get out. Realising we’re all here together, I look to my right, and see every other tribute in the running, our vans all spread out a little. 

One of the Peacekeepers says something to Ophelia, and she nods furiously, like her head’s going to come off. She then skitters along to us, and a miserable smile comes over her face. She dabs at tears. 

“This is where we part, chickies.” She says. She sniffles. “I know this doesn’t mean an awful lot to you when I say it, but you really have changed my life. I’m going to miss you, and I will remember you for as long as I live.” She hugs Tulip, and then me. She then holds one side of each of our faces in each of her hands. “Oh…my babies. Trust me, I’ll try to look out for you as much as I can. I promise. I can’t sponsor you, but…” she sighs, and steps back, clutching at her heart and sniffling even harder. 

We turn to Godot, like sunflowers to light. I see him visibly stiffen his lower lip, and swallow hard. Tulip launches forward, and Godot steps back with impact as she clings onto him. I join her. I wish we could stay forever in that good night, in that warmth. We may never feel that kind of warmth ever again. I forgot how it felt to be looked out for like that. “I’ve already said everything I can to you guys. You deserve your chance as much as everyone else does. Whatever they throw at you, you will conquer it. I believe in the both of you.” He lets go of us, but we don’t let go of him. 

“Guys.” He chuckles, and wipes his eyes, hard. He manages to peel us off of him, and squeezes our hands. “Just remember what I said. Okay?” 

We nod. He nods. In holding our hands, he can’t prevent the tears from streaking his makeup. 

“Okay. Off you go.” He directs. We hesitate to even take our eyes off of Godot as the Peacekeepers form a barrier between us and our mentor and stylist, and begin to usher us away, hands on our shoulders with an iron grip. I see Ophelia cling to Godot, bawling openly into his clothes. Godot keeps his eyes fixed on us, and I hope he still does, as I turn away. 

I let a few tears go. I’ve earned that much. I dare to even move my hand to wipe my face, and succeed in not being beaten. 

They even separate me and Tulip, making her stand in line with the girls. We’re not that far apart, but it feels like miles. 

They march us into the craft, which is no warmer than the building it’s held in, and we are instructed to sit in crude seats, built into the wall. Girls on one side, boys on the other. We are then belted in, and the aircraft shuts tight, and our journey begins. 

I feel a little nauseous at the thought of being so high up. I’ve never been good with even climbing trees, and I get scared of heights, sometimes. I don't like the idea of being in this plane even more. The more I think about it, we’re just warm bodies in a tight tin box, and I try to resist the urge to panic. 

At some point, two assistants come round to our rows, and at first, it’s hard to see what they’re doing at all. However, as they get down to Bran and Trough, I get an idea. They’re putting something in our front pockets. The assistant comes to me, and takes a small disc out of her pocket, and gingerly pulls my front pocket. I notice that there’s an addition I didn’t see- and that there’s now a smaller pocket within my shirt pocket, just big enough to fit the disc. The assistant then takes a needle and thread out, and with a few simple stitches, shuts the compartment. She then moves swiftly on to the boy from 12. 

I wonder what it is that disc does. I find out soon enough, when I hear one assistant tell the other that all the trackers have been placed. It makes sense- they don’t want to lose us. They’ve suffered enough in the games with losing tributes as it is. Some have found caves or tunnel systems, and get very hard to locate.

I think about where exactly they’re taking us. I have a delusional hope that they’ll take us to District 11, so I can fulfil my dying wish, but it seems unlikely. They’ve never once used District 11 or 12 as a terrain for the games, and only used District 9 and 10 maybe once or twice. They tend not to use the very low districts for arenas. But then again- it might be all the more reason to use them for the Quarter Quell. 

Someone stretches their arm across Trough- it’s Bran. We both look his way.

“You guys alright?” He whispers. 

Me and Trough both shrug, in our own ways. 

“…Yeah…” Bran sighs. 

He then re-assumes the silence we were all in before. 

It doesn’t last long, though, because the craft jolts, and we all mumble or exclaim our surprise as we begin to descend. 

We’re led out again in our lines, and I'm confused to see a space just like the one we had come from, although, this time, a positively giant wall panel slides shut and closes us in. The room is plunged into total darkness for a moment until a series of lights blink on. I combat the offensive smell of burnt rubber and cleaning products as the lines are put side by side, and Peacekeepers begin to lead the districts off. Tulip leads the way as a Peacekeeper comes to get her, and another flanks me as I follow. 

I don’t like this. Is this what Godot meant by the arena surprising us this year? 

Usually, they fly the tributes in separately, by their districts, and then send them out to their podiums. Right now, I walk down a cold stone hallway, curving, passing a number of tributes who already stand by what look like shutters, tucked in concrete alcoves. Tulip is ushered into one of these alcoves, and then I am brought along to the one next to hers. 

After Twelve gets situated into theirs, the shutters open with a bang, and the Peacekeeper observing me pushes me forward into the small space that’s opened, coming in alongside me as the shutter slams shut again. 

A counter starts, a robotic voice ticking down the seconds to my execution.

SIXTY SECONDS TO RELEASE.

My palms get clammy. I clasp and unclasp them. 

FIFTY SECONDS TO RELEASE.

Is it too late to run? Can I overpower a Peacekeeper?

FORTY SECONDS TO RELEASE.

I’m sure it’s possible. The Capitol seems to think I'm strong enough.

THIRTY SECONDS TO RELEASE.

I know where his gun is. And I know they carry a taser. If I grab that, and then try to open the shutter-

TWENTY SECONDS TO RELEASE.

Oh, who am I kidding. The only way out is forward. There’s no breaking out of the Hunger Games. 

TEN SECONDS TO RELEASE.

The Peacekeeper grabs me by both of my shoulders, and situates me directly in front of the slab of wall in front of me. I realise that they’re doors, and they’re about to open.

FIVE SECONDS TO RELEASE.

Help me. Godot, Ophelia, Tulip, anyone! 

FOUR SECONDS TO RELEASE.

Let me out!

THREE SECONDS TO RELEASE.

I can’t do this!

TWO SECON DS TO RELEASE.

Holy shit .

ONE SECOND TO RELEASE.

I’m going to die.

The doors slide open with alarming speed. The light from the arena blinds me, and I almost fall face first as the Peacekeeper pushes me with force, so that I move out of the quadrant I was quarantined in just a second ago. I turn around to run back in, but it’s too late.

The doors slam shut. A horn blares so loud that I am momentarily deafened alongside my shock blinding. I turn back around, and tributes are already moving in to the center, to-

I pause. I can’t believe what I'm seeing. I am frozen in shock. 

Right there in the center of the arena, is a giant cornucopia .

Chapter Text

How did he know?

Not Godot, but Dido . 

I fail to catch my breath as I stare up at the giant phantom of my recent past. A behemoth horn stands before me, built to look wicker, but clearly not. Inside it is not pathetic amounts of fake fruit, but towers of boxes, bags and weapons lie inside of it. 

It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before. 

However, I don’t have the luxury of thinking about this now. 

A cannon goes off, and I feel everyone stop moving for a millisecond as we look around us- and I see the boy from Five go down in a flash of orange, the girl from Two standing above him with a spear in his back. The boy from two then runs over and grabs her by the shoulder, two bags slung on one arm, and they run off to the left. 

I now realise we are surrounded by hedges, tall enough that I can’t see past them. They’re manicured and perfectly angled, with several breaks in them- one of which the Twos go into and disappear from sight. 

I look to my right- Tulip is gone. I look in front of me, to the cornucopia- she’s not there. Tulip is gone, and I didn’t even realise.

Shit!

The stuff inside the cornucopia must be important, so I blindly make a run for it, trying to grab at anything. I lose out on a large canister of water to the boy from Eight, who runs away from me, but I see him run into the girl from Seven. I am a witness to what he does next, swinging the canister at her head, and I almost throw up (and I would, if I had anything in my stomach to throw up) as I watch her brains splatter across the grass. A cannon goes off.

I continue to fumble forward, and I reach the deep recesses of the cornucopia, ducking behind a pillar of boxes. Right there, next to me, is a large backpack, and I grab it, swinging it onto my back. I find that I’ve now cornered myself in somewhat, and curse myself for my stupidity under pressure. 

I peek around the boxes and see another tribute go down- and I wince as I realise that it’s little Faraday. I feel a deep sense of anger as I realise the boy who’s mercilessly stabbed a trident through her back is Montauk. He yanks it back out and runs in the opposite direction, into the bushes, and I am forced to watch as Faraday bleeds out, another cannon shot ringing in my ears. 

The footsteps and screaming and rushing seem to have died down, and when I can’t hear anything anymore, I emerge from the boxes. I hide again by the mouth of the structure, and when I am sure I can’t hear anyone moving, I dash out to try and grab a large butcher's knife I see lying near Faraday. 

I have deeply miscalculated. 

As I make my exit, I realise someone is there. Someone is there, and he has either been waiting for me to exit, or simply happens to have been standing still for a good two minutes. 

He looks equally as shocked to see me, but his shock quickly fades into something more steely, and I am deeply afraid. 

He wastes no time in leaping toward me, vicious, and I am forced to run. I take the nearest exit- a break in the hedges, and I am both figuratively and literally thrust into tunnel vision as my world becomes a single path.

“Come back here!” The boy from 1 growls. 

There’s a turn in the path, and I take it, but it slows me down, and my adversary almost grabs my shirt. Seeing another turn, I don’t take it, and pray that these hedges truly are hedges, and I run straight through it. I think I confuse the boy chasing me, because he still takes the long way around, and I get some ways ahead of him. Unfortunately, this maze is not on my side, as I see another turn too late and take it the way it was intended, and an arm reaches around and grabs my backpack strap. 

I react instantly, punching him, and he lets go. He yells in frustration, grabbing at me again, and I keep retaliating until I manage to make a clean break. I keep going, feeling the acid from exertion build up in my limbs until I am blessed with a multi-way fork in the path. I take the one to the far right, just praying that I have enough distance between me and my enemy for him to hopefully take one of the other paths instead. 

I keep going, running, pushing my limit until I break out into an open clearing, and while I try to stop myself from running, I endure multiple kinds of shock at once. 

Why am I knee-deep in snow?

I look around me, and I refuse to comprehend what’s happening. I keep my eyes out for fellow tributes that could be in wait to ambush me, and as I waddle through deep snow, my nerves are not eased. There’s a barren forest just in front of me that anyone could be hiding in.

I decided to slow my breathing first. It’s been a few minutes, and I’m no longer being chased- as far as I can gather. 

However, as soon as the adrenaline runs out, I can’t help but fall victim to the cold. As I skirt the hedge wall that seems to keep this environment out from the maze I just passed through, I trudge through a sea of snow. I eventually reach a small outcropping of flat rocks and climb up onto it, sitting down, holding my bag to my chest. I try to heat myself by remaining compact, but it doesn't work.

I just keep staring at the snow. 

It is the middle of summer, and I am seeing perfectly maintained, freezing cold snow around me. It isn’t melting, it isn’t just some foam recreation- it’s real. It’s not like they’ve just dumped it in a random place, either- the environment looks as if it’s been winter for months, already. 

I’m scared. I was scared already, but this takes the cake. How? How is this possible? 

As I clutch my bag tighter, I stupidly realise that there are things inside of it. I find that I’m moving slightly lethargically due to the cold, but I fumble with the zip and tear the bag open, rustling inside. 

I lay everything out on the rock. It’s not much- I assume the bigger bags were taken by much quicker tributes. 

My inventory consists of something little and square, wrapped up- a food item. Despite how little I’ve eaten as of late, I’m not hungry, so I decide to save whatever is inside for a later date. There’s a few of them, I find. Lucky me. 

There’s a small, thin, cardboard box with no label, and when I open it, I find a packet of pills. About eight of them, total. I can see through the clear plastic packaging, but I can’t tell what they are. They could be anything, from poison to antidote. I almost hope that they’re water purification tablets, and I can put my limited amount of training to use- but those were thick and round. And while the right color and I assume the right consistency, these tablets are cylindrical and small. 

I also fish out a box of matches, as well as a confusing plastic square with a thin plastic attachment that I work out is a ridiculously shaped compact torch. 

The last item feels like it makes up for the rest- a small pocket-knife. Its handle is varnished redwood, and the blade is suitably sharp. 

I re-pack the bag, (except for the knife, which I slip into my pocket), and I wonder what to do next. 

Despite the snow, the sky is clear, and the sun is still high. I can’t quite place which direction is which as a result, so I have to wait until later to find my compass bearings. I hope it’ll help me, if I should ever have to return to the maze I came through. 

I look toward the forest. If I stay on this rock, I die. If I keep moving, I die. Whatever I choose to do next, every option will end in the inevitable. This gives me the freedom to do whatever the sweet hell I want. 

I decide to keep moving to combat the cold. It’s stiffening me, and I don’t like that. I don’t want to end up completely locked up, a statue in a frozen garden. 

I wade through the snow, toward the trees. They’re not thick trees, not flourishing or anything that can provide any cover at all, but the real shelter lies just beyond this thin stretch of glorified twigs. Giant evergreens, branches decadently spread with soft snow- trees that other tributes could potentially be hiding in. 

I carefully decide to skirt this section- headed walking alongside the border where the evergreens meet the striped,  thin trees, headed toward another hedge wall. Interestingly, this area seems to be boxed in somewhat, surrounded by hedge walls. 

I keep trudging through snow, but I trip on something and hear a click, which freezes me in my place. 

It’s too late when I try to take a step back and feel the most piercing pain ring out from my ankle. I can’t help but cry out in pain as I try to lift the weight off of my left foot to see what happened- only to lose my grip on gravity completely. 

I feel like I’ve been dragged through sand as whiplash kicks in, and it’s hard to form a thought between the blood around my ankle dripping into my face from my raised legs and the blood still inside of my body rushing to my head. The swinging is making me nauseous.

The swinging? 

I turn my head and realise I’m compacted into a ball by rope. Thick rope. Interlaced. I’m tied up in a net. 

I can’t help but cry. The pain radiates up (or down?) my body in waves, sending shocks right up to my teeth. I grapple at my pant leg and reveal a metal snare- sharp, pristine and massive- buried into my ankle. Deep . It doesn’t help that my body is tightly surrounded by rope, and what exposed skin I have rubs against the coarse material. Some of the boils I gained from last night have definitely opened up, and only add to my misery. 

Who could’ve done this? And so quickly? 

I quickly decide it must have been the Fours. Montauk especially expressed a proficiency with everything to do with sailboats and ships in his interview- telling the crowd he was known as ‘The Slipper’ back home for his quick work and ingenuity. However, when I saw him brutally murder poor Faraday, he had no backpack or rope to show for himself, so Windlass must have provided the supplies. 

They must’ve done this. I’m sure they’re laughing now- this is some kind of unintentional, sick revenge. Figures- of course I was right- he was going to kill me, either way. 

“MONTAUK!?” I yell. “WINDLASS!” My voice strains, obviously laced with my own pain. I yell their names a few more times for good measure. Nothing. Not even a stir. My chest hurts with the weight of my heavy breathing, but I can’t stop. 

“I’LL JOIN YOU- I’LL JOIN YOU! I’LL BE YOUR ALLY! JUST PLEASE, GET ME DOWN!” I cry. 

I curse myself internally. Coward!!!

But I don’t want to die like this. If they’re going to kill me, they must want to make it quick. They should make it quick. 

However, they’ve either abandoned their trap or can’t hear me. I assume it’s the former- I’ve been teased all throughout my life for my lack of control over my volume, and I know by now that I will always be the loudest in the room, whether I like it or not. 

I am on my own, blood still pooling to my head and dripping from my leg, not in control of my own center of gravity- and I need to find a way down. 

I try to move, but every time I do, my injured leg makes it clear that agility is out of the question. As I continue to swing, I get more and more nauseous, and to add to a bad situation, my head begins to spin. I can barely process my thoughts as they come in- i’m not even sure what i’m thinking at all.

It’s then that my exit plan reveals itself- I see the knife I picked up earlier start to slide out of my pocket, and before it can fall through the net, I grab it with my free hand. Wriggling my other hand from where I have it clamped around the free skin of my injured ankle, I reach up to pull the top of the net closer to me. 

Now, I realise that I'm very high up in the air, and a fall from this height could be as damaging to my body as all the other injuries I've sustained- but I'm willing to take that risk. The knife, while sharp, is not serrated or large enough to handle a rope like this- but I have to try. I keep hacking away and sawing at the rope, and I almost cry with relief as I see it start to give way. When i get halfway through, I can see that the rope holding me up into the boughs of a tree is starting to organically tear itself due to my weight, so I start chopping into it to speed up the process. 

And as soon as I am wrenched up, I come crashing down. 

I don’t remember what happened next. All I do remember is that I wake up sprawled onto my side on the floor, and when I try to stretch, I am reminded of exactly how I got here. 

I am unfortunate to have landed on the side of my bad leg, and when I move myself, my other leg jostles the metal snare that’s still stuck there. 

When I try to sit up, it feels like the world is moving faster than I am, and I feel the urge to lay back down- dizzy and disoriented. No matter how long I sit there and wish the world- or my thoughts- to clear, it doesn’t come. But I can’t let this snare stay in my leg any longer. 

I know what will happen when I take it out, and in preparation, I roll up the bottom of my shirt and stick it in my mouth, clamping my jaw around it. Every time I touch the snare, I wince, but I have to tell myself to suck it up and rip the band aid off, so to speak. 

I gingerly place my hands around the snare, and close my eyes, and rip it out of my ankle. I scream, as I knew I would, but thankfully I am muffled by my shirt. I toss the snare and curl up into my knees, allowing myself to weep for a moment. The pain won’t subside- only my unexpected moment of unconsciousness gave me respite. 

Actually , I think, how long was I out for? 

I look to find the sun, and I am deeply frightened when I realise it’s dipped so much that it’s cresting the hedge walls that I fail to be able to see past. I was out for hours - at least three or four. It’s a miracle I wasn’t found, or killed. Though, being killed in my sleep might have been a mercy I am willing to accept. 

I roll up my pant leg, and I’m not able to see my wound through the amount of blood. I don’t have water, so I turn to my surroundings and test a theory. I rub my hands together to make them warm, pick up some nearby snow into my hands, and blow onto it. I’m rather proud of myself when I see it melt, and I use the water to wash my wound. It’s full of dirt and small twigs, but it’s better than nothing. Despite my pounding head, that only seems to get worse, I’m able to get a visual on my injury. 

I don’t like what I see.

Not just the gaping holes left by the snare, but the flesh around the wound has crusted over somewhat- not a good sign for my outlook. 

I don’t know what to do. 

It’s most likely infected, and I’m just so tired, and my head is pounding, and my vision is swimming, and everything hurts- 

I resist the urge to cry again. I have to think of some solution. I don’t want to die like this. 

I peel my bag from my back and open it, hoping and praying that in the hours I was asleep, some mystical solution magically appeared inside. But no- it’s exactly like I packed it, even if the food packages are a slightly different shape from being landed on. 

I fish out the sleeve of pills. 

They could spell my demise, or could save me from my plight. Either way, I’ll be dead if this infection spreads, and I’ll be dead if the pills are poison. I’ll take my chances. 

I slam one into my mouth- I’m desperate. I’m not fond of the scratchy feeling as it goes, and I try to force it, but it’s so dry. My sight has begun to swim even more, and I stumble as I grapple at more snow, trying to melt it as soon as I can. I take forceful swallows of water, not caring for what it could contain. 

Despite the chill that’s making my fingers and legs almost inoperable, I am burning up. I feel like throwing up again, but I desperately force the urge down- I need this to work. Whatever it does to me, it has to work. 

On my hands and knees, I wobble, and then I cannot hold myself up any longer. I buckle, and lie there in the snow. I scoop some toward my aching head, to try and dull the pain. My last sight is of my bag and its contents, sprawled about, before my eyes flutter shut. 

Chapter Text

I am surprised to wake up at all, frankly. 

I could’ve been killed, whether that be by another tribute, or by the pill I forced down yesterday. 

I can tell that I did that yesterday, because the sun is high again. It beats down on me, but the sun is cold, like the snow I lie in. 

I pull myself up, and while my ankle yells out at me, I am glad to be able to think clearly again- the pounding in my head is finally gone! The pills, whatever they are, helped. They weren’t poison, and I managed to pick up something valuable after all!

My excitement is short lived, however, when I realise this means I have to continue on. Okay, I think. What now? 

I want to get out of here. The cold is eating through me, and slowing me down. If someone comes to kill me, I at least want to be mobile enough to beg for my life.  I check my wound again, and pick at the crusted over scabs that have formed on top of what I can only assume was a budding infection. My mama always told me never to pick my scabs- but I’m curious, and besides- she’s not here. Nobody is.

Although, I think- not for long. I’ve been lucky so far. 

I need to move. I turn around, to try and find my bag. I catch sight of it, but also, something else. A rectangle box, reflective like steel, pokes out from under a giant sheet. I claw for it, sliding it across to me. They look different this year. Slicker, neater, more angular- but it’s real. 

A sponsor. 

It worked! I got a sponsor! Someone sponsored me! 

Gleefully, I pry it open, and it splits diagonally to reveal a small, round tin. It’s unlabeled and discreet, but there’s a handwritten note on top. For the wound, the note reads, in handwriting so uniform it might as well be machine made. The initials read R.M, but I know nobody with those- so it must have been someone out there who believes in me. 

I’d hate to disappoint them, so I remove the tin from its shelter, and crack it open. It’s a waxy salve of some kind. It smells like something fresh- something like wild mint, but different. I touch it, and it comes away easily, soft on my fingers. 

I gently administer it to my injury, wincing all the while, until there is just a little salve left. 

I must admit, it already feels better. The salve is cooling and gentle, and the angry, red, inflamed skin has already begun to settle. I knew that they had access to medical technology the likes of which I’ve never seen before in the Capitol, but this truly delights me. 

I attempt to stand, and while it takes me a few tries, I get there. I scoop up my bag, putting things like the bars of food inside of the tin for storage purposes, and repacking everything else. I scout around for my knife, and put it back into my pocket, and immediately start looking for an exit.

I decide to trudge back the way I came. I limp back through the treeline and combat large swaths of snow to get back to the hedge maze, and before I enter, I take a moment to lean against the hedge to catch my breath. Also, to look around. I don’t doubt that tributes are still navigating this place, and I’d hate to be unlucky enough to immediately run into an enemy. 

Nobody comes leaping out, or lunging, or running- so I take my chances. 

As I begin to walk back down the path I came, the change in temperature overwhelms me.. My body takes a moment to catch up with itself as I adjust to the warmer maze. I let out one last shiver, and push onward. 

I still wonder about that area. About why it exists, and where I truly am. Godot said that this arena would be different from any other arena, an arena to mark the turning of history. An outlier. New blood. The engineering required to keep a restricted area of land cold enough for snow that long would be the most advanced…ever. I want to understand it, I want to truly wrap my head around how they did it, but I can’t. I’m not smart enough. I’m sure there are tributes who already know how. 

I reach the fork in the road that led me to the snowy forest. I examine the three-way path, and decide to take the one directly opposite, hoping that the boy from 1 went down the middle. Someone came through here, at the very least, because the hedges in the middle lane are disturbed somewhat. 

My mind wanders to Tulip. 

At the end of each day, in the arena, the Gamemakers broadcast the list of those dead, and their unfortunate mugshots. They prop up giant screens in inaccessible areas, or even on blimps, so that the tributes can look high and take stock. 

I must have fallen asleep- or, well, become unconscious- before they broadcast the fallen. I currently have no idea whether Tulip is alive or not, and I worry for her. She’s smart- she’s so smart, incredibly witty and kind to a fault. I heard no cannon shots ring out either, which means that between the start of the game and evening time, nobody had died. That does not mean, however, that nobody died after I closed my eyes. The variable drives me insane. Tulip could be dead.

I need to find her. 

I need to make sure she’s still fighting. I picture her little sister’s face from the reaping, those big tears rolling down her cheeks. The screaming and tugging. The Delora’s must have been good people, must be good people for my parents to have extended their hand. My parents did not discriminate between good and evil, because I don’t think they believed that there was good and evil- just unfortunate circumstances- but the Delora’s were worth risking their lives for. 

Tulip has people to live for. Her sister, her parents. The memory of Daffy. She deserves to come back to them, while they’re still here. I must make sure she gets there. 

The thing is- I have no idea where she could’ve gone. And, to add on, I don’t know how big this arena is. The maze walls obscure any sense of scale I could possibly gather. I might as well just run into the electrified barriers they set up around the arena each year- that’d be just my luck. 

I only have one plan, and it’s relatively stupid. However- a plan is better than no plan, right? 

I have to believe it. I venture to the nearest hedge wall, and stick my hand inside the bush. Just like the one I encountered yesterday- it's a natural hedge, inside and out. In the middle lie thick branches- and I hope they’re thick enough to hold my weight. 

I grit my teeth, momentarily standing full on my injured leg as I try to get a foothold inside of the hedge. I manage it, but it’s risky. What I’m doing can only last so long, before everything buckles under me. Quickly, and disregarding the pain, I scramble upward, all my nerves on edge at the amount of snapping of twigs I hear and the swaying of the hedge. 

I just about crawl my way to the top, truly hanging on for my life as my head peeks above the top of the bush. 

What I see is so confusing that I almost fall off. I can see the tops of the snowy trees from where I just came, about northeast from the direction I face. Although- judging by the position of the sun, the winter forest is vaguely west- due to the fact I could also see the sun set behind the trees. 

It’s nice to have a sense of direction. A sense of purpose, too. I came from the northeast of the arena. I am going to find Tulip. I will assure her survival. Whatever it takes. 

I continue to take in my surroundings. The maze is incredibly vast, twisting layers of hedgerows spanning as far as I can see. When they do break, they make way for what seems to me like tens of unique environments, jutting over the tops. I see red, dry cliffs in one direction. I see giant trees with flat canopies, laden with vines in another. I see tens of thousands of trees, all different species and spread out across an impossibly large playing space. The thing is, it goes on so far and wide that I can’t see the edge- I can’t determine what District we’re in, at all.

But why does that matter? You’d get killed for exiting the arena, after all. Immediate expulsion. 

Where would Tulip go? I decide that I’m going to make for a nearby area, some sort of forest or woodland area. It’s close by, so I don’t have to exert myself as much, and looks fairly large and somewhat central, which ups the chance of more people being there. It does endanger me, but I’d risk everything to see Tulip, at this point. I only have one goal in mind, and I’ll be damned if I can’t complete it.

Climbing down with some effort, I use the hedges to support my weight as I hobble along. I only know the vague direction the area was in, so I can only guess that I’m going in the right direction, putting blind faith in my natural compass. 

The sun is high above me by the time I reach the entrance. I peek around a corner, looking in. The forest looks somewhat dense, but flat. All the trees are around the same height, from where I can see- and they’ve clearly set a false trodden path directly through it. 

I’m worried about traps being set again, so I reach into the hedgerow and pull out some heftier twigs, having them act as a distraction as I make my way inside.

Immediately, the air cools. It reminds me of early spring- and the plants reflect it. It’s not the kind of forest that I would see in District 11, though. The trees at home are usually oaks and cypresses- sometimes pine. Though, it’s mostly prairie land and plains. The forest where I live is somewhat on an incline- rare, concise and a change of scenery against the flatland. 

While our woods and natural lands are dry, wide and airy- this forest is packed in, tall and wet. I wouldn’t quite say humid, as it isn’t warm- but the air is thick with the scent of rain, the trees radiating a washed freshness that almost leads me right off course. The brisk, light air energises me, and I decide to make a plan of action.

Find a walking stick, find water, try to find Tulip, find shelter- I decide. I might not find Tulip, now, but I do hope I can, and that we can camp and make a plan. Add more salve to my wound, I add on. There’s still some left in the tin, and if I find water, I can use the tin to store it. I’ll do that first. Or second.

I keep throwing twigs in front of me as I approach the treeline. Another trap will kill me. It doesn’t seem like I’m going to get caught up in anyone else’s net right now, but I can’t be too careful. 

Immediately, I see a jackpot. I force my way through several rows of trees, and a clearing reveals itself in the form of a huge lake. It is pristine, crystal clear, ringed by wildflowers and ferns. The light shines through the trees so delicately, highlighting every soft ripple as the breeze gently drifts through the woods. 

I am almost drawn completely out, when I realise this is too good to be true. The beam of sun is like a spotlight, beckoning me in like a moth to flame. I stay concealed within the safety of the shadows. 

I circle the lake, making it to the other side by using the horseshoe of trees as my crutch. I could see a small cluster of boulders on the other side, right where the lake branches off into a small stream. 

I think- good enough. I crouch to the floor, ending up kneeling on account of my leg. As I go to the stream, I see a sizable branch underneath one of the bigger boulders, probably broken off from the boughs above me. I’m so glad I don’t have to climb a tree to get one- I really am.

Despite my fear of heights, I was asked to do what every young child near the Orchards is asked to do. I had to climb up to the very tops of the apple trees in order to pick the ones everyone else can’t reach. That’s how we earn our unaffectionate nicknames- bough boys and girls. However, unlike the other kids- I was always called up to do the job. Not just on weekends, or after school. I began to think that my colleagues were excited about my dropping out and beginning work at the young age of twelve- because then, they had a bough boy to use whenever they wanted one. Efficiency keeps you alive in 11, and I was saving lives. Or so I like to think. The thought kept me sane. 

My papa and mama knew well of my fears, and although they tried to soothe me, they couldn’t banish the shakes and sweats completely. They had to stand at the base of every tree, right where I could see them, at all times- in case I were to buckle and fall out of weakness. And I did. Many times. One time, when I was nine, my papa couldn’t catch me in time- and I hit my head on the root of a tree. My mama had to rush me home in a panic.

I was ultimately fine, aside from a concussion, but it only fed fuel to the fire, and my former friends and current bullies would later use it as evidence that I was also brain damaged, on top of being orphaned, and rebel scum. 

I would have climbed a tree to obtain a crutch, if it came to it- but whatever resulted in this branch being here now, I thank my lucky stars that it happened.

I drag it out, propping it up against the boulder. Setting my bag down, I fish around for the almost-empty tin of salve and set it down where I can see it, rolling up my pant leg. I apply the rest of the salve, and feel instant relief. I’ve been concerned with the lack of bandages and what it might do to the wound, but it seems to be doing alright. The deep gashes seem less so, now, less inflamed and almost all scabbed over. Whatever is in this salve- it’s more than medicine. It’s a miracle. 

I wash the tin out in the stream, and fill it completely with water. I then fist a couple of handfuls of water into my mouth, and feel so much better. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything to drink, or to eat, and my body finally lets me know how deprived of resources it is as soon as sustenance enters my mouth. I scramble like a predator, on my hands and knees, for my bag. I almost rip my bag apart looking for the squares I took inventory of earlier, and pluck one out, ripping the nondescript packaging off. 

I don’t even look at it before shoving it in my mouth, barely remembering to chew. It’s a bar of nuts and dried fruit and grains, held together by something that might be honey or syrup of some kind- I don’t care. It’s food. It’s good. 

I’m still ravenous, but I have to be careful- this won’t last forever. The good thing is, this forest is full of trees, and if I get desperate or am unable to forage, I can just chew on bark. It’s not actually that bad, when you get used to it. 

Though- you get used to starvation in District 11. Your body is constantly in a state of emergency, always eagle-eyed for its next morsel. However, due to the constant stuffings of the Capitol, my body has been lured into safety. Plunged back into the wilderness, I don’t even think it knows what to do with itself. Whatever the case, that one food bar wasn’t enough, and I yearn for more. 

I only have three left, so I am forced to distract myself with something else. My next task. 

I haul myself up onto the boulders, dragging the large branch with me. It’s almost my height, so I have to shorten it, somehow. I fish around at the base of the boulders, where a collection of smaller, loose rocks gather. I pick up a rock just about the size of my fist, one that has a relatively sharp edge. I hack at the base of the branch for a few minutes, and get a clean break so that it’s a good size. It’s a sizable pine- so not the most optimal option for a crutch- but I don’t have a choice! 

I keep my eyes and ears half on my surroundings at all times, and I decide that I have time to spare, for now. 

I take out my knife, and I try to use it to shed the bark- but it’s not very effective. I put it down near me and instead, I use the rock to peel off the bark of the crutch, getting to the chewable layer. I make a pile of all the bark once it’s been stripped, and peel off the edible bits. I don’t have anywhere to store them, so I just slide them into the front pocket of the bag. I will keep one by my side for later, I decide.  

I examine the rock- it’s good for big jobs like this, and half of me wants to keep it around. Though, it’ll probably be too heavy to stash, unfortunately. 

I hear a twig snap, but I haven’t moved an inch. 

Wait-

There’s an arm around my neck, and suddenly, I am pinned in the crook of someone’s elbow, a knife against my jaw. 

I react instantly, before I can think, swinging up at my opponent. My fist connects- good, they’re stunned, I can get away! I quickly grab the crutch, making moves to back up, but-

My hand is covered in blood. Completely covered in it. Bright red blood. 

I have a strong arm, and I’ve stunned a Career before with my punch, but- but I don’t punch this hard. 

A cannon shot rings out. 

I blink a few times, looking down. The shot reverberates through the trees, making them sway even more in the breeze. I look back at my blood-covered hand. I swung with the rock. The sharp rock. I felt the need to move so quickly that I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I was holding it in my dominant hand, and the instinct carried it. I just aimed to disorient. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I didn’t want to kill anyone. 

In shock, I can only look down on the person who tried to kill me, blood blooming out upon the boulders like a gentle puddle, her last moment of shock and terror frozen across her acne-scarred, angry face. The flashes of bright, toxic orange give her away to me- 

Joule. The rebellious girl from 5.

I hadn’t seen her at the afterparty, because they had likely taken her away for punishment, after she tried to assault Lucky- no, Caesar Flickerman. Her interview caused uproar- but from what I gathered, all she wanted was to stick it to the man after a life of misery. The only non-career volunteer. 

She had lofty goals, dreams, and a potential life ahead of her. I ended that life. I am the last strike to her hope- her blazing hope, the fire in her eyes, as bright as the color of her uniform, or the color of her blood. 

I take large, heaving breaths, relying on the pine branch to hold my entire weight, as every bone in my body refuses to hold me. Every part of me trembles. 

Above me, I hear the roar of a flying craft- come to take Joule away. It deafens me, and as it gets closer, knocks me over with powerful gusts of wind, and I am sprawled out, watching Joule go, be lifted, limp, into the deep recesses of the aircraft. 

It is gone as soon as it came, the only remnant of Joule’s existence being the large bloodstain against the boulder. As she was lifted, her knife had fallen from her hand, and landed near my leg, blade in the ground. 

I notice the handle- that varnished wood. Joule had somehow managed to swipe my knife in a split second as she tried to grab me. I scramble away from the knife. I don’t care about it anymore. With the remaining strength I have, I pull myself to the edge of the water, hacking and sobbing as I go. 

As I get there, I can see my own face. It’s all sunken in a little, and the bags under my eyes are far more pronounced. My eyes are bloodshot, lips cracked- I can’t take it. 

I almost vomit into the stream- but I am more desperate to keep what little food I have inside of me. I just curl up instead, knees tucked under my chest, crying out loud. I just wanted to find Tulip. I didn’t mean to kill anybody. 

However- I can’t change the past. Joule is dead, and I killed her. 

But, what can you do? A voice echoes in my head. Something like my own, as if someone had tried to recreate my voice, and is doing a poor imitation from far away. Killing a girl- a little girl- was bad. However, you have a job to do. 

I’m confused. I’m sure this is my own subconscious- so why do I hate what it has to say? Why do I want to cleave my skull open and beg for it to stop? 

I look back at my reflection in the lake. It does not change, it stays true to me- desperate, confused, and exhausted. Find Tulip. The voice coaxes. It’s all you have to do. Joule is gone. Don’t dwell on that. 

I punch at the ground- I can’t. I need to find Tulip,that much is still true, but what will she think of me now? What will she do when I tell her I killed a girl, an innocent girl, younger than even she is? She might cast me out, push me away, reject my help- she could even kill me. I know she could do it, because if she did, I wouldn’t stop her. In fact, I'd like that. I’d very much like that. I want to wring my hands in front of her, bend to my knees, beg for my own silencing. I deserve that much.

No- truly, I deserve worse. 

I deserve torturing, I deserve the firing squad- I deserve the noose. I want to crawl into the noose, like I did to my parents' laps for comfort- I want to crawl to the noose and let it take me, a willing victim.

Joule was right there. 

I get up, I use the crutch, and I limp over to the bloodied boulder. I stare down at it, and I can almost see my reflection in the blood, almost as clear as I could in the water. Joule was right there . Wide green eyes dulled with lifelessness. Muddy brown hair, doused in blood. Skull caved in, valleyed, by my whittling rock. Bright orange stripes on her uniform, the only color left out of everything that she was. Bright, angry, emboldened by ambition. Felled by chance. 

There was a murder in our village, once. There have been many murders, many killings- but I only saw a citizen kill another one time. 

It was a couple of years after my parents had died. I remember, because I don’t remember much else about that time but a few striking memories that force themselves into permanence. This being one of them. It was my first year at the Orchard, and the end of the season, so morale was relatively low. 

I was on my way home, with Durian, when the fight broke out.

It was between two workers, two that I didn’t personally know, yet, but Durian had, and had tried to intervene. I hadn’t registered what they were saying at the time, but Durian was forced backward, and one of the men pulled out a hammer and began to savagely beat the other man with it, splitting his jaw and shattering bone. He would’ve made it out, if not for the man bludgeoning his head through his eyes. 

I had stood there, stunned, and Durian had quickly ushered me home. As he made me dinner that night, I asked him what had happened- and why that man had done that. 

Durian had shaken his head, scratched his beard and sighed. “Huck- sometimes people get desperate.” He had answered. I asked him what that meant. “...You know how your wage doesn’t cover your rent?” He asked.

I nodded. 

“And how I cover what you can’t make by workin’ extra?” He continued. 

I nodded again.

“Well, some people don’t have help. And even with their big, adult paychecks- they can’t make the difference. Some people are greedy, some people are mean, but some people are innocent- it doesn’t matter. If you are alone, and if you have no help, and feel as if you have lost all control- sometimes, you lose touch.” He had looked directly at me, then, deep brown eyes searching for something within me. “Rabi lashed out, because he was angry. He was hungry, he was tired, and he’s lost everything. He hasn’t made a good livin’ this year. I don’t know what Boysee said to him, but it made him angry. It tipped him over. He let that anger out, and now…now Boysee is dead.” He had nodded to himself, something I didn’t understand then, but it seems that of the two men, Durian might've been friends with Boysee. I never found out. 

Durian had ruffled my hair. “You ain’t got nobody Huck, but you got me.” 

I think that was the closest Durian came to admitting he cared about me. Out loud. 

Later, I found out that Rabi had been jailed for quite some time, leaving behind a struggling wife and daughter. I never felt a deep anger toward him, despite everything, but learning that made me feel more sympathetic toward his reaction to Boysee.

But Rabi had justification. Rabi had circumstances to back him up. Boysee died as a product of our failing, dwindling society. What do I have?

I barely register picking my supplies and my bag up and walking away as I keep turning the events over in my head.

If I had hit Joule with my other hand, what would have happened?

It was just instinct. That’s all it was. I felt threatened, and my body kicked in to save me- something it has done all week, even before the games- something I resent it for. Did my brain know that the rock was in my hand, or was it just deploying my dominant one? Whatever the case, it happened anyway. If I had hit Joule with my other hand, would she have held me hostage? Would she have slit my throat, there and then, with my own knife? Could she have won the games completely, if not for my intervention?

She certainly deserved to.

I’ll never say it out loud, but I understand her rhetoric. I believe it. Despite her parents’ killings being of a domestic nature, instead of rebellious- Joule believed that the Capitol deserved to pay for how she was made to work despite her grief, despite her pain- and I understand that. The very idea of working when I felt so encompassed by my own grief as a young boy made me feel sick, too. I had just sucked it up and done it, and so had Joule, but Joule had nerve. She wanted to stand up and fight against the system that put her in that place, and I commend the effort. I commend the idea. If I had half the spirit, I may have followed in my parents’ footsteps too, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to, frankly. I was so, so content to die an old man in those feilds…

And now the both of us won’t get to see a day outside of the arena. She could’ve made it out, if not for me, and I never plan to make it out of here, anyway. I’m just the messenger, but what grace does not shooting the messenger grant you if you, the messenger, has shot someone else to deliver the message? 

I stop walking.

I’ve traversed the forest, barely conscious of where I’ve been walking- and I'm back to where the maze is, waiting with an open mouth to swallow me whole. 

The sunset almost blinds me as I stand and stare into what I can only assume is another series of dizzying pathways that itch to claim me as fresh blood. I stand at what feels like hell’s gate until the sun dips below the hedgerows and the air goes cold. 

I still have to find Tulip. No matter what she thinks of me, I need to know that she’s still alive. I haven’t heard one other canon shot today, but that still doesn’t mean she wasn’t taken out on the first day, when I was unconscious.

I take a step. And then another. And all of a sudden, I am walking, which seems like a miracle. My crutch leaves an extra print in the sandy dirt of the maze floor- but why care? More careful tributes have died, anyway. 

I consider crawling up the hedges to observe my surroundings- to try and gauge my next destination- but I don’t want to. I won’t. There’s no point. There’s misery at every single turn, no matter which way I go, so I might as well just travel for the sake of it. I barely knew what was happening as I stumbled into the snow on the first day, and everyone else, Tulip included, probably felt the same. Unless my stupidity and naivete is a unique trait, in which case, I’m fucked. 

So, I carry on.

The tin of water in my backpack is weighing me down some, but it’s just a minor inconvenience on top of everything else. The maze is silent, the night is gentle, and the temperature is aggravatingly beautiful throughout the entire thing- as if they’ve somehow sectioned off only the maze to have a constant temperature in, which again, I can’t even fathom how they’re managing. 

Only my occasional winces pierce the oncoming night. That, and the brewing storm of my own mind. So, I choose to focus on my physical pain first, to drown it all out. I must, so that my goals can get anywhere near to complete.

I encounter a scare when I step on a loose patch of ground, and turn to examine it- but by the time I do, a large, extremely sharp steel spike comes flying out of the ground, where I had just stepped. I am not hurt, but my backpack strap suffers a surface level piercing, forcing me face-to-face with the pike, my breath causing the metal to fog up. I struggle on my tiptoes as it taunts me, as if to say- you’re not safe. You’re never safe, Huck. 

Just as I wrench myself free, (and as if my heart rate is not already high enough), a horn blare sounds from somewhere around me. The anthem of Panem rings out, crystal clear, no matter which direction I face. 

I am shocked when the announcement comes from the sky. No blimp, no leveraged screen- just plastered against the sky. Once again, I can’t figure out how it works- It looks perfectly flush with the sky, slightly curved, and clearly screen-like. However, I can’t see any kind of connecting material, no drone noises, and my bewilderment is sidelined very quickly by what the broadcast contains. Of course, it’s exactly what you’d expect it to contain. 

After the anthem passes, one lone face lights up the night sky.

Upper lip stiffened, facial marks clearly blurred with retouching, brow furrowed- she’s right there, glaring down at me.

You did this. You put me here. 

Now that I know the circumstances in which these photos are taken, my guilt takes new form.

Did she complain? Did she whine? Were her hands pinned behind her back, like Shank? What was said to her, what was she thinking, when making that face? Did she even know? Did she know that this photo would be displayed to the arena, to Panem, after the boy from 11 got scared and thoughtlessly ended her life with a simple swing? That all her efforts would be in vain? 

Her name, age and District appear below her portrait. 

Joule Nomecks. Age 15. District 5.

And as soon as she appears, she is gone. The only kill of the day.

The logo reappears for a moment, and I can see my face in the reflection of the pike, lit by the strong light of the screen above me. It fades to black, and my expression feels worse in the shadowy light. 

I feel my lip tremble, and I can’t face the metal anymore, forcing myself deeper into the maze.

I cry the whole way, feeling a deep cavern in my soul open. I am hanging off the edge with my fingertips, just barely hanging on to anything to stay above ground. 

Joule was an orphan, like me. Maybe she had friends, or a lone supporter, like Durian. Maybe she had believers back home, who were amazed and relieved that their spunky spark with ambition to overthrow had taken her chance and volunteered for the poor girl voted in this year.

Thinking about her, debating her, humanising her in my head brings a sudden pang, a different kind of guilt. 

I don’t deserve to mourn her. I have not done anything to warrant mourning Joule, wondering about her, grieving her. In fact, I'm sure she would hate me for it. 

I groan, out loud, clawing at my face. Every time I close my eyes, her viscera and gore stains the backs of my eyelids. Every time I close my eyes, Joule’s look back. Her stormy expression, her odd-angled teeth in her brazen scowl, her last, small, echoing yelp. 

She would curse me- she is cursing me, following me, shaking me, curing my very name and the very ground I walk on for all I have done, and I deserve it.

I drool misery, I dribble insanity, and I let it trail behind me as I will the deepest, darkest parts of me to fuel my aching bones and carry onward. I must find Tulip. 

And then I can die. 

Chapter Text

I keep going.

What else is there to do? 

I do not sleep. In fact, I think sleep is the enemy to my crusade, only slowing me down as I try to navigate the maze. The maze can only be so big, I decide. The maze can only hold so many of these dizzying different environments, I assure myself. 

The pain in my ankle begins to ease off, having absorbed the benefits of the salve. I think, due to whatever it’s done to me, my ankle is not as structurally weak as it once was. I don’t think the snare hit my bone, but it definitely punctured my flesh in both directions, very deep. A day ago, it hurt just to think about walking on. But now, when I put my weight on it, it’s easier. Like a deep-set bruise. Uncomfortable, but doable. 

I can’t shake the limp, though, and I still hold onto my homemade crutch for dear life. I’m not out of the woods yet. No, some part of my soul was left there, of that I’m completely sure. 

It does not stop .

I wonder if the Peacekeepers who hanged my parents still see their bloodshot, bulging eyes in the backs of their heads every time they close their eyes. Their limp bodies, lifeless grimaces, reddened, rope-burned necks. I wonder if they see them, and all of the other so-called miscreants that they’ve sent beyond the mortal plane before their time. 

Because I still see her .

She does not relent. 

It hurts to stay awake, but if I so much as blink, Joule threatens to return, grappling at me and all that I am, and I am afraid of her. I am afraid of the confrontation, I am afraid of where my will to continue on will go if I stop to process Joule, to invite her in. To face her, as a young man must face all his demons, one day.

Not that Joule is a demon. Not that I'd like her to be. 

As I continue to walk, I am drawn to a beacon of sorts in the form of one of those earthy, dry cliffs I had spotted earlier. It juts out higher than the hedges, miles and miles in the air, and once again I am left wondering how this is humanly possible. 

However, no matter how close I seem to want to get to this cliff- it appears to stay in place. 

Every twist in the path is just another diversion, and when I get back to the direction I want to travel in, I end up not having moved very much at all. I wonder if I'm travelling in circles, and this is just the arena’s big ploy to keep me from doing anything useful, so I start leaving tracks. 

I try to do what I did before- leave twigs from the hedges in my wake- but then I realise the hedges shed twigs naturally, and I am back to square one. I start grabbing pebbles from underneath the hedges and tossing them instead, and this works better, I think. I think , because I haven’t crossed my own track yet.

This only infuriates me further, because I have been walking with a purpose for what I know is hours- and I haven’t gotten any closer to the cliff, at all!

As the sun teeters toward noon, I decide to take a rest break, and I crouch against one of the many walls of the maze in order to gingerly sip from my water tin. It sort of tastes like how the salve smelt- and I wonder what the salve will do to me, when ingested. I hope I won’t get ill from it- I don’t have much food in me, and I’d very much like to keep what I do have inside of my stomach. Although, my stomach does feel as if it’s now eating itself alive. 

I curse myself for even accepting a morsel of Capitol food. It’s ruined all the work my body has done to keep me starvation-ready, and I know that’s part of the purpose of stuffing us. Aside from the clearer, more point-blank statement of: let us treat you, before you go off to die!

I give in, relenting to my hunger and splitting one of the three remaining food bars in half. I draw it out, nibbling in increments, making it last. I can’t guarantee a sponsor will take pity on me now, after I've done virtually nothing interesting aside from…murder. And murder is so commonplace in the games that I don’t think they’ll consider me worth spending money on. I bet the Careers are living it up, though. 

After a while, I decide that waiting is too much. 

Occasionally, I will look up to the sky, all around me- wherever I think a camera might be. At first, I try to reach out to sponsors. Look at me, I hope my eyes say. Help me! I even mumble to myself, on occasion. I mumble Tulip’s name, I whisper of my plans to find her. I hope they can hear me. 

However, when no miracles fall from the sky, all I can hope for is that I have a friend out there, behind the lenses. I hope that Godot is watching me, and watching Tulip. I hope he can see that I’m still alive. I’m heeding his urges, his wish for me to not give up. I won’t give up, I think. Not until I find Tulip. And I hope that now, he knows that. 

I hope that somewhere, after work, Durian has escaped to The 95- a hidden bar just outside of the village, the only one with a television- or even the square, where I know the screen will still be up. I hope he is looking out for me, as he always has done. I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Delora can see me, and Daylily as well- and I hope they heard me too. That their daughter, although a stranger, is more a sister to me than anyone ever has been in my entire life. That her life means so much that I would gladly lay down my own if it meant her survival. 

My spirit is steeled by my newfound resolve. It occupies my thoughts, distracts me, feeds me, and keeps me going. 

I can see the cliff approach, ever so slightly- and I know I’m doing something right, at last. 

However, as I’m about to turn a corner, I hear footsteps. Rapid, light footsteps. Someone is running in my direction, somewhere to my left, on the other side of the turning, leading off in the wrong direction. 

I panic- what do I do!?

In a split second, I’m forced to backtrack, and I take a left down the next available opening, and then slip into a path to my right, obscuring me from the view of whoever might be coming my way. 

Honestly- I’m amazed it’s taken me until now to even come near to encountering another tribute in this damned maze. 

The tribute stops before they can pass my viewpoint- I assume that they’ve stopped right where I was going to turn. I will with all my might that they won’t- that’s the only path I can see that’ll likely take me in the right direction, and I don’t want to risk another fight, either with someone more experienced and more passionate than me, or with someone I actually don’t want to kill. 

Tulip is just below average height, and not very heavy, and her footsteps would be just as light- could it really be this easy? Is she right here?

The tribute begins to walk in my direction, and passes right by where I can see them. I instantly deflate.

Not Tulip. 

But as she briefly stops to look around, I step back, vanishing from view, beginning to feel my heart pound in my chest. 

Purple.

Career.

A blaze of fiery ginger curls, all I really absorbed of the girl from District 2 was that she was willing to go against everything that stood in her opposition to be part of the games. In her interview, she had even said that her parents had begged her not to enter, and she had campaigned anyway, a fearless pursuit. A ten in training, it sets my nerves alight to even know that she could have heard my footsteps amongst her own and is coming to find me. If she does, it could certainly spell my end. 

Although I am stronger than she is, that is all I have against her. The only thing. 

It’s not until Calliope continues to walk on do I then give myself the freedom to breathe. 

I only realise now that between the both of us- we removed District 5 from the games, completely. I remember now, that she had quickly made work of Joule’s district partner, before disappearing with hers. Is he dead? Is Terce dead? I still suffer from not knowing who’s still in play, so the overeager boy from District 2 who lacked strength enough to lift iron as opposed to me could be halfway back home, in a box, now. I wonder this, because Calliope is alone. As her footsteps recede, and I can’t hear her anymore, nobody follows. 

After what feels like forever, I decide to continue on my journey, half-confident in the fact that Calliope is now too far or too turned around to come back and find me. That, or I’ll run into her immediately, given my luck. 

I make my way back to the turning, but as I progress, I am met with further frustration- the forward path toward the cliff only goes so far, and then delves right back into twists and turns. At this point, I’m inclined to believe that my plight is intentional, and that the Gamemakers are somehow misleading me on purpose. Is it because they don’t want Tulip to be found? It’s a cowardly attempt to stop me- because I won’t give up. I can’t afford to. 

However- I’m exhausted. Mentally, more than anything. And due to malnutrition, my body is acting in short bursts of adrenaline in place of energy. 

I stop momentarily, and I lean my hand against one of the hedge walls for support. As I do, though, I hear a deafening crack- and I jolt back up, wondering if I’ve snapped the slim trunk of the hedge in half and brought down a wall. It’s loud as anything, too, like plasterboard splintering, and I worry that Calliope might still be close enough to be in earshot. 

Though, when my hand erupts in what feels like flame, I know something is definitely wrong. I observe it, and there’s some wafery residue stuck to my skin, as well as a small nick to the back of my hand, at least one layer of flesh burned away. When the pain finally registers, I clutch my hand in agony, stumbling aimlessly around the hedge aisle. I can’t help it- it’s unlike anything I’ve felt thus far. While the snare felt somewhat grounded in its total annihilation of my sound mind, this is like being prodded with a hot poker. Not enough to pass out, but enough to keep me floundering in pain. 

Then, I feel the sensation at my ear. I smack at it, having felt something this time, and as I press down on it, there’s strangely not much blood, but I feel the second layer of flesh and the burning sensation all the same. 

I see it then, landing on my opposite forearm. 

We’re no strangers to infestations in District 11. I’m sure Districts 9 and 10 can share the same sentiment. 

They come in all shapes and forms, specialised to take down any specific crop they see fit, but for the most part- they’re aphids, or plant-lice. Usually small, usually the same colors as the leaves they hatch on, it only takes one single oversight to breed a horde of malicious invaders. We’ve only had a few major incidents in my workplace, but when they happen, they’re devastating.

The biggest one happened only a few years ago. I remember seeing them, the crawling masses of little green insects freely roaming upon all our crops as if they owned them. We had used all sorts of pesticides to curb the growth, but it had been too late. I wasn’t the only one who made it out of that season starving, and with more Peacekeeper whip marks to count. That winter, I thought I might die in my sleep any day from lack of nutrition, and to this day, I still wonder how my body pushed itself onward. 

The insect on me now looks like an aphid, but twice the size, and the color of a ripe lime. It aimlessly crawls around my forearm, expertly persevering as I rapidly smack at it, and it decides to retaliate- biting me. I watch in real time as my flesh opens up, a small, mosquito bite sized patch of my skin burning away with ease. I can’t help but groan aloud- am I allowed one day without inhuman suffering!? I then remember exactly where I am, and how naïve I am to even think that way. 

When I crush one, I find two more. 

The burning overcomes me, every inch of exposed flesh polka-dotted in agonising, acidic bites. I keep trying to swat them, but every time I try, it just seems more and more futile. 

I run, dropping my crutch, realising I must have broken a nest of some kind. That doesn’t make sense, as aphids don’t nest- but nothing makes sense in this stupid fucking maze that’s trying to kill me! 

They follow me, they all follow me, a giant haze of green, a cloud of corrosive daggers- bite after bite after bite, I can’t seem to escape. I abandon all safety, I keep pushing myself, hoping that if I run fast or far enough, they’ll stop seeing me as food for thought, but it never ends. It’s like they’re out for me deliberately, and my stupidity knows no bounds, and luck has deemed me unworthy- and I just keep running into hurdles that seductively tempt me to give in. I want to give in…

I turn a corner, and by the grace of everything good in the world, I realise that in my pained, panicked haze- I’ve reached it. 

Between two hedges, the dusty, orange dirt of a mesa stares back at me, empty and solid. I run in, my only plan to outrun these terrifying aphids that have now worked their way within my clothes and are trying their hardest to strip me of all my skin completely with their cutting venom. I feel like I’m on a bonfire, burning alive. Like I’ve been thrown headfirst into a vat of frying oil- I hate this feeling, this unbearable feeling as if I’m swimming in my own head, drowning, trying to clutch at something, anything, to form a coherent thought. 

I swerve around rock formations and dried out trees, slipping and falling as my foot makes contact with particularly uneven sand. I hit the rough earth, and I feel as if I’ve broken my shoulder as I skid across the ground. I shake as I struggle to get up, black dots and the shadows of aphids swimming in my cloudy vision. 

I crawl against the floor, feeling every muscle in my back, arms, abdomen- all of it, I feel all of me, screaming against the weight and pain of the effort. Drool exits my open, heaving mouth, trailing behind me as I go. 

Just in eyeshot, I see a ripple, and finer, more yellow sand. There’s a gathering of dead bushes, and when I see the sun reflect off of its surface, I realise it’s water. A lot of it. 

Without thinking twice I begin a head-first run, dashing with my body barely aloft, bent over, stumbling. It's my only hope. The only potential solution. 

I land badly on my still tarnished ankle and pitch sideways, slamming into the surface of the incredibly vast lake. The buzzing of the aphids stop, my huffing stops, the crackling wind that blows through the impossible cliffs stops. It all stops. 

I can’t say I’m not familiar with the sensation of being submerged in water, now. It’s more family to me than my parents are, at this point. Were. 

Human bodies are supposed to be buoyant, right? 

I went swimming in the creek one summer with some of the boys from work. They never liked me, and still don’t, I would say- and I think my invitation was more courtesy, than anything. Otherwise they’d look outright rude. This was before people truly stopped giving a shit about whether I lived or died, so there were still some last pleasantries people were just about willing to extend. 

I sat on the side of the water as everyone took turns jumping in. I was scared to- not because of the water, but because of the height. You had to get really high up onto a rocky outcropping and launch yourself off, and I hated that. 

The ringleader, arguably the most popular boy in our age group- a boy called Cerassee Goya -had scoffed at me. He wanted to go last, probably so we could all look at him, and I was holding him back.

“You’ll float anyway, rebel scum.” He had said. Rebel scum was both an insult and a nickname to them, at that point. Before it became just an insult. Cerassee had jostled my shoulder, to get me closer to the edge. “Only a dead man sinks.” 

It had frightened me so much that I had jumped, to prove I was still alive. My parents were not long gone, then, and the idea- the very concept of death- frightened me beyond words. 

I had jumped, and Cerassee’s jabs had infected me, because for a moment- I didn’t rise. However, I crested above the creek and spluttered for air, and I had held back on crying, just grateful to be alive . 

I don’t rise, now. 

At first, I wonder if maybe my open mouth has let enough water into my lungs that I’m becoming a glorified paperweight. However, that’s all in my mind. My mouth is firmly shut. Then I come to the reasonable conclusion that my bag is weighing me down. I would wrench it off of my back, but every time I so much as move my body in any direction, water interacts with my many open wounds, and moving suddenly becomes a task out of my range of abilities. 

I try to fight it. Not the water, but the urge . The urge to give in. 

I have a goal, I have something I need to do- but is this it? Is this how it ends? My own incompetence will be my doom, dragging me down to near prophetic depths. Maybe I do have something special, something nobody else can conceive, a warped gift of foresight. Maybe all those memories of water and those nightmares of being submerged in blood and the failed attempt of drowning myself before the games even began were all premonitions, signs, even- that this is always how it’s supposed to be. 

No matter what I find light in, there’s always an obstacle. 

The boy from District 1, the snare trap, the iron pikes, the unending maze, the aphids. Even before the games- Durian’s apples amongst the food, the food rewiring my body’s survival instincts, the way I was marketed like a product for the masses, the insensitive Capitol folk, being unable to escape, no matter what I did. I was naive to think I would escape.

Maybe that was the song. Maybe it was a song, all along.

All those voices, screaming above the blood I was drowning in, all that time. Maybe it wasn't mishmash. Maybe it wasn’t just unintelligible screaming in my ears, but some warped, twisted melody. Something telling me to give up .

As I remain underwater, trapped between sinking and floating, I resign to my fate. It hurts - but doesn’t everything? My lungs feel like they’re going to burst. My eyes hurt as I keep them open underwater. All my open sores from all the bites coat my skin in an abstract feeling of being set alight. I definitely twisted my bad ankle. Even my welts from the hot shower are still rough and re-opening from my backpack straps and all the running. 

I’m not running anymore.

As I begin to drown, I remember something I was told, once. I forgot who told me this, or exactly when, but I remember it now. That when you die, your mind plays back to you your life. I don’t know if I believed it then, but I do now. I see my parents, laughing. Durian, talking. Godot, observing. I even see Tulip. In my mind, I think about how I let her down. I see her face, twisted in concern, her braids dangling down as she looks down at me. She reaches her hand out to me, but I can’t move. I don’t move. 

Her hand makes contact with my shirt. It makes contact with my shirt, and I look down, and before I know it, I am violently yanked upward. 

Suddenly, I am beached, hacking and coughing, twitching in my agony. Before I lose consciousness, I can hear her voice- small but stern, worried, fast. 

“Huck- Huck!” She yelps, smacking at the side of my face. “No, no! No! Don’t fall asleep! Don’t you dare!” Is the last thing I hear before I let her down again. 

*

When I do open my eyes again, my eyelids feel like dumbbells. When I try to breathe, something catches in the back of my throat and I begin to cough uncontrollably, sitting up against my will as my chest tries to expel a foreign body that doesn’t exist. My spine feels like a woodlouse exposed to the sun- curling up into itself in shock, aching deeply. My entire body itches and hurts in all kinds of ways, and I am reminded that what I saw was real- I was saved- and this is cemented into the back of my head as Tulip sharply hits my back a few times, as a misguided attempt to save me from choking on nothing. It only results in what I can only assume is going to be a slightly bruised back, and I think, well…maybe I deserve that. 

“Tulip-” I rasp, but she puts out a hand to stop me from talking. I don’t know why, because she has nothing to say. She gets up and walks a few steps away, and I notice that there’s an unlit campfire set up where she’s stood, shielded from the strong wind by a tarp held up against a few natural rock structures. She kneels down to a bag- her bag, I assume, and pulls a few things out. She puts one thing in her pocket, but turns around and returns to me with the second in her hand.

A rice cake. 

“Eat.” She prompts, holding it up closer to me. Slowly, I move my arm out to grab it, and realise that my hand is covered in bandages. So is the rest of my arm. Then I realise why I'm so cold, and can really feel the wind- my shirt! Where’s my shirt? 

I don’t know why I panic so hard. I sleep shirtless all the time, especially in the summer. But after that time in the Capitol, where they’re all so laser focused on my body- I don’t like the idea that I was exposed without my consent. 

Tulip picks up on my attitude, pocketing the rice cake. “Sorry.” She sighs. “You were hurt all over, so I had to bandage you up.” She gestures behind her. “I put it in my bag.” She takes the rice cake out of her pocket again, pressing it into my palm. “Just eat this, okay?” She tilts her head, and waits for me to take a bite before going back to her bag. 

Swallowing the bites of rice cake feels like swallowing a scrubbing sponge, but I soldier through it. It’s sustenance, after all. Tulip hands my shirt back to me, and I slowly re-dress, over all the bandages.

“What the hell happened to you, Huck?” Tulip asks.

I look her in her eyes. They’re just the same- lively, dark and deep. She doesn’t look like she’s slept very much at all, but as far as I can see, she doesn’t look injured. I can’t help it- I lurch forward, clutching her tight to me. I cry, too. Just to see her, to hear her, to know she’s still alive - I forgive everything that’s happened to me so far. I just can’t believe she’s real. She’s really real.

She smells of sweat and earth, but I don’t care. She had been just a concept in my head for the last couple of days, becoming so abstract that she started to fade from reality, so for her to be fully tangible is a miracle. She didn’t die on the first day!

I feel her lithe arms gingerly circle my back, her whole body tense. 

“I thought you were dead…” I manage, between sobs that hurt my ribs. 

“Why?” Tulip mumbles. “You-“ she peels me off of her, hands on my shoulders, to look me in my eyes. “Weren’t you able to tell?” 

I shake my head, sighing. “I was asleep on the first night. I was worried that…” I try to itch at a wound underneath a bandage, to no success- Tulip swats my hand away. “…I was worried you had died, and all this searching for you would be for nothing.” 

“Sorry- what!?” Tulip looks at me as if I’ve trodden on a flower garden. Exasperated. “Searching for me!?” 

I nod. “Tulip, you-“ I grasp her hands, trying to get her to listen to what I have to say. “You need to make it out of here! You have a family to go home to, people who need you- I’m just cannon fodder- you heard what they said about us, if we combined skill sets, we could get you to the end!” 

I’m desperate. She has to see to reason. 

She just furrows her brows, studying me. She slips her hands from mine and shakes her head. “Huck, no, I…”

“Why not!?” I yelp, lurching forward, supporting my upper body with my hands. Tulip flinches back. For a moment, there, she looked scared. I sit back, ashamed. I put my head between my knees. “I’m sorry…” I whine. “I just…” 

“So…you’ve been, what, tracking me?” Tulip ventures.

“Well…” I perk my head up, embarrassed. “Just…I didn’t know where you went from when the games started, so…I just picked a direction, and hoped you were there.” I try to crack a smile. “You must admit- it did work.” 

She shakes her head. “Huck…” And in that moment, she has the look on her face that my mama used to have, when I was obsessed with digging up worms and bringing them to her. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong, then. In this situation, maybe I still don’t. 

She settles next to me, thumbs twiddling with the edge of her shirt. “So, what did happen to you?” 

I understand that she doesn’t want to talk about what I want to right now, so I relent. “A lot…” I begin.

“Clearly.” She jabs back. We laugh, and my mouth hurts from the effort. 

“Where did you go when the games started?” I ask. I ask, because I didn’t see her when I was pushed into the Cornucopia circle. 

“Stop deflecting!” Tulip complains, swatting at me. “You first!” 

“Okay, okay- okay!” I huff. “So, I went into the Cornucopia-”

“The what ?” Tulip interrupts.

“The…” I gesture wildly, trying to hint at the shape of the thing. “The structure. When we entered the arena.” 

“Oh.” She nods. “How do you know that? What it was? I didn’t even think it had a name.” 

“Well, funnily enough, Dido put it on my chariot costume. I only knew because Godot told me some cryptic story about it when he showed me to my room later that day.” 

I reflect on it, and something rings true- something Godot had said. 

Who first falls to the blinding quality of insatiable greed? 

The boy from Eight bashing in the skull of the girl from Seven flashes behind my eyes. Faraday being ploughed down by Montauk. The boy from Five being speared by Calliope. The boy from One chasing me down. 

Something never before seen.

He knew. They both did. 

I relay this thought to Tulip. She nods.

“Of course they knew- what- you doubted that? After what he said to you?” Tulip squints.

I don’t like that. It’s the one thing I don’t like. When she questions my idiocy. I may be well spoken for my impoverished social status, but I don’t know everything. I just sigh. 

“Anyway, go on.” Tulip urges. 

“So…I went in there, to see if I could grab anything. I got a bag, and I tried to get a big knife, but the guy from One-”

“Lampus…” Tulip interrupts.

Is that a habit of hers? The interrupting? I move past it.

“Lampus was there, when I thought everyone had run off, and he spotted me. He chased me down for a good while, and almost got me, but I fought him off.” I clench and unclench my fists. I still remember what his jaw felt like under my knuckles. “But then I ended up in a snowy forest. I was scared and confused so I tried to take stock, but I got caught in a trap. I think Four might have set it up.”

“A trap?” Tulip asks.

“Uh- a snare. It got my ankle. And there was a net, too, so I was dangling. But there was a pocket knife in my supplies, so I got myself down. But I was getting sick, I think, and losing blood, and…uh…I don’t actually remember a lot of what happened. But I think I just lost consciousness at some point, and that’s why I missed the death announcements. When I got conscious enough to have a plan, I had no idea if you were alive because of that.” I explain.

Tulip whistles under her breath. “And you still managed to walk after that?”

“I got a sponsor of some healing salve.” I add. 

“Nice…a sponsor, huh?” Tulip hums.

“You haven’t got one?” I ask, genuinely.

“No.” Tulip pouts, a little sour. 

“Hm…” I wonder why. She put on a damn good show, and it’s a shame nobody’s acknowledged her efforts. 

“Well, I haven’t really needed one, anyway.” Tulip brushes off. 

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah. I grabbed a really good supply pack, but I've just been…hiding out, and getting lucky, I guess, so I haven’t needed a whole lot.” She shrugs.

“Oh.” My heart aches. I could’ve found her before now, I know I could’ve- but it took several torturous, near death experiences for me to get here. However, I'm grateful that I've gotten here at all.

“And then what? Surely all this couldn’t have been from the snare?” Tulip investigates.

“No, yeah. Um.” I scratch at the nape of my neck, at one of the exposed injuries. I try to put things together in my head- what exactly happened after what, and in what order? It’s blurred together in an uncomfortable haze. 

“I went back into the maze. I decided I was going to find you, and help you. And then I found a forest section, of some kind, and a big open lake. I just went to collect some water, ‘cause I didn’t have any, and, um.” My cheeks burn up in utter shame. I’ve tried to push it down, place it in the back of my skull in favor of my more…noble pursuits, but Joule appears to taunt me once more. My lip quivers. “...And I killed a tribute. Joule.” 

Tulip goes rigid, head bobbing upward as if she’s been struck by electricity. I can’t look at her. 

“ You did that?” Her expression of disbelief comes out as a whisper.

I nod, sinking into myself, holding my knees up to my chin. “I didn’t mean it.” I whisper. I didn’t. I didn’t want to kill anyone. 

“What- how-” She begins.

“She snuck up on me.” I explain, slowly, letting the blood I spilled congeal with my spit, embalm my tongue. “I was peeling bark with a rock. I swung before I could think about it. The canon fired almost right after.” I force down the nausea that’s weighing my jaw down. “I didn’t mean to kill anybody.” 

We sit in silence for what feels like years. 

“…Shit, Huck.” Tulip utters. Shit, indeed. 

“Every time I close my eyes, I can see her in the back of my head. All gory and bloody.” I swallow down bile. “I didn’t…” It falls flat- I don’t know how many times I don’t mean it can come out of my mouth before the sentiment tires. “...And then, um. I saw this place in the distance and thought about coming here. I almost got caught by a passing tribute, but then a horde of crazy aphids attacked me, and I ended up in the lake.”

Tulip squints. “I saw you when you ran in. You looked crazy.”

“Thanks.” I deadpan.

“No problem.” She deadpans back. “I still haven’t gotten a thank you…” She smirks.

I laugh, and again- it hurts to do so, but it feels nice to feel some sort of joy. “Thank you for saving me from drowning myself, Tulip. I owe my life to you, O’ Mighty Tulip!”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough.” She swats my shoulder. 

“So what about you?” I ask, after a momentary silence. “I’ve told you everything, now. Honest.”

She sighs, hunching her shoulders up. “I dunno, Huck-” She sighs. “There was a pack pretty near us, so I grabbed it, and ran to the nearest maze entrance. Took stock after I was sure I had gotten enough distance between myself and the fighting, and realised I had gotten pretty lucky. Dried fruit, a pack of rice cakes, an empty water bottle, and a first aid kit. Cool, I thought- good rations. But then I ended up in a prairie-ish sort of area, and foraged some wild fruit, which was good. And then I just…kept moving. Nothing’s really happened to me, Huck. I’ve just spent these days moving from place to place, staying out of sight, observing.” She shrugs.

“Although-” She perks up. “In observing, I did find out a bit about what some of the other tributes have been doing.” 

“Oh?” I ask. Tulip seems like a little bit of a gossip, even if she might not want to admit it- and having not really seen a single other person other than Calliope after the first day, I am interested. 

“There’s a Career alliance. While I was camping in a rocky setting, I heard them come through. They talk a lot .” Tulip is beginning to use her hands to annunciate her words, now. “I don’t think any of them really like each other. And District 4 bailed almost immediately- I didn’t see them at all. Both of them. I almost got caught by the girl from District 2- deserter, by the way. Left in the night while they were sleeping. I was just about to leave, then, and I'm glad I didn’t.”

“Oh-” I interject. “I saw her, too.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tulip tilts her head. 

“Yeah, right before the aphids. She passed by near the opening to this place. I thought it might have been you, but that was just wishful thinking.” I nod. 

“Interesting. I have no idea why she’s going solo- she was putting a good face on to the rest of them. I think they might pick off the boy from Two, y’know.” Tulip speculates.

“How do you know that?” I wonder aloud.

“I don’t. But you should have seen the way he was basically fighting to be heard between the Ones.” She shrugs. 

I open my mouth to speak, but a horn blares from somewhere indistinguishable, and I jerk in surprise. The anthem of Panem rings out against the rocks and valleys, and I realise that it’s become nightfall in the time we’ve been talking, and they’re going to announce who has fallen.

To my surprise, after the anthem, a blank screen displays the message: NO FALLEN.

The anthem plays again, and fades into the dark.

Me and Tulip sit in silence.

“That’s not good.” Tulip comments. I don’t respond. “They’ll start sending things after us. Like they sent aphids after you.” 

“They did that?” I mumble.

“I’m sure. I was asking Godot questions while we were waiting for you to come back from your interview. One of the things he said was that when things get boring, they manually spice things up. They started doing that maybe about ten years back, or maybe fifteen. Mutts and stuff. You said you were just walking around doing nothing after you murdered Joule?” She asks.

I don’t entirely miss her decision to use the word murdered . “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t slept since. Except for…just now. Just been walking.” 

“Then those were probably put there to get you .” Tulip nods. “I mean, they’re not completely unaware that you’re used to infestations, I'm sure. I’m sure they have a mutt for every one of us just in case we stop delivering. I’m surprised they haven’t sent one after me yet. Maybe they’ve forgotten about me. Maybe they always have…”

“They won’t now.” I comment. “If you’re the forgotten one, I was the one to watch. Now I'm underperforming . If they want me to keel over now, then they’re watching me. Which means they’re watching you. And everything we say.” I sigh, slumping. “I don’t understand this.”

“Understand what?” Tulip shifts, sitting in the exact same position, knees tucked up to her chin. 

“How this works . I mean- where the hell are we? What the hell is this? Why did I get stuck in the snow in July? ” I whine.

For once, Tulip does not have an answer. She shakes her head. “I have no idea. But who cares, Huck? We’re going to die anyway.”

I look up at her, through my brows, scowling. I can’t believe her. “You want to die?” 

Tulip shrugs. “Of course not.”

“Then why won’t you accept my help!? I will lay my life down for you to succeed. I’ll do anything . Why won’t you let me help you? ” I ask, now kneeling, trying to make direct eye contact with her.

Tulip shakes her head, pouting. “I don’t- Huck, you don’t know me. I don’t know you . The only thing that binds us is one gift of aid a long time ago from people we barely know! ” She’s getting frustrated with me- raising her voice. “I’m scared , Huck! I’m so scared! I don’t want to die , and I know deep down, neither do you! I am certain that when I die, it will be painful, and I will hate it, and I will die here, somewhere, at the hand of someone who trained and tried and wanted it a little more than I did! I am so, so, so fucking scared, Huck! But I don’t want your help! And I- I can’t explain why. Part of it, I think, is because I just don’t want to see you do that to yourself. I don’t want you to die to help me, and then that be what your life is. I don’t want to die after that knowing someone died to help me. But, I mean, if I win, what’s after that? I go home to my family? No- they- I-” She splutters, stops and wipes tears that are forming. “Just don’t. Fend for yourself, Huck. You can’t die a mindless robot- that’s pathetic. You’re pathetic if you do that. I won’t let you do that.” She settles in silence, a furious pout on her face. 

I can’t help but cry. All this effort, all this, to find her- for nothing . I don’t think she’s ungrateful, she’s not, but I feel a deep sense of betrayal regardless. I’ve suffered, I've killed - just to be here. And it was all for nothing .

“It’s a nice thought.” Tulip mumbles. “I appreciate your effort. But it’s going to be in vain, Huck. We’re never going to escape this place. I’d like to just…I want to go out with dignity. Enjoy what time I have left. And I want that for you, too.” 

I continue to sniffle. 

Just once- just once , I want to help. I can’t let someone else I care about die while I watch. 

Not again.

“I cleaned out your water tin.” She mentions. 

“What?” I refocus.

“It had residue in it. Couldn’t have been good for you. So I went and cleaned it.” She explains. “...Hungry?” She asks.

I nod. “I’m trying to forget about it. I only have, like, two food bars left.” 

“I noticed.” She chuckles. “I have some fruit I foraged. If I use your matches, and the tin, and put some fruit and break up one of your bars and use some of the water…we could have something warm to eat.” 

I purse my lips in a halfway smile. I nod. “Sounds good. I’d kill for a warm meal, right now.”

“Oh, I'm sure.” Tulip responds, whip-quick, but we both frown afterward. “Sorry.” She sighs.

I shrug.

I busy myself with sitting around and using rocks and twigs to construct a makeshift fireplace. In the meantime, me and Tulip drink some of the water in the tin until there’s enough left in it for her liking. She then splits up one of the granola bars, and uses a stick to mash them together with some wild berries she fishes out from a pocket in her bag. Since we don’t have anything to rest the tin on top of, it’s my job to stay and hold the tin above the fire as she stirs. 

Despite Tulip’s tarp blocking the majority of the wind, the temperature drops rapidly as the night encroaches. Being near the fire is a wonderful feeling, one that brings me back home. Especially as the smell of berries begins to waft from the tin. If I closed my eyes, I could probably will myself back to my home, making myself dinners over my humble stove, and sitting by the remaining fire in the winter. 

Eventually, I am instructed to put the tin down, and I do. We don’t smother the fire- not yet. We enjoy its warmth too much. 

We don’t have spoons to eat with, so we have to use long, flat bits of cardboard harvested from empty bandage packages that we curl halfway, in hopes of using them to scoop up bits of what we’ve made. 

It’s sort of like jam, sort of like compote, but without the time left to set, or the sugar. It’s not even a meal, but to us, right now? It’s comparable to a Capitol feast. 

I am satisfied beyond measure, for the first time in a long time. I feel less restless, now that I'm with Tulip. I feel more secure. After we finish the very last of our food, we sit together, huddled up by the fire. 

“So…” I begin. “Have a crush on anyone?”

Tulip splutters. “What?” 

“I don’t know-” I fumble. “It’s gossip, right? What do regular kids gossip about?” 

Tulip laughs- an open, honest, stomach laugh. She laughs for a while. “No.” She shakes her head. “Nobody’s caught my eye unfortunately. Nobody here’s my type, probably.” She smirks at me. “Why, do you?” 

“I, uh. I don’t think so, no.” I shrug back.

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow.

“What- hey, what’s that for?” I pout, defensively. 

“No, no, I just thought…” She trails off, intentionally. I fall for her bait immediately. 

“What!?” I shake her shoulder.

“Well, I don’t know, I thought you and Betty were kind of ogling eachother during interview day.” She shoots me that devilish, cheeky smile I've only seen a few times.

“Ogling!?” I scoff. “I know nothing about her!” I laugh. “I mean, I'm sure she’s a great person, Tulip, but no ogling here. No siree. Nuh uh.” I shake my head, unable to stop from chuckling. 

It’s true. Betty seems like a nice enough girl, willing to want to check in on a variety of the tributes I can only loosely define as friends, but I think I'd have to get to know someone to really like them. But I think she’d be popular in my hometown- and the gossip rags are right- she’s very pretty. 

It’s nonsensical, to be having this sort of conversation in a situation like this, but it’s definitely freeing. However, my mind quickly snaps back to just that- the situation at hand. 

“...Who died?” I ask.

“Hm?” I see Tulip’s face drop.

“Other than Joule. I still don’t know.” I purse my lips. 

Tulip’s face scrunches up, either in discomfort or in an effort to remember. “Canopy, the girl from Seven. Kaplan, the boy from Five. Faraday…” She falters. 

“I saw her go.” I mumble. 

“You did?” She furrows her brows, eyes glassy.

“All three of them. I mean, I was fumbling around the place, trying to do something. The boy from Eight killed Canopy with a canister. Calliope killed Kaplan with a spear. Montauk killed Faraday, with a trident through the back.” 

Tulip hisses with pain, as if she’s been fire-branded. “I-I-” She stumbles, shakes her head. “She was such a smart girl. She wanted to be a programmer, just like her parents, did you know that?” She’s lost in her head, clearly trying to grapple with the last memories of that sweet little girl. “Top of her class, always bullied about it. She was going to be pretty, you could tell.” Tulip puts her head in her hands. “I tried not to get attached. But, I just- I don’t…” She sobers, emotionally, in a fraction of a second. In the glossy firelight, through the flickering embers, I see her shut Faraday away, in a secret corner in the back of her head. “I’m glad you turned down that alliance with Four. Who knows what they could’ve done to you. Or made you do, even.” 

“Yeah.” I mumble.

“Oh, and Solder.” Tulip mentions. “The sick girl from Six.” She sighs. “She must have died in the evening of the first day, because after those first three, there was no-one else but her afterward.” 

“...And then Joule.” I add, tacking her onto the end of our list. 

“And then Joule.” Tulip nods. 

For the next twenty minutes or so, we simply soak up the fire.  

Tulip clears her throat. “We should get some sleep.” She announces. “You, specifically.” 

“I just slept.” I defend. “I can keep watch.” 

“Nuh uh.” She shakes her head. “Being knocked out by your own idiocy isn’t sleeping.” She giggles. 

I laugh back. “Okay. Fine.” 

“Let me change your bandages first.” Tulip says, heading over to her bag. 

“You don’t have to do that- what if you need them?” I worry.

“Trust me, I won’t. Not more than you do. If anything, I'll rip my clothes up in a pinch.” She returns to me with a small red box, and pops it open. “Can you take off your shirt?” 

After a moment of hesitation, I do. Tulip undresses my bandages, and I behold the sight of me: ruined, cratered by a million scabbed over pock-marks, ringed with singed, acidized flesh. Tulip decides that instead of using more bandages than she needs to, she’ll put band-aids over most of my wounds, and bandage the concentrated areas. She’s incredibly smart, survival-wise. I wonder if that’s how she’s kept her and her family alive, this whole time. 

Once she’s satisfied with me, and set my ankle with bandages and a sturdy, dead branch, she puts the kit away. She then repacks all my things, having rifled through my bag while I was asleep. 

“You get some rest. I’ll take watch. I’m just going to go down and clear the tin out, and put some water back in it. Don’t wait up.” She smiles, picking the tin and its lid from where it’s stayed on the dusty ground.

I have no blankets or anything to use, so I simply curl up on the hard floor. “Are you sure?” I ask, from where I am. 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.” She assures me, swiftly leaving, taking a path down and out from the outcropping we’re on. 

I refuse to rest while she’s away, and instead, observe. It sickens me to realise that we’re on top of one of the tallest spires of rock in the domain, and if I could see more in the dark, I'd probably throw up from vertigo. I pace circles around the fire, occasionally watching out to see if I can spy any other fires. I can’t, not even a star in the blank canvas of sky above me. 

I jolt when I hear footsteps, as if it’ll be anyone else.

“Huck.” Tulip drawls, disappointed. She goes and slips the now full and clean water tin inside of my bag, zipping it up. 

“What? Can’t blame me.” I defend, lying back down and curling up.

She shakes her head. 

“Goodnight, Tulip.” I say, tilting my head back to find her face in the dark.

She smiles. “Want me to put the fire out?” 

She remembered. “If you’re okay with the cold.”

“It’s fine. We’ve had colder winters.” She shrugs, smothering it with dust from the floor. 

“Goodnight, Huck.” She replies, at last.

I am more tired than I think, and I begin to slip fast. Confident in having found Tulip, I know that whatever happens- at least we have each other. 

Chapter Text

I forget what it felt like to wake up happy, because it lasts all of three seconds, when I realise that Tulip is gone. 

I had stretched out against the floor, unbothered, like a cat that basks in the sun on people’s porches. Renewed with faith and hope for the short-term future. Slowly, I had lifted myself off of the ground, brushing dust from the stone off of my clothes- but I still remain coated in a thin film of it, looking like I've come right out of an avalanche. It’s whatever- the state of my carefully adjusted clothes really doesn’t matter, right now. 

First, I had turned my gaze to the smothered fire- it looks much smaller than it felt last night. Maybe it was the relief of feeling warm at night that made it feel all-encompassing, like a big, bright hug. Thinking of the fire, and of the events of last night, I feel a pang of hunger- despite where it lacked, the fruit concoction tempts me, and I briefly mourn that I won’t be able to have any more. 

When I go to look across at Tulip, my spirits plummet. She’s simply not there.

My heart rate spikes, and I go to stand in the space where Tulip once was as if that will make her come back. The sun angles right into my eyes as I turn to look toward the horizon, the mid-morning set on blinding me before I can even adjust to the situation at hand. At first, I want to turn to delusion, to believe that Tulip forgot to wake me and has been on watch all night, and that maybe it’s now my turn to take care of her.

Although, when I realise her tarp is gone, and so is her bag, I lose all hope, quickly. 

I scramble around to the other side of the elevated plateau, and peer round the side of a rocky spire in order to look out at the landscape. The rest of it is flat and wide, only interrupted by the cliffs we’ve been camping on, and the lake I ran into yesterday. If she was there, I would be able to see her- and she isn’t. Not one fleck on the surface of the orange earth is Tulip, and I can’t help but fall victim to my own emotions, overwhelmed by helplessness.

She didn’t just forget to wake me up for a shift at watching over us- she hadn’t watched over me at all. My lip curls inward as I trudge back to the campsite, unable to trace any kind of footprint that could lead me back to her. When she removed the tarp, the wind would’ve come and blown them away within minutes. I fight against it as I walk circles around the campfire, unsure and weakened by the act of betrayal.

I have to stop myself- has she betrayed me? Betrayed my trust, maybe. I trusted her to stay, and she didn’t. Although, it was overzealous to think she was on board with my plans at all. She had just made small talk with me, and maybe I thought it was enough to earn her trust in me. Was it ever there to begin with? Was learning my need to sleep in the dark just something she had picked up? Pattern recognition, not camaraderie? I thought we might have at least had that. I know how she felt about alliances, but this was going to be different. It wasn’t so much an alliance as it was a contract I was offering. I would’ve died either way, and- 

Maybe I still can. 

I no longer think that making her see to reason is the point. She’s never going to. However, when she goes home, when her family sees her again, when our district celebrates her for her resilience- she’ll see. She’ll see that she is needed back home. Being insular and isolated is something that makes you strong in District 11- not in the arena. Not for us. I mean- how far has being alone gotten me? All I’ve gotten to show for it is injuries the likes of which may have killed me earlier if not for some well-timed saving graces. Tulip can go home- that I am sure of, and I’m not about to give up on her now. 

I go to collect my pack, briefly checking inside it. To my surprise, the bandages Tulip had on her are in my bag now, a separate bandage wrapping up a handful of dried and foraged fruit alike- leftovers from Tulip’s supply. She didn’t fully abandon me.

I stand there, out in the open, my palm full of dried fruit and some blueberries. I turn them over in my hands, my fingers getting dust on them. My hunger is one thing, but I can’t find the soul in me to eat this, this parting gift. 

She’ll see.

I swing my pack over my injured back, the welts screaming out at me as they’re forcibly impacted, but I don’t care to dwell on the pain, now. I slide the fruit into the side pocket and approach the path back down. Momentarily, I fall victim to my vertigo, the vast expanse of ground far below me beckoning me forward, encouraging me to sway, to entertain the idea of slipping off the side. I don’t answer. 

Gingerly, I follow the path until I am back at the waters edge, back at the lake. My response is to cup as much water into my hands as I can, because from here on out I'll have to rely on the supply Tulip got for me last night, and while the tin is helpful, it isn't massive. I sip as much as I can until I start to feel sick, my hunger curbed in confusion with satiating my thirst, but it won’t last long. I wash my face, and turn to leave. 

I take a different exit to the one I came in from. There was another opening, just on the other side of the cliff, and it seems to get me closer to the woods I had come from the day before. Was it the day before? All the days blend together, now. 

By the time I get there, the heat of the sun becomes unbearable. However, the second I pass the threshold back into the maze, the temperature cools off, and instead of the overwhelming sound of rushing wind and undulating waves of dirt, I am once again surrounded by a gentle breeze and the sounds of chirping. 

There have been the sounds of birds chirping all throughout the maze, and even in the woods, but I have yet to see any actual birds. 

They don’t sound like any birds I recognise. 

It lingers as I walk, the delicate, regular twittering of a bird I can’t even fathom exists. What bird sounds like that? What bird sounds like the last, highest key on a piano? What bird sounds like tapping nails on glass? As I listen, the more alienated I feel. 

Back home it was all mockingjays and rain-crows. Mockingjays are self-explanatory creatures, in the most literal way. They’ll perch atop the branches of the trees in the orchard, watching you, obsessing over you and everything you say. Work is somewhat quiet, because chatter breeds idle hands, and idle hands get whipped- but when someone sings a work song, or decides to engage in conversation, everyone will know. The mockingjays travel the message, the word of mouth, the melody, and it will spread, even to the factories and fields. They’re birds of union, and we all know how dangerous that can be. They’re shot on the regular, and sometimes you have to mind your head. I heard a tale once of a boy who got his brains shot clean through because of a Peacekeeper who was just trying to cull a mockingjay. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s definitely possible. You learn to duck quick, though. 

I am more endeared to the rain-crows, however. They’re both practical and comforting. They hoot and holler when they hear loud noises, mostly thunder- so people know to warn the workers that a storm is on its way and to get the covers out. Though, it’s not why I like them best. I know their call intimately. It’s something primal, and if you aren’t paying attention, it can sound like acorns falling on a tin roof. It’s long, loud and strange, but I like it that way. It means that if something comes through the woods near my piano, my safe haven- I can hide, or run quickly. Though, sometimes, I think they’re adverse to my music. Sometimes they nest in the rotting beams of the building I shelter in, and they disapprove of me disturbing their babies and their sleep. I always feel guilty about that. But I must play. It is essential to life. Music is essential to my life-

And I realise that I'm thinking in present tense, as if playing again will ever be within sight. I stop in my tracks and take a moment, rolling my head over my shoulders. 

As I take another step, it echoes through my bones.

A cannon.

I hear a shrill yelp echo out from somewhere in the maze, somewhere nearby. My heart rate spikes- that sounded too near for comfort. I run to the next intersection, I see nothing. I could hope that Tulip got further than this, but I can’t have my hopes too high. I run to the next, and the next, and the next after that. Nothing. 

I can’t lose out now. I can’t lose her to this infernal spiral of hedgerows. I know it has tricks. She’s too smart for it. She’s too smart to die here. 

I see the hovercraft approach from my left, and I am blown sideways into a hedge as it passes over me, the current of wind too strong to withstand. Its crane approaches a few hedgerows away, and I begin to run in its direction, and I turn to an intersection to my right-

And I almost bowl over completely as another body collides with mine. On instinct, my hands go for the throat of my assailant, holding him at an arms length while my thumbs press against his adams apple, but- wait.

This is no assailant.

This is Bran. Bran Hoffman. The kind boy from District 9. And he is covered in blood.

In my hands, I can see him crying. I let go instantly, and when I do, he whips around to the quickly retreating crane, walking a few steps back toward it as if he could ever reach it. As a body is lifted into the sky, he drops to his knees, and wails. He wails. He does it loud. 

“Bran.” I mumble, standing right behind him. He needs to stop. Someone could find us.

He doesn’t seem to listen.

“Bran.” I repeat, louder. 

He continues to sob. 

I walk around him, kneel down and grab his shoulders. “Stop.” I shake him. “Someone will find us- you’ll get us both killed!”

He quietens, but he doesn’t stop crying. He whimpers, never meeting my eyes, tears washing the blood on his face away. I notice that he’s trailed blood behind him on his boots. 

“What happened, Bran?” I ask. I want to know who died. 

He heaves again, into his hands, coughing and spluttering. I let go of his shoulders, trying to catch his gaze, to get him to focus. 

“It was horrible…” He drawls, staring at shaking, blood-stained hands, turning them over and over again. “It was…It…” He keeps struggling to form sentences under the pressure of hitched breathing. 

“It?” I prompt, desperation practically crawling out of my throat in droves.

“Sorghum…” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes much more than needed. He just gets blood all over his eyelids. 

I look back, then to him, and to the footprints. My brow furrows, but I am ashamed to admit that my first emotion is relief. Not Tulip. However, I am overcome with a deep sadness of my own. Like everyone else, I didn’t get to know Sorghum. However, alongside Bran, she was practically attached to his hip, always clinging to him. Bran, self assured, bold and empathetic, had never let it bother him. 

“Sorghum.” I repeat. I don’t know why I do it. It feels final, the way it came out of me. As if he name alone could serve to eulogise her. I am overcome with the crawling realisation that there are most definitely cameras on us, and I lean forward, to try and talk into Bran’s ear. 

“Tell them about Sorghum. Don’t let them forget her.” I whisper. I grasp his hands, in an effort to spur him. I know he’ll live to regret it if he doesn’t. Though, living to regret is truly a futile pursuit in the arena. However, my limited understanding of Bran is that he cares. Very deeply. And despite his simplicity, one I previously judged him for, he is intelligent, in his own way. 

When he looks up at me, with those deep blue eyes that look like the night sky, I think he understands. 

He sighs. 

“It was…pikes. Poles. Sharp ones. I had taken Sorghum from the moment they said go. I promised that I would protect her. And I did.” He wavers, voice becoming wobbly with emotion. I squeeze his shoulder. “We were just moving to another location. That’s all. We had camped for the night in this place with abandoned buildings and granite as far as the eye could see. It was always raining but I thought that nobody would really want to camp there, so nobody would find us. And they didn’t. But we couldn’t stay. So we moved. And…” He shakes his head. “I should’ve let her walk in front of me. Maybe then she’d still be alive…” He looks back down the path. “They came out from the ground and the walls. She…it didn’t kill her instantly. I can’t- the look in her eyes, Huck.” He looks at me, tears a rapid waterfall. “They pierced her everywhere. But she took a second to die. She couldn’t speak, Huck, she just- she just looked at me. Like a trapped animal. I couldn’t do anything to save her, all I could do was just- and then, she was…” He waves his hand next to his head, once again choking on his own tears. I try to comfort him by gently rubbing his arm, but it feels like a loser's gambit. 

“It was bad luck.” I say, trying to console him. 

“It was.” Bran agrees. “I could’ve done something.” He mourns. “She didn’t deserve it. I know everyone back home will think she did.” 

“What did she do?” I ask.

“Nothing!” Bran yelps. “N-nothing. She did…nothing.” 

We sit in silence for a moment before he continues.

“I heard her father yelling at the mayor. In person. In the Justice Building.” Bran confides. “He was some big name in crop distribution. Scary guy. He was mad that they had let this happen, but the mayor wouldn’t take any of his bribes because he had been busted for doing stuff like that before. The mayor told him to his face that it’s exactly why District 9 voted for Sorghum. Because of everything Mr. Jacobson put us through. He had nothing to say after that. He just went in to see Sorghum with her mom and her little sister. I think even the mayor wanted her out. To punish Mr. Jacobson some more.” 

Bran seems calmer now. More resolved to telling this story. 

“Sure, Sorghum was spoiled and rich. Sure, she was out of touch. But she was sixteen, Huck. Not even out of school. Just a baby. She loved her mom and dad. She loved her little sister, Bucky. She loved her toy bunny that she had to leave behind, because she couldn’t go get it. She liked to play hopscotch. She liked warm honey porridge. She had friends. She was excited to one day own her dad’s company. She knew people suffered. She knew people were upset. She never wanted people to be upset at her, and she talked to me about how she felt ashamed for being excited for her future. She knew she would never make it out of here, and I tried to tell her I wouldn’t let it happen. And- and I think the worst thing is that…I think she believed me.”

Bran runs out of breath, shuddering again. 

I think about Sorghum again. Of what I saw of her. I try to piece her together in my mind. That willowy, well-fed girl with hair the color of the sun at quitting time. Always in those little bunches, with those little yellow bows. 

As if he can hear my own thoughts, Bran reaches into his breast pocket and fishes one out. Just one. It’s bloody, but you can see the yellow if you squint. He thumbs it in his hand, and then clips it to the exterior of the pocket. It matches with their district color on his shirt, a blood-soaked butter yellow. 

“I think what hurts is that she was misunderstood.” He mumbles. “There were probably bullies much worse than her that should’ve been beside me this year. I know they’re watching. I hope they feel guilty.” He looks up at the sky.

I’m perplexed at the truly angry tone in his voice. It seems in opposition to the type of man he is.

“No kid deserves to die in these games.” He continues. “And if you think I'm just like my momma for saying so, then so be it. I don’t wish death on anyone. But Sorghum Jacobson died today. I won’t let you forget it.” 

I just watch, slightly scared. Not for anything else but our own safety. They could send mutts to us at any moment. I itch to move on. 

“I hate to change the subject…” I begin. I truly do. Hate it, that is. While Bran is revelling. “But, um. I was wondering…if you’d seen Tulip?” 

Bran frowns. “Tulip? Uh…no. To be honest, we’d barely seen anyone. I mean- we got close to going to Trough and Shank to group up, but…I thought it might be a bad idea.” He purses his lips. “Why, is she okay?” 

I sigh. “I just-” I don’t know how to explain it. “I’ve spent all this time looking for her. I found her last night. I offered to keep her safe and let her win, and she didn’t like it. She left me in my sleep. I…I can’t let that be the end.” 

Bran frowns a little deeper. “Right…” He mumbles. “...That’s a…noble goal.” He adds. “I think if it was me and Sorghum at the end, I would do that for her, too.” He nods. “...But it isn’t the end. What about you?”

“What about me?” I tilt my head. What does he mean?

“Don’t you…I mean…like…getting home. Do you not…?” He probes.

“What has District 11 ever done for me?” I put it bluntly. “I mean, I wanted to live out the rest of my days and die an old man. District 11 killed my parents. District 11 took away my freedom of choice. If they wanted me here, they’ll get what they want.” I nod. “I mean, you may think of District 9 differently, but there’s nothing for me. I’ll die with a purpose, though. I’ll help Tulip win.” 

“Why don’t you kill me?” Bran asks, in a plainly curious tone. 

“...I…” I stop. Why don’t I kill him? It could be so easy. One more off the board. “...I don’t know.” That’s a lie. Sort of. “...I just hate it. I killed someone earlier, y’know. It…it sticks with me. It makes me feel disgusting.” I sigh. “And I see you as a friend.”

“You do?” His eyes lighten somewhat. He smiles. 

I can’t help but feel the corners of my mouth edge upward. “...Yeah. You’re…inspiring.”

“Really!?” He chuckles. 

I nod, scratching the back of my neck. “You’ve always been kind to Sorghum, despite what you could’ve thought about her. I would have maybe hated her, if I was in your place. You kept being nice to me and Tulip, to Trough and Shank, even though it could’ve and probably did make you a threat. You played their games even if it made you look bad. I’m not like that. I wish I was, I think.” 

Bran reaches across to me, and plants a firm hand on my shoulder. He then pulls me close with alarming strength and hugs me tightly. Shocked, it takes a moment for me to hug him back. 

“I knew you were good.” He mumbles. 

I feel upset. He didn’t even ask about who I killed, or why. He doesn’t seem to care. Does he know what I've done? What I'm responsible for? If I enlighten him, will anything change? Though, I haven’t been hugged like this in a long time. I almost forgot what it felt like. 

“We shouldn’t stay here too long.” I warn. 

Bran nods, and we both rise to our feet. He picks at his shirt, his face falling again at the sight of all the blood. I can see him swallow back something hard, probably tears or bile. 

“I can help you find Tulip.” He nods, looking hopeful.

I can't let him. “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to have to…y’know.” I sigh.

Bran chews at the inside of his cheek. “...Yeah. I thought I'd ask anyway. I don’t think I could kill you either. I don’t know how I could kill anyone.” He then looks across at me, and I know exactly what’s coming next. “Who did you…kill?” He tilts his head to the side, cautious.

“It was an accident.” I preface. “I was trying to skin a branch to use as a crutch with a rock. It was…Joule, from District 5. She stole my knife and came up behind me with intent to kill me. I got scared and before I knew it, the rock had made contact with her skull.” I look down at the dirt. “She died on impact. I think. She didn’t deserve to die.” 

“...She wanted to make a difference, that one.” Bran recounts, sadly. “A full-blown rebel, and she knew it.” 

We make eye contact. I think there’s an understanding that if I hadn’t killed her, someone or something else would’ve. And it would’ve been for her beliefs. 

“You said your mom was a rebel?” I ask. I wonder if we come from similar origins. 

“...No, I- when did I say that?” Bran wonders aloud.

“Oh, well. When you said nobody deserves to die in the games, you said that it might make you sound like your mom.” I explain. 

“Oh.” Bran sighs. “No, not quite. I think people want to believe she was a rebel. I don’t think she was. She was just angry. Upset. Lashed out once at a Peacekeeper and then people started putting all these labels on her. She was executed and then it built a poor rep for our village, and I think people blame me. They might’ve blamed my dad if they could, but he didn’t want nothing to do with momma or me after that, so. Yeah. I dunno.” He shrugs. “Not quite.” He repeats. 

“Right…yeah.” I shrug too. “I get it. They called my parents rebels, but as far as I can see…they just wanted to help people.”

“I’m sure they’re proud of you. For helping Tulip.” Bran offers.

I squint. I have nothing to say. I think that’s wholly untrue. “I’m sure your mom is proud of you too.” I attempt. 

“I hope so.” Bran smiles, softly. 

We stand there in silence. I don’t think we want this to end. This fleeting moment of camaraderie. This feeling of not thinking we’re going to be imminently murdered. I think, in another life, I would’ve had a great friendship with Bran. He’s every bit the man I wish I was. It’s baffling to me to think nobody back in District 9 was worse than him. 

“Safe travels, Bran.” I mumble, angling myself to leave. 

His eyes squint, and his lips tremble. He doesn’t want me to go. “...Safe travels, Huck. I hope you find Tulip.”

I offer him a smile of confirmation back. A smile that says, I hope so. A smile that says, I’m sorry about Sorghum. 

I walk until I am out of his view. I walk down the path he had come from, and I come across where I can only assume Sorghum died, due to the massive bloodstain upon the dirt. I grab some rocks again, throwing them in front of me. One lands on a wayward patch of dirt, and I can’t help but gasp as the pikes shoot out from the walls and floor. 

“Huck?” I hear Bran call. He doesn’t seem to have moved.

Damn you. I think. Too loud!

“I’m okay.” I call back “I just needed to see where not to step.” 

“Okay.” Bran says, his voice weary. “Please be careful!”

“I will. I will!” I respond. 

I go on. That is all I can do. I try to put Bran out of my mind, because I know that if I go on thinking about him and Sorghum, it’ll drive me insane. There’s something in Bran, so noble, so dedicated to his kindness that can truly captivate and in this situation, upset a person. You think about all the things he is and you are upset by the prospect of him being so hated. 

To that end, I turn my mind to exactly how we got here in the first place. The voting process. 

As I think about it, maybe the common assumption would be that the seediest, worst children in all of Panem would be voted into the games. The twenty-four most hated children in Panem. Who exactly said that to me? I can’t remember, now. Usually, it would be rotten luck. Just sheer bad luck. Twenty-four kids whose time just ran out. 

This year, there is blame. There is action. There is hate.

To the Capitol, hate probably seems straightforward. Based on moral wrongdoings. Us and them. Capitol versus District. It was never that simple. I think what people fail to realise- or, well, people of Career Districts and the Capitol fail to realise, is that it was never going to be the worst of us. 

I can only think of Acki Saynor again. She has never tormented just me. She is responsible for the bullying of all the unfortunate souls she sees fit, ruining their reputations and their lives for petty entertainment for her ring of cronies. I think the adults know what she does, and can’t stop her, because the key thing about Acki is that she is protected. When it comes down to voting, people can vouch for her because she has the power to spin herself a safety net. It’s power. You must have the power to avoid capture. You can escape your fate, so long as you have influence. And if you can influence people to hate those with no power, no influence- well, it’s easy game, is it not? Redirection, word of mouth, playing on principles. 

I think people know that people like me or Bran or Tulip have never truly been responsible for anything bad. I know they know. I know my colleagues who cast their votes for me know that I have never caused any issues at work, I work hard, I make my quota and I show up day after day, just like the rest of them. I am only visible because of the wrongdoings of my parents. And people hate my parents. And that hatred brews power- a power of bias. A bias against rebel activity, something only founded by laws put in place by people in power. It happened to Bran, too. The rules of polite society have their iron grip even on the lowest of the low, and everyone outside of those rules is a victim. Tulip was only voted in because her focus on providing comfort and aid to her family and her family alone is seen as “not-polite”, and being not-polite is one step away from being a rebel, so why don’t we just vote her in to be safe? We don’t want to breed a new generation of rebels. What would our children think if we encouraged this kind of activity? An anti-work ethic? We must work until we die. We must work, no matter the circumstances. We must work, even if our children die. 

So, therefore, someone didn’t just evaluate each child by their spiritual purity and put the ones most absent of kindness and joy forward for the First Quarter Quell. That’s not it. And to say we’re the most hated children may be true in principle, we are certainly not the worst. 

Even then, my name probably wasn’t in there a whole bunch, anyway. District 11 is massive. It’s one of the biggest districts in Panem. So many people must hate so many other children, and the scope must be insanely huge. I’m sure a number of 8 or 10 votes would’ve secured my fate, even in a pool of hundreds of thousands of children, votes cast by a population of millions. Just one too many. One too many sealed my death in history. 

If you think about it, it’s just rotten luck with a purpose. Something to give people agency. Something to excite the masochists among us who thrive on hate. Rotten luck to be victim to one too many friends, family or stranger’s hate, directed just to you. 

The voting process seemed strangely out of its own depth, when I think about it. 

You had to go into a booth in a local building and flick through a directory- a directory of all the children in the district. It looked to me like the same kind of book they use at the reaping ceremonies- the one where they stamp our bloody fingerprints into to check our attendance. Instead of the space for the fingerprints, it is just our name, locality and ID number in large lists in this huge binder. Sorted by locality, I just found my town and flicked through that particular section, a clump of pages in a large sea. I found my own ID first. Citizen ID: 8773010. I could rattle it off from memory. I have, in the past, when Peacekeepers wanted to rattle me down for no particular reason. Then I found Acki, for my vote for the girls. Citizen ID: 8744005. I struggled to think of a boy to vote for, because Cerassee had aged out of the reaping last year, and was no longer eligible. 

I still feel guilty about it to this day, but when I struggled to think, and was operating on a time limit, I flipped to a town I had never heard of, and I picked a random boy. Some kid named Oca Endive, the same age as me. I don’t remember his number. I do remember his name, because I kept turning it around in my head on the way to the reaping, completely unaware that it was me who was going to suffer a fate worse than execution. 

Any human being aged 12 or older in all of the districts had to vote for their district tributes, or face punishment. It’s a staggering number, and truly puts into perspective just how many people concentratedly voted for all of us in our respective home districts. Whether it be Career or not, it’s a frightening statistic. 

To win the games this year is to defy even greater odds.

What was it that became the slogan this year? I try to remember. I fail to.

I stop walking as I reach another entrance to another area. Yet again, another forest. 

I watch my own shadow, lengthened by the setting sun behind me, a blockade amongst a wash of orange. I look back to the sun. I think once more of Sorghum. I think of Bran. I think of Tulip. I think of the limited time I have left. 

I am only a few good minutes into the forest, weaving between trees when I hear it- something powerful. There’s a forceful sound of an explosion, multiple screams and then a cannon. I am sick with adrenaline and worry once more, and hide myself behind the thick trunk of a tree, just in case. I peer around it, trying to see what just happened. 

I am up on a raised hill, and the explosion took place in a path that cuts through the woods down below me. The grass is blackened, the trees almost aflame, smoking and collapsing on each other, although none of them completely crash to the ground. 

I advance two rows of trees to try and hear what is being yelled, to see who died. Even then, I still can’t hear, because the crane has come to pick up the body. I am relieved when I can easily tell it isn’t Tulip. Despite the fact the body’s legs and torso have been blown to a sickening pulp, it’s clearly a boy. 

Once the craft clears, I am able to hear the now full-blown argument happening below.

“-hadn’t decided to take this path, we wouldn’t be here! What the fuck did I say? I said to take the left toward the thicket, you fucking idiot!” A girl screeches. I crane my head. District 1.

“How was I supposed to know there was going to be a fucking landmine, Brutus!?” District 2. It’s that boy again. 

This must be the career pack, I realise. Or- what’s left of it.

The District 1 girl, Brutus, seems to be working herself up into a frenzy. “If I had the choice between Lampus exploding and you, I would’ve chosen you! You’ve contributed fucking nothing to the group since we got here, Terce, I swear you’re a vanity cast! You’re not strong, you’re not smart, and you got Lampus fucking killed! No wonder Calliope left us- she was probably sick of you!” 

Then there’s an awful sound- the sound of a fist on flesh.

“What the fuck!?” Comes Brutus’ muffled response. She then swings back in earnest, arms of steel smacking Terce with one hand, and then punching him with the other. He staggers to the left, and is subsequently horrified when he realises he's stepped in a pool of Lampus’ blood. I remember Lampus only from him chasing me down at the start of the games. Is it bad to think that I'm glad he’s dead?

“So you do believe it, then.” Brutus taunts, spitting out blood toward Terce. “Since you don’t have a response for me.”

Terce then lets out what I can only describe as a juvenile roar, and swings a sword at Brutus, to which she retaliates by swinging a heavy club. They battle for some time, before Brutus swings her leg under Terce, causing him to fall and hit his head. He rolls over, groaning. 

“District 2 made a mistake. They voted like the Districts do. Not for a Career. They must have hated you, just like they hated all these other lowlifes.” Brutus mumbles. “You talk big game about impressing your big Peacekeeper dad and returning to Two and becoming a monolith, but you’re built like paper and you act like it too, Two.” She sighs, and shakes her head. “It’s over, Terce. There is no more us. The best of us are gone. Lampus died, and Calliope is dead to me if I ever see her again. And you are too.”

“What- no-” Terce whimpers, scrambling to his feet. “You-”

Brutus strikes out and grabs Terce with her hand, her massive, strong fingers almost curling the entire way around his throat. “I am doing you a mercy by letting you live. Killing you myself would make me look bad. You’re just another ant, Two. Thinking you were going to get home was make-believe.” She lets him go, and Terce simply can't respond amongst all of the coughing he’s forced into doing. “I hope you get killed by one of these street rats.” She swings to his gut, and he falls to his knees. “I hope I get to watch it, once I get home.” 

She then simply turns heel and walks away, picking up two backpacks- one I can only assume is Terce’s, and the other being Lampus’, and walks away. I only begin to breathe again once she’s well into the horizon and left earshot, but I still worry about the fact that a Career is still here. Although Brutus has damaged Terce both physically and in reputation, he could still outsmart me. I stay still.

It doesn't end there, and I am surprised to hear a second set of footsteps. I try to locate them in the opposite row of trees close to the path on the ground, and I only see him when he’s about to break into the path due to some frighteningly good camouflage. There’s also a second person with him, a girl, but she walks so lightly I couldn’t hear her steps from this far away. 

He clears his throat, and it’s only then does Terce think to turn around from his position, knelt to the ground. I can’t see his expression from here, and I wonder if he’s about to get up and fight. 

The boy who’s approached him is the boy from Six. I’ve forgotten his name, but I remember his face, because I was first introduced to him through Daphne’s magazine. He was ranked one above me, in terms of being good-looking. Although, what is more important is that when I saw his interview, I felt a deep strangeness. He acted exactly like you’d expect a Career to, even professing that District 6 voted him in because he was one to win, not one to be killed.

The girl is the tribute from District 8, I think. I only remember because of her scandalising interview- she’s the one with a baby at home. 

The boy from Six whistles and shrugs. “Quite the lovers’ spat.” He comments.

“It’s not.” Terce grumbles. “I hate her.” 

“She seems to think you’re pathetic.” Six mentions. “I don’t think that’s entirely true. Is it?”

Terce raises himself to his feet, with some difficulty. He clutches his stomach. “No. Who the fuck are you to judge me?” He bites.

“I’m not! I don’t intend on it.” Six shakes his head. “Spoke.” He extends his hand. “District Six. I was voted in just like you were. Me and Bevel here have been making quite good living of these games, and we think you’d be exactly what we need. Isn’t that right, Bevel?” 

Bevel nods. “Yes.” She meekly agrees. 

“What- join your alliance?” Terce scoffs.
“If you’re inclined. It seems like the rest of your Career lot don’t seem to value you very much.” Spoke shrugs. “We’re not big fans of Brutus ourselves. Lampus, too, but it seems he was…taken care of.”

“I want to kill her.” Terce spits.

“I can make that happen.” Spoke promises, with a diplomatic smile. 

The boys shake hands, and Spoke puts an arm around Terce. “Sweet Bevel here is great at stitching up wounds. I’ll take you to our camp, and we’ll get you back on the move. Then we’ll find Brutus.” 

“Good.” Terce nods. 

Bevel shoots him a quick wave of greeting. Terce nods at her. The three of them disappear into the trees, the flashes of purple, grey and peach being the only giveaways as they become obsolete. 

I sit by the base of the tree.

I’m so glad I never allied with District Four.

I don’t know if Terce is being taken advantage of, or if he might kill Spoke and Bevel at a moment's notice, but all I have to think about it is that I'm just glad they didn’t see me. For all its worth, I hope they do find Brutus. 

It’s gotten dark quickly, and I am losing visibility as I progress through the forest. It’s when I reach the opposite hedge wall do I decide to stop and camp for the night. As I sit against the wall, obscured by some more natural bushes, the anthem of Panem blares, and I can just about see the sigil through the trees. 

First comes the sweet face of Sorghum. She looks as scared and uneasy as she did every single time I saw her. I can just picture Bran and their mentor behind the camera, trying to ease her to smile, or become neutral, at the very least. As soon as she appears, she is gone, and that will be the last of her for years to come. 

Then it’s Lampus, a strong and stiff smile upon his face as he is blasted across the sky. I’m sure the Capitol is disappointed. The Careers are always mourned. 

That is it for the day, and after the anthem finishes once more, the sky goes dark, and everything becomes quiet. I simply stew in silence, chewing on a few pieces of dried fruit. I try to stay awake as much as I can, in case another shot rings out, or if Tulip passes through here. However, the very little amount of sleeping I've been doing the last couple of days catches up to me, and I have no choice but to succumb, curling up on the ground. 

As I drift off, I remember the slogan. I remember the twisted smile and the gnarled pointed finger of the former Head Gamemaker, who told us to ‘Pay attention, now.’ 

May the odds be ever in your favor.

I turn over, yawning.

What a fucking joke.

Chapter Text

I don’t really remember waking up. 

I just remember that I fell asleep, and at some point before dawn, I was up again. 

Knowing that the sun would rise soon, I did something that confused me deeply. I turned to the tree nearest to me, and I grabbed one of the low-hanging branches, sturdy enough to hold my weight. I pulled myself up, and hauled myself over it, almost slipping due to putting too much pressure on my almost-healed ankle. Then I grabbed a higher branch, and another, and another, and I repeated this process until I was meters and meters off of the ground. 

For the first time in my life, I do not feel scared.

The artificial birdsong still gnaws at my ears, knocks at my senses, and I resist the urge to turn to see birds that are not there and do not exist and never did. 

As the sun rises, I sit up in this tree. I do not feel vertigo. I don’t feel the itching at my bones, the screaming, terrified desperation to get down- it never comes. I would feel elated at my sudden overcoming of a lifelong fear, but I don’t feel much at all. There’s a stillness in me, like a cleared-out factory. All the machinery is packed away in boxes- the building just waiting for its time to go. 

I eat some of the fruit Tulip packed for me. 

I think about the last time I saw the sun rise in District 11.

It wasn’t reaping day- no, I was too focused on having just a slight lie-in. It was a few days before that, when my boss had singled me out yet again, making me work unpaid overtime to help haul some crates out of storage. It’s a task I find myself often herded into, and not wanting any ill will from him, I do it without question. 

I focused on keeping all the crates on the stack as I hauled them from the large shed at the bottom of the field, my boss close behind me. Even at night, the temperature creeps up on you, and I found myself sweaty and exhausted before I even passed the midway threshold back up to the gates. I stumbled a little, and had turned around to check if Savoy had seen that- but he wasn’t looking at me.

While my back was turned, the sun had begun to rise, cresting over the treetops of the wild, untamed forest in the distance. Somewhere in there, I had thought, my piano is being bathed in light. I had yearned to play during sunrise. I’m sure it would have been beautiful. 

I had watched Savoy’s back as he stood, motionless, watching. We stood there for a good twenty minutes, just observing. 

Eventually he had turned around, and when he made eye contact with me, there was a collective understanding that what we had seen was beautiful. That the deep reds, the vibrant oranges, the delicate pinks and yellows and lilacs and the rising blues had granted us something beyond words. 

And then we had simply gotten back to work, hauling crates to the gates until my shift started, and I had to return to the apple trees. 

I hadn’t dwelled on it then, but in watching this sunrise, so ornate and beautiful- I wonder if any of the other tributes are looking at it too. I wonder if Bran can see it. If Tulip can see it. Hell- I wonder if the Careers can see it. 

Eventually, I have to descend. 

My plan, loosely, is to scour every inch of this territory, and move on to the next to do the same. With my luck, and a careful eye, I'll encounter Tulip again. 

However, I find that I'm not so lucky. 

I make spirals around the woods, so much so that I manage to hit the back hedge wall of the biome multiple times while trying to track footsteps. The footsteps I do find are all seemingly half-complete, beginning to sink back into the path. I make my way back through the woods, and I'm frustrated to realise I'm back where I started. So, like any reasonable scout, (or so I assume), I pick a new direction. I head down the small hill to the path I saw Spoke and Terce ally on. I then push right past it, in the direction Spoke and Bevel had come from. They hadn’t gone back that way, not directly, so I hope they aren’t still here. If they are, then I feel I'd have to ally with them out of pressure. But then again, maybe that’s a good thing. They could help me find Tulip, and I could fend them all off if I needed to. 

Isn’t that what I planned to do, anyway?

Just then, a cannon goes off.

I whip my head up, trying to make sense of the sound. Despite its volume, nothing shifts. Nothing moves. It wasn’t near me. Which, if it is Tulip- and I hope it isn’t- she’s too far away for me to get one last look at her before they take her away. Breath stuck in my throat, I listen out for a hovercraft that never seems to come. When another cannon sounds not even ten minutes later, it indicates a fight took place. I would assume two people died close together, but the fact a hovercraft hesitated- it’s enough to make sense of the situation. It then comes, soaring somewhere in the distance, so far that I can only just make it out as it hauls two abstract shapes that I know are bodies up into its depths. 

The silence that follows is agonising. I’d much prefer to be in a situation like I was in last night, tense and surrounded by potential adversaries. At least then I was informed. Now, I can only continue to scurry under the afternoon sun, worried out of my mind. 

It’s then I realise that I know exactly where I am, and this environment is not as strange as I previously thought. 

In front of me is a large, wide lake, uninterrupted and glassy. To the left is a large outcropping of boulders. 

In the back of my mind, a reel clicks into place, and I see myself over there in the distance, bashing Joule’s brains in with a whittling rock. I feel the fruit from earlier rise in my throat, and fists clenched, I swallow it back down. 

I feel deeply enraged to have doubled back on myself unknowingly. I thought I was uncovering new territory, venturing further and faster than I had before. It filled me with a sense of progress, but that shatters the moment I see Joule’s blood trickle into the water, in the replay in my mind. 

Though, I feel it’s worth continuing to scout. I pass by the boulders, skirting around the lake, and push through the memories of blood in order to journey past it. 

I should be proud of myself in the hours that follow, because I manage to forage some more wild fruit, but it means nothing, in the grand scheme of things. 

As the sun goes down, I hear another cannon fire off, and this one seems even further from the last. I can’t even make out where the hovercraft went until I see it lift up and away. I hold my breath until the sky goes dark, because what follows will determine if my efforts are all for nothing. 

I wait a while, and then it comes. The anthem still makes me jump. Three casualties, I remind myself. Another three steps closer to a line I don’t want crossed. 

However, when I see the first face, a sort of cold burning sensation crawls up my shoulders and my neck. He isn’t smiling, and I doubt he had the energy to. TROUGH CURRIER, the screen reads, and I can barely believe it. The strong, silent boy from District Ten who seemingly only wanted to protect and defend his district partner- gone. Just like that. I sympathise deeply with his defence of Shank- and at that thought, I realise that Shank still walks. Somewhere out there, she has lost probably the only person left who would go to bat for her. I only hope she’s able to make whoever killed Trough pay. 

I think back to the stairwell, where I crashed into him. He was a real, tangible boy, just like everyone else. The weight of death pulls at me even more than it did before- but just like he appeared, he fades away, and the procession moves on.

I’m surprised by the second- the one who I assumed earlier had gotten into a fight with who I now know to be Trough. CALLIOPE STRINGER, it says. I had only seen her in passing, when she almost caught me out in the maze a few days back, now. Has it been a few days, I wonder? Or have I lost it completely? Maybe both. I remember Tulip saying she deserted the Careers. In hindsight, I should’ve remembered that conversation in full last night. Maybe I would’ve understood off the bat how volatile Brutus and Terce were going to be, and how easy it would be to convince Terce to do anything for revenge. 

The third death upsets me further. MICA COLLIER, it announces. The mangy boy from Twelve. The one who simply stood and stared, big grey eyes piercing your soul. The one Betty seemed oh-so concerned about despite his apparent flippantness to his situation. 

I almost expect a fourth despite having not heard any more cannons today, but the broadcast ends there. Once the anthem plays once more, I am left in the darkness again, surrounded by that ever-so-grating birdsong. 

I’m sure the Capitol isn’t happy that another Career is dead. Or- maybe they are, considering her mutiny. Whatever the case, they’re probably satisfied, seeing as that’s the most deaths we’ve had in one day in a long while. I’m sure they were getting antsy. I’m sure they’re happy about Mica. I just about remember the current victor spouting some wash about having a rivalry with Twelve. He’s probably overjoyed. And as for Trough…

I just hope there’s someone back home who’s remembered to mourn him. 

I wonder what mourning is like in Ten. Is it like mourning in Eleven?

As I drift off, I turn the question over in my head.

Mourning in Eleven is somewhat of a casual task. People die every day, and we’re all far too busy to spend weeks wallowing in our depression in order to mourn. We can’t afford to shut down, to stop, to slow the rate of production- a harvest is only as good as its most bruised fruit. When I was growing up, I didn’t know what a funeral was. Sure, I knew what dying meant- someone was going to disappear, for good. I knew that much when a kid in my class had caught ill at the age of five and died in his sleep. He just stopped coming in. Though, I still saw his family come to collect his sister after the day was out, and they all looked just fine- so until I was ten, I didn’t realise that death was a devastating, all-encompassing force. Less of a task, like they want you to think it is. 

I was still at home when they came. 

I would usually have been sent to someone else’s home when my parents were out in the evenings, but on this day, our neighbor was looking after me at home. An old woman who I knew as Auntie Harmie. I think her actual name was Harmine, but she died with no family left behind before I had the desire to find out more about her. She had old, worn hands, but I liked it when she used to braid my hair. There was no need for doing it, not like my papa, but she did it to me as an absentminded habit. If not that, she would be weaving baskets. She would sell them at the market, and despite her advanced age, her work was strong- it spoke for her. She kind of reminded me of my papa, in that way. Dark, sun-worn skin and coarse hair and a strong smile. A tough will that could conquer beasts. 

Auntie Harmie had me sat on the kitchen counter, peeling a couple of potatoes to toss into a stew she was making. She liked to bring her kitchen equipment to our house, and make big batches of food we could share between us and even more people in our neighborhood. I found peeling hard, then, but I was getting the hang of it. I kept getting little nicks and cuts, but Auntie Harmie just washed and bandaged them like they were nothing. It made me feel less afraid of the pain. 

There had been a harsh knock at the door, and when Auntie Harmie had managed to reach it, the Peacekeepers there were practically bashing the door down to get inside. They pushed so hard that Auntie Harmie had flattened herself against the wall on impact with it. I had curled up on the counter, clutching half-peeled potatoes to my chest as if they were the most important possessions I owned. 

Auntie Harmie had asked a stationary Peacekeeper by the door what they were doing here. He had asked her if she lived here, and she said no- that she was looking after me while my parents were away. The Peacekeeper had scoffed. They’ll be away for a long, long time, he had said. It came out in a drawl, like he was enjoying watching the color drain from Auntie Harmie’s face as he said it. She didn’t need to prompt him for him to quickly tell her that they had been arrested. 

The Peacekeepers didn’t leave, not even when they were done turning our house inside out. They had grabbed a few things, things that to this day I don’t feel were incriminating, like some articles of clothing, some bits of food I knew they had honestly paid for, because I went to market with them. I think they just wanted to steal from us, if I'm honest. It’s not out of the ordinary- it happens all the time. I just didn’t know it, then. 

After a long while, another Peacekeeper came to our door, and when he conferred with the others, they gestured for me to come over. 

“Hey now, little boy.” One of them said, as if coaxing a stray cat. Even then, I knew they were treating me like dirt. “Come with us. We won’t hurt you.” 

Even then, after I had slid off the counter and been forced to drop the potatoes, they had gripped my arm so tight their gloved fingers made indents in my forearm. Auntie Harmie wasn’t allowed to come with me, on account of not being a blood relative. 

I remember it now- the Justice Building. I remember being momentarily starstruck by its grandeur, so much so that I hadn’t noticed them setting up the gallows as we went in. 

They led me to a room- that room, the very same they detained me in seven years later, as if some cruel joke- and before I went in, a Peacekeeper made me take off my little jacket and empty my pockets, and then proceeded to pat me down because he didn’t believe I was complying correctly. 

Then they had opened the heavy door, and there they were. 

And then they told me to say goodbye. 

The memory becomes even more vivid, as the one section of this series of events I've actually tried to cement into my memory on purpose makes me feel as small as a ten-year-old again.

“Oh, Huck.” My mama gasped, not holding back on choking on her tears. She had run to me from the back of the room and held me in her arms. Her skin was always butter-soft. Her hair was always shiny and vibrant. She always smelled like the outside. And she was crying, which made me cry.

“Mama- what’s happening?” I had asked, but that only made her cry harder, a trembling, shivering sob working its way up her spine and to her whole body. 

“What’d they tell you, Huck?” My papa asked, from way up high. I’m almost his height now. Sometimes I imagine what it would have been like to look at me from his point of view, attempting to keep a stern face. He was never good at pretending. He never played our games quite right. I think people liked that about him- it made him a standout for morale. 

“...That you’ll be away for a long time.” I repeated back, trying to look out from between large gatherings of my mama’s hair.

My papa had sighed, his face contorting miserably. He had rubbed his face for a while, and then knelt down next to my mother. 

“Mama, where’s your scarf?” I asked. I don’t know why I did. My mother was never seen without her headscarf, a beautiful, silky thing colored in burgundy and peach. 

“...I left it at home, baby.” She mumbled, running a hand through my hair. She liked my hair long- she liked that it was thick and wavy and fell in a gentle way, just like hers. “Oh, baby…” She moaned. “My baby…”

“Ros.” My papa placed a hand on her shoulder, and she backed off from me, leaning her head on his broad upper arm, looking at me like I was a retreating ship she could not chase across the sea. 

Papa had then, with my mama on his shoulder, attempted to hold both of my hands, and look me in my eyes. On reflection, I realized he was crying. “They’re going to tell you we are bad people. That we are rebels. That we stole and lied to hurt people. Huck, that could not be further from the truth. All we did was try to feed people when they could not feed themselves. Do you remember Olive Grouter?” 

I nod. I vaguely remembered the emaciated woman a few houses down who had died some years ago from having a mental sickness of some kind. 

“She died because she was sick. Panem had beaten her down, and she needed help that nobody gave. We tried to give that help to people, Huck. We did improper things to give that help. Sometimes help comes with sacrifice. Do you know what sacrifice means?”

I shook my head.

“Sometimes to save someone from dying, you have to do things you do not like. Things that are against the law. Things that break rules. Things that hurt you. We knew that we risked our lives to provide people aid, Huck, and…” He sighed. He broke eye contact with me, then.

“Are you going to die?” I blurted. To this day, I don’t know why. 

Papa looked back at me and nodded, solemnly. “Yes, Huck. We went too far. They caught us. They are going to kill us.” 

Mama began to sob again. 

I couldn’t help it- I sobbed too. Until my throat went raw. Until my eyes went puffy. 

Papa took us both in his arms, like he always did, holding us close to his heart. I wanted more than anything in the world to be back on the rug by the window, curled up in his arms without a care. I didn’t fully understand the consequences of what was happening, nor did I want to. I just wanted my mama and papa, even though they were right here. 

“Don’t go,” I wailed. “Don’t go! You can’t go!”

“We don’t have a choice, Huck!” My papa had cried. “We love you, you know that, right? We love you. We love you more than the sun loves the leaves, Huck.” 

I refused to listen. I began to get angry, a deep rage, something I don’t think I had ever felt before then. A will to fight. “I don’t want you to die!” I screamed. 

“Huck,” My mama had looked alarmed. “Baby. Please.” She held my face in her hands. “Huck, look at me. Look at me.”

Against my will, I did. 

She had mustered a smile for me. Something she and my papa had never failed to do, even through the poverty and upset in our lives. They were my light. 

“People will take care of you, Huck. You won’t go to the children’s house- someone will take you in, I know it.” Untrue, in the end. All of her friends, all of my papa’s friends had turned on their memories, shaken their heads at the mention of their names. It fell to Durian, eventually, to save me from losing our house and my life, and for that, I can never repay him. I never will be able to.

“Don’t watch it. They will kill us, and they’ll do it right outside, but you can’t watch that.” 

I was trembling at this point, shaky and fragile as an autumn leaf, teeth chattering in fear. 

“They won't hurt you, Huck.” Papa mumbled down at me. “They know you never knew. Our friends didn’t know either. Nobody knew. They know you’re innocent. They’ll try to scare you, Huck. They’ll try to catch you out, too. Be kind, be smart, and don’t be afraid to ask someone for help. As long as you keep your head down and do your work, they won’t have any reason to hurt you.” Now that I am almost an adult do I know how much of a lie that is. They’ll do anything to hurt you, and oftentimes, they don’t need to. I’m sure papa knew that. 

“You’ll be a good man.” Papa told me, and mama nodded. “You’ll be handsome, because you got all your looks from your mama.”

Mama scoffed. She always tried to tell papa that I did look like him, but he never believed her- because it really wasn’t true. Everyone who knew my mama knew I ended up looking just like her. It wasn’t until I started maturing did my papa begin to show in my looks- something I wish he could’ve seen. I inherited his strong frame. His eyes. His laugh. Something I realised one day, and on that day, I decided to never laugh like that again, if I could help it. The memory alone was too painful, and my papa liked to laugh a lot. 

“Do you know how me and your mama met?” Papa asked.

“Oh, come on.” Mama spluttered, wiping her tears. She even laughed a little. Just that alone made me feel happier. 

“He doesn’t know!” My papa had argued. “What other time can I tell him?” 

Mama shook her head. 

“Your mama was always very pretty. All the other boys liked her an awful lot.” My papa began, in the way he always did when telling stories, using his hands and smiling wide. “But unlike all those other boys, I was funny. I made your mama laugh. She used to pick me to play with in the schoolyard because I told good stories to her. Stories I’ve told you. I would tell you more if I had time, but this one is the most important to me, Huck.” We had all sobered up when he said that, but he continued, holding us both once more and swaying us gently. “Her papa didn’t like me one bit. Said I was bad for your mama, and- maybe he was right. But your mama, Huck- she was unlike anything I've ever seen in my life. Your mama is strong and loud and kind and beautiful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. She decided to leave her papa behind to marry me, and for that I will always be grateful.” He kisses the top of her head, and instinctively, she leans her head up, like a cat to the sun. “And she gave us you.” He pinched my cheek, and I had attempted to laugh and fuss at him, like I often would. “That’s why that story is precious above all else to me, Huck. Because it has the people I love most in it. The people I would sacrifice anything for.” 

The handle of the door began to tremble, being fiddled with.

I quickly reversed all the calming my mama and papa had done to me, flying into a frenzy. I burst out of their arms and trembled again, babbling nonsense and crying, hard. 

“Huck- Huck!” My mama had panicked, scooping me up into the air. “Huck, remember what I said, okay? Don’t watch- don’t- DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME!” She yelled, shrill, as a Peacekeeper reached to take me from her arms. 

My papa, with great pain, had to hold her back as the Peacekeeper succeeded in prying me away, as I kicked at him and screamed for my mama and my papa. 

Papa looked like he wanted to say something, to yell out to me, but couldn’t find the words. 

The last time I saw my parents, they were fighting. My papa had stared, lifeless, at my mama as she punched at his chest, screaming obscenities at him. Neither of them had looked at me as the door closed, as I grabbed the air and wailed for them to come back to me.

I didn’t even get the opportunity to obey my mama’s last wish. 

They parked me right at the front of the crowd, the wall of bodies so strong that even if I wanted to run, I couldn’t have. 

I watched as they were hauled on stage, and the mayor had read out their crimes. They had accused them of lying, stealing, conspiring and above all- inciting rebel activity. They were called ringleaders, traitors and villains. 

I saw my mama make eye contact with me, horrified, unable to even mouth words to me in fear of a faster execution. My papa caught on, too. They had tried to speak with their eyes, their faces shifting between alarm and regret and misery before they were guided, handcuffed, onto raised steps. Their heads were guided into nooses, and unceremoniously, they were left dangling, suffocating, eyes bloodshot and bulging, thrashing and quivering, until someone pronounced them dead. 

Government officials at least graced me with assistance enough to help me bury my parents. People flitted in and out, mostly old friends with enough morality left in them to help fill in paperwork on my behalf, but after that, they soured. 

It wasn’t that nobody came to their funeral, it’s that they came, but only to gossip. To exchange rumors, to have a day off work to speculate, and to do it all in front of me, without a care. 

I was told I needed to find work. I was told my parents were evil people, and that I was blessed to be through with them. I was told I needed to choose their burial site. I was told I was going to lose the house for lack of rent. 

I was ten. Barely that, having turned so only a few months prior. 

When I had finally returned home, orphaned and alone, I had stood in the kitchen for a long time. 

I don’t know how my body knew to shut down, but it did. I woke up by the front door, curled up, in the dead of the night. The peeled potatoes were still on the counter. The table was just as it was when I had left. And on the chair- there it was. My mama’s scarf.