Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prim is practically deadweight in my arms by the time I get her back to Mrs. Everdeen, who's surprisingly lucid considering everything that's transpired. 

I've never held any true dislike for her, really, despite Katniss's obvious resentment for the woman. It’s a miracle that Ma had taken Pa's death as well as she had, pouring her grief into her work and beating it out against the washing boards while managing to keep me and the other two alive. Not everyone can handle that kind of loss like that. She came back to them after a while, started moving again and picking back up her work, but Katniss never really forgave her for it. I can’t say I wouldn’t feel the same, in her place.

Blue eyes meet grey as I deposit Prim in front of her mother, a wordless thanks passing between us. Prim doesn't say anything, practically ignores me to instead turn and bury her face in Mrs. Everdeen's chest, but I don't take offense; it's only from countless summers of practice that I'm keeping myself together, after all. Katniss already caused enough of a ruckus, shaking me so completely that I feel slightly off-kilter, as if the world’s suddenly tilted beneath my feet.

It's strange how a person's body can respond to danger before your mind even has the chance to process it. That instinct's saved my life more than a few times in the woods, alerting me to things I wouldn't have caught otherwise until it was far too late. 

I've always wondered if my father had been struck by that peculiar paralysis before going into the mines that day, if he had to continue on even with the lingering certainty that he was walking to his grave. 

Too bad that there’s no hope of running from this particular threat. I feel myself freeze in place even before my mind catches up with the rest of the world around me, that horrifyingly familiar sound ringing out across the town square. 

“Gale Hawthorne?” Effie Trinket calls out my name again, and her stupid Capitol accent makes it sound utterly ridiculous. The annoyance it sparks in me works to thaw my body, enough for me to lift my head and straighten my back. My eyes find Ma’s as I do, just briefly; my horror is mirrored in her gaze, and I have to make myself move, then, so I don’t completely lose it.

The walk up to the stage has always felt like watching a man being walked to the gallows, and it’s only amplified now that it’s my neck destined for the rope. Every eye in Twelve has fixed itself on me, and I’m all too aware of their gaze, my skin crawling and a lump forming in my throat. It’s all I can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, take the stairs step by step, until I’m finally up on the stage and I’m far closer to Effie Trinket than I’ve ever wanted to be.

Whatever she’s put on her face to make her skin white has been coming off in the humid summer heat, I note distantly, since I can see the faint lines where sweat has tracked down her face and her real skin peeks through. She says something to me, but it might as well be Posy’s babbling when she was younger for all that I can understand it. Between her white skin, her coily pink hair, and the off-putting green of her suit, I’m suddenly reminded of the clowns I’d seen in books as a kid. I struggle to keep my expression schooled, because I can’t laugh, not unless I want to sign my death certificate right here on live television.

Katniss is behind her, but I can’t look at her either, not yet, not unless I want to make a completely different type of fool of myself in front of the entirety of Panem, so I turn and stare into the town square while the Mayor begins the Treaty. It’s by sheer luck that I manage to find Ma in the crowd again; it’s only her eyes that reassure me and keep me tethered, my solace in the storm as hysteria rises to the lump in my throat and chokes me.

Taking a few deep breaths in through my nose, I finally calm, and I manage to settle myself enough that when the Mayor finally stops talking, I take his cue to turn, robotically reaching out my hand in the same old choreography engrained from years of being in the audience. Katniss's grey eyes lock with mine almost immediately, baring every bit of her own hidden emotions to me and me alone—I can see echoes of my own fear and shock projected back to me, along with no small bit of betrayal, doubtlessly taking my initial refusal to look at her personally.

I’m glad that I’m facing away from the camera, if only because the sight of Katniss in front of me sends the weight of reality slamming back into my chest so hard that my knees nearly give out with the force of it. The rough touch of her hand in mine does little to soothe me, being awfully, sickeningly familiar, our mirrored calluses formed by years of routine and fond memories. This is a hand I know. A hand I trust.

Anger has always been my most reliable of emotions. Ma says that it was basically guaranteed when I was born during the worst winter storm Twelve has had in recent years, the howling winds welcoming me with their rage. Even as a kid, any emotion I couldn’t easily handle was quickly turned into anger, and growing up I had quite the temper. 

After Pa died, I got into more fights than I really should have, grief manifesting in punches thrown over the smallest problems I could find. I nearly got thrown out of school for it. Ma having to deal with it made me realize how much harder I was making things for her, though, and I promised to stop. I’m still not convinced they really believed me, or if I was only spared by their pity for the poor Seam boy with the dead father.

That’s why, in the middle of shaking Katniss’s hand, I’m not at all surprised to realize that I’m angry. I’m so angry that I have to clench my jaw shut to keep myself from screaming, and I pull my hand away a little too quickly to avoid crushing Katniss’s. Pure fury burns through me, its heat coursing through my veins and setting my heart to pumping, and I feel ready to explode. It's only because I don't want the kids to see me get a bullet to the head that I don't take off running as soon as the anthem ends, and by that point the Peacekeepers at my back keep me from doing anything truly stupid. 

We’re marched through the front door of the Justice Building, down the central hall. I want so badly to speak with Katniss, or even just look at her, but we’re separated before I can do so much as turn my head to see her. The Peacekeepers just keep pushing me forward, and since I don’t want to cause any trouble that could affect seeing my family, I don’t do anything except grit my teeth and continue.

Maybe other tributes have been in the same incendiary headspace I am, because there’s not much in here beyond a couch pushed back against the windows with chairs surrounding it. They leave me to sit, and like the obedient little tribute I am, I plant myself in the corner of the couch to glare at the door while silently fuming.

The uselessness of it all chafes at me. The velvet couch, the plush carpet. The finely polished wooden floors. All of that money and labor, wasted on rooms that sit empty for most of the year in a dusty old building that barely anyone goes in. I've been here only once before, after Pa's death; I'd been too preoccupied to notice the offensive wealth surrounding me, but now I'm given ample time to bask in it. How many families could be fed just by selling all of the things in this room? A sick feeling grows in my gut, alongside the burning rage.

It feels childish, to sit and pout instead of doing anything reasonable, but then again, nothing that’s happened in the past half hour has been reasonable. No part of these Games has ever been reasonable. I want to shout all of this to the walls, to the ears they most likely have lining every part of this goddamn room, but I know any punishment will fall onto my family. So I sit instead, simmering in silence.

I prefer to be angry, anyway. Crying or shutting down isn't going to change anything now that my fate is sealed, and I’m already used to redirecting that energy. It's easy enough to funnel it into thinking, making a mental list of everything I'll need to tell Ma. The people she can trust. Who she can reliably trade with. Everything I've learned to keep us alive.

The doors fly open a split second later, startling me enough that I’m unprepared for when Rory flies into me, slamming into the left side of my chest and clinging even as I reel back, winded. This is already concerning, seeing that he's been hellbent on being broody and defiant from the moment he turned eleven, but my heart drops low into my stomach when I finally register him shaking. Then, Vick makes sure I’ve lost all of my air by colliding with my right side, and I can only pat both of their heads as I wheeze complacently.

“What, you two trying to kill me before I even get out of here?” I try to joke as soon as I get control of my breath again, but I can tell that it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it passes my lips and I wince, hugging them tighter to me. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

The couch dips beside us as Ma sits down next to Vick, and then her fingers are on my jaw and she’s tilting my head so I look at her, meeting my gaze fully now that we aren’t an entire square apart. She has tears welling in her eyes, the corners of her lips betraying the strain of her making herself smile, and she looks so uniquely devastated that I suddenly feel like I’m drowning. I open my mouth almost reflexively, desperate for air, but my mind acts faster than I can process and then words are falling from my mouth like a stream.

“There are a few of Pa's old friends who I know from the Hob, they helped me when I was starting out in the woods. If you tell them I sent you, they'll help you, too. Look for Webber and Oreion.” I wrench my gaze away from Ma and instead look down, meeting Vick’s wide eyes from where he’s burrowed into my chest. Rory still isn’t looking at me, but I can tell he’s listening. 

“I know I never showed you two anything past the fence, or taught you how to shoot. I’m sorry. But I know you can figure it out, and you have to keep each other safe. Plus, you've got a whole list of people you can trade with. Prim has that goat of hers, and Mrs. Everdeen has a real useful book, filled with all sorts of plants that are safe to ea—”

“Shut up! ” 

My jaw clicks shut as the temperature around us seems to drop by a few degrees. The shout was accompanied by a small fist pounding itself into my chest, and now Rory is shoving his face close to mine before I can think. 

He’s madder than I’ve ever seen him, and he's been crying too, his eyes red and cheeks streaked with fat tears. Any anger sparked by his behavior dissolves instantly. I can’t remember the last time he cried like this, not since he was little, and my chest grows heavy, like there’s been a boulder dropped directly on me. “Ror…”

“No! Stop it!” A pound of his fist. “Don't talk like that! Stop–talking like you’re–you’re–like you’re not coming back!” 

Another hit, and this time it actually smarts. Ma reaches out to grab his hand and stop him, but he wrenches it away before she can. I scowl at him. 

“You can be mad at me all you want, but don’t you take it out on Ma,” I warn. 

I may as well have said nothing at all with how he ignores it, though, continuing on like there hadn’t been an interruption. 

“You are gonna come back. You. Are. And you talking like you won’t just means you’ve already given up. But you’re not allowed to give up.” The boulder on my chest just gets heavier, pressing down on my lungs like it’s threatening to crush me, and for a moment I can’t find any words to answer him. “You can’t give up. So you’re gonna come back. You will. Swear it.”

I have to swallow twice to get past the hard lump in my throat. There’s no way I can swear a thing like that, and he knows it—it’d be just as foolish as me swearing to become the next President. Possible, yes, but the chances of it happening are slim to none, and everyone would be trying to kill me along the way. Not to mention Katniss… 

My thoughts drift to her, who’s surely in a room identical to this one, having an identical conversation with Prim, and my stomach folds in on itself. I’ve been trying not to dwell on it, trying not to think about it, but I know, deep down, that if it comes to me and her, I know which one of us isn’t coming home. I’ve always known, in a way, that there’s no way I could ever be the same if I lost her, but she’s strong. She’d be okay. 

I can’t ever say that, though. Especially not to them.

“Swear it! Please ,” he repeats, voice breaking in the middle of his plea. Two more tears slide down his cheeks, and I feel something in my chest snap as they do. Damn it, if he doesn't know exactly how to wear me down…

“... I’ll try my hardest,” I finally manage to croak. Rory doesn’t seem very convinced – I’ve never been a great liar, not to my family – but I ruffle Rory’s hair just to get him to stop looking at me like that, and he simply sniffles before pulling back, leaving a damp patch on my shirt over my heart. 

On my other side, Vick has somehow managed to worm even closer to me, almost as if he’s trying to merge his body with mine. I ruffle his hair, too, just for good measure. 

“That’s all I could ever ask of you.” 

It's Ma who's talking, and when I turn and meet her eye, I know in an instant that she’s reached the same conclusion I have. She knows just as well as I do that I'm not coming back, and no matter how much she may want to try and convince me otherwise, I've made up my mind.

I should say something to her, I realize. I should tell her how much she means to me, how she’s kept me afloat through Pa's death and all the years after. I should tell her how much I love her. I should tell all of them that I love them. That I'm sorry. Yet, when I open my mouth, the words get lodged in my throat and I'm unable to say anything at all. 

After a heartbeat or two, though, she must realize my issue because she just smiles at me, all gentle. Then I'm in real danger of getting upset, because of course she does. We’ve always been better without words anyway, me and Ma. 

She’d wiped her tears away at some point, so she's clear-eyed when she looks at me and I’m selfishly glad for it. Her tears are sure to incite my own, and we both know that I can’t go on the train looking vulnerable and weak.

Then she leans over Vick’s head to hug me, and it’s a bit awkward, but I try to only focus on the familiar scent of laundry soap and cinnamon that greets me when I bury my nose in her hair. Every time I smell that combination I think of her, how I’ve been her rock and she’s been mine, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep tears from forming as she steadies me one last time. 

After a moment, she pulls back, just enough for her to plant a kiss on my cheek. 

“Give ‘em hell for us, baby,” she whispers. I can’t stop the surprised laugh that escapes from me.

Pa used to say something similar to me when he’d be there to send me off to school, back when I was little, just starting and nervous as hell. It was the Hawthorne family motto, he'd told me, a decree to avoid trouble by being the trouble. Give ‘em hell. Of course, that didn't ever really make sense. I'd yell at him for being ridiculous and he'd only laugh in response, but no matter what, every time he said goodbye he'd end it the same way.

Between that and his hand-me-downs I’ve worn for the Reaping, I’d like to think that he’s also here to send me off, in a way. A strange kind of silver lining on what’s quickly turning out to be the worst day of my life.

“ Heeeeey , it's my turn,” a tiny whine comes from Ma's shoulder, and I laugh louder. I’d almost forgotten she was still holding Posy, with how quiet she’s been.

My grin slips a bit, though, upon looking at Posy's sweet little face. Although she’s got her lip stuck out in a pout, the uncertainty and fear is clear as day. She's entirely too solemn for a near five year old, and I suddenly realize that whatever levity I've been expecting from her will not be coming. 

“Alright. C'mere, Posy-pose,” I try, using the nickname that always makes her giggle as I lift her into my lap. She doesn't react to it, just as I'd dreaded, and my heart sinks—Vick moves back to make room and Posy doesn't hesitate before wrapping her little arms around my neck, burying her face there. Still, I keep trying. “What's up, Pose?”

She mumbles something into my collarbone, but her face is so mushed against my chest that I can't make out a word of it. Ma sighs. “We can't hear you, baby. Speak up.”

Posy whines, and her voice is barely louder than it was before, but it's intelligible enough to break my heart. “I said, I don' want Gale to go away like Pa did.” 

Well.

There’s a point a person reaches, where they can only feel so much at one time. When they start feeling way too much all at once, their brain just blocks it all out before it completely overwhelms them. I think I’ve reached that point because all I feel at her words is an eerie sense of calm, washing over me like a wave. I’m still at a loss for words, though, so I do the only thing I can think of at the moment, leaning down and pressing a kiss into her hair.

Little flyaway strands tickle my nose, and I close my eyes, my mind going back to the hours before this, when she’d crawled right into my lap and demanded I do her hair for the Reaping. Was it really only this morning? The memory almost feels like it's from another life, a completely separate world where I wasn't reaped and I didn't have this conversation, and I was able to go back home and have dinner with the Everdeens to celebrate the passing of my last Reaping. 

Yet, when I open my eyes again, I’m still there in that awful room, saying goodbye to everyone I love, and I know that it’s pointless to think about anything that isn’t here and now.

“I know, Pose. I don’t want to either,” I tell her, knowing that I'm entering a fight I’m guaranteed to lose. “But I have to. I love you, okay?”

Just as I'd dreaded, Posy furiously shakes her head, tightening her grip on me. “No! I don’t wanna!” 

“Posy,” Ma warns. There's a crack in her voice that betrays just how close she is to breaking, and I feel another snap in my chest, identical to before. I suppose you really can feel your heart break.

Of course, I've known we only have so much time to say our goodbyes, but they couldn't have picked a worse moment for two Peacekeepers to march in and inform us that time is up. Ma goes to pry Posy off of me right as I try to do the same, and it’s like a bomb goes off with how she immediately starts screaming, clinging to me like I'm her lifeline. Even aside from the sheer volume, I can’t handle the sound of it. It's a different type of scream than her usual tantrums, closer to her wailing when she wakes up from a nightmare, and it deeply upsets me in a way that little else can. 

I'm so rattled by it that I seem to briefly work on autopilot, shuffling behind my family on numb feet as they're led out. It’s only a few feet away from the door that I come back to my senses and remember that I can speak. So I do, telling them I love them and hoping they hear it over Posy's wails, over and over in a repeated mantra, until the door is closed in my face and I'm left alone once again.

The air rings around me with the sudden quiet after Posy’s tantrum, and I feel like my body is buzzing at the same frequency. I ignore the couch in favor of beginning to pace in front of it, left to deal with my growing nerves. The more I think, the more agitated I get, and soon every inch of me is like a live wire, crawling with electricity and ready to burst at the slightest touch..

In hindsight, I'm regretting not saying anything more to prepare my family. Regretting that I didn’t try harder to give them the information to keep them alive, no matter how upsetting it would be to Rory. I run through all of the people I know from the Hob, the merchants that always give me a fair price, people in the Seam who don't particularly care for me but might be willing to keep an eye on Ma and the kids once I'm gone. 

Katniss and I had always planned for only one of us possibly being reaped; we'd never considered for the odds to be so cruel as to reap us together, and the loose ends I can't tie up before we leave continue to pile up behind my eyes.

I'm so preoccupied that I nearly give myself whiplash when I turn to look at the door, alerted by the sound of it opening.

I didn't expect any other visitors beyond my family. Maybe some of my friends from school, or even the old friends of Pa’s I'd mentioned, but I knew it was a long shot. If you aren’t especially close to someone who’s been reaped, you don’t visit them unless you have something to get off your chest. It isn’t worth the extra attention from the Capitol otherwise.

“Mr. Mellark,” I say, with equal parts surprise and suspicion. 

The old baker’s one of Katniss and I’s best customers, at least whenever we manage to swing by when his wife isn’t around. I know he has a fondness for our squirrels–he’d taken one this morning in exchange for the loaf of bread that made our breakfast, a trade that would be unthinkable on any other day–but our relationship beyond business is nonexistent. Hell, I’d have expected one of his sons to visit me over him. At least I’ve been in the same classes with them for years.

“Peeta wanted to speak with Katniss,” he responds, like he knows what I’m thinking. He’s usually a man of few words, so I’m a little taken aback that he’s made the effort. The words themselves have only made me even more confused, though, and more than a little bit pissed.

There’s no reason to be bothered by Peeta speaking with Katniss, logically. I don’t think they’ve ever interacted either in school or outside of it, beyond the few times he’d been the one to open the door when we came by. It’s not like I keep tabs on who Katniss is friends with, though; she might be my best friend, but I have other friends besides her, and I know she has other friends, too. Maybe Peeta Mellark is one of them. It would make sense.

I repeat this to myself a few times over, and yet it doesn't manage to dislodge that feeling now that it’s there.

Mr. Mellark and I are still standing awkwardly across from each other, I realize. As much as I would like to spend our last moments together by being an ass, I make myself talk. “Thank you for the bread this morning.”

He seems surprised that I brought it up. He shrugs his shoulders, as if he's trying to say No big deal , then we fall back into uneasy silence. After a tense moment, he breaks first and reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a white paper bag, which he hands to me.

Immediately I'm wary. He may be nicer than his wife, but I still don’t trust any of the merchants as far as I can throw them, and gifts undoubtedly come with expectations for them to be repaid. It’d be rude to ignore it, though, and time isn’t moving any faster, so I stiffly take it from him. 

Peering inside, I'm actually taken off guard by the sight of the few beautifully decorated cookies at the bottom. Cookies are a rarity in the Seam as it is, but ones like these are practically unheard of. Now I’m confident that he’s either stupid or a bigger asshole than I thought, because it’ll take Ma a few months worth of her laundry money to pay off an expensive gift like this. I bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming at him, but I have to take a few seconds to breathe before I spit out a thank you.

I guess he can tell that he’s done something to piss me off, because he doesn’t stay long after. He just nods his head after another few seconds tick by, as if we’ve had a great conversation, and leaves without saying a word. I don’t care enough to tell him goodbye, and once he’s gone I set to ripping off the top half of the paper bag to tear into tiny little pieces, desperate for something to do with my hands. I flick them away as I do so, uncaring of where they end up. 

The petty part of me is glad to leave a mess in this perfectly manicured room. I feel like it’s my prerogative to, as a man condemned to certain death. I may be part of the Games now, but I won’t give them a good show. Not if I can help it.

Chapter Text

Just as I'd expected, I don't get any other visitors after Mr. Mellark leaves. I'm partly grateful for the break, so I can finally breathe, but I also grow more and more agitated as the time passes. I'm practically clawing at my own skin to rid myself of the restless feeling when the door opens and the Peacekeepers from before come stomping in, ordering me to follow them. I do so without complaint, all too eager to leave that haunted room behind.

The novelty of seeing and getting to ride in a car quickly wears off, especially once I fully recognize just how wasteful and excessive the machine is. Twelve isn’t one of the bigger districts, and we have no real need for cars. Hell, we barely even have wagons beyond the few that’re used to haul coal to the supply trains. I've walked to every place I've ever needed to go in the Seam, and I've gotten by just fine in my eighteen years alive. 

I’m only glad for the car ride since I’m finally reunited with Katniss. She’s got her usual scowl on, but I know her tells well enough by now to easily read her upset. She must’ve had as hard of a time with her family as I did mine. We don’t talk, barely even look at each other, but her presence is enough to rid me of that restless itch that had been torturing me in the Justice Building. Maybe it’s sappy, but it feels like the truth to say that I only really feel like my true self around her. I can only hope she thinks the same.

Once we stop at the station, though, I make sure to keep a distance between us. I’m not about to give away any hints about our friendship to the Capitol. 

I quickly find myself out of my depth, vulture-like reporters flocking around us as soon as we get out with the shutters of their cameras snapping like the ominous clicking of razor-sharp beaks. They crowd around us to the point that we nearly trip over them with every step, and that combined with the noise grates on my nerves almost instantly. I can only assume that the pictures they’re getting are all of me with my very best scowl, because I'm not about to get physical, but it's the best way to get the vultures out of my way.

A small part of me is glad. I don’t think I could hide my disgust for the Games, for the entire Capitol, even if I wanted to. And I have no reason to hide it now.

We’re made to stand in front of the doors to the train for a while as they photograph every inch of us, to the point I catch myself reflexively angling my body away. It’s one thing to see the photos taken of the tributes every year, but it’s a whole other invasive beast now that I have to endure this myself. The longer it goes on, the harder I have to grit my teeth and force myself to keep still. At this rate, I might not have many teeth left by the start of the games if I'm not careful.

Finally we're allowed on the train, and as soon as the doors close we begin to move. The cargo trains that take the coal in and out of Twelve aren't nearly as fast as this one, and I stumble a bit from the sudden acceleration. 

Yet another novelty, just as easily spoiled by a passing, sobering thought. They're hoarding high tech trains and who knows what else, all to themselves, while children in the districts are left to starve with nothing. Just like that, I've gotten back my sour mood.

I only grow sicker as we tour the inside of the train, which manages to be even more excessive than the room in the Justice Building and the car combined. By the time I'm brought to my very own section of the train – a thought that makes me so angry I can't even think – half of me feels like I'm about to puke my guts up, the other half like I might tear apart everything in this room piece by piece. 

Effie Trinket helpfully enlightens me that I'm allowed to do whatever I want until supper in an hour, adding, maybe change out of those old ratty clothes? as a final patronizing touch before she leaves. I don't want to find out what would happen if a tribute attacked an escort, but every moment in that woman's presence brings me closer. I'm just glad that I've held onto the cookies from Mr. Mellark all this time, because they serve well enough as a target for my anger, crumbling them one by one then throwing the pieces all across the room. I don't feel bad about the waste for once; after all, as I've been reminded, everything is at my disposal.

The prospect of running water on a train is baffling to me, never mind hot water at the turn of a dial, but I strip off my father's old clothes and turn the water as close to boiling as I can stand before standing under it for a good few minutes. I can't make myself stay in there long, not with the constant thoughts of our old bath back home where I have to share the same water with three other kids every washing up, but the heat and pressure of the water on my head helps to clear it. By the time I step out, I feel more or less settled, or at least not as volatile as I did before. 

I take a moment to carefully inspect the clothes I'd discarded haphazardly in my frustration, because the old fabric is prone to tears even when I'm being gentle. I've outgrown most of Pa's clothes at this point, being a little too long in the leg and broader in the shoulders, but Ma saved a few pieces for me, including the clothes he'd worn when they got married. 

I bite at the inside of my cheek as I run my fingers over the cool grey of the shirt, the pain distracting me from the upset gathering in my chest. Ma had asked me to wear Pa's shirt he'd worn for their wedding to the reaping, as a sort of good luck charm for my last year. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pick it up and start to put it back on. Ill-fitting and frayed as it is, none of the Capitol's clothes could come close to being as comfortable.

The rest of the hour is spent by me inspecting every inch of my quarters, though I don't know what I'm looking for in particular. A flaw, maybe. A gap in the system. All I get is that everything hums quietly with the familiar buzz of electricity, though at a much lower level than the fence back home. After I manage to pry one of the panels off the wall and fiddle with the wires it hides, I realize that almost if not all of it is connected to a central power line. Where it all leads to, I can only guess.

When Effie comes to collect me for dinner, she doesn’t say anything about the room or my state of dress, but I can see from the wrinkling of her nose that she's not pleased about my decision to keep wearing my Reaping clothes. I'm just glad her back is turned so she doesn't see my smirk.

I suppose she must've gone to get me first, because the dining room is empty when we enter. Haymitch is nowhere to be seen, which ticks me off, because I don't think Katniss alone will be enough to keep me sane, but I have no time to question his absence before Effie leaves again. Eyeing the Peacekeepers that stand at the entry warily, I decide that I don't care enough to ask.

The table is set with the finest dishes I've ever seen, with some of the porcelain being so thin that I can see the light shining through it when I lift it up to it. When Katniss comes out of the hallway after Effie a few moments later, I catch her looking at them, too. I can tell she's thinking the exact same thing that I am. How nice it must be, to live a life so comfortable that the most dangerous thing that could happen is your plate breaking.

Katniss has changed out of her mother's dress, and now wears a simple dark green shirt with matching pants. It's only now that I can get a good look at her that I notice the gold pin laying bright against her chest, and I have to think for a good moment about why I recognize it. Blond curls flash behind my eyes. That's right—Madge Undersee was wearing it when Katniss and I had brought her strawberries this morning, and I had eyed it in a pointed kind of way after she made that comment about the Capitol. It's a delicate little thing, surely worth more money than me or Katniss could ever hope to have, and suddenly I'm dying to know how Katniss has it here on this train. I keep my mouth shut, though, because we'll have enough time to talk tonight after the recaps, away from listening ears.

“Where's Haymitch?” Effie asks brightly. It takes me a little too long to realize she's asking me. She doesn't seem that upset when I shrug, though. I guess she has no special love for our mentor, a thought that makes me want to roll my eyes. 

“Well, it's been quite an exciting day. I'm sure he wouldn't want us to wait for him to eat!” she responds, and I barely hold back a snort. Exciting is one way to put it.

I'm quickly distracted from the thought, however, when the food starts rolling in. My body helpfully reminds me that I can’t afford to turn down good food when it's given, and besides, if I'm eating on the Capitol's dime, I'll take everything I can get. 

The food comes in courses, one right after the other, and I temporarily set aside my disgust with the Capitol because if nothing else, they have damn good food. Katniss and I wolf each dish down even as Effie says to save room for the next round, which there are five of in total. I’ve never been one to waste food when I actually have it, though, so I make it a goal to eat as much as I can. It’ll probably help us bulk up for the arena, too.

Our main course is lamb chops, which I’ve never had before but immediately decide I like, with fluffy mashed potatoes that I pile high with cheese. The meat is so tender and fatty that it nearly brings tears to my eyes, and it's so delicious that I'm half tempted to lick the plate clean after I'm done. 

Maybe Effie can read my mind, or she’s just decided that it’s been way too nice and quiet during the meal, because she pipes up as I’m polishing off the mashed potatoes.

“At least you two have decent manners,” she sighs, and my hands instinctively tighten around the knife and fork I’m holding, “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion.”

The pair last year was another pair of Seam kids, far smaller and younger than Katniss and I. I don’t think they ever had a real meal in their lives, or at least never enough to necessitate learning to use utensils. And their lack of manners certainly had no bearing on how quickly they were slaughtered in the arena.

Every bit of anger I've felt in the time since the Reaping rises so fast that I boil over almost immediately, a lit fuse reaching its end.

“Oh, yeah, I hate being reminded that the children I’m personally leading to their deaths have been starving their whole lives. Such a bummer.” 

I barely recognize my own voice with how cold it is, a venomous sarcastic tone slipping in toward the end. I hadn’t realized I was speaking until the words were already said, but I find I don't regret them. I'm practically shaking with the force of my rage; across from me, Katniss is deathly still, watching me with every muscle tensed as if she’s ready to run.

In any other circumstance, I likely would have laughed at Effie's expression of complete and utter offense, but I'm too angry to find any of it funny. It just pisses me off more when she starts to stutter, saying something about my attitude and how I best keep my mouth shut in the Capitol, and I can't help but laugh at that. Katniss looks at me like I've lost my mind.

"What're they going to do? Punish me?" I scoff. I steamroll forward, past the point of caring about consequences, "I'm already going into the Games. There's not much they really can do.” 

I catch Katniss's eye right as the last word falls from my lips, and I snap my jaw closed just as quickly as I'd opened it. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the pure fear in her eyes. Shame floods through me even though I’m not particularly sorry. 

It's safer for me to step back and ignore Effie, going right back to the meal. The next course comes rolling out, business as usual, and I don't care about being angry as much as I do the food. Still, it makes me smile a bit to see Katniss pointedly finish our last courses with nothing but her fingers, and I join her with the chocolate cake. Once we're done, I obnoxiously lick each of my fingers clean as Katniss uses the tablecloth to wipe hers. Effie doesn't say anything, but I can tell from how tight her lips are pursed together that she's pissed. I meet Katniss's eye, and we share a little grin. 

By the time the meal is done, my anger has dissipated to a weak smolder, and I feel much more likely to burst from everything I've eaten than my temper. Katniss looks just as queasy as I feel, but I'm determined to keep it all down. 

“We’ve eaten Sae's winter special with no issue. I know we can hang onto this stuff.” Katniss surprises me by speaking in a low voice, just for me to hear. I quickly find out that laughter is not helpful in settling my stomach, though I feel warm with the tiny smile I get in response.

The worst part of it all is that if I don’t think about the inevitable end in store for us, I really am glad that I’m here with her, instead of any other girl from Twelve. Even Prim, as much as I adore her, couldn’t have kept my head as level as Katniss’s presence does. I'm not sure if I would've been able to get through this nightmare otherwise. 

All of a sudden, I'm gripped with the need to pull her close and hold her in my arms, to feel that she's really here and I haven’t somehow hallucinated everything in the past few hours. I don’t, not with Effie still eyeing the both of us, but as we go to the compartment where we'll watch the recaps I nudge her shoulder with mine, gentle. She looks up at me, startled, but lowers her hackles when I smile at her and she realizes that nothing is wrong. She bumps my shoulder back, and my smile gets just a bit wider. 

Of course, by the time we're sat down my smile is long gone. They're technically supposed to be coordinated so that a person could watch all of them live, but there's a final recap at the end of the day that's mandatory viewing across the Districts. I’m not sure if it’s the richness of our meal that’s making me feel sick as the anthem plays, or if it’s the knowledge that I need to pay attention to this year’s recap. Mine and Katniss’s survival might just depend on it.

District 1 isn’t anything special, but I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end watching the tributes from 2. Cato and Clove. Cato is a classic Career, nearly as tall as me and definitely much more well fed. His smile when he volunteers is decidedly wolfish, less like an actual smile than a baring of his teeth. The girl, Clove, is fairly unassuming in comparison, outside of her own wicked grin. Something about her sticks with me after District 2’s reaping is finished, though. 3 is barely notable; halfway through 4, it hits me that Clove reminds me a lot of Katniss. Dark hair, olive skin, a slight build that hides a real strength… If I saw the two of them from behind, it’d be difficult to tell one from another. It’s this prospect that makes me shiver, and I force myself to refocus as we move on to 5.

The further we get into the reapings, the more overwhelmed I get. You can never really tell just what 24 people looks like until you’ve got them lined up like this. 24 of us, and only one winner. My nausea grows all the while, and I know it’s not from the food because I have to take a moment and breathe through my nose when the boy from 10 is called, and he drags himself up all the way up on the stage with a bad foot. I hate that I can only hope he goes out quickly.

Katniss barely reacts the entire time, but she flinches when the girl from 11 is called. I can immediately see why. She’s obviously young, and despite her dark brown skin and coily black hair, the way she carries herself is eerily reminiscent of Prim. Next to her district partner, a boy who must have a few inches on me and is built like a stack of bricks, I can only imagine that Katniss is thinking about Primrose being on that stage instead of that little girl.

Finally, we’re shown our own reaping. It doesn’t feel nearly as real on screen, but my chest still tightens when Prim’s name is called, when Katniss forces her way through the crowd to volunteer. I watch in distant fascination as I pick up Prim, carrying her away and off to Mrs. Everdeen in the crowd. 

I’m a little alarmed that they’ve kept 12’s salute for Katniss in the broadcast, but then I notice the commentators don't seem to quite understand it, brushing it off as an odd but harmless custom. I relax. Good . At least their disdain for us is good for one thing. They can think us backwards as much as they want, but if it conceals the true nature of that salute from the Capitol's gaze, I won’t protest against it. 

Then Haymitch falls off the stage, and I can't stop a snort from escaping me. I thought I'd heard some kind of yelling when I'd reached Mrs. Everdeen, but I couldn't have possibly guessed that was the source of it. I sober up a little as they continue on, showing when my name is called and I walk up to the stage, face stormy. I've never had the opportunity to see myself on film before, but there’s a strange kind of novelty to it, and only now can I recognize, more than a bit surprised, how formidable of a pair Katniss and I make. While we’re not as filled out as the  Careers, we’re definitely not the standard starving kids that are reaped each year, and our complete refusal to show any emotion makes us look far more confident than we were. This, if nothing else, makes me feel a tiny bit better about our odds. On screen, we shake hands for a split second, then the anthem begins, signalling the end of the program. I let out a breath. 

Instead of commenting on any of the other tributes or our reaping, Effie seems huffy about the state of her wig. I can’t even remember it looking different.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior,” Effie snaps. I guess she's not pleased about Haymitch's impromptu stage dive, and I snort again. I don't want to push it after blowing up during dinner, but I guess she's not of the same mind, because she narrows her eyes at me with barely veiled disdain. “Is there something funny?” 

I’m not quite so noble to ignore the bait, though. “Oh, no, ma’am. I just don’t know how well any lessons about behavior will stick, what with the drinking and all.”

Katniss smirks just a bit at that, and my grin gets wider, bolstered by her amusement. Effie, in comparison, swells with anger in a way that's astonishingly reminiscent of a bullfrog.

“Yes, how amusing ,” she hisses, “You do know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games, yes? The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, said mentor stumbles through the compartment doorway, reeking of liquor and clearly drunk as a skunk. 

“I miss supper?” he slurs, then proceeds to vomit all over his shoes before falling back on his ass. 

Katniss and I stare in disbelief as Effie delicately hops around the area of disaster in her fancy pointed shoes, fleeing out the door with a final sniff. “So laugh! Laugh away!”

Chapter Text

After Effie's gone, we can only watch as Haymitch tries and fails to rise back to his feet, slipping in the pool of his own vomit all the while. I've got a stronger stomach than Katniss, and I'm used to dealing with foul things after years of helping Ma with my siblings when they were babies, but it's a whole other prospect when it's a grown man I have to clean up after. The sight and smell definitely doesn’t help with my nausea, either. 

I can’t help but feel a little bad for Haymitch, though. A lot of people in Twelve dislike him, for one reason or another—I hear it most around the time of the Games, when our tributes inevitably die in the first few days. Mutterings about him failing to prepare the kids well enough, that he’d only cared about the Capitol’s liquor, that he’s the reason we haven’t had a victor since his games. Considering Effie’s rant before she’d left, I suppose it isn’t that far of a conclusion to jump to, but I can’t quite bring myself to believe it. I remember the stories Pa had told me about men in the mines, worn down by the Capitol’s endless cruelties until they felt they had no other choice but to turn to drink. Looking down at our mentor, I don't exactly want to think about what could have made him into this.

Katniss and I share a look, a silent understanding passing between us before we step forward and each grab one of Haymitch’s arms. As we help him to his feet, I have to turn away my face to spare myself from the worst of the stench.

“I tripped?” he asks, rubbing his face clumsily and only succeeding in getting vomit everywhere, “Smells bad.” 

“Sure does,” I agree. 

Katniss and I have had to carry our fair share of large game over the years, most notably being the lynx that had taken a liking to Katniss, but trying to steer a full grown drunken man to his compartment proves to be more of a challenge. Haymitch is still awake, for one, and his pitiful attempts at trying to walk with us just makes things more difficult when he inevitably goes down a few moments later. 

When we reach the threshold of his room, we gently let him down to the floor again, seeing that his legs aren't reliable enough to keep him upright. Though we don't say anything, our shared hesitation is clear; neither of us feel particularly up to bathing and putting a grown man to bed. 

“I can find one of the Capitol people to help him,” Katniss says. What I really want to do is make the Capitol people fetch Effie and have her deal with him herself, but I think I've antagonized the woman enough for one day. And while I feel bad for the guy, I can't think of anything I want to do less than play caretaker for the night. 

“Please,” I respond, and she disappears. 

As I wait for her to come back, I keep a close eye on Haymitch where he's sitting on the floor. Neither of my parents have been particularly dedicated drinkers, but I know enough from watching people around the Hob that the most dangerous thing for a drunk is choking on their own vomit. Haymitch doesn't seem like he's going to throw up again, barely even looks aware of where we are, but I watch him just in case. Effie was right about one thing; he is our most valuable ally. 

Katniss reappears a moment later followed by two silent Capitol attendants, her posture stiff and uncomfortable. I can tell that she's unsettled by their presence. I'm not exactly fond of them either, so we say our thanks and leave as quickly as we can without being impolite. As soon as they're out of sight, I can feel myself relax. 

“Can we talk for a bit?” Katniss asks quietly as we make our ways back to our compartments, surprising me. I'd been trying to think of ways to subtly ask the same thing—I guess we really are more in sync than I realize. I nod, and lead the way. 

She surprises me again when the door closes behind her, and suddenly she’s falling forward into my chest and slipping her arms around me. It's like second nature to pull her closer, even though we’ve never really held each other like this, pressing my nose into her hair and closing my eyes. She’s warm in my arms, almost delicate if it weren’t for the lean muscle I know she has, and my nose fills with the scent of fir still lingering under the cloying notes from the Capitol soaps. A reminder of home. Then I feel a pang of homesickness in my chest and I force myself to stop thinking, because I don’t want to waste this fragile moment. We don't say anything for a while, just stand there, and the tension drains out of me with each of her steady breaths. 

“Some odds we have,” she says after a long, quiet moment. It's muffled from her face being pressed into me, but I parse her words well enough that I start to laugh. I guess there’s no real good way to talk about our bad luck. Katniss quickly joins in, and then we're standing there in the middle of my compartment and giggling like we've lost our minds. Maybe we have. Honestly, with how everything today has gone so far, I'm not entirely convinced that I'm still all here. 

“You could say that,” I agree, and I finally let her go so she can take a step back, no matter how much I don’t want to. I can’t afford to indulge myself, especially not now, not with us going into the arena together. She’s studying my face carefully—suddenly, I’m gripped by paranoia that she can tell what I’m thinking purely from my face, and I panic. “Peeta Mellark visited you?”

Well, that isn't what I meant to start out with. I suppose it works in my favor, though, because Katniss’s expression immediately hardens as she looks at me warily. Even if it’s not the way I’d wanted this to go.

“How’d you know that?” she asks, accusing. 

“His dad told me,” I answer honestly. Katniss’s eyes soften just a bit in surprise, though she doesn’t completely let her guard down.

“He came to see you?”

“Trust me, I’m just as confused,” I say. In search of something to do instead of just standing, I take the opportunity to step around her and toward the bed, where I flop on my back to stare at the ceiling. I immediately hate that it’s as comfortable as I’d suspected. My feet don’t even reach the edge, something that I’ve had to deal with since I hit my first growth spurt at 12.

Katniss trails behind me like a ghost, stopping at the foot of the bed. I can practically hear her thinking. “If he was there for Peeta’s sake, though, why would he have visited you?”

“I guess our squirrels were just that good,” I say flatly. This gets a scoff from her, and I grin. 

I’ve purposefully left a space for her next to me on the mattress, but it’s only after the words settle that she takes it. She carefully slides up next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin but still not touching, and lays back so that we’re both staring at the slats on the compartment’s ceiling. We’ve talked like this before, though the banks around the river weren’t nearly as comfortable and we’d had to keep our eyes closed the entire time so the sun wouldn’t blind us. 

It’s better, less intimidating, to talk like this. Words tend to flow easier when you aren’t being watched all the while. Folding my hands together over my stomach, I don’t say anything else, just start counting the gaps in the slats above us while the quiet settles. 

“Have I ever told you how I started hunting in the forest, after my father died?” Katniss says after a while, after what I know has been a good bit of deliberation about if it’s worth it to tell me. There’s no use in prying information out of her, not unless you want her to completely shut down, so I respond simply.

“No, not that I can remember. Just that you’d been out there enough times that you knew the woods much better than I did.” I hadn’t meant to say it to be funny, but she scoffs again anyway. 

“You could’ve fooled me. You thought you knew so much more just because you were older, when you kept getting lost on your own snare line,” she grumbles, and I laugh. I can’t really say anything in defense of my younger self; right on the heels of Posy’s birth and full of fourteen-year-old self importance, I’d seen Katniss as just another person to take the lead for. It was only after we agreed to our deal that I started to actually admit that she was a lot more knowledgeable than me in the woods. 

Katniss goes quiet again, and I close my eyes. When she starts speaking, I keep them closed, to better focus on her voice and what she says.

“You know how my mother… disappeared after my father died.” She pauses, as if needing a moment to steel herself, before continuing. I listen silently while she talks in a low, flat voice about how close she and Prim had gotten to starving to death, how frightened she was of losing Prim to the community home after losing her father and, at least in spirit, her mother too. She’d started trying to sell random things from their home for money, for any chance to stay alive long enough for Katniss to sign up for tesserae. I’d heard this before, but not nearly in this amount of detail, and I start to understand her anger with her mother more and more as she continues. Intentional or not, the damage had been done. 

“I'd been walking down this muddy lane in town, where the wealthiest merchants live, and while I knew that stealing was a crime I was so desperate,” Katniss says, and I feel sick thinking about a tinier version of her, practically skin and bones, reduced to pawing through the scraps thrown away by people who almost always had a meal waiting for them at home. “But I didn't know the bins had just been emptied. So I stopped by the bakers, just for the chance they'd thrown out anything edible, when the baker's wife started screaming at me.”

My heart jolts in my chest. Practically everyone in Twelve knows that the baker's wife is one of the meanest people you can ever meet, and she's exactly the type to call the Peacekeepers on a starving kid for stealing from her trash bins. “She didn't get the Peacekeepers, did she?” 

“No, though she threatened to, a good dozen times. I knew she was serious, too, but…” she trails off, then, and I can't help but turn my head to look at her. She's still looking at the ceiling, eyes trained at a fixed spot on the panels, and I watch her profile as she seems to turn something over in her head. 

“... I think I knew that if I just gave up and left, we'd be as good as dead. So I backed off, but I stayed in the baker's yard. For what, I still don’t really know. But then I saw Peeta in the window, watching me.” 

Though things hadn't gotten nearly that bad for my family, we'd had a rough few months after Pa died, especially since Ma went back to work as soon as she could but most of her clients didn't need their laundry nearly as often as they did in the summer. Every bit of food we had went to her and my brothers, with me only getting the scraps and leftovers they didn't like. We were spread thin even with my tesserae, and the longer it went without Ma having Posy the more I insisted for my father's old friend Webber, who's one of Twelve's other known hunters, to take me into the woods. Only when it'd gotten so bad that I was eating a spoonful of grain for dinner did he relent. I was lucky to have two adults to help me through all of it, though; in Katniss’s case, she'd truly had no one to rely on but herself. 

“I guess he must've dropped a tray or something, because after he moved away from the window I heard his mother start screaming at him, and…” she pauses again, “... and a few minutes later, the back door opened and he was there, holding two burnt loaves of bread. His face was red, not like he'd been crying, but like he had been hit with… something.”

Though I don't really know Peeta Mellark, I do know the whispers about what goes on behind closed doors in the Mellark home. It sickens me that I’m not surprised about this detail of Katniss's story, and even though we're virtually strangers, I feel a pang of sympathy for him. “So you’re pretty sure she hit him for that.” 

“Yeah. She was telling him to feed the burnt loaves to the pigs, but after she left he looked at me again, and just… threw them toward me. I was so hungry that I could barely think, and it took me a few seconds to realize what he was doing, but when he went back inside I made myself get up and grab those loaves.” 

I don't say anything in response, thinking back over the story with more than a little bit of awe. Mellark had no reason to help Katniss, especially not with the added threat of his mother's ire, and yet he had. It's the type of kindness that makes you both despise and begrudgingly respect a person for, both because they didn’t do it with any expectations to be paid back, and because you didn’t think to do it first. 

“He saved my life, and he didn’t even know me,” Katniss adds in a whisper. 

I recognize the weight behind her words. In her eyes, this is a debt she'll never be able to truly pay off. Still, I find myself a bit unsure as to how it all relates.

“Did he… mention any of it to you, when he came to visit you?” I ask tentatively. 

“No,” answers Katniss, and she sounds agonized, like she’s been poring over it in the hours since to try and make sense of it. She turns her head then to meet my gaze, and I'm a little embarrassed to realize I've practically been boring holes into the side of her face with my eyes the entire time. “I wanted to thank him, to tell him how much it changed everything, but I just… couldn't. He didn't even really say anything to me, just wished me luck before giving me a bag of cookies.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “You got those, too? Damn, and here I was thinking me and the baker really had something special.”

The comment works to break the heavy mood, Katniss reaching up and smacking me in the arm as she snorts. I grin at her, all too proud of myself. 

“Did you eat yours already? I don't know what to do with mine, they're so expensive,” she asks, giving me a rare little smile I've only seen before in the woods. My own smile twists into a grimace. 

“Not exactly. I was so pissed by something Effie said when we got on the train that I… might have crushed them up… and thrown the crumbs everywhere. And ripped up the bag into little pieces, and threw them everywhere, too.”

My confession is met by Katniss bursting into laughter, much to my astonishment. I watch her with a wide grin that betrays my pride for my accomplishment, even though I hadn’t exactly intended for it. I've only managed to get a few true laughs out of her in the time we've been partners, but it's just as mesmerizing every time it happens. 

I can't tear my eyes away from her face as she calms down, still smiling even while she catches her breath. After a moment, she notices me watching her, but instead of sobering up she just turns her head back like before. She meets my gaze evenly, stormy grey irises sparkling in hard-won amusement. 

It grows quiet again between us, but now the silence is comfortable, warm and settling over me like a blanket. Katniss doesn't look away from me, and I don't look away from her, my eyes tracing over the features that I've come to recognize better than my own. Unprompted, my mind takes me back to that moment in the Hob, in the time between New Years and my birthday; Katniss had been laughing just like she was now, though it was in response to Darius's flirty teasing. My chest squeezes in an echo of the same realization that had hit me then, panic and affection and a terrifying kind of possessiveness all wrapped up in each other and into a feeling that was so overwhelming I still choke on the memory of it. 

Suddenly I'm fully aware of how dangerous of a position we're in. How close Katniss and I are to each other. The electric tension between us that my heart begs to break. If word got out about this…

I hear my voice before I can even think of what to do. “How do you have that pin, anyway?”

I guess if nothing else, I'm a master at sticking my foot in my mouth. 

Katniss looks perplexed for a split second before her hand flies to her chest, as if she's only just remembered that she's wearing it. Then she turns away, looking back up at the ceiling, and I struggle to swallow my disappointment.

“Madge gave it to me,” Katniss responds, her voice back to the flat tone it had before. I make myself look away from her as well, turning my focus to the slats above me before starting to count. Anything to keep myself from doing something stupid. “She wanted me to take it as my District token.” 

I don't know why, but her words brush up against something in me that instantly makes me bristle. Not jealousy, not exactly, but something close, something that tastes sharp and bitter at the back of my tongue. Maybe the realization that Madge is close enough with her that she'd give her something like that, a fancy gold pin I could only dream of having. It’s not even about the monetary value, at least not really, but the clearest thing I can tell is that all I have are my father's clothes, and I doubt the Capitol will let me keep them with me as my token. 

“That's nice,” I respond after a lengthy pause, wincing when my voice comes out strained. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katniss quickly turn her head to look at me. I keep my eyes on the ceiling like my life depends on it. 

“What's your problem?” Of course, nothing can be easy with Katniss. I let out a sigh at her demand, which only works her up more. “Do you really have an issue with her being my friend?”

What?

“What?” I ask, genuinely baffled. She's sitting halfway up when I lift my head to look at her, a fierce scowl twisting the corners of her mouth down and furrowing her brow. I’m used to us bickering, to her finding offense in the tiniest things I say and turning it into a fight, but I have no idea what button I've pushed this time.

“I don't care if you like her or not, it's not my fault that she came to see me and not you.” 

My brain grinds to a halt, and I stare at her uncomprehendingly. The conversation has taken such a hard left that I can't even begin to make sense of it. I guess that Katniss takes my silence as a response, though, because she pushes herself off the bed and stomps toward the compartment entryway in a huff. 

“Katniss—,” I manage to choke, only to be cut off by the slamming door. Her footsteps are considerably muffled with the door closed, but I can still hear her noisily going toward her own compartment until the sound of her steps are indistinguishable from the background noises of the train.

I stare in the direction of where she'd stormed off, then slowly lower myself back down onto the bed, still utterly lost. Then I squeeze my eyes shut as the full weight of my exhaustion crashes into me, spurring me to bring a hand to my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. Whatever all of that was… I can't even begin to untangle.

I'd be content to simply drift off like this, but I'm halfway between sleep and consciousness when I remember that I'm still in my day clothes. I force myself to sit up, not out of any care for the cleanliness of the sheets, but because I'm loath to wrinkle my father's clothes any more than they already are. I’m just glad Ma can’t see me, because I know she’d be giving me hell for my lack of regard toward the sheets.

Leaving my shirt and pants folded clumsily on the foot of the bed, I just grab whatever set of sleep pants I touch first in the appropriate drawer and pull them on. I don't even try to find a shirt, far past the point of caring, but before I slump back into the bed I make myself gather my hair into a somewhat respectable braid, good enough so that I don't wake up to a tangled mess. 

Only then do I let myself slide underneath the blankets on the bed, still a little surprised that I can stretch out my legs as much as I want. The sheets are silky and refreshingly cool, and between my bone-deep exhaustion and the rocking of the train, as soon as my head hits the pillow I'm out like a light.

When I next open my eyes, the compartment is still dim, the sun barely peeking over the horizon when I squint through the window. Pa used to joke that I'm built to be the perfect coal miner, given that I always tend to get up around sunrise even if I try to sleep in. No amount of staying up late will have me still in bed later than 9, either; I'll still wake bright and early, no matter how little rest I've gotten, and I can't get to sleep until after the sun's gone back down. Most of the days when Posy was still tiny and didn't sleep all the way through the night were like that, to the point I nearly fell asleep at my desk more than a few times.

If nothing else, though, waking up early always leaves me a little window of time to myself where everything's quiet. Back home, I'd spend it in the woods, checking my snare line and resetting any that had been tripped through the night. Now, on the train, I simply let myself sit and watch out the window as the scenery goes by. We should be in the Capitol in a few hours, so I figure we must be somewhere in the Districts bordering it. I can’t identify exactly where, though, because all I can see from the train window is miles upon miles of flat land stretching out to the horizon. In Twelve there's very few places you can see through the treeline to the horizon, but here, it's empty every which way—I have to stop and get up at some point, because otherwise I feel like if I keep watching I'll start to lose my mind. 

Since I can't hear anyone else moving around on the train, I figure I can take my time with my morning routine. Pa's old clothes pass my inspection, more wrinkled than anything, so I throw them back on, unwilling to risk wearing something else and leaving these on the train. Then I start to take my hair out of the haphazard braid from last night. After combing my fingers through it to get out any knots, I carefully put it back up. I've always kept my hair long, but it's a pain in the summer heat, so I tend to tie it up in a high tail to keep it off of my neck. It’s up to my stylist to decide what to do with it, though, so I leave it alone for the most part. I can only hope they won’t cut it.

Stepping out of my compartment just confirms my estimation that I’m one of the few awake, the halls empty of even the Capitol attendants. I make my way to where I remember the dining cart is, though it’s pretty difficult to get lost on a train, so I enter it soon enough. Just as I expected, the tables and chairs are empty, though there’s a few plates here and there of various rolls and small pastries. I’m about halfway toward the center table when a low voice pipes up from behind me, scaring me half to death. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I nearly fall on my ass in my hurry to turn around, only managing to catch myself on the edge of the table at the last moment. Haymitch stands a few paces away from me, munching away at one of the rolls, looking casual as ever as he studies me with a raised eyebrow. His face is red and somewhat swollen, but otherwise he looks no worse for wear after his escapades last night. 

It takes me longer than I’d like for me to remember he’d asked me a question, as unbalanced as I am after my scare. 

“... If you mean from hauling your ass to bed last night, then yes,” I answer. It unsteadies me even more when Haymitch doesn’t react in any way I’d expect, doesn’t laugh or reprimand my language or even seem embarrassed. In fact, he almost looks annoyed.

“So that was you then?” At my nod, he grumbles to himself as he pushes past me, toward one of the smaller tables at the back. “Should’ve known Effie wouldn’t lift a finger. Always acting like she’s too good to get her hands dirty, so she makes the kids clean me up…”

I surprise myself by interjecting.

“We just brought you to your room. Katniss called some of the workers to do the rest.” I have to take a moment when I realize I’m actually defending Effie out of everyone, then shut my mouth. Haymitch chuckles a bit to himself, as if he can sense my internal conflict.

Once he’s grabbed another one of the rolls, Haymitch turns back to squint at me, as if he's sizing me up. In a fit of impulse I lift my chin and straighten my posture, meeting his eye almost in a challenge. He hadn't been present when my name was called, and I don't know how lucid he was last night, so this might as well be the first time he’s actually seeing me. If he’s truly supposed to be Katniss and I's lifeline during these Games, I might as well make a good first impression. 

Much to my chagrin, though, he just snorts before turning away after a second, laughing again while he pulls out a chair at the center table. I stare at him for a second or two in disbelief, watching as he sits with his back to me like it’s a typical morning.

“C'mon, sit down,” he ushers, not caring enough to turn around when he waves his hand. Annoyance sparks in my chest, but I'm not eager to get on the bad side of both my escort and my mentor, so I stiffly take the seat next to him. As if on cue, Capitol attendants start to shuffle in, arms laden with various pitchers and carafes. They silently place a glass and two mugs in front of each of us, the latter of which are quickly filled, one with what I recognize as coffee from the scent, and one with a brown liquid I can’t recognize. 

“So, you're the other lucky duck that got picked. Do you want my condolences or congratulations?” Haymitch reaches out a hand to one of the staff as he speaks, his tone light, and without a word the man nods and lifts the pitcher to pour it into Haymitch's glass. It’s some kind of juice, though not any kind I recognize, the color a bloody red that's even brighter than the juice from the blackberries back home. If I didn't already know that strawberries make for a terrible juice, I'd think that’s what he's drinking.

“It’s cranberry juice, kid. Here, try some,” Haymitch chuckles, and before I can open my mouth to refuse he’s already motioning for the same man to pour the stuff into my own glass. I thank him once he moves back, which only earns me a look that’s half baffled, half terrified. Haymitch hums, grabbing his glass and gesturing for me to do the same, which I begrudgingly obey. 

Annoyingly enough, the juice is good, tart but with a hint of sweetness that I immediately like. I try to look annoyed as I quickly drain half the glass, just so Haymitch doesn’t get any ideas, but judging from the clear liquid he keeps adding to his own glass I don’t think I have to worry about it too much. After I drain the rest of the cranberry juice, I realize how hungry I am, and I reach to cautiously take one of the same rolls Haymitch had grabbed previously. It’s fluffier than I expected, with a hint of sweetness to the dough. 

“You’re supposed to give us advice for the arena,” I start, trying to get back on track. Haymitch just smirks at me, like I'd made some kind of joke, but before he can open his mouth Effie comes bustling through the door, looking considerably flustered.

“Oh! Mr. Hawthorne, you're up already,” she exclaims, seeming to be surprised by my presence. I don’t miss the displeased twist of her lips when she looks me up and down, definitely unhappy with my choice to rewear my clothes from yesterday. 

Before she can start, though, Haymitch decides it's the perfect moment to butt in. 

“ Mr. Hawthorne here was just telling me about the situation last night.” His voice is cool, but notably sharper than it had been toward me. Effie clearly doesn't miss the edge to his words, if her own clipped tone is anything to go by.

“The situation you created, you mean? Really, you couldn't have gone a single day without drinking yourself into a stupor?”

Haymitch shrugs, immune to the scolding. “Guilty as charged. At least I have an excuse, though. Being a mentor and all. My job doesn't start until we get to the Capitol.”

Effie makes some sort of offended squawk, but Haymitch just keeps talking.

“I seem to remember that you're the one in charge of our team during these Games, no? Making sure we're all where we're supposed to be. Without offloading it to the kids you're in charge of.” He looks her dead in the eye, and now the sharpness is unmistakable. I sink back further into my chair, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire, but not before I reach forward and grab the coffee. I've always liked the taste of it, but considering how rare it is in Twelve and how expensive it can be, I don't get the chance to have it often.

“I did not offload anything! It's not my responsibility to clean up your messes, and I'll have you know I was going to ask for the staff to clean up, anyway.” I bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing at that. Could've fooled Katniss and me, considering we dragged Haymitch's sorry ass all the way to his room by ourselves and the staff only helped after Katniss had fetched them. 

“You mean after these two hosed me down, I assume?” I look up in alarm when Haymitch gestures toward me, and Effie in turn looks at me, too. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I see a tiny bit of guilt flash on her face.

“He’s telling the truth? You two did that?” 

I hadn’t expected to be included in the argument, and so I don't immediately respond, instead looking to Haymitch for help. He just raises his eyebrow at me again, utterly unhelpful.

Katniss chooses at that exact moment to walk in, dressed in the same clothes as the night before and with her hair still braided how it was for the Reaping. I'm relieved to not see any anger in her expression, nothing lingering from last night. I don’t need anyone else on my case right now. 

“Hey, Catnip,” I say, and it’s either the sheer relief in my voice or the way we've all turned to look at her, because she instantly stiffens, scanning between the three of us as if assessing the situation. 

Effie breaks first, giving a dismissive sniff before she retrieves her own cup of coffee and leaves, brushing past Katniss as she does so. Haymitch beckons Katniss over, and she cautiously takes the seat beside me, still wary but too interested in the food to stay away. 

I guess that we were waiting for her to join us, because as soon as she sits down, plates of food are placed in front of us. Piles of eggs cooked every possible way, ham hocks and still sizzling bacon, shredded and fried potatoes that crunch between my teeth. More of the sweet rolls along with stacks of flatcakes, served with an entire pitcher of maple syrup. Katniss and I immediately stack our plates high with everything we can, though Katniss pauses when she sees her own mug filled with the same brown liquid I hadn’t recognized earlier. 

“What's this?” she asks one of the attendants, cautious, but Haymitch answers. 

“Hot chocolate. It's good stuff, though a little too rich for me. Doesn't mask any other tastes nearly as well as coffee does, either.” She doesn't seem to hear the muttered last bit of his words, or if she does, she doesn’t care, because she lifts the mug and takes a sip. I guess it's good, since she shudders a bit before draining the entire thing; turning to my own cup of the stuff, I find myself curious. My eyes go wide at the first taste, taken off guard by the creaminess of the drink, though I quickly find I agree with Haymitch's judgement of it being too rich. Setting it aside, I go back to ripping into strips of bacon, determined to eat as much as I can handle. 

Katniss finishes before me, pushing away her plate before reaching for her glass of what I'm fairly sure is orange juice. I frown a bit, offering her some of my flatcakes – it's not like her to refuse food, and from what I saw, she didn't seem to have nearly as much as she had last night – but she brushes me off with a shake of her head and I back off. 

She's watching Haymitch as she takes sips from her juice, expression unreadable to anyone else except me, and I'm taken aback by the utter disdain in her eyes. I'm not too fond of him myself, but Katniss seems to hold another type of dislike for him altogether. I’m not surprised when she talks after another moment of what I'm sure is deliberation. 

“So, you're supposed to give us advice,” she says, in an echo of what I'd told him before Effie had interrupted. She sounds surprisingly even, considering how stormy she'd looked before speaking. 

Apparently, Haymitch didn't get the message.

“Here's some advice. Stay alive,” he says, and then bursts out laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world. 

I amend my statement from before in my head—I'm not fond of him, actually. Anger burns in my chest as he continues to chuckle, and when I glance at Katniss, I can see the same fire in her eyes that's surely in mine. 

“Funny,” I say, voice tight. My eyes lay on the bottle of spirits he's been adding to his drink the entire breakfast, and I act on impulse, my hand darting out to wrap around the slim neck. “Want to try again?” 

I hold the bottle threateningly above the ground, as if I'm about to smash it. I really don't mean it as anything more than an act to fake him out, but I guess he takes it seriously, because he considers me for a moment before lashing out and twisting my wrist so hard I gasp. It works to get me to drop the bottle, and he manages to catch it, but before he can put it back in its place Katniss takes her knife and drives it into the table an inch in front of his hand. All three of us freeze, eyeing each other uneasily. I brace myself for another hit, but instead Haymitch just sits back and squints at us. 

“Well, what's this?” Haymitch asks, “Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” 

I wince as I flex my wrist. I'm fairly sure he didn't break anything, but it hurts like hell, and I'm annoyed that I've managed to injure my dominant hand before I've even stepped foot in the Capitol. It's already starting to bruise, which I'm sure my stylist will be overjoyed with. 

“Don't worry, if I really wanted to break your arm, kid, I would've,” Haymitch says to me breezily. I shoot a glare at him as I rub at it. “Too bad it's not anywhere you could use to your benefit. A good shiner would be better for the cameras.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind next time,” I bite back. He doesn't react, just turns to Katniss. 

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”

I don't stifle my snort. To me, it's an absurd question; Katniss is a much better shot than I am, whether it be with her arrows or a knife. Sure enough, when she yanks the knife out of the wood and adjusts to throw it into the wall, she hits it right between the panels. When she looks back at me, I give her an impressed smirk that she returns. That's my Catnip.

“Stand over here. Both of you,” commands Haymitch, and we get up to stand where he’d indicated in the middle of the room. Once we’re still, he starts circling around us, pulling at our clothes to examine our muscles, staring in our faces. I feel more like one of the Goat Man’s prized nannies than anything, but I suppose we pass his inspection because after another long moment he pulls back, considering. “Well, you’re not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. Prettyboy doesn’t need any extra help, but once your stylists get hold of you, you’ll both be attractive enough.”

It takes me a moment to fully grasp his words, and then I’m torn between offense at the name and outrage on Katniss’s behalf. She doesn’t seem too affected by the comment, though, so I shut my mouth after a moment. Still, my face burns. It’s one thing to hear the girls at school call me pretty, and another one entirely for my mentor to declare that I’m pretty enough without any stylist intervention.

“Alright, I’ll make a deal with you.” I snap back to attention once he starts speaking, bashfulness forgotten at the prospect of Haymitch’s cooperation. “You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

I figure that with the amount of alcohol he’s already had this morning, this may as well be his baseline. He seems functional enough, I admit, and it’s better than nothing at all. “Deal.”

“So help us,” Katniss starts, “When we get  to the arena, what’s the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone—”

“Slow down, sweetheart, one thing at a time. In a few minutes we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put into the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you, but no matter what, don’t resist,” Haymitch says. My skin itches at the name he calls Katniss, but then he swings around to stick a finger in my face, distracting me. “ Especially you and your smart mouth. I don’t care if you mouth off, but the Capitol does, and one wrong word can cause enough trouble it can get back home to your family. Pretend that you can tolerate them if you have to. But don’t resist.”

That shuts both me and Katniss up, Haymitch hitting the exact nerve that’ll keep us in line without fail. He leaves the dining cart with a last lazy wave of his bottle, and the moment he steps out the car goes dark. The night lights are on, but the windows are blacked out, and when I squint I can faintly see the veining that only appears in deep sheets of rock. We’re in one of the tunnels that run though the mountains surrounding the Capitol, I realize, and a weight settles itself over my chest. Ever since Pa’s death, I’ve never been very good underground, even though it’s always been inevitable that I’d end up in the mines anyway. I’d always figured I would just find a way to endure it, I guess, but now as we’re rushing through the base of a mountain with miles of rock above us, I feel myself getting dizzy. Katniss must be thinking of the same thing, because after a moment I feel her press herself against my side, steadying the both of us. 

Thankfully it doesn’t take long for us to leave the tunnel and right back into the light, and once our eyes adjust we both rush to the window as if drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It’s hard not to get swept up in the awe of seeing the Capitol for the first time, and I find myself gaping at the buildings that seem to scrape at the sky, their exteriors a range of bright, unnatural colors that Posy would die to see. The thought of my baby sister works to pull me out of my trance, though, and as we get further into the city I start feeling sick again at how artificial everything is. People start pointing at us, recognizing that it’s a tribute train, and my disgust just grows at the knowledge that their excitement to see us comes hand in hand with gleefully awaiting our deaths. I don’t move from the window, though, not when Katniss pulls away, because I want these people to see me for who I am. For what I am. I meet their smiling faces with an impassive stare, and it’s only when we pull into the station that I move back. 

Katniss is studying me, a mix of emotions on her face. Trying to understand my angle, I realize. I let the corner of my mouth quirk up into a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to turn Capitol on you.”

“I’d shoot you right here if I thought you were,” she responds, which startles me enough that I let out a loud laugh. She’s smiling at me once I calm down, an expression I easily return, though her words start to creep into my head and twist my stomach into knots. From this point on, there’s no escaping the reality of where we’re going, what we’re about to do. If she knew what I was thinking, she’d surely do everything to change my mind, which is why I have to keep it quiet. 

Right there, standing in the dining car of the train, I start planning just how I’m going to get Katniss that crown.

Chapter Text

Apparently, Haymitch’s comment about me was just another way for him to give me shit, because from the moment I step foot in the Remake Center I’m put through a more intensive cleaning process than Ma’s “stubborn stain” regimen. 

I’m quickly stripped bare before the three freaks that consist of my prep team proceed to whisk me between various tubs and tables. At one, I'm scrubbed so thoroughly with a gritty foam that I feel like a piece of wood getting sanded down, leaving my skin red and raw; at another, they remove practically every hair on my body outside of what's on my head, finding places I didn't even know I could grow hair and yanking the strands out one by one in what I feel is the most painful way possible. The image of a plucked turkey comes to mind more than a few times, making me bite my tongue so I don't suddenly start laughing. 

Through it all, my prep team squawks and titters to themselves like the three oddest birds I've ever seen. They've managed to make themselves look even stranger than Effie, a feat I wish I could say I find impressive, and in a turn of events I could’ve never expected, I realize I don't actually mind them. Like is way too strong of a word, with okay coming closer, but these three teeter on a fine line between indifference and tolerable to me. Maybe it's because they look more like characters Posy would come up with than any actual real humans, or maybe that they're so ridiculous and speak in such high-pitched voices that it’s impossible to take them seriously. Either way, it's easier than I expected to keep my mouth shut and go along with everything, even when they say the most ignorant things out of the blue. 

Mostly, though, they make comments on my appearance that I’m unsure if they’re supposed to be complimentary. In one instance, as they go wild with the tweezers on my face, they gush over how finely shaped my eyebrows are – which is strange, because out of all of the things I'd heard the girls say about me in school, my eyebrows never came up – and lament over their lack of high cheekbones, unlike me. It's a little hard to gauge their authenticity, though, when it's interspersed with complaints about how persistent my body hair is.

“I wish I had such beautiful hair like yours,” Locusta says dreamily, her spidery fingers combing through my hair as she rinses it of the stuff she'd previously scrubbed into my scalp. She's a small, spindly woman, so thin it looks like she’s held together with string and a prayer, and each of her fingers end in frighteningly realistic claws, to the point where I wasn’t sure if she was going to slice my head up during the wash. “Mine tends to get so dry so quickly, no matter what I do. I've thought about getting a transplant, but the recovery time is so long…”

“Not to mention that you'll have to stay inside for weeks before you look even remotely presentable!” Remus pipes up. His oddly spiked hair is a shocking bright green that nearly glows, matching with his irises, which I can only hope is some kind of temporary cosmetic. He and his brother, Romulus, are practically identical outside of their respective colors—Remus being green, Romulus being blue. Neither shade is anything close to what you can find in nature, though, and I’ve discovered that if I look at either one of them for too long my eyes begin to ache.

One of the few bits of relief comes from the affirmation that my hair won’t be touched beyond a simple wash, Locusta declaring it a crime to cut it with the other two enthusiastically agreeing. Besides that, Romulus clucks in disapproval at the bruise that's been forming nicely on my wrist, but reassures me it's in a place that's easy to cover. He waxes the sparse hair there with a marginally more gentle hand, and I manage to not snap at him by repeating to myself that this is the Capitol’s definition of “ trying ”.

Once they're satisfied with the state of my skin and have rubbed me down in a lotion that stings like hell, they have me stand in the middle of the room, completely naked, to scan me for any rogue hairs. At the start of my makeover it was hard for me to ignore my state of undress, not to mention how closely I was being scrutinized, but over the three hours or so I've grown used to it. Now when they tell me to remove the robe that’s been going on and off the entire time, I do it without a care. I’m pretty sure they’ve seen parts of me even Ma hasn’t since I was little.

“You’re so quiet compared to some of the other tributes we've prepped,” Remus quips offhandedly. I brace myself for the insensitive comment that’s sure to follow it up. “The ones who whine and cry are so difficult to deal with. You'd think they never had a bath before!” 

They're so predictable it's almost funny. 

Almost.

Eventually, though, they deem me fit enough to meet my stylist, Portia. Apparently she wanted them to pretty me up to a point where she could reasonably work off of. My team skitters out with a passing reassurance that Portia will be in soon, and then I'm left alone. 

With my hair down and my body thoroughly scrubbed of any aberrations, I barely recognize myself when I catch glimpses in the mirror. I'd put on my robe if I weren't positive that Portia will insist I take it off again, so instead I just shift my weight from foot to foot as I wait. When all of this had started I'd asked my team where Pa's clothes would be going and if I'd get them back, but they hadn’t said anything beyond bursting into giggles. At least now that I’m alone, I can finally let myself mourn the last part of my father I’d managed to keep until now.

I don't have long before the door opens again, a tall woman who I'm sure is Portia slipping in. Compared to the rest of my prep team and the stylists I've seen on TV, she looks so much like a typical person that I'm surprised; her long, silvered braids are the only thing that betray that she’s Capitol, the color matching with the coiling silver that lines her eyes and trails lazily down the deep brown skin of her face. Otherwise, she wears a plain black shirt and skirt that goes down to the floor, giving the impression that she's floating as she walks. Her eyes are a grey that's so dark I nearly mistake it to be black, if it weren’t for the silver adornments that draw the lighter parts out. I think back on the one stylist I'd seen in the Games for years before silently dropping out a year or two back, likely because her alterations became so extreme that even the Capitol couldn't stomach the sight of her anymore. In comparison, I might even consider Portia attractive, given she's the only person I've met so far that I can readily recognize as human. 

“Gale, is it? I'm Portia, your stylist,” she greets, flashing a smile at me. Her voice is low and smooth, with the typical Capitol affectations notably subdued. 

“Hi,” I answer, voice rough from hours of keeping quiet. 

When she steps closer to me, I'm a little surprised when I realize she's nearly my height. She bends and twists as she slowly circles around me, inspecting every bit of me with her eyes, and I feel oddly bashful despite having grown used to my nudity with my team. Maybe it's something about the intensity of her gaze that unnerves me.

“I'm sure you don't need me to tell you this, but you have quite gorgeous hair,” Portia says after a pause. I guess something of my discomfort was apparent in my expression, because she has the robe in her hands when she rounds back around me, holding it out with a small smile. 

“Thank you,” I respond automatically, to both the comment and the robe. It's the same response I'd given to every compliment my prep team had given me, to the point the words don't even sound real to me anymore. She just gives a low laugh, which makes me think she knows what I’m thinking. 

“Don't worry, I won't lay it on thick like I'm sure the others have. I know it can get exhausting,” says Portia, and then she waves me toward one of the side doors. “Put on your robe, and we'll talk for a bit. The hard parts are over.” 

I obey without question, glad to be clothed again even in a loose sense of the word. The side door leads to a cozy sitting room, remarkably blank by Capitol standards with three walls left completely bare. The fourth is entirely glass, and I instinctively take a cautious step back, even though I know there's no reasonable chance of danger. Portia either doesn't see my hesitation or decides not to mention it, because she simply leads me to sit on one of two red couches placed on either side of a low table. 

“You’re a new stylist, then? I mean, I haven't seen you before in any of the Games,” I say, breaking the silence. It's been a thought at the back of my mind since I first saw her, only growing stronger the longer I'm in her presence. “I guess they gave you Twelve for your first year.” 

“My partner Cinna asked for Twelve specifically, actually. Maybe to get ahead of the jump,” Portia smiles. “This is our first year, though, you're right.” 

Most of what I've noticed about Portia hasn't bothered me, and yet I still get a distinctly odd feeling from her. I'd resigned myself to dismissing it as a grudge, but as she says these last few words it all clicks into place. She seems almost too eager to treat me like an equal, to talk to me like a normal person, to the point that it's almost condescending. Almost like it's unnatural. 

It's this discovery, more than anything else, that somehow lowers my guard. The realization that it's fake. Portia is just another Capitolite, trying to relate to the poor District piglets while still fattening us up for our imminent slaughter. In a way, I feel more comfortable than I had before. There's no pretense between us now. 

“You won't be able to eat anything for a while, so have anything you want,” Portia continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I've caught onto her. She presses a button on the side of the table that prompts it to split open, a platform rising with a steaming platter of food. A center plate lined with some kind of flatbread, folded in half and filled with meat and cheese and various vegetables. Surrounding them is a pile of the same flatbread, but this time cut into squares and baked into crackers, which I assume are meant to be dipped in the various bowls of sauces that circle the center plate. Much to my annoyance, my mouth starts watering almost immediately upon the smell hitting my nose, and so I begrudgingly take two of the flatbreads and begin to eat. 

Still, my mind races as I cautiously try some of the sauces in the bowls, trying to understand Portia's reason for putting on an act. Is she trying to make me think that not all Capitolites are the same ignorant, close-minded idiots as my team? That they retain some humanity? If so, this isn't the way to do it. No one working as a part of the Capitol's Games will ever prove that to me. Especially not by summoning delicious food I've never seen before at the touch of a button, like it's not a harsh reminder of the hunger that haunts my every waking moment back in Twelve. I try to think about what my family must be eating now, if they've listened to me and started trading yet, and my heart aches.

“You don't like me very much, do you?” Portia's voice startles me out of my thoughts. Her voice is even, conversational to a point, and she watches me with no discernible emotion in her gaze. “Or my team. We're all horrible in your mind.”

I'm starting to put more stock into her reading my thoughts, irrational as it is. I can't exactly deny her words, though; my mouth is full of the last cracker I'd stuffed into it, so I can't even respond if I wanted to. After another moment, she sighs. 

“Well. Nothing I can do about that, as long as it doesn't interfere with Cinna and I's vision for the opening ceremonies,” she says. I'm a little taken aback at how easily she can change the subject, especially after an observation like that, but I have no choice other than to go along with the flow. “Which is, as of right now, to dress you and Katniss in complementary costumes. I'm sure you don't need reminding of your district’s theme.” 

No, I definitely do not. The tributes each year are paraded around on chariots during the opening ceremonies, dressed in whatever way their stylists thought best to represent their home district's industry. Districts 1 and 8, for example, have it fairly easy. Their industries are luxuries and textiles respectively, which means making costumes to represent them usually goes without issue—though they tend to be predictable as a result. Twelve, in comparison, has always been victim to the most unimaginative – or, more realistically, most uncaring – stylists in the world, being that no one seems to know what to do with coal as their theme. While all of them have been horrible over the years, my least favorite was the Games where they'd just stripped the tributes naked and dumped an entire bucket of coal dust over them. Deal with Haymitch or not, there’s no way I’ll agree to anything like that.

“So, coal miners then. Wish you would've told me beforehand, I would've gotten my father's old mining helmet so y'all could finally get them right,” I respond. I only remember that I’d also agreed to keep my mouth shut by the time I've already finished speaking, but surprisingly, Portia just laughs. 

“Oh, no! No no no, that's been overdone in every possible way. See, we think that your district's been put in too small of a box over the years. Everyone does the same thing, and nobody ever pays attention to it. So we've decided to make them pay attention.”

Portia's voice grows brighter as she talks, more of that Capitol accent slipping past. When I lock eyes with her again, there's something of a manic gleam in hers that I immediately don't like. 

“So instead of coal mining, you're going for…?” I trail off, though I have a bad feeling that I’m going to be the next one on that damn chariot as bare as the day I was born. 

“Coal itself,” Portia confirms. The gleam only grows. I hope she doesn't notice that I've started to break out into a cold sweat. “But not just that. What do we use coal for? Energy, of course, and in order to get that energy, we burn it.” 

Nevermind, she can definitely tell that I'm sweating now. I'm more concerned about Ma not letting Posy watch as Katniss and I get roasted alive on national television.

“How do you feel about fire, Gale?” 

Not that great, actually, but no matter my answer, a few hours later I still come out of that talk in what I dread will be the last thing I ever wear. At first glance, it's not actually too bad: a plain, black bodysuit that covers from my neck down, fitted slimmer than the coveralls I know miners wear as they work. Leather boots that are so finely polished I can see my reflection in them, laced up to my knee. Then, you start to notice the odder details, the cape crafted from delicate fluttering fabric in all the colors of a raging flame, the matching headpiece that's fixed to my head like a crown. These parts, Portia tells me, are the ones Cinna sets alight just before we make our debut appearance. 

“Don't worry, it's completely safe. I made sure to thoroughly test the flame beforehand, and finally figured out the perfect fuel to make a harmless synthetic flame,” Portia says, still with that manic look. Internally, I curse Haymitch for not only telling me to keep my mouth shut, but to also go along with whatever these nutcases want to do to us with no complaint. 

I'm just glad for the fact that my face and hair have gone practically untouched. My hair is tied up in its usual tail, though it's a little higher than usual to account for the headpiece and the cape. There's a bit of shimmer on my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose, some black lining my eyes in a less dramatic echo of Portia's style, but otherwise I just look like myself. According to her, this was intentional. 

“Cinna and I want Panem to know your face in the arena, without all of the glitz and glamour. We want you two burned into their memories,” she says, with a sly wink at her joke. I have to admit, even though I roll my eyes, I would’ve made the same joke to Rory and Vick back home.

Reuniting with Katniss just reaffirms Portia's statement about us being complementary, because we're dressed in the same exact outfits, down to the barely-restrained panic in our eyes. Despite that, though, I begrudgingly agree with our prep team’s declarations that we look quite striking already. If nothing else, we’ll be the best dressed tributes Twelve has had in years. Both of our teams titter in excitement, heaping congratulations upon Cinna, who is also remarkably more normal than I’d expected, and Portia, both of which accept their praise with subdued smiles.

We all go down to the very bottom of the Remake Center together, which is where the tribute parade begins. The entire floor is essentially a stable for the parade horses, which are already harnessed to the chariots in groups of four. Our chariot is being pulled by four coal black horses, snuffling quietly and shifting their weight from hoof to hoof. I focus on them while Katniss and I are escorted to and arranged in the chariot, a much more pleasant object for my focus than the creeping fear of our costumes malfunctioning and having to go into the arena already severely injured. 

Katniss must be just as preoccupied with this thought as I am, because as soon as Cinna and Portia move away to discuss logistics, she leans in to hiss, “What do you think? About the fire?”

“Remember what we learned in school? Stop, drop, and roll?” I whisper back. Katniss snorts, though she looks a bit annoyed that I’m not taking this seriously.

“I don’t think there’s enough room on this chariot to do that,” she says. I think about this for a moment, before my eyes wander back to the horses ready to pull us down the parade route. My mind chooses at that moment to remind me that it includes a full loop of the City Circle, and I can’t help but give voice to my dumbest thought yet.

“Maybe if we can hold out until the City Circle, we can get the horses from District One to come and stamp the flames out,” I suggest. Then we both start laughing, edging a bit too close to hysterical. I guess we’re both scared out of our minds, not just about the Games, but the utterly insane costumes we’re all but forced to wear without complaint, too.

Our laughter is quickly drowned out by the blaring of the opening music, which also serves to sober us up almost instantly. Nothing like the reminder that we’re being forced to dance for our captors' amusement before being tossed into a cage to fight to the death. 

What I thought was just another wall of the Remake Center splits into two massive doors,  which slide apart to reveal the start of the parade route. It’s supposed to be twenty long minutes of being flaunted to cheering crowds, who will no doubt celebrate our deaths with just as much enthusiasm as our introduction, ending at the City Circle to present for the President's judgement before being led to our gilded cages. I try not to let my thoughts show on my face, but by the way Portia motions to get my attention and uses her two pointer fingers to mimic the action of a smile, I figure I’m not doing a very good job. 

After the music concludes, our procession begins with District One's chariot. The tributes are decked out in silver body paint and jeweled tunics, pulled by pure white horses. Though we can't see much of the crowd, seeing as we’re the last of the districts, we can hear as the crowd swells in excitement at their arrival. My chest begins to feel tight with anticipation.

Each district follows the other with a few seconds of space in between, enough to give a proper introduction but not lose the momentum. The closer we inch toward the doors, the more my anxiety grows. District 11 is rolling out of the doors when suddenly Cinna is up on the chariot with us, lit torch in hand. I eye it warily; it definitely looks realistic enough. 

“Here we go,” he says, and before either of us can even react he touches the torch to our capes. I immediately freeze, Katniss letting out a strangled gasp, but whatever we expect doesn't come. Instead, it feels like a strange tingling sensation at most, like the feeling after getting a static shock. Cinna sighs in relief as he ignites our headdresses. “It works.”

There’s no time for me to comment on how terrifying that statement is, and Cinna just continues on to cup Katniss’s chin and lift it. “Remember, heads high, and smile!” 

Katniss or I must have instinctively reached out to each other in our shock, because when Cinna jumps off I realize that we're clutching each other's hands. He seems to notice at the same time I do, and he grins, giving a thumbs up as he yells something drowned out by the crowd. Katniss, emboldened, adjusts her grip on my hand, squeezing tighter until I swear I feel the bones shift. I don't mind it, honestly; the pressure is the only thing keeping me from running as the crowd roars at our arrival, initial alarm transforming into awe and shouts for our district. 

I've never been the type to avoid attention, just as much as I’ve never deliberately gone out of my way to get it. On this chariot, though, with all eyes on us, I feel both terrified and exhilarated by the level of energy I’m hit with from the crowd. When I catch a glimpse of us on one of the huge television screens, I immediately understand why—in the dusk light, we are luminous. The fire trails behind us as we move, its flickering light reflecting on our faces and doing more for our appearance than any makeup could. We look strong. Attractive. Tributes worth sponsoring. 

Suddenly, I remember Portia's gesture for me to smile, along with Cinna’s parting words. The thought of playing into the charade of it all disgusts me, subjecting us to an entirely different kind of humiliation by forcing us to play nice and be polite while fighting for our lives. But then again, hadn’t I wanted the Capitol to see that we are just as human as they are? That we are not animals left to die in the filth of the districts, but real people with feelings and thoughts like them? Plus, as the crowd shrieks our names and showers us with flowers and praise, I have to concede that in the arena popularity is just as important as strength. Tributes that are popular and likeable from the start are typically rewarded in the arena by sponsors. A sponsor’s gift at a critical moment can make or break a tribute—if it gives Katniss a better chance at winning, I'll do anything it takes. 

Looking out into the crowd, I catch the eyes of a few Capitol girls shrieking my name, and I instantly think back to everything that made the girls in school swoon. I make myself smile, winking at the Capitol girls, and the effect is immediate; they nearly fall over themselves in excitement, and the crowd swells yet again with the chants of my name. I guess I have no choice but to fully lean into the act. 

The energy from the Capitol citizens is admittedly infectious, and I grow more and more confident as the parade goes on. I grin and wave to the masses, wink roguishly at girls and women I make eye contact with, even act like I catch the blown kisses sent my way and give them back. I must look like a maniac to the people back home, but at this point, I can’t bring myself to care. All I can think as I continue to play to the crowd is that no matter my disgust with the Games and the Capitol, the benefits my cooperation can earn for Katniss more than make up for my bending to their whims.

Through it all, Katniss is a steadying presence at my side, her hand in mine a constant that keeps me centered. As the parade goes on, I realize that most of the shouts and praise are for her in particular. I’m not sore about it, to be honest; I’ve already made my choice, and if anything, the nation taking a liking to Katniss only makes my plan easier. Besides, a secret part of me hums in satisfaction because no matter what, I’m one of the very few that gets to know the real her. Panem can keep this fake Katniss for all I care, just like they can keep the fake me I'm flaunting for the cameras. We're only our true selves with each other, just as it's always been.

As we enter the City Circle, I think Katniss realizes how tightly she's been holding my hand, because suddenly her grip loosens and she nearly lets go. In my panic, I grasp back at her, interlacing our fingers together. A bit startled, she turns to look at me, and I try to reassure her by giving her hand a squeeze. 

“Don't let go,” I say, my voice rougher than I expected. Her eyes look like molten gold in the light from our flames, making my heart catch in my throat. “You’re the only reason I haven't made a run for it yet.”

This makes her smile, though I can see a little flicker of uncertainty in her expression. I squeeze her hand again, my chest suddenly feeling tight, but she just turns back to the crowd. Pushing my rising concern aside, I make myself keep smiling.

Our circuit of the City Circle means that we pass by the houses of each and every one of the most important citizens of the Capitol, concluding the parade right in front of the President’s mansion. Right on time, our chariot rolls to a stop as the music quiets, and President Snow begins his usual welcoming address from a balcony. Always above everyone else, I think to myself bitterly. Like this, the president looks weak, an aging and fragile man exerting his absolute power over the vulnerable masses all from the comforts of his home. It’s disgusting. It's downright evil. If there wasn't so much on the line, I would have hurled a real torch right at his face.

I don’t want to give any indication of the dark turn my mood has taken, so instead I focus on the broadcasts. I’m more than a little amused to realize that with the fire in the steadily darkening night, we are literally stealing the show. The typical cuts to the tribute's faces go right back to us after a moment, to the point where I think the nation has seen more of Katniss and I than President Snow. My amusement battles with my growing reservations about us getting quite so much attention, especially since the cameras hold on us for an abnormally long time when the anthem plays and we make a final loop of the circle, before we’re finally shielded by the walls of the Training Center. 

The moment the doors clank shut our prep teams descend on us, talking over each other in an overexcited mess of gibberish and scraps of praise that I can barely understand. Part of my lack of understanding comes from the sudden sense of hostility that's practically rolling off the other tributes in waves. I try not to make any direct eye contact as we step down from the chariot, but it’s difficult when I have the sinking feeling that we may have just become celebrities in the Capitol, but in regards to the Games, we just put enormous targets on our backs. 

Still, I paste on a thankful smile to accept the congratulations as they come, and after a moment I realize that I’m still clutching Katniss’s hand. Carefully we unlace our stiff fingers, letting out a hiss from the ache as I flex my hand a few times to get feeling back in it. 

“Sorry,” Katniss says, but I just shake my head. 

“Don’t be,” I respond. ”I was being serious back there. If you hadn’t been holding my hand, I would’ve bolted and given Panem a really wild show.”

“Well, you didn’t look like it. I’m sure everyone was more focused on getting one of your kisses than anything.” I have to take a moment to digest her words, the slightly bitter tone in her voice. Is she… jealous? No, that’s ridiculous. 

“One of my kisses? Katniss, they only had eyes for you,” I continue, far too determined to dismiss the thought that I fall directly into shoving my foot in my mouth again. “As they well should have. Back there, everyone could finally see you like I do, even for just a moment.”

My jaw snaps shut, and my face burns. Katniss doesn’t seem to notice my sudden panic, distracted by Cinna and Portia waving us over, but I still violently swear at myself in my head. Idiot, I hiss, steadfastly avoiding Katniss’s gaze. The fallout from the parade might already complicate things; I can’t make it worse, and especially not because of my feelings. I desperately hope that Katniss didn't think anything of what I said, or else it'll be a bigger mess than I want. 

I just need to get a hold of myself.

Chapter Text

Ma likes to say that it's one of my best talents, my ability to work myself up. I can take the smallest things that tick me off and run with them, growing and growing until I'm furious in no time. There you go again, making a mountain out of a molehill , she'll sigh, but the thing is I just can't help it. Something will happen and the longer I think on it, the more issues I find, and I'll keep tugging on that thread more and more and more until I'm left with a tangled mess and too much anger with nowhere to put it. I've gotten better at hiding it, if nothing else, but only because I've had to. Getting visibly angry about every little injustice I see in Twelve would've gotten me killed by now if not. Instead, I just simmer in my feelings, building pressure more and more until I either find an outlet or it all gets too much and I explode.

So I'm not all that surprised to find myself tugging at this latest thread as we walk deeper into the Training Center, toward the extravagant elevator that'll take us up to our floor. While I'm no stranger to aiming my ire inward, tonight I've been given reason enough to really beat myself over the head. It’s not just the comment I made to Katniss, at least not entirely; she doesn’t seem to have really noticed, and now that I think about it, it’s much less suspicious than I’d thought. No, it’s also the fact that we’re far too similar. It’s one of the reasons as to how we formed such a strong bond, as well as why it took so long to fully trust each other. Where I have anger, Katniss has fear, and I won’t let myself give her anything that she could obsessively worry over when there’s already so many things she has to worry about. It’d be cruel of me to burden her like that.

Maybe at any other point I would've been fascinated by the technical wonders that surround us in the Training Center, would've joined Katniss in admiring the ultra-fast elevator, but by now my tolerance for anything to do with the Capitol is completely shot. It doesn’t help that Effie joins us before the doors close, practically skipping in glee in celebration of having finally gotten tributes of worth. I thought we were rid of her after the train, but I guess not, and the revelation darkens my already sour mood enough that I have to block her out for my own sanity.

That annoying, high-pitched voice of hers is awfully persistent, though. 

“But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister,” she's saying, presumably about all of the rich Capitolites she'd talked up to try and shoal up some sponsors ahead of the game. She can’t secure sponsors, that’s only Haymitch’s job, but it doesn’t mean she can’t advertise our best qualities to anyone willing. Against my better judgement, I keep listening, just to gauge how bad our prospects are. “How Gale is such a… spirited boy. And how you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district.” 

I whip my head around so fast I nearly bowl Locusta over with my hair, from where she’d been standing behind me. Lucky for her that she's short enough to be spared; Effie, on the other hand, is perfectly within my range.

“Barbarism?” I demand. Someone puts their hand on my shoulder, a warning, and I force myself to close my mouth. I've just enough restraint left in me to listen, though I know I'm nearing my limit. Just like that moment on the train, I feel everything I’ve internalized start to boil and nearly boil over. Effie, meanwhile, just blinks back at me for a stunned moment before recovering. Apparently I haven't quite pushed her enough to dislodge her good mood. 

“Well, of course! Everyone had their reservations, naturally, with you two being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!’” Then she beams at us, like this is the smartest idea anyone has ever had.

I stare at her. Pearls come from oysters. Coal has nothing to do with the process. I can't even give her the benefit of the doubt, either, because coal isn't involved in the making of diamonds. We don't go into much about the other district's industries in school, but we learn enough about coal that anyone who has the faintest idea about it and its uses would know that she's wrong. 

Despite standing in the middle of the District 12 floor, I feel so stunned like I've just sprinted headfirst into a brick wall. In an instant, all of my thoughts have stopped, all of my rising anger drained. It's like her sheer stupidity has reached a new level where a switch has flipped and instead of getting angry, I startle myself and everyone else in the damn place by starting to laugh. 

Once I've started, I can't get myself to stop; getting stronger over time, it goes from a low chuckle to a laugh, to a guffaw, to a full-blown cackle, until I'm doubled over and near tears from how hard I'm laughing. The complete and utter silence around me just tells me that everyone else thinks I've fully lost it, which also strikes me as funny and then I laugh even harder, clutching my stomach in agony as I howl.

Effie, to her credit, doesn't seem to know what to do about my sudden fit of madness beyond starting to nervously laugh along after a few moments. Then everyone else starts to slowly join in, unsure at first and then more confident, until all of us together are laughing like maniacs. It takes a bit for me to calm down, gasping for breath and pressing my hands to my aching stomach, and even then I'm still chuckling to myself as I walk behind Cinna to show me and Katniss our separate quarters. 

“Stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life,” I mutter to Katniss, once we're out of Effie's hearing range. She doesn't respond, but her shoulders lower a bit, like she's relieved I haven't actually gone insane. I don’t blame her.

Surprisingly, I feel infinitely lighter than I had after the parade, all of that pressure having been released during my fit of laughter. I'm still thinking about the other tributes and my feelings, to be clear – I don't think I could ever really stop, not when there's so much on the line – but the thoughts aren't as heavy as they were. I can breathe again. And with that weight lifted, I can finally allow myself to take stock of my final living space before I go into the Games.

If I thought my room on the train was extravagant, it has nothing on the sheer level of excess on display in my quarters here. I don’t even bother to examine all of the buttons and gadgetry on the walls, at least nothing beyond what's necessary. Even if I wasn’t set to be sent to my death in a matter of days, I don’t think I’d ever have the time to press them all. I briefly consider taking a shower, but turn around when I see the control panel. How could they possibly make it that difficult to turn water on and off? My good mood steadily burns off the longer I’m exposed to these machines.

It doesn’t stop there, either: when I change out of that damn costume and go searching for a normal outfit, it's an entire ordeal. I like my fair share of convenience and helpful technologies, but there's a limit where it goes back to being far too complicated and for no good reason. There's no logical explanation why I have to give the closet information about myself for it to give me clothes in return. 

Once I finally manage to get dressed presentably enough, I stalk out of my quarters, successfully pissed off once again. The Capitol has an uncanny talent for it, really. No one else has such a consistent track record of pushing all of the wrong buttons, other than maybe Rory. In any case, I'd rather not stay cooped up in my quarters waiting for dinner to roll around, not when I could be spending the time in a much more valuable way. The endless array of buttons and panels and screens is good for one thing—fancy technology needs constant maintenance, and in order to do maintenance, you have to have an easy way to open it all up. And though there may not be a practical excuse for my curiosity, a quiet voice in the back of my mind reminds me that the arena is built with tech just like this. If they know it works, and it works well, why use anything different?

I guess the prep teams have left, because I only see Portia and Cinna on the balcony while I explore. As far as I know, Haymitch and Effie have their own rooms up here, too, so their absence isn’t too much of a mystery. Mentally I catalogue the layout of the floor as I wander: the central room, which is what I call the cavernous space the elevator doors open to, almost frighteningly empty outside of a large circular sofa and an enormous screen in the middle; the dining room, which is less of a separate room and more of an extension of the central space, given there's simply a set of steps to get to the raised platform where the table sits; a hallway to what I presume to be Haymitch and Effie's quarters, mirroring the hallway that leads to the tribute's rooms; and finally, a set of glass doors that lead from the central space to an outdoor balcony that overlooks the Capitol in all its glory. 

More than anything else, the lack of walls and use of glass separators in their place makes my skin crawl. It’s a little too on the nose, this constant reminder that from now on, privacy is a privilege we are not afforded. Though I haven’t seen them, I know for a fact that the place is crawling with cameras, and the open space just emphasizes the feeling of being watched. Still, it doesn't deter me from searching the place for the slightest flaw, a gap in the armor I can pry at to uncover this building's secrets. I'm pretty sure I've found a latch on one of the walls above the light switches when I'm apprehended by Cinna. 

“Restless?” His smooth, calm voice still makes me jump, a combination of guilt and anxiety already coursing through me. Turning around, he's just politely standing there with his hands behind his back, like he's genuinely concerned. I'm immediately suspicious.

“A bit,” I admit. It's always easier to cover a lie if there’s a bit of the truth in it. “I'm a little out of my depth with all of these panels and buttons. I don’t want to hit something by accident and look like an idiot by covering the place in lavender soap or something.”

Cinna smiles at me, kind, but I can tell from his eyes that he sees right through my ruse. “I wouldn't worry too much about it. The appliances are very well coded to safeguard against any… accidents .” 

The emphasis on the last word just cinches it for me, and I narrow my eyes at him, trying to determine if his words are meant to be a threat or a warning. It's frustrating enough that his voice is so neutral, but it's also near impossible to read his expression. 

Then he looks away, breaking eye contact. “You know, Twelve may be the least popular district, but your floor is the only one with access to the roof. Have you been up there?”

A little taken aback by the change of topic, I just shake my head. Cinna smiles at me again, turning part way around before looking over his shoulder. The directive, though unspoken, is clear—his smile widens, and he starts walking toward the elevator after I take a step in his direction.

Much to my surprise, there's a set of stairs hidden away behind the elevator shaft, leading to a tiny domed room with a door. I'm a little hesitant to open it, unsure of the consequences, but Cinna pushes ahead of me and swings it open with a confidence that sets me a little bit at ease. If nothing else, I can't be held responsible for anything that happens. 

Wind buffets me as I step out onto the roof behind Cinna, and I'm momentarily dazzled by the sparkling city lights. I'll give the Capitol one thing, they certainly know how to create a spectacle. It's like looking at the stars on an especially clear night, except so much closer. At least, closer in physical distance; it's just as far-fetched of a goal for me to touch those lights as it is for me to touch the stars, and not just because of the Games. Twelve has never had reliable electricity, a fact that ensured mine and Katniss’s survival by making it easier to go out past the fence. The most consistent it ever gets is during the Games, since it's mandatory viewing and there’s no excuse to miss the broadcasts. Here, though, electricity is a constant, coming every time with a simple flick of a switch. My mood only gets darker when I look up at the actual sky, just to realize that my comparison is far more apt than I’d realized; the constellations my father taught me are obscured by a dull yellow haze, no doubt a byproduct of the city lights I’d been admiring.

“Awful, isn't it?” Cinna's voice jars me from my thoughts a second time. It’s different this time, though, his words having a considerably different weight. Before, he was measured, impassive, carefully curated in his words and tone; now, he sounds almost bitter, voice tight. When I look over to him, he's gazing out over the skyline with a look that I can only describe as resigned. Still, I can't help but be suspicious. The Capitol is almost certainly listening to every word we say, and I won't be lured into agreeing with anything that could get me or Katniss into trouble. 

“... Pardon?” I finally respond, the safest option I have. Cinna looks over to me. I force myself to meet his eye, baffled to find that I’m nervous as hell. My nerves spike when he flashes a small smile, turning to the side.

“Come over here, the garden’s lovely,” he evades yet again, brushing past me to walk to the other side of the roof. I follow him, sure, but at this point I’m getting annoyed. What’s the point he’s trying to make? Why all of the weird, cryptic statements? I barely pay attention to the flowers or trees in the garden beds, to the tinkling of the wind chimes, instead focusing entirely on Cinna’s strange behavior. “The wind tends to get a bit loud at times, though. Sometimes I can hardly hear myself think.”

That pulls me up short. If he’s really been trying to drop hints to me all this time, this is by far the most obvious—and, infuriatingly enough, the most sensible. As long as I don’t speak too loud, any listening ear would be hard pressed to understand my words. This, more than anything, pushes me to stride forward and round in front of him.

“What are you trying to do? Bait me?” I hiss, eyes casting from side to side to make sure we’re absolutely alone. I’m already taking a risk by confronting him. “I’m not stupid, and you and Portia don’t have to pretend like you care about us to get us to do what you want. We’re plenty civilized enough to know better than to act up.”

Cinna manages to summon the most emotion I’ve seen him show yet, as he stares back at me wide-eyed in shock. It takes a moment for him to collect himself, but I see a dozen feelings flash across his face in the meantime; surprise, then confusion, then annoyance, before finally settling on bemusement.

“Portia had said you were particularly wary of her,” he says, instead of answering any of my questions. Maybe he can sense my growing impatience, though, because he hurries to add, “I don’t blame you for it, trust me. Snow knows I’ve heard my fair share of bigoted comments by my peers, and if that’s all you’re used to hearing, a sympathetic party can seem like a threat in disguise.”

I try not to look too taken aback by his words, as plain as they are, though I’m sure I fail if only because Cinna’s bemused expression grows. “Then why ? You and your peers have had plenty of opportunity to grow a conscience about these Games before. Why now?”

Something I said must have struck a nerve, because Cinna finally seems to be as thrown off balance as I’ve been the entire conversation. He casts a look over his shoulder, like he's checking for any sudden spies, his lips pressing together in a line as he thinks. Finally, after some contemplation, he responds.

“I don’t think you’ll believe me,” says Cinna, voice low. “And I don’t expect you to. But just know that there are more people in the Capitol that are sympathetic to the districts than you think. That genuinely care for the tributes, and have maybe even grown tired of the Games.”

I nearly laugh in his face, but something about his expression stops me before I can. There's no real emotion in it beyond a slight furrow in his brow, the smallest flicker of frustration, and despite my better judgement I take a moment to think about what he's said. That there are people in the Capitol who aren't happy with the status quo. Who don't think of the districts as lower than them. Who, by their peers' standards, could be considered rebellious . It's so absurd I almost want to believe him. Why else would he say something that can be so easily dismissed?

Then the door to the stairway opens, and Cinna's expression instantly morphs back into his typical distant smile, as if nothing has happened. Portia pokes her head around the door, clearly looking for us. 

“Dinner's almost ready,” she says. “Oh, Gale! Enjoying the roof garden?”

I think about the discussion we had before the parade, me and her in that odd little sitting room, when she’d pointed out my dislike of her. She hadn't sounded all that hurt, now that I think back on it; if anything, she'd seemed just as resigned as Cinna, like she understood my anger and knew she couldn't rebuke it. Like she knew there was a good reason why I might not trust her.

“It's pretty,” I respond, for lack of anything else to say. 

Nothing about this revelation changes the fact that I'm still here in the Capitol, planning to get Katniss out of that arena alive while also quietly preparing myself for my imminent death. A cynical part of me sneers at Cinna as we follow Portia down the stairs—if they really felt sympathetic, and thought that district children were just as valuable as Capitol kids, you'd think they'd figure out a way to stop us from going into the Games at all. 

Realistically, though, I know that nothing is quite that easy. But I don't want to think about the realistic side of things right now. I don't really want to think about any of this at all. Today has already been long and difficult enough.

There's no sign of the other three when we get back to the dining room, but there are more attendants like the ones on the train, except these are all dressed in white. We're offered fancy stemmed glasses of what I assume to be wine, which is tempting for all of three seconds before I remember where I am. I'm in no hurry to make a fool out of myself here in the Capitol. So I politely reject the glass and am handed a water instead, which is just fine with me.

“Effie said she was going to get Katniss, too– ah! And here they are.” The two in question appear around the corner as Portia speaks, Katniss trailing after Effie with a single-minded focus that I immediately recognize as hunger. She doesn’t seem to share my reservations about the wine, because after a moment’s hesitation she takes the offered glass. There’s a small twitch in her expression when she takes a sip, betraying her distaste for the bitterness. I bite back a grin.

Dinner’s in full swing by the time Haymitch shows up, but I’m honestly impressed by his transformation. No longer is he the disheveled, grimy drunk who accompanied us on the train, having changed into better-fitting clothes and likely been put through the Capitol’s bathing regimen. Most promising of all, the smell of alcohol isn’t nearly as strong as it had been before, making me believe that he’s keeping his end of the deal. He doesn’t refuse the wine, but I hadn’t expected him to, and when he starts to eat I feel myself nod a bit in satisfaction. Like this, I can almost believe that he’s a proper mentor. It takes a bit of the sting out of being paraded around like a prize goat all day.

I admittedly don’t care to pay attention to the conversation as we eat, beyond the fact that it’s exceedingly polite between Effie and Haymitch, which I suspect is because of Cinna and Portia’s inclusion. It’s beyond impressive; our stylists haven’t just made history with our costumes for the opening parade, but they’ve also managed the impossible in getting our mentor and escort to address each other without flinging insults. Content that I don’t have to keep an eye out for any imminent disaster, I focus on the meal. 

All the while, our plates and glasses are never left empty for long, the attendants being especially vigilant in keeping everything full. Something about them makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, though I can’t exactly place why. They’re just as quiet as the ones that had been on the train, but beyond their white outfits they just seem like normal people. Maybe it’s the way everyone else at the table acts like they don’t exist, like it’s an invisible presence bringing food and drink instead of human beings. The longer it goes on, the more it unnerves me. 

I don’t miss it when Katniss pushes away her wine and instead requests a glass of water halfway through, momentarily distracting me from my growing unease. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see that she’s a little pink, her grey eyes a bit glassy—I nearly tease her about it before the words die on my tongue, remembering the comment I made after the parade. Best to not push it.

Finally, our plates are cleared in anticipation of dessert, which is revealed to be an elaborate tiered cake that comes to life when one of the attendants, a red-haired girl, uses a lighter to set it on fire. It’s pretty, and I’m sure I’m meant to be entranced by the performance, but something about the girl behind the cake demands my attention in a way that immediately sets off alarms in my head. Her hair, her skin, her eyes, all of it is eerily familiar, and I watch her warily as I try to place her in my mind. She’s not from Twelve, that’s for sure. No one has that deep of red hair, even amongst the merchants, and yet I still feel like I’ve seen her. Maybe the woods—? No, wait—

“What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?” Katniss pipes up from beside me, not yet caught on to what I’ve realized. I can only sit in growing horror as she looks up at the girl’s face, watching as her eyes light up in recognition, “That’s the last thing I wa—oh! I know you!”

Immediately, all conversation ceases. It feels like my heart has suddenly climbed into my throat, hammering a rapid beat against my Adam’s apple as everyone stares at Katniss. My dread only spikes when the girl shakes her head almost frantically in denial of Katniss’s statement, fleeing from the table after. I’m sure I look like I’ve seen a ghost, if only because of the way all four adults are looking between Katniss and me. Something nags at me from the back of my mind, a whisper between Ma and Pa when I was smaller, after a Peacekeeper had tried to report Cray for his deals with the Seam girls…

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox? The very thought,” Effie spits. My stomach drops in recognition of the word, the final puzzle piece snapping into place.

“What’s an Avox?” Katniss asks. I feel myself tense, anticipating the confirmation of what I already know.

“Someone who committed a crime,” explains Haymitch. I feel ill as he continues, “They cut her tongue so she can’t speak. She’s probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you’d know her.”

There’s no mistaking the warning note in Haymitch’s voice, and when I catch his eye I feel a jolt spike through me at the sheer intensity I see. I have no doubts now that Katniss has stumbled upon something very dangerous, something that if she makes one wrong step could spell disaster for us. I quickly avert my gaze.

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak with one of them unless it’s to give an order,” Effie continues, “Of course, you don’t really know her.”

“N-no, I guess not, I just…” Katniss stammers, uncharacteristically flustered. I stare at her in disbelief before suddenly remembering her unfinished glass of wine. Internally I curse. It’s not her fault, not really, but I somehow still feel angry that I’ve failed in preventing something like this from happening. Now, if I don’t say something to defuse this situation, Katniss might end up confessing something that she really shouldn’t. Something that could find its way back home, putting everyone we love in danger. It’s this thought that spurs me into action, and I cut across her fumbling with a forced laugh. 

“I think you had too much wine, Katniss,” I make my voice sound light, teasing, and she swivels her head to stare wide-eyed at me like an owl. I swear internally again before turning to face the adults. Come on, make it a little bit easier for me! “Though, to be fair, I thought I recognized her at first, too. She looks an awful lot like a girl we go to school with, Leevy Chance.”

This last bit I direct at Effie in particular, just on the edge of being too casual in my desperation. Thankfully, Katniss seems to finally catch up at that moment and jumps in to save me from looking like an idiot. “Oh, yes! Yes, that’s who I was thinking of. It must be the hair.”

“And her eyes, too. Can’t mistake ‘em,” I add, lying through my teeth. 

Leevy Chance is a Seam girl who looks as much like the Avox girl as I look like Caesar Flickerman. In my head, I cast out a silent apology to Leevy, who’s surely back home in Twelve with no clue of us using her name as a desperate cover. It seems to work, in any case, the atmosphere in the dining room lightening considerably. Under the table, out of sight of the people around us, I carefully find Katniss’s hand where it rests on her thigh. I squeeze it tightly for a second, and she reciprocates in kind, a silent reassurance passing between us before we let go.

“Oh, well, if that’s all it is,” Cinna says, and it’s that simple for the matter to be dropped. He moves forward like nothing happened. “And yes, the cake has spirits, but it’s all burned off by now. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.”

All of that, only for the cake to taste like ash when we finally eat it. Fitting, I guess.

There’s no way I can pay any attention to the replay of the opening ceremonies, not after that incident. I sit obediently next to Katniss, ooh and aah at appropriate moments, but I’m too busy thinking about the Avox girl to really be engaged. Haymitch’s explanation is all I needed to be absolutely sure of where Katniss and I know her from, and I’m sure as hell not going to risk talking about it no matter how much I want to. Even the idea of bringing her to the roof doesn’t feel safe enough, the wind chimes too unreliable to drown out a conversation like the one we'd surely have. I feel helpless to do anything beyond pressing my weight against Katniss' side, both paranoid of the adults around us and the eyes of the Avox girl.

Thankfully I don’t have to dig deep to join in the chorus of awe when we see ourselves roll out of the Remake Center, captivating everyone with our radiance. 

“Whose idea was the hand holding?” Haymitch asks. No one answers, not for a good moment, then I jolt back into myself with the realization that he’s talking to the group as a whole.

“No one’s. It just kind of… happened,” I say. I feel like I should explain further, but the moment passes before I can. Haymitch nods to himself. 

“Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice,” he responds, startling me even more. I’m so scattered from what happened at dinner that it takes me a moment to understand what he means. I suppose he’s right; compared to all the other tributes, who stood far enough apart on their chariots like they were already prepared for the other to pounce on them any moment, we definitely stood out. But part of me can’t help but worry as the program continues, thinking of every way our friendliness can be used against us once we’re in the arena.

“Tomorrow morning is the first training session,” Haymitch says once the recap is over, “Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it. Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk.”

I nearly open my mouth to retort that I'm eighteen, which is old enough to go into the mines and is as good of an indicator of adulthood as any in Twelve, but then I'm brought up short by the realization that it doesn't matter anymore. An adult in the eyes of the miners, maybe, but I’m still considered a child enough to be reaped. As soon as my name was drawn from that bowl, I just traded in one death sentence for another. Old enough to die a slow death in the mines, young enough to die in some gruesome way for the entertainment of the Capitol.

Getting up, I make myself abandon that particularly morbid train of thought and follow behind Katniss to walk to our rooms. I find myself looking for the Avox girl almost instinctively as I do so. The entire interaction at dinner has shaken me more than I’d expect it to. It isn’t so much her presence that unsettles me, to be fair, as it is more of the reminder of what happens to those who defy the Capitol. Unbidden, I think of Cinna's words from the roof again, and my stomach twists. 

Katniss seems just as preoccupied as I am, but when we reach the door of her room she pauses, as if considering something. My anxiety spikes as I watch her, my mouth moving before I can think.

“Y'know, it's funny. I never expected Capitolites to look so much like friends back home,” I begin, casual. Thankfully Katniss seems to catch on to my intentions quicker this time, her face clearing of confusion after a second. It still takes her a bit to figure out what to say, though, so as to not sound suspicious to anyone who could be listening.

“Me, neither. I thought they only came in colors and outfits like Effie,” she says, making me scoff. Then she has to pause after that, clearly thinking hard, “It was a surprise to see Leevy's lookalike here out of everyone, though.” 

“Yeah,” I agree, my voice coming out rougher than expected. I can't say much else to that.

In all honesty, I'd almost forgotten that moment in the woods had ever happened. For a while I had kept going back to it, had thought over and over about who the pair was, how they were important enough for the Capitol to have pursued them across the Districts, but eventually I made myself give it up. There was no way I would be able to get any answers. At least, so I'd thought—then again, I think to myself, my nausea rising again, it's not like the girl can give me any answers. I've always known that the Capitol is sadistic, and I feel almost disappointed in myself that I can still be surprised by the extent of their cruelty. And yet I still feel sick at the mere existence of Avoxes. That they turn traitors into mutilated slaves, barely considered human enough to be spoken to or acknowledged. Forever forced to be subservient to those in power.

Katniss turns to look at me, and there's a terrible kind of desperation in her eyes when our gazes meet. There's a silent question there, a plea that I can practically hear in my head. How can I not, when after that day in the woods, I’d been haunted by the same thought? 

Why didn't we save her? 

I don't have an answer. My mind swirls with justifications and excuses, but it all rings hollow in the face of the consequences for our inaction. Katniss and I had made a choice by doing nothing at all, had traded our safety for the life of the boy and the voice of the girl. Pa’s voice whispers at the back of my mind, an old warning he’d used to tell me: Not making a decision is still a decision. There’s always a price for the actions you don’t take.

After a long moment of silence, all I can bring myself to do is step close to Katniss and press a light kiss to the top of her head, trying to convey everything I'm thinking through that single point of contact. We stand there in her doorway, silent. It's only after a heartbeat that I recognize the feeling of her shaking. 

“It’s been a long day. We really should sleep,” I murmur. Katniss pushes herself away from me, expression already back to its usual guarded state, and a flicker of frustration ignites in my chest at the injustice of it all. Technically, we didn’t do anything wrong, and yet I can’t help but feel like we’re being punished anyway. Oblivious to my internal conflict, Katniss just nods. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice hollow. She doesn’t say anything else before retreating into her room, and the finality in the click of her door still rings in my ears long after I’ve crawled into bed.

Chapter Text

With everything still swirling through my mind, it takes a long time for me to settle down enough to sleep. My body is exhausted from the day’s activities, but my thoughts can't seem to shut off, and when I do eventually manage to fall asleep it's only in fits and spurts. At least I don't sleep long enough each time to dream, because my mind has been given more than enough material to torment me. 

I finally admit defeat when the sun hasn't yet started to peek over the horizon, early even by my standards. It's pointless to keep trying when every attempt leads to failure. I’ll just load up on coffee once I get to breakfast.

Laying in bed has proved useful for one thing, at least, because I feel more physically refreshed than I have in a long time. So far my body has offered no complaint about the sudden increase of food and rest it’s been provided. I almost feel bad, knowing what’s in store for me in just a few days, but it’s too early for me to think about that and I push it away. Besides, I have a much more immediate issue to face, now that I’m better rested and in a state of mind where I can reasonably tackle the panels that taunt me from the shower. 

Maybe I should've at least looked it over the night before, because in a few minutes I'm stuck squinting at the controls with my eyes still blurry from sleep, standing stark naked in the empty shower. Each button’s been helpfully labeled with tiny symbols and abbreviations, which might help some tributes more used to Capitol gadgets, but I don't recognize the majority of them. Some are fairly self-explanatory, at least to an extent; the large button in the middle must be the one to turn the water on and off, based purely on its size and placement. The two arrows that bracket it from the top and bottom seem to be temperature controls, the top one being red to indicate heat, the bottom one being blue to indicate cold. Or, so I hope. Leaving the rest of the buttons to be translated after I've successfully turned the damn thing on, I cautiously punch the button I assume controls the pump. My efforts are rewarded with a deluge of cold water from a spout directly overhead, practically drowning me.

I continue this exercise of trial and error through the duration of my shower, and I end up taking longer than I normally do just by virtue of my cautious experimentation. By the time I exit the shower I've managed to find a comfortable water temperature and find the appropriate buttons for soap to wash my hair, which is enough of a success that I let myself bask in the feeling of triumph. Maybe it's a good sign for the days that lie ahead.

Thankfully I don’t have to wrestle with the closet again like I had last night, an outfit having been laid on the end of my bed while I was preoccupied in the bathroom. There's no real need to wonder who picked it out, not when Portia's influence is obvious once I look over the individual pieces; tight black pants, a long-sleeved tunic in deep burgundy, sleek leather boots that cut off at the ankle. All together it doesn't look too bad, and I swing my arms around a bit to test my range of motion. Nothing pulls or stretches, so I deem it good enough before going to put up my hair. 

There are various things in the bathroom that would dry my hair in an instant, but it feels strange to let any machine from the Capitol touch it. Instead, I just dry it as much as I can with a towel before carefully combing through it myself. I’ve gotten used to doing this for myself, but back home, Ma always insists on fixing my hair for special occasions. Especially on Reaping Day. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of her standing behind me just two mornings ago, her calloused hands working their way through my hair with a gentle touch she saves for only the most precious things. The memory’s so fresh that I can practically feel the weight of Posy sitting herself on my lap again, patting her tiny hands against my chest and demanding that I do her hair “all pretty-like”, too. I slam the comb down onto the counter hard enough that the mirror rattles, but the jarring feeling works to get me to stop thinking about home.

I'm once again the first one up, though this morning it doesn’t seem like I have to wait for everyone else to be able to eat. There's a long serving board next to the table that's already laden with food when I leave my room, all of it smelling so delicious it’s almost overwhelming. Given that there's a stack of plates at the end, I assume that I'm allowed to serve myself, but I make sure to ask the Avox at the head of the board to confirm it. I hate it, but after last night my skin starts to crawl every time I come near one of them, and I have to force myself to look him in the eye. I won’t let myself be complicit in their punishment.

Since it’s still fairly early, the sun halfway over the horizon line, I figure that I’ll be alone for breakfast this morning. Then I hear the noise of a door opening down one of the hallways, and I figure it must be either Effie or Haymitch—catching the sight of movement in the corner of my eye, I open my mouth to say good morning before glancing over and doing a double, triple take.

Instead of either adult, or even one of our stylists, Katniss is the one standing a little ways behind me, grabbing a plate and resolutely not looking in my direction. My first observation is that she’s wearing the exact same thing as me – which is kind of weird, I’m not a fan of this twins angle we’re seeming to be taking – with the second being that she looks like hell.

To be fair to her, most anyone else wouldn’t be able to tell that something’s off. But I’m not anyone else. I know her mannerisms well enough to spot the deep circles under her eyes, the cracked skin on her lips from her chewing on them, the way she fidgets with the end of her braid like she does when she's preoccupied with something. Not to mention that she’s up this early, when out of the two of us she’s the one who tends to sleep in whenever she doesn't need to go out and hunt. Everything all together points to her having an awful night, and guilt pools in my stomach. I should’ve taken her up to the roof, tried to actually talk about the Avox girl and what had happened in the woods all that time ago. But I was too afraid, scared of getting her in worse trouble, and ended up hurting her anyway.

Now, I can only try to make up for it as best as possible. “Morning, Katniss.”

“Morning,” she replies, voice rough. She still isn’t looking at me, instead focused on the food as she piles more and more onto her plate, and I frown a bit. Then again, she’s never been much of a morning person, so I can’t let myself get too worried. 

It’s a good sign that she comes to sit with me at the table once our plates are full, at least. We sit in companionable silence as we eat and watch the sun rise over the city. Between our food and the early hour, it almost feels like our typical morning meeting at our rock, eating a quick breakfast before going to check the snare lines. Except that there's so much more food than we could have ever dreamed of having, and we're sat at an oddly designed table on the top floor of a Capitol building, being prepared to go into the arena in a matter of days. I'm starting to think that I'm a little too good at bringing down my own mood.

Halfway through my initial plate, I finish my first cup of coffee and rise to refill it, which doesn’t escape Katniss's notice. She's rolling her eyes in a way I know to be joking when I come back, steaming mug in one hand and a smaller plate stacked with what I'd recognized as cinnamon rolls in the other. I've had them only once, as a gift for an early one of my birthdays, but I remember the taste well enough that I had to grab them.

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” she mutters. I try to suppress my grin.

“Well, it’s just like any other beverage, Katniss. I drink it by pouring it in my mouth and swallowing.” 

She abruptly gets up from the table at that, leaving me to laugh by myself while she stalks back toward the serving table.

Day has fully broken by the time we've finished the bulk of our meal, Katniss having finished her two plates, me cleaning my own two and nearing the end of my cinnamon rolls. I give Katniss a few after I catch her looking at them with longing, then I copy her dipping broken off pieces into her hot chocolate in retaliation. She glares at me for it at first, but she doesn't stop me at all, so I continue with a grin.

Haymitch comes in as we're doing this exchange, tossing a greeting in our general directions before making a beeline to the food. I turn back to my plate of cinnamon rolls after saying “good morning” back, only to see that Katniss has withdrawn into herself again. It seems our mentor’s appearance has almost completely undone any progress I'd made toward cheering her up, and now she's rolling her half-eaten cinnamon roll around her plate with her finger, staring at it with a faintly sick look in her eye. 

There's no real mystery as to what she's so anxious about. This entire time I've been doing my best not to think about it, but as the time crawls closer it gets harder to ignore that we're about to start our three days of training. Or, well, two and a half days; the later half of the third is reserved for our private sessions, which is where we show off our greatest skills to the Gamemakers. The training’s an opportunity to learn things we otherwise wouldn't have had the chance to, but it's also the first time we'll be in close quarters with all of the other tributes. I can only assume that this is what's bothering Katniss enough that she's lost her appetite.

We've been sitting this entire time without speaking, but once Haymitch has had his fill of the food as well as the contents of his hip flask, he sets to changing that. 

“So, let's get down to business. Training,” he starts, elbows planted on the table as he leans toward us, “First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now.” 

I'm immediately taken aback, as is Katniss. 

“Why would you coach us separately?” Katniss asks. Haymitch lazily shrugs one shoulder. 

“Say, if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about,” he answers. The prospect of either one of us secretly hiding skills from the other strikes me as so ridiculous that I bark out a surprised laugh. Our entire friendship is built on sharing everything, from skills to food to the things we could never say inside the fence. To this day, there’s only one thing I’ve kept from Katniss, and while I intend to keep it that way I’m also not looking to make it a habit. Katniss cracks a tiny smile, the idea’s absurdity working to briefly break through her anxiety. Haymitch eyes the two of us suspiciously. “Something funny?” 

“No,” I choke out, shaking my head insistently as I cover my mouth with a hand. “No, no, nothing funny at all.”

“You can coach us together,” Katniss says quickly, saving me from further embarrassment. I can tell that Haymitch doesn't believe either of us, but he also doesn't care enough to pry. 

“Alright. So give me an idea of what you can do,” he says. At this I sober up, hiding the grin that twists into a scowl behind my fist. This might be a problem. There's no way for me to talk about my snares, or Katniss to talk about her shooting, without confessing that we've been the best known poachers in Twelve for the past four years. Then again, it’s not like it’s much of a secret. We even sell to the Mayor with no issues. And Haymitch doesn’t seem like the type to care about what we get up to.

“I'm good with snares,” I finally offer. Haymitch raises an eyebrow. I can feel Katniss's baffled stare from where she sits beside me.

“That can be important when it comes to food,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to Katniss’s reaction, “Good. And Katniss, I already know you're handy with a knife.”

It's a little disorienting just how little Haymitch pries into whatever me and Katniss say to him. I won’t complain, though, because the less he knows, the less can get back home.

“Not really. But I can hunt,” she replies, “With a bow and arrow.”

“And you're good?” Haymitch presses. 

It's my turn to stare at her in disbelief as she seems to need to think on this question, like she hasn't consistently outshot me every day we've been hunting partners. It's a simple enough question with a simple enough answer.

“I'm alright,” she finally says. For the love of—

“She's fantastic,” I cut in, ignoring Katniss’s noise of protest, “She's one of the best shots I've ever seen. Plus, she's consistent. I don't know anyone else who's able to hit a moving target in the same place every single time. She even taught me how to shoot.”

I'm a little out of breath by the time I'm done, but Katniss doesn't give me much time to catch it before she's jabbing her finger into my chest. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Telling him your skills, like you’re supposed to,” I retort. “He's not gonna be much use to us if he doesn't get a complete picture of what we can do. And saying, ‘I'm alright’ doesn't cut it!”

“Oh, but, ‘I'm good with snares’ does?” Katniss snaps back, mocking my voice. She turns to Haymitch while ignoring my outraged scoff, “He's being stupid right now, but he's a genius with traps and snares. Not to mention he's a better fisher than me. He taught me.” 

My stomach swoops at the unexpected praise from Katniss, as backhanded as it is. A compliment from her is about as rare as her smile, and a thousand times more precious, because she rarely takes the time to say things if she doesn't think they're true. Then I fully process her words, and I feel my stomach twist in annoyance again. 

“Yeah, like I can fish the other tributes to death,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “And don’t you act like you’re not good with a knife, either. I’ve seen you use knives in a pinch, you’re much better than you seem to think.”

“On animals! How am I supposed to do the same thing with a person?” she yells. My reply is out of my mouth before I can even think.

“What’s the difference, really?” My angered voice rings out into the cavernous space of our floor, now eerily silent and still after my outburst.

Nausea rises in my throat, and suddenly I can’t look Katniss or Haymitch in the eye, bowing my head to stare at my forgotten plate. I can’t quite force the words out past my lips. I didn’t mean to say that. Not when I don’t believe it’s wrong, and that’s the worst part. 

I think everyone who’s been in the Reapings has thought about what they’d do in the arena, even briefly. It’s only logical, faced with the threat of the Games every year with only worsening odds as you get older. You can try to ignore it, try to put the idea out of your mind, but then summer rolls around and Reaping Day comes and then all you can think about is if your name was called. If you were dropped into an arena with 23 other kids, what you would do for the chance to come home. Because in the end, no matter what you might say or what you might make yourself believe, you don't want to die. Not like this. And yet you shudder to think about what you might have to do to survive the Games.

To be honest, ever since I signed up for my first year of tesserae I've been haunted by those thoughts. Thoughts about how it would feel, to be pushed to that point of kill or be killed. I’ve run a million scenarios of everything that could possibly happen, the number only growing with each Games and the new, horrible ways the tributes had been killed. Once I met Katniss, it only got worse, more complicated, because then I had to think about it for her, too. Yet, it also got easier in a strange way, after all of our time spent in the woods. In the end, if you don't let yourself think about it, the mechanism is all the same. You just have to adjust the trap according to your prey.

Guilt twists my stomach into knots. I hate myself for thinking this way. I hate having to justify it to myself. I hate that the Capitol has forced me to become the animal they already think I am in order to survive. I hate that I’ve rationalized thinking of the other tributes as the equivalent to the game we hunt every day, just so I don't lose my mind because of the reality. And at the center of it all, I hate that we’ve all been made to think this fucked up system as something we have to just accept, with no reasonable way to fight against it. 

“... Well, then,” Haymitch says, after a good minute of tense silence. “Well, well, well. Katniss, there’s no guarantee there’ll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Do you also know any snares?”

“A few basic ones,” Katniss mutters. I still can’t look at her, but her voice is flat, giving me absolutely zero hints as to how she’s feeling. I have to tamp down my growing anxiety.

“Good, then you won’t be out of luck if you’re on your own. And you, Gale,” Haymitch's voice being directed towards me snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts, finally lifting my eyes to his. He takes a deep breath, lifting one hand to rub at his temple, “Try not to immediately discount any skills that can be translated to the arena. There’s a reason why Four tends to do well in the Games. And same goes for you, don't reveal how much you know about snares and traps before your private session.”

I clench my jaw tight so I don’t say anything. Internally, I want so badly to point out that Four does better in the games because of a lot more reasons than just being in the fishing industry, but I’ve already argued enough with Katniss for the morning. I don’t want to get into it with Haymitch, either.

“The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear, swing a mace, learn to tie a decent knot, but save showing what you're best at for your private sessions. Are we clear?”

Katniss and I nod. 

“One last thing. In public, I want you two by each other's side every minute.” I'm a little surprised that he feels he has to specify this point, considering that everything so far has pointed toward us being marketed as a pair. I'm not thrilled about it, but since I've already been planning on sticking with Katniss in the arena, I figure it can't hurt. 

What does hurt, however, is the way Katniss immediately starts to object. “Are you serious? I don't want t—”

“Every minute!” Both Katniss and I jump when Haymitch slams his hand down on the table, making the dishes rattle and effectively cutting Katniss off. “It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will be polite and amiable to each other. Got it?”

He doesn't wait for either of us to answer, which I’m thankful for, if only because I don't think I can get my voice to work. Katniss hadn't been able to voice all of her protests, but I got the gist well enough. I can’t let it get to me, no matter how much it stings, but I’m still knocked off balance by her apparent aversion to being with me. “Good. Now get out. Meet Effie by the elevator at ten for training.” 

Rising from my chair as soon as he waves his hand, I hesitate for a second, looking between my plates and the Avoxes who still linger in the space. Thankfully my silent dilemma is quickly solved by one of them stepping forward to clear my seat. It still feels wrong, leaving my mess for other people to clean up, all without even a single acknowledgement. Especially knowing that it’s all a part of their punishment. 

All of it is suddenly overwhelming: the Avoxes, Katniss’s rejection, Haymitch’s insistence on us following his every word. I nearly run back to my room in my desperation to separate myself and get some air, narrowly avoiding colliding with Katniss where she’s idling outside her own door. She must be waiting for me, maybe to explain, maybe to complain, her expression a mix of guilt and defiance. I’m just glad she doesn’t stop me from darting through the door before closing it behind me.

Immediately I’m conflicted. The petty part of me is all too happy to leave her to the solitude she clearly wants, but the part of me that lo–cares for her is already feeling guilty about ignoring her. Honestly, I can understand her hesitance, at least somewhat—no matter what we do, there’s only going to be one victor. At some point, our duo act is inevitably going to split, whether it be by our own choice or not. I can see the logic of cutting our losses while we're already ahead, and going our separate ways before we go into the arena so the inevitable doesn't hurt quite as much. It's surprisingly pragmatic. 

Yet, I can't shake the lingering hurt from Katniss's objection. I admittedly feel a little ridiculous that it cut me this deeply, and that I ran away like a child to sulk in my room and pout instead of pushing past it. Maybe we should split up if this is how I react; sheer panic briefly overtakes me at this idea, which just makes me feel worse. I know she can handle herself just fine on her own, probably better than I can, but it’s less about her ability than it is my own hangups.

I force myself out of my thoughts. It’s almost ten by now, and being alone wasn’t the balm I was hoping it would be to my frayed nerves, so there’s no use in me being here anymore. When I walk out into the hall Katniss is nowhere to be seen, likely in her own room, and I have to push down the guilt as I pass her door. Effie greets me by the elevator and I try to respond normally, though I fear that she can feel the tension between us when Katniss finally joins a moment later, and we take the elevator down to the Training Floor in uneasy silence.

The Training Floor is located on an underground floor, below the rest of the building, and when we step out into the space I have to consciously keep my jaw in place so I don’t stand open-mouthed in awe. It’s a gymnasium, easily twice the size of our district floor, filled with weapons and obstacle courses and separate training areas. The rest of the tributes are gathered in the center in an odd circle, each having the number of their district pinned to them somewhere. Annoyingly enough, even though we’re here with some time to spare, we’re still the last ones to arrive. 

I carefully keep my gaze focused in front of me as an attendant pins the number 12 on my arm, trying to avoid any other tribute's scrutiny while I attempt to discreetly study them. The first thing I notice is that out of all of them, Katniss and I are the only ones dressed the same; secondly, Katniss is one of the smallest tributes besides the girl from 11, a fact that makes my stomach twist. I know better than most that size doesn't exactly equate strength, and Katniss is considerably better fed than some of the taller tributes, but I can’t help but worry all the same. 

The only benefit about being the last to arrive is that as soon as we've joined the circle, training officially begins. Atala, the woman who I assume is the head trainer, explains the training schedule and how each day will work: the space is divided into different stations, each one dedicated to a certain skill with an expert teacher. There's no official timetable, so we're allowed to stay at each station as long as we want, though we're encouraged to go from station to station according to our mentor's suggestions. It's forbidden for us to practice any combative skills with each other, a rule that I can hear frustrated grumbling about from one knot of tributes, though there are assistants on hand to partner with for any exercise as needed. 

Part of me listens carefully while Atala lists all of the available stations, while the other focuses on the tributes around Katniss and I. For the first time, without chariots and horses and flashy costumes in the way, we're able to see each other in close quarters. Able to interact with each other, to a point—we're under heavy surveillance to prevent any confrontation between tributes before the Games begin. Nevertheless, I take the opportunity to fully assess the competition without any barriers.

An initial scan over everyone doesn’t tell me much beyond what I’d already expected; in terms of physicality, Katniss and I are solidly in the middle of the pack. The majority of the other tributes show all the signs of never having a reliable source of food, being from the outer districts, and no amount of Capitol food can undo that kind of damage in only two days. In comparison, Katniss and I are thin but visibly strong, our years of hunting in the woods carving sparse body fat into lean muscle. 

In fact, without our spectacular costumes from last night, we’re practically invisible compared to the tributes from the richer districts, the ones who have never had to worry about their next meal and if they’d get to eat that day. The only thing that sets me apart from the rest is my height, given that I’m a fair bit taller than the other tributes aside from the boys from Two and Eleven. I watch carefully as the boy from Two flashes a grin at the blonde girl from One, all teeth in a way that feels more threatening than disarming, and I shudder with the recollection of that same smile from his Reaping. Cato. He'd been the one who volunteered like a wild dog lunging at its prey, all too eager in a way that made you suspect he'd waited his entire life for this moment. 

All of the tributes who come from the inner districts, the ones that are closer to the Capitol and their resources, tend to have that kind of fanatic zeal for the Games. It’s technically against the rules, but practically everyone knows by now that most of the kids from districts 1, 2, and 4 train for the Games. They have an entirely different mentality around the Games than Twelve does, associating them more with glory and honor than horror, and the kids will start training before they’re even eligible. This dedication has led to a less than affectionate nickname for the tributes that come from these districts: Careers, stemming from the fact that they’ve practically pledged their entire lives towards the Games.

It’s not surprising, then, that although I stand taller, all of the Career tributes this year are much better built than I am. Cato is about my height, but nearly twice as wide, all bulk compared to my wiry frame; Clove, his district partner, could easily be mistaken for Katniss if it weren’t for the fact that she’s more filled out in the face and limbs, a visible power to her movements. That, and the wicked gleam in her dark eyes that makes the hair stand up at the back of my neck. They’re standing close to the pair from District 1, already seeming friendly with each other. This, too, isn’t surprising; it’s not unusual for the Careers to stick together in the arena, at least at the beginning. Like wolves, they like to hunt in packs.

Atala’s voice rises in a dismissal and I immediately straighten, turning my focus from the other tributes to Katniss beside me. Any potential tension left over from the incident this morning dissolves once I take in the way she’s nervously chewing at her nails, her blank expression, her posture slightly hunched as if she’s trying to make herself seem smaller. Like she’s trying to hide. She must have noticed the same things I did, and I suspect most of her fears are centered around the Careers. 

I clear my throat quietly, not wanting to startle her by touching her—she still jumps at the sound, though, eyes widening and immediately lowering her hand away from her mouth. 

I try to be casual when I speak. “Anywhere you want to start in particular?”

Katniss's brow furrows a bit as she thinks, and she looks out into the gymnasium, scanning the stations and the tributes scattered amongst them. I wait for her to respond, but after a moment, I can tell she's watching the Careers where they've immediately started showing off, and I bite back a sigh. 

“We could always start with something familiar, maybe go tie some knots,” I continue. Katniss's eyes have finally cleared when she turns back to me, the furrow in her brow deepening. 

“Haymitch said for you to avoid anything to do with snares,” she replies, cautious to the point of suspicion. I brush away her words with a dismissive wave.

“What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and besides, you need the practice.” Maybe I'm laying it on a bit thick, but the exasperated look she gives in return is worth it, my teasing working to distract her even a little.

“Fine. Only if we get to go to the edible plants one after, because we both know you need the practice,” Katniss replies flatly. I give a mock sigh of resignation, which makes her give me a slight smile in return. I grin back at her.

The instructor at the knot tying station seems surprised to have students, and once he sees that Katniss and I are not novices, he quickly builds enthusiasm with his lessons. The only downside of his delight is that he skips most of the basic knots, leading straight into how to use them. At some point I have to take a step back and just watch over Katniss's shoulder as she's guided through making a human-sized leg snare. I itch to pick the instructor's brain about traps and how they could be modified to be used in the Games, but I make myself push the thought away. I made a deal with Haymitch, I'm going to stick with it. Even though it’s tempting as all hell to break it.

Once Katniss has successfully mastered the leg snare, we go over to the edible plants station. Initially I’m not that bad, my time in the woods following Katniss’s lead paying off. However, just like with the previous station, the trainer here quickly gets the sense that we can skip the basics and I find myself out of my depth in the blink of an eye. 

It's enjoyable enough, though, or at least it is intermittently. At one point, I take a break from studying the various leaf shapes and flower clusters to watch Katniss as she sweeps the advanced test without blinking, my chest growing warm with pride. At another, I gently nudge her to get her attention before pointing to the small sample of catnip the trainer has displayed alongside a dozen other cuttings. She looks at it, confused, before turning back at me in question. I do my best to keep a straight face. “It’s you.”

The trainer is infinitely patient with my repeated fumbles, at least—compared to Katniss, who tries her best but has still spent the better part of our four years together snapping at me for making dumb mistakes, I manage to make it out only feeling somewhat stupid. It's not my fault that milkweed can either be delicious or toxic, and the difference isn't easy to parse at a glance. I end up passing the regular test with only two mistakes by the end of our time at the station, an achievement that earns me an eyeroll and a “I’d be concerned if you didn’t pass” from Katniss. From her, this is as good as an outright congratulations.

This routine of going from station to station becomes our new normal over the next three days, and I have to admit that some of it is even enjoyable. Fire starting, throwing knives, building shelters out of the environment; beyond their practical value, it's easy enough for me to separate myself from the situation at hand and just appreciate the time with Katniss. At the camouflage station, I immediately discover that I’m not very good at it, and Katniss is even worse, but we still have a good enough time smearing the stuff all over each other nonetheless. There were only rules against using another tribute as a sparring partner, after all, and nothing about us using our fellow tributes as canvases. 

Of course, we don't act so casually at all of the stations. The longer the days stretch on, the harder it becomes for me to find levity in the tension, not to mention the constant weight of both the Careers and the Gamemakers’ presence. The Gamemakers had shown up the first day, sometime before lunch, the only indication of their status being the dark purple robes they wore. That, and the fact that they roam around the elevated platforms that run along the edge of the gymnasium, alternating between idly watching us and stuffing their faces with the food from their endless personal buffet. Every time I'm reminded of their existence I get a little pissed off, and the prospect of having to essentially perform for them in three days time doesn't exactly thrill me. Still, I've noticed that Katniss and I are the subject of their attention more than a few times, and when we go to lunch they like to corner the trainers we just worked with to interrogate them. I'm not sure if this is a good sign, that we are clearly on their radar.

Lunch is the only reprieve from the stress, and even then the relief is marginal. It's just easier to pretend that we're back home and sitting in the lunchroom together. The food isn't piled in front of us like usual, instead spread out on separate carts for us to serve ourselves from, which just adds to the illusion. I can almost believe that the noise of the rowdy tables is from the wrestling team instead of the Careers, and the scattered figures sitting alone or in pairs are just the other Seam kids sticking by their lonesome. Katniss and I don't feel forced to talk, just eating in our usual silence and occasionally nudging each other to point out something particularly ridiculous that the Careers are doing. It's like we exist in our own little bubble, finally able to lower our guards and relax during the hour given for us to eat. 

At least, until that bubble is popped on the second day. Katniss had gotten up from the table to grab a second helping, leaving me alone for a moment or two. I'm still picking at my own food, so I barely look up when someone drops into her seat, just assuming she'd been quicker than usual. Shock jolts through me when “Katniss” speaks and her voice is completely different, far more sultry than I'd ever expect from her. 

“Hey, handsome,” Not-Katniss purrs, leaning into my space, giggling in that fake, high-pitched way the girls back home would when I nearly drop my fork onto my plate in my surprise. Immediately I scowl at her, eyeing her suspiciously.

Since she's clearly not Katniss, I quickly recognize her imposter as the girl tribute from District 1, the one I've seen flouncing between stations and flirting with everyone who looked at her for long enough. I've never really understood the flirty angle some tributes take, especially when I'd assume that their actual skills would be more important, but the Capitol always eats it up to a worrying degree. It makes me shiver to think about those particular tributes, what the Capitol has in store for them if they survive, what they must have been told if they believe this is the only way to make people pay attention. Right now, though, with her flirting at full power, I feel more suspicious than pitying. There's very little reason why a Career would want to talk to a tribute from Twelve, and Katniss and I have made quite the effort to lay low, so the possibilities aren't promising.

“What do you want?” I ask bluntly. Not-Katniss pouts at my tone, but she replies anyway even as she sniffs in disapproval. 

“Don't sound so annoyed. I just wanted to say hello, that's all.” She tosses her glossy blonde hair over her shoulder, fixing me with a look I think is supposed to be seductive but just comes off as painful. I make an effort to stay as blank-faced as I can.

“Hello.”

The imposter – whatever her name is, Shimmer or Glitter or Sparkle, some stupid District 1 name – bursts into more of her annoying fake laughter at that, laying a hand on my bicep and ignoring my attempt to brush her off. She's like a particularly persistent mosquito, determined to get my blood no matter how many times I try to swat her away.

“Oh, you're funny! We could use a funny guy like you. Marvel is so serious, and while Cato and Clove are funny, they're never intentional about it.” She bats her eyelashes at me, leaning further into my space so I'm forced to look into her green eyes. The unwelcome sight helps me remember her name, at least. Glimmer, that's it. The Career districts always have the dumbest names for their kids. 

I'm quickly pulled away from this line of thought, however, once my mind catches up with the conversation and actually processes Glimmer's words. I narrow my eyes at her. She can't possibly be implying what I think she is. Out of all the possibilities, this is by far the most ridiculous.

“You could use someone like me?” I demand, taking the effort this time to grab her hand and pluck it off of my arm, “What, like being a part of your alliance, or whatever?”

I can only watch blankly as she beams at me, nodding encouragingly, like I'm a dog she's in the middle of training. Like I'm a pet, amusing enough to keep around for now, but inevitably I'll lose my charm and the safety their affection affords me. Useful to a point, then easily disposable.

“Exactly! Katniss can join, too, but we didn't think she'd be interested,” Glimmer chirps, her hand going right back on my arm like I'd never moved it. The pivot to Katniss makes my chest tighten, the tension in my shoulders growing with every word that comes out of her mouth. “With the way you two are always together, I'd assumed you would want her with you, but Cato in particular just wanted to ask you—”

I cut her off with an abrupt laugh. It's not the same kind of insane laugh I'd made after Effie's comment about pearls, instead being flatter, bitter, almost humorless. Biting, in a way, like you can hear the unspoken derision in it. Unlike Effie, I know Glimmer is smart enough to tell how stupid the idea is. I want her to realize. I can't even bring myself to tell her to piss off, because the thought of her offended face just sets me off again. I'm laughing loud enough that I don't notice the near-silent footsteps coming nearer from behind me, a familiar tread I know from countless mornings spent together in the woods. 

“... You’re in my seat,” a voice intones behind me, and in my shock I start laughing harder. When I turn, Katniss is clutching her newly-refilled plate with both hands, held in front of her chest like a shield as she stares down at Glimmer with a blank look that anyone but me would take as dismissive. To me, though, I can see the confusion in her eyes clear as day, mixed with frustration and a fair bit of anxiety. 

“There are other seats at the table, you know,” Glimmer simpers, but Katniss doesn't budge. Most of her anxiety has gone, replaced with a kind of baffled annoyance she usually only shows around me. Nearly everyone in the dining room is watching us now, even some of the Avoxes, and the reminder of our audience sobers me enough that my laughter dwindles.

“That's a good one. Real funny,” I sigh. It's hard not to start up again when I glance at Glimmer and she's looking at me, all hopeful with her wide eyes, as if she really believes I'm giving her stupid proposition a chance. I almost feel bad for her. “I'll have to decline, though. For both of us. We're not looking to add any useless weight.”

Almost.

The useless weight comment wasn't necessary at all, a pointlessly cruel jab that makes me feel guilty for a few seconds before I remember that I don’t owe this girl anything. Besides, it does admittedly make me smirk a bit upon seeing Glimmer's offended expression. Just as ridiculous as I'd imagined it would be. 

And just like I'd suspected, Glimmer is smart enough to get the hint, because she pushes herself out of the chair and starts to stalk away in a huff. She doesn't even bother with a goodbye, just shooting a murderous glare at me over her shoulder. I suppose I should feel more worried about that, considering that we are going to be literally fighting to the death in a few days, but all I can do is roll my eyes. My attention turns toward Katniss, anyway, who is still awkwardly standing behind her chair with her plate in her hands, looking a bit lost. 

“Don't worry, she didn't do anything to your chair. Unless you count sitting, I guess,” I say, after a moment of her staring. Katniss jumps a little bit, like she's suddenly coming out of a daydream, and immediately scowls down at me. There she is. 

“I know,” she replies defensively, even as she moves to sit down. 

I'd expected for her to be annoyed at Glimmer's intrusion, maybe even paranoid, but much to my confusion Katniss just hunches over her food and stabs at the pasta with her fork a little too violently. Something about the Glimmer conversation has bothered her, but not in a way I recognize. She's all… prickly, especially when she speaks again. “What did she want, anyway?”

“You won't believe me,” I start, which immediately earns me a glare. Katniss, in the middle of shoveling pasta into her mouth, looks about as intimidating as a chipmunk with its cheeks stuffed full of seeds, but I get the message. “She wanted me to join the Careers. With some bullshit about asking you, too, but they really wanted me, for some reason.”

This surprises her enough that she stops chewing for a moment, turning to squint at me like she’s trying to determine if I'm messing with her. Then, upon confirming the reliability of my statement, she simply furrows her brow. 

“So that was why you made the comment about useless weight,” she says. Some of her tension releases once she speaks, and in turn I relax a bit, too. She seems more curious than anything now, the anger from before slowly dissolving. 

“Yeah. Maybe I was a bit too harsh, but it was a ridiculous question, anyway.”

Katniss just scoffs, in what I assume to be agreement, and goes back to her food with more enthusiasm than before. It's baffling, to be honest, that there's no trace of her agitation from moments ago. Maybe my honesty made her feel better, or maybe just knowing Glimmer's intentions did. Honestly, I'm not exactly keen to find out in either case. Sometimes her mood shifts so quickly there's no hope for me to catch up with it.

“I don't really know what she expected, anyway. For me to grovel at their feet in gratitude for sparing me?” This makes her snort, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. 

“I'm sure they'd love that,” Katniss mutters. I give a scoff of my own. The longer I think about it, the more ridiculous it seems.

“Yeah, well, there's no way I'm shacking up with them. I've already got the best hunting partner possible,” I add after a moment, bumping my shoulder into Katniss's. She tries to quickly hide it with another forkful of pasta, but I catch the brief flicker of a smile before she can.

Outside of the Careers, the only other tributes that manage to catch my attention are the two from Eleven. Initially, they weren't too remarkable when I saw them in the tribute circle, but over the few days I keep noticing them around. It helps that the boy, Thresh, is easily the tallest tribute, having a good few inches on me. He isn't quite as well-muscled as the Careers, but he's clearly strong, the type of build that comes from years of hard work as opposed to extensive training. District 11 is one of the few where the children get involved with their industry early on, and in some Games it can easily be an advantage. 

Beyond his physicality, though, I find myself passing close by Thresh on more than a few occasions. He's doing his own circuit of the stations by himself, and occasionally we'll arrive at a station just as he's leaving, or he'll appear while we're finishing up. We never share a station, but just these brief brushes of interaction are enough for me to get a sense of steadiness from him. He never speaks, never really interacts with the trainers, but I meet his eye once as I sweep my eyes over the gymnasium during a brief break, and there’s a weary determination there I immediately recognize from glimpses in the mirror. I have the feeling we're more similar than I can really know.

Rue, the girl from Eleven, is another story entirely. I know that Katniss has something of a weakness for her, likely because she reminds her of Prim, but I think the feeling is mutual because I notice early on that the girl will follow us around. Not overtly, not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone not paying attention, but I still catch her out of the corner of my eye fairly frequently. It’s not like it bothers me; if anything, I'm glad she feels like we're trustworthy enough to follow our path. And she really is so young. I can’t look at her for too long without seeing Posy. Katniss and I are the same in that way.

Unlike her district partner, Rue isn’t so diligent about avoiding joining us at some of the stations. It’s when we’re attempting to throw spears that I finally say something about her presence to Katniss. 

“We’ve got a little bird on our tail, at your 5 o’clock,” I murmur. Katniss makes sure to take her final shot before turning, and I’m unsurprised to see that she’s better at it than me. Her aim’s always been sharper, no matter if she’s using a bow or a knife or even a spear. The only advantage I have is being able to throw mine farther.

I can’t see Katniss’s face while I’m taking my turn, but after I step back from the line I turn to her. She’s already turned back to the spears, her eyes distant as she takes one of them. Thinking about Prim, no doubt.

“Her name’s Rue, I think,” I continue, conversationally, like the subject of our discussion isn’t watchfully standing a few feet behind us, “I hate that she’s here.”

Katniss looks up at that, meeting my gaze with a familiar flash behind her eyes. It’s the kind she always gets when she’s angry, when she’s mad at the world and how unfair things can be. It’s a look that passes between us all too often. Then her expression twists, like she’s tasted something awfully bitter, and turns back to line up her next throw. Her voice is steely when she talks, but there’s an edge that tells me immediately that she’s putting on a brave face. 

“We can’t. You know we can’t.”

“I know,” I respond. My voice is tighter than I expected. “I still think it’s important to say.”

She doesn’t respond to that, just throws another spear with too much force.

Meanwhile, back on our district floor, Haymitch and Effie don’t waste our precious downtime with trivial things like rest. We’re interrogated relentlessly about our daily ventures, about everything we do during the day. Where we go, what we do, who we notice watching us, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started asking what we had for lunch. We can’t even rely on them arguing to give us a break anymore, either, because it seems their single unifying purpose is to hound us about our training until we either become perfect tributes or we go insane. And it’s seeming increasingly more likely that one of us will go insane.

Neither Katniss nor I have ever responded well to pressure like this, and the stress from training every day doesn’t make it any easier to endure. No matter how much we like each other, eventually the stress becomes too much; we become snippy with each other during the day, little spats we’re forced to cover with smiles and fake laughs that I don’t think fool anyone. It becomes a waiting game on who will snap first, and on the morning of the third day, it finally happens.

I’m the one who does better in the mornings, so I take the brunt of the questioning, answering tersely in one or two words at most. Effie and Haymitch seem oblivious to my growing frustration, not to mention the dark cloud already brewing over Katniss’s head. She’s extra anxious about the private sessions, I can tell, and with each inquiry her agitation grows. She’s so wound up beside me that I catch myself subconsciously tensing my muscles to mirror her, and I have to force my jaw to unclench.

Since the sessions are this afternoon, both adults are going particularly hard on not giving anything away before we’re called. It's not like they haven't already told us a thousand times, and we've already assured them just as much that we haven't. Beside me, Katniss is hunched over a bowl of what Effie had informed us was called “cereal”, mechanically lifting each spoonful to her lips as she looks blankly at the wood of the table. I can feel her tense right as Haymitch clicks his tongue, and her agitation is infectious, because my hand tightens around the fork I’m holding. 

“You may think we're riding your asses, and we are, because this is important. You two have real promise, you just have to show it to the Gamemakers without fucking it up,” Haymitch starts, his tone uncharacteristically stern. He ignores Effie's chastisement about his language, instead waving his hand lazily as he sighs. “Let's go over the schedule one last time, alright? It'll be the same as the past two days, but when lunch rolls aro—”

He's abruptly cut off by a horrible screeching noise, making all of us jump. Looking over to my right, I see that Katniss has pushed herself away from the table, the legs of her chair being the source of the noise when they'd ground against the floor. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't really need to, fury plainly written on her face as she gets up and starts to stalk away. 

Effie, temporarily stunned into silence by Katniss's audacity, starts to stammer in outrage as I quickly slip out of my seat to follow after Katniss. She’s stomped over to the elevator, much to my surprise, but I don't do anything to stop her, instead standing between her and the Avox closest to us just in case they try to grab her. Once the doors open, Katniss rushes in first, and I toss out a quick, “Sorry,” before darting in. The elevator doors close behind me with a click, separating us from Effie's rising voice and Haymitch's grumbling. 

The elevator ride is fairly short, but the silence between us seems to stretch on for longer than it logically can, the sound of us breathing the only thing filling the space.

“I shouldn't have done that,” Katniss says finally, her voice distant like she hasn't fully processed what she just did. I shrug.

“... I mean, it's not like they didn't have it coming,” I slowly respond. Her eyes flicker to me, like she's only just now noticed that I'm standing in the elevator with her. “If you hadn’t done something, I would have. And I wouldn't have been nearly as nice.”

She doesn't quite smile, but something in her expression softens, and all the tension between us over the past few days seems to lighten.

“We're way too early,” she says next, just as the elevator slows to a stop on the bottom floor. A pleasant chime rings out as the doors open, announcing our arrival. I don’t move. 

“We can wait down here,” I respond. Katniss is right: we're at the gymnasium a good half hour ahead of schedule, but I can tell that neither of us are particularly eager to go back up and confront our doubtlessly livid escort and mentor. “There’s no rules that say we can't.” 

After another moment of hesitation, Katniss takes a deep breath, her shoulders dropping as she does so. “I… suppose so.”

Still, when we cautiously venture out of the elevator, Katniss keeps a watchful eye for anyone coming to reprimand us. It isn’t until the trainers start coming in, and they barely spare us a glance as they do, that she finally relaxes against my shoulder as we sit leaning against the wall. Despite the agitation still thrumming under my skin, and the dread of the private sessions steadily creeping in, I feel something like peace in the brief time before the last day of our training starts.

Once the other tributes arrive, we have the time before lunch to go to a few last stations before our private sessions. The air is thick with anticipation, everyone much quieter than usual. Even the Careers seem to be more subdued. No matter how well-trained you are, I guess everyone still has to deal with nerves. It feels too short of a time before we’re anxiously waiting in the lunchroom, picking at our food as we wait for our names to be called.

Each tribute is called one by one, the boy before the girl, according to our district number. Since we’re from District 12, Katniss and I are the last pair, and we wait at our usual table in silence. No one comes back once they’re called, presumably going back to their district floors, and so the space becomes steadily emptier as time goes on. After Rue is called, we’re left by ourselves, sitting across from each other while saying nothing. The silence itches at me, but I don’t know if I have the courage to break it, at least until my name is called and I feel myself mechanically rise from my seat. 

“Remember, show them everything you can do with snares,” Katniss surprises me by speaking first, her voice flat. A ghost of a smile curls the edges of my lips, and I nod. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I reply, “Just focus on giving them your best shot.”

I leave, then, before I lose the courage to move at all. I enter the gym with my posture straight, my shoulders squared, but I immediately realize that my entrance doesn’t matter whatsoever. 

After twenty-two other tributes, I’d expected the Gamemakers to be nearing the end of their rope, but I find myself walking into a complete mess. Most of them are completely out of their minds on too much wine, singing some type of drinking song in discordant voices and not paying any kind of attention to me. I stare at them in growing fury, grinding my teeth to keep myself from shouting. How dare they? This might be another boring day at the job for them, but this session could be the deciding factor for mine and Katniss’s survival. If I get a shitty score because of their incompetence, I’ll get the blame for it, and there’s nothing I can do. 

At least, until I turn my head and my eye catches on one of the various training dummies strewn across the gym. I stare at it for a moment, a plan forming in my mind, and after another beat I stride forward. I have to work quickly, but if I manage to make it work, they'll have no choice but to pay attention to me.

It’s distressingly easy to set up the parts of the trap under the Gamemakers noses, considering how drunk the majority of them are. A few of them stop to watch me as I look for supplies, but they quickly lose interest, which suits me just fine—the less they know ahead of time, the more my trap will take them by surprise. 

As I work, my mind races with variables and potential issues. There are some of the trainers standing on the sidelines to act as assistants, but the likelihood of them getting hurt is high, and I don't want to face the trouble that comes with injuring Capitol citizens; the dummies would be perfect, but they're unfortunately inanimate and frustratingly limp, and won't run into the tripwire like I'd want. I have to content myself with making it so I can set it off from a distance, rigging a dummy to stand in the spot where my theoretical victim would be. 

I can practically feel the clock ticking as I hurriedly wrap wires around sticks I'd taken from the fire-making station, rigging two poles from the obstacle course to act as the trees for my demonstration. I'm out of breath by the time I'm finished, my heart racing, but I feel my confidence growing while I double-check the tripwire to make sure it'll do what I want it to. As I position myself to set it off a safe way away, I find myself grinning. If nothing else, I've impressed myself.

Back in Twelve, Pa's old friends taught me a lot more than just snares. Webber in particular was incredibly knowledgeable about various bird and animal calls, using the information to try and mimic them to lure out game. I'd always get too embarrassed to do it with him, but the knowledge itself was invaluable, and when I started hunting with Katniss I realized just how much it helped. Now, as I stand a few feet from the tripwire of my trap, I make myself remember Webber's lessons, his slow voice telling me about what sounds to recognize as dangerous. He'd warned me in particular that a fox can sound exactly like a person when one of them screams, and not to immediately panic if I hear shrieking in the woods. 

Taking a deep breath, I cup my hands around my mouth, watching the Gamemakers out of the corner of my eye for the perfect moment. They're all perfectly distracted, just like I want. Another moment, two, and then I make my best attempt at a fox's scream.

It's frankly awful, and in front of anyone else I'd be mortified, but it gets the job done; startled, the Gamemakers all turn in my direction, the perfect cue for me to yank at the rope I'm holding. It's tied to a small trigger stick keeping a weighted ball in place just in front of the tripwire—with the stick gone, it rolls into the line, just enough for the mechanism to fire. 

Immediately, the net shoots from the side to careen into the dummy and wrap around one of the poles, its weighted ends making a thunk against the metal. It doesn’t have much time to settle, as the weighted ball continues to roll and hits the second tripwire, placed just past the first one. A spear comes flying from the same space as the net with an audible snap, skewering the dummy through the middle and pinning it to the pole. 

The Gamemakers are quiet once my trap settles, and I stand there for a few moments just watching them, my confidence steadily climbing. If anything, their stunned silence makes me even prouder of myself, and by the time one of them clears his throat I feel lighter than I have in days. It's intoxicating, finally being able to make them see just what I'm capable of.

“You’re free to go,” he says, and I don't bother to hide my grin before I turn and leave. 

I'm practically giddy with pride by the time I reach the elevator, though I try to stay composed while I'm still in the Gamemaker's sight. As soon as the doors close, though, and the car starts to rise, I let myself lean back against the elevator's glass walls, all of the tension bleeding out of me with a single breath. It's not over yet, and we still have the worst ahead of us, but I revel in the relief from this small victory anyway. 

My spirits lift even higher when I step out of the elevator on our floor and see that Haymitch and Effie aren't alone. Our stylists are sitting on the central couch with both of them, a sight so welcome I nearly start to cry. I'd forgotten that not only have we made it through training, but the grilling sessions at the start and end of each day are no more. I'm flooded with so much relief that I almost fall to my knees, but I just manage to make it to the couch before I collapse onto the cushions. 

Haymitch is watching me with a look I can only describe as suspicious, one eyebrow raised. “What's got you in such a good mood? Did the session go well?”

It’s tempting to just say it all now, but I’m brought up short by the reminder that Katniss is still down there. For some reason, it feels wrong to tell everyone about my success without her. So instead I shrug, aiming to be playful instead of elusive.

“I'll tell you once Katniss is back,” I reply. I grin when Effie makes a small noise of disappointment, and soon Cinna and Portia are rolling their eyes good-naturedly. Haymitch sighs. 

“Typical… Fine, what's another half hour of waiting,” he grumbles. Despite his tone, I can see the edges of a smile creeping onto his face, betraying his own poorly-masked relief. I know that he also has more he wants to say about our walking out this morning, but he himself must be in a good mood, because he doesn’t push it for the entire time we’re waiting.

Seeing as I've refused to talk about my private session without Katniss being present, the stylists start up small talk with Effie while Haymitch and I listen from the side quietly. It's all useless Capitol gossip, talking about who went to which party in the wrong color dress, but instead of irritating me like usual I just let it fade into meaningless background noise. I don’t think I can get irritated by now—for the first time since we’ve stepped off the train, I feel good about our chances, or at least more optimistic than before. 

We don't have to wait nearly as long as Haymitch had estimated to hear the elevator chime, alerting us to Katniss's approach. I turn around to look at the elevator doors just as the car settles, my mouth opening to greet her. I can just see her through the thick glass, but something about how she’s standing immediately sets off an alarm in my head. She’s too stiff, her back too straight, like she’s trying to keep everything together.

Something is wrong. 

My suspicions are only confirmed a moment later, when the elevator doors open just wide enough for Katniss to slip through; she doesn’t even bother to look our way before bolting, making a beeline for her room. I manage to catch a glimpse of her tear-streaked face before she darts away, the sight making my stomach drop in sudden dread. I immediately start to panic. Why is she crying? Did something happen? Is she okay?

“Katniss—!” Haymitch's call of her name is met by a loud slam of her door, the sound ringing out into the open space of the floor and leaving the five of us to sit in uneasy silence.

Chapter Text

I'm up and out of my seat before I realize I'm moving, heading straight for the hall that leads to both of our rooms. Effie and Portia's worried voices fade in the background as I walk, getting drowned out by the steadily growing ringing in my ears.

To be honest, I'm much more rattled by Katniss’s behavior than I typically would be. Whenever anything happens – Rory gets in trouble at school, Vick spilled all of Ma’s good detergent, Posy scraped her knee while playing with the other Seam kids – I’m the one everyone comes to. For some reason, whenever crisis strikes, I tend to simply calm down and focus on the issue, and usually my level-headedness steadies everyone else. It’s one of the reasons why things didn’t all crash down immediately after Pa died; while everyone else was grieving, I stayed the sturdy pillar holding it all on my shoulders. 

When it comes to Katniss, though, it’s another thing entirely. Even with minor issues, the slightest indication of her being upset can bother me for days afterward. Not to mention that for as long as I've known her, she’s very rarely cried like this. She's gotten scared, yes, and shed a tear or two at the odd injury, but while my hands shook as I carried her back to the fence she didn’t let anything but frustration show. Nothing even talking about her father or Prim. So it’s entirely uncharted territory as I draw nearer to her door, as I hear her hysterical sobs through the door, each one sending a dagger of pain straight through my heart.

I try to twist the handle a few times before my mind catches up to the world around me, realizing that the door is locked. Of course. My forehead knocks against the wood of the door as I take a moment to laugh quietly to myself out of sheer nerves. Why wouldn't she have locked it? Katniss has always been the type to hide away when she’s upset, and with doors that lock at her disposal, it makes sense that she'd use them. I'm not too bad at picking locks, but the idea of violating her privacy like that just makes me feel even worse. 

Besides, it's not like she’s in danger. At least, as far as I know. I have to believe that she's not just so I don't completely lose it.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to think past the growing fog of my panic. “Katniss? Are you okay?” 

She shouts something from behind the door, unintelligible through the wood and her tears, though I can still guess at the meaning. Telling me to leave, no doubt. I'm far too stubborn for my own good, though, and I don't think I could make myself leave even if I wanted to, so I stay put.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say after a long pause, finally letting go of the door's handle. “But I won't make you talk. I'll be here when you're ready.”

All I can hear is the muffled sound of her crying, but I don't try to listen for a reply too long, instead turning around to press my back against the solid wood of her door. I slowly slide down to sit, my legs suddenly feeling weak; maybe I shouldn't be so literal, with me staying right here for her, but it's all my frazzled mind can think of to do. I can’t really help her, not without breaking through the lock of her door like some creepy lunatic, but my skin crawls at how helpless I feel. I need to do something, anything, just on the off chance that it'll help her. So I sit, and I wait.

All of the exhaustion I've been holding over the past few days crashes into me as I sit there on the floor, making me glad that I'd done so since it prevents me from falling now. The brief flicker of hope that had sprung to life from my successful private session has long since died, leaving me to sit and ruminate on every possible reason for Katniss's breakdown. If she’s this scared, this upset, I can't help but think of the worst. Did she hurt one of the assistants? How would she have done so, though, if she was showing off her shooting? Then I get an awful feeling in my stomach, thinking about how distracted the Gamemakers had been during my session. She wouldn't have hurt one of them in her frustration… would she?

I have to divert my attention away after that, or else I'll lose my mind worrying. I do my best to keep distracted, stretching out my legs to prevent them from cramping, trying to count the amount of tiny screws in the wall panels. Unfortunately, the screws start to bleed into the panels and each other after a bit; it’s almost hypnotic, the counting, and the combined effect of the stress and weariness built up from training is steadily dragging me down. Soon, I find myself drifting in and out of sleep as time crawls on, no matter how hard I try to keep myself afloat.

After a good hour or so, I'm very nearly asleep when the door clicks above my head, and suddenly the surface I've been leaning against moves quicker than I can react. One moment, I'm peacefully drifting on the line between wakefulness and sleep in the sterile Capitol lighting; the next, I'm narrowly avoiding hitting my head against the floor as I fall into the newly empty space. My head is only spared by me landing on Katniss’s feet, though this comes with its own problems as she promptly kicks me in the head.

“Gale?” She whispers afterward, horrified, and I wince up at her as I try to piece together exactly what just happened. 

“Ow,” I offer. 

Her slightly-puffy face hovers anxiously above me, eyes red and swollen—the sight jolts me completely awake, whatever lingering sleepiness quickly dissolving as I scramble up onto my feet. The rest of my body still hasn’t quite caught up, though, and I have to clutch at the door frame for balance.

“I didn't know you literally—ugh, you're so—,” Katniss is muttering, seemingly to herself, but I unthinkingly cut across her in my haste. 

“Are you okay?” My voice is breathier than intended, much too raw in a way it would never normally be if I hadn’t been half asleep when she opened the door. I guess the open concern makes Katniss pause, though, whatever pre-prepared dismissal she’d had ready for me dying on her lips. She presses them together, instead, eyes shifting to check the hall behind me – otherwise empty, like it has been for the past hour – before stepping back a bit to let me into her room. Trying not to show my surprise, I follow her without a word.

She doesn’t wait long after she’s closed the door again to talk, her voice rough from tears and frighteningly monotone. 

“I think I’ve ruined everything.”

I stare at her. “What?”

Much to my growing horror, tears start to form in the corners of Katniss’s eyes, though she aggressively wipes them away with her sleeve before speaking again. 

“I think I’ve ruined everything,” she repeats, harsher this time, then shakily adds, “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

The only people I’ve ever been good at consoling have been Rory, Vick, and Posy. Out of the three of them, Rory’s consistently been the most difficult, if only because he’s naturally predisposed to calling bullshit to everything I say, but he’s still at an age where I can promise to take him with me to the Hob and he’ll perk right up. Making a kid feel better is as easy as distracting them, but that tends to stop working somewhere around 13, and Katniss is far past that. I don’t even really know where to start with her, my arms hovering awkwardly as if I’m trying to decide whether to touch her or not, all the while she doesn’t seem to notice my fumbling.

“Okay,” I respond, though my voice is distant as I struggle to keep up with everything. What does she mean, she ruined everything? What happened? 

What did she do? 

I’d said that I wouldn’t make her talk, but the longer she keeps being cryptic, the more frightened I get. At some point, if left only with my imagination, I start going through every single worst case scenario I can possibly think of. And I can think of a lot. Compared to my spiralling thoughts, it’s honestly impressive how calm my voice still is when I speak. “Okay, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m here.”

Turns out I don’t have to make a decision, because Katniss steps into my space before I can even blink and buries her face into my chest, wrapping her arms around me. My body reacts almost instinctively, pulling her closer; I'm glad for it, too, because I'm still having enough difficulty doing even simple tasks like breathing. Or maybe that's because she's squeezing me a little too tight. 

I don't say anything, just focus on rubbing soothing circles on her back while we stand there. After a few minutes of this, Katniss says something into my chest that my mind initially refuses to process.

“I shot at them.”

I freeze. 

It takes me longer than I'd like to fully grasp her statement, and even though I'm already entirely sure of what she’s saying, a part of my mind still refuses to believe it. No, no, she couldn't have possibly… She doesn't mean…

“You… shot at them.” My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. I feel Katniss flinch in my arms, “Them… you mean the Gamemakers?”

She pulls away at that, and I’m conflicted between mourning the loss of her contact and becoming more and more horrified as she continues, voice growing frantic.

“They were drunk, and distracted, and I got so angry I didn’t even think, I just wanted them to pay attention to me!” Just as I’d thought, then, and despite my panic I can’t find it in myself to be angry with her. It's not like I can really say anything, considering I’d resorted to screaming to get their attention. Still, there’s a marginal degree of difference between screaming and shooting a weapon at people.

“What did they say?” I continue. By this point, I can only brace myself when she hesitates for half a second too long.

“I… don’t know. I left, before they could say anything.” Katniss’s voice gets smaller as she speaks, until she’s basically whispering the last word. 

Silence stretches between us, and I can see her starting to nervously fidget, but for the first time in this conversation I can’t think of anything to say. I can’t, I won’t lie to her and say nothing will happen, because there’s no way for me to know. But as the situation sinks in and the adrenaline starts to ebb, I find myself slipping into my usual crisis-calm. Surely there have been other tributes who caused even bigger problems than Katniss, and none of their transgressions were made public. Besides, they were already destined for the most effective form of punishment the Capitol has. What could they have that's worse than the Games?

Katniss seems to take my pensive silence as something much more foreboding, based on the frantic note in her voice. “What do you think they’ll do?”

Suddenly feeling foolish for my brief bout of panic, I make myself take a steady breath. If I fall apart this badly outside of the Games, how can I expect myself to keep her safe during them? Not only is it pathetic—it’s dangerous, and even though I hate that the presence of the cameras is now always at the back of my mind, it certainly won't win me any favors with the audience. I have to be better, if only for Katniss's sake.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel, “But we can’t panic yet, okay? If nothing else, everything that happens during the private sessions is kept secret. So if they’re not already knocking down our door, or plastering your face across the nation's televisions, then most likely they won't do much.”

Katniss doesn't look entirely convinced, but I hadn’t expected her to be. She and Rory are both similar in that way—refusing to take me at my word, assuming things I never said, and generally being a pain in my ass. Katniss has an advantage that Rory could never have, though, so I'm infinitely more tolerant of her seeming insistence on doubting me.

“I'm sure they'll give me an awful score,” she laments. There's still that edge of resignation to her voice, but it doesn’t seem like her heart is in it anymore, and I watch as she releases the end of her braid that she's been fiddling with. This, more than anything else, is the surest sign that I've brought her back from the cliff's edge.

“Then we'll deal with it. Together,” I respond. Katniss looks up at that, cautiously watching me through her lashes like she's trying to study me. Her face is still raw from her crying, the skin around her eyes reddened, but she looks better. Just as pretty as she always is, no matter what, but less sad. Less frightened. I give her my gentlest smile, the one I only use in the woods with her, and lower my voice just so. “We’re hunting partners, remember? I'll always watch your back.” 

I don't expect the mess of emotions that crosses her face, hope and anger and fear all bleeding into each other. She starts like she wants to fully step away, but then pauses, as if debating with herself. A moment passes of this deliberation, then she straightens. The look she gives me is so deeply hurt that I find myself instinctively wincing. “You can't do that.”

“Katniss,” I try, but she pushes forward.

“No, Gale, you can't talk like we won't—”

“Won't what?” I cut in, my voice hardening. It's not like I haven't laid awake the last few nights thinking about every way I could possibly lose her, my chest gripped with fear and a grief so deep it almost hurts. I've had this conversation a thousand times already in my head, gone through every argument, and in all of them I know one thing for sure. “We made a pact, and I'm not about to let the Games break it. When we decided to be hunting partners, I knew the risks, and I still do. I meant it.”

Katniss's scowl deepens at that, in the way I recognize as her trying to be tough. I don't back down, though, going so far as to take a step closer to her. The closeness seems to embolden her, much to my surprise.

“If you really mean it, you can’t give up on yourself for me,” she snaps, jabbing a finger into my chest. I blink. “Our pact means nothing if one of us doesn't come back. And don’t act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You can’t play dumb with me.”

I bite my tongue, admittedly caught red-handed. She’s right, though, even though I’m frustrated that she can see right through me so easily. That’s the thing, with us being so close; we can never really hide anything from each other. We both know the other’s tells even better than we know our own. I’ve only ever been able to successfully hide one thing from Katniss, and it’s just because I have the feeling she doesn’t want to see it.

A faint knock at Katniss's door cuts in, acting as a knife through the tension settling between us. It’s Effie, her voice floating through the door to call Katniss to dinner. Right. We still have to face the adults and tell them about our sessions. And after, wait to watch the nightly program and see our scores. There’s no real rest for us. 

Suddenly, I'm all too aware of how close Katniss is, how I can see the faint flecks of color in her eyes, too dull to stand out amongst the grey but recognizable enough to anyone who looks close. How I can see the sparse freckles on her cheeks from our days spent in the sun picking strawberries, a few dotted over the bridge of her nose. I have to make myself take a step back before I look even further down, feeling hot all of a sudden.

“Do you feel up to dinner?” I blurt out, turning my head toward the door. There’s no way I can meet her eye right now, not with how close we just were, how her last words still hang unaddressed in the air between us. I can hear her shuffle her feet, sniffling quietly, and the rustle of fabric. Her voice is empty when she responds. 

“Might as well,” she mutters, soft footsteps alerting me to her walking back toward her bathroom, “It’s not like I can avoid it forever.”

I swallow anxiously, before taking a few steps to her door. “Meet you there.”

She doesn’t reply.

The chatter of the adults quietens the moment I step out of the hallway, but I pretend not to notice their searching looks, merely smiling close-lipped at them before I take my seat at the dining table. Haymitch in particular is eyeing me rather suspiciously, and I do my best to ignore him, instead joining whatever asinine conversation about the weather Cinna and Portia are having. There's no way I'm even hinting at what happened before Katniss arrives. 

Thankfully I don’t have to stall for too long, Katniss emerging from her room after a minute or two. I can tell that she'd tried to wash her face to make it less obvious she'd been crying, but it didn't do much beyond making the fine hairs around her face curl from the moisture; still, I shoot a hard look between Haymitch and Effie, silently threatening them to not say anything. When she sits down next to me, she doesn’t speak, and avoids looking at everyone, staring down at her food as each course is presented. I’m starting to get worried again when Haymitch finally speaks up after the main course has been served. 

“Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?” 

I scowl, reflexively defensive about the relative success of my session, though now I'm hesitant to talk about it if it'll make Katniss feel worse. Neither of us are speaking, though, and Haymitch looks between us expectantly until I make myself swallow my pride and speak. “I don't know how much the Gamemakers saw, honestly, past the last minute. They were already drunk and barely even looked at me, just singing some drinking song.”

“Past the last minute? What do you mean by that?” Haymitch presses. Despite wanting to avoid making Katniss feel worse, I can't help the satisfied smile that tugs at my lips. 

“Well, I was setting up a trap for most of the time. It was a modified spear snare, if that means anything to you. It's not very interesting to watch, anyhow,” I explain. “And it was only when I set it off that they actually paid attention to me. Then they said I could go.” 

I don't mention the scream, caught between annoyance and embarrassment about having to do it, but like usual, Haymitch doesn't pry. He just nods, face unreadable. 

“Did they seem impressed?” Portia asks, diverting my attention to her. I try not to grin too widely as I shrug noncommittally, still proud of myself. 

“They didn't really react or anything, they just looked… surprised. They didn't talk or even move for a few moments after the trap went off.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow at that, which is the closest to being impressed I've ever seen him. It's enough for me to sit up straighter in my seat as he continues to turn to Katniss, prompting, “And you, sweetheart?”

And just like that, the nickname instantly sparks at my temper, and my good mood is temporarily disrupted while I glare at him. I guess it pisses Katniss off, too, because she answers quicker than I expected, and with a hard edge to her voice.

“I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.” 

As expected, everyone stops eating. 

It seems like each person at the table is going through the same process I had when Katniss told me, shock giving way to denial giving way to horror. At least this time it's somewhat entertaining to watch, four faces shifting between the same emotions at different paces.

“You what?” Effie asks weakly. 

“I shot an arrow at them,” Katniss confirms. Her voice gets louder as she continues, until she's practically shouting, “Not… exactly at them. In their direction. It-it's like Gale said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!” 

That's news to me, and instantly I can imagine the scene. There's no way I can stop the shocked snort of laughter before it happens, and I quickly cover my mouth with my hand so I don't seem like even more of an ass. The Gamemakers must have looked so ridiculous.

“And what did they say?” Cinna asks, just like I had. And like before, Katniss shakes her head. 

“Nothing. Or, I don't know. I walked out after that.”

“Without being dismissed?” Effie gasps, like this is the most dire part of the entire situation. 

“I dismissed myself,” Katniss says. The edge in her voice has gone, as if all of her indignation from Haymitch's nickname has burnt up, leaving her nervous again. The man himself doesn't seem as bothered as I’d worried, though, looking over Katniss with a careful eye. 

It seems like he reaches a decision after a moment, sitting back in his chair and turning back to the food. “Well, that's that.”

I stare at him as he grabs a roll, splitting it open to butter it, like this is an everyday dinner conversation to him. Nobody else is moving, and I can practically feel the tension still in the air, except now Haymitch is the subject of our disbelief rather than Katniss. 

“Do you think they'll arrest me?” Katniss presses. There's some of that edge back, betraying her frustration. For his part, Haymitch just shrugs. 

“Doubt it. Be a pain in the ass to replace you at this stage.”

“What about my family?” She’s leaning over the table now, insistent. “Will they punish them?”

“Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort,” Haymitch explains around the bite of his newly-buttered roll, ignoring the disgusted look from Effie, “More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena.” 

“Not like we expected anything different,” I admit, moving my hand away from my face. Katniss looks at me, clearly conflicted, and I steadily meet her eye.

Just as I'd suspected, it's taken Haymitch saying essentially the same things for Katniss to actually start to believe that it's not the end of the world. I watch as some of her tension releases while she processes his words, posture gradually relaxing.

“Very true,” says Haymitch, before unceremoniously taking a piece of his pork chop and dunking it into his wine. As he speaks, he starts to chuckle to himself. “What were their faces like?”

The sudden shift in his tone takes Katniss and I by surprise, though it doesn’t take long for me to start grinning, and even the corners of Katniss’s mouth start to upturn before she speaks. “Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” She seems to remember something in particular, her voice growing stronger, “One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch.”

Both me and Haymitch burst into laughter at that, with our stylists soon joining in. Even Effie, who doesn’t start laughing with the rest of us, looks to be holding back a smile in her attempt to still look stern. Then, in a move that genuinely surprises me, she speaks. 

“Well, it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.” Even though it’s not even the bare minimum of consideration, I still find myself impressed. For Effie Trinket, one of the most comfortable of the Capitol’s lapdogs, it could even count as rebellious. It seems she knows that she’s toeing the line, too, because she looks around her in paranoia before adding to no one in particular, “I'm sorry, but that's what I think.”

“I'll get a very bad score.” Katniss seems to have become more sure of this since our private conversation, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Clearly, it’s important to her, even if I don’t think it matters too much. There have been victors before who had gotten low scores and still won.

Thankfully it seems Portia is thinking the same thing, because she aims her next words at Katniss, her tone serious. “Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy.”

Both Cinna and Effie make noises of agreement, and Katniss looks between the three of them, clearly thinking this over. It’s only now, with Portia’s reassurances in mind, that I actually start to wonder what score I might receive tonight. My trap was impressive, sure, but who knows if they’ll dock my score because of how I got their attention. Though I don’t particularly care about being rude or disrespectful to the Gamemakers, Effie’s warnings seem to have rubbed off on me, because all of a sudden I’m nervous. Plus, I feel guilty about not telling everything about my session, especially since it’s the only reason why they saw the thing go off in the first place.

“I honestly don't know what score I might get,” I hear myself say, before I realize I’m talking, “My trap was good, but I had to get their attention in some way for them to actually see it go off, so I…”

My voice fails me before I can finish, my words tapering off into a barely audible whisper before I completely give up. Everyone’s attention has turned to me, and usually I’m not the type to struggle when I’m put on the spot, but all of a sudden I’m way too conscious of the fact that my face is growing hotter the longer the silence stretches. Katniss in particular is looking at me with growing fascination, and I already know she's going to give me shit for it, so I force the rest of the words out to minimize the fallout. “I may have screamed like a fox to startle them.”

Like before, everyone pauses, but the general reaction this time is less one of shock than it is of confusion, with the stylists and Effie especially unsure of what to do with this information. I can’t help but cringe away from Katniss instinctively while she continues to stare at me, apprehensive of her inevitable teasing, all the while trying to ignore Haymitch's palpable amusement. 

“What do you mean? I've never heard you make a noise like that,” Katniss starts, and she sounds almost accusatory. I become defensive immediately.

“Because it would've scared away all the game,” I insist, but Katniss's following glare makes me crack just the slightest bit. “... One of my father's old friends knows animal calls, and he taught me a few. It just… wasn't ever useful for me to do any of them.”

This is the wrong thing to say, made evident by Katniss's eyes lighting up in the same way they do when she sees a particularly fat turkey cross our path. I don't have enough time to fully assess how much danger I'm in before she turns back to her food, a real grin spreading across her face. “You know I have to hear you do it, now, right?”

“No way,” I protest, trying my best to make myself sound firm. Katniss's grin grows, making my nerves spike. “No! It was awful, anyway. You don’t want to hear it. I promise.”

“I don't know, I kind of want to hear it, myself,” Haymitch butts in, smirking, and with growing horror I realize that they're working together. And they're serious.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of me trying to field both of their pestering, to the point that I actually find myself looking forward to watching the broadcast just to get them off my back. Once we're all in the sitting room, though, and the anthem blares to signal the start of the score reveals, a tiny seed of dread sprouts in my stomach nonetheless. I can't handle sitting down, instead opting to stand behind the luxurious couch, and clearly Katniss shares my restless nerves because she hovers right beside me.

It's a fairly quick broadcast, with each of the tribute's pictures being shown before their score appears beneath them. Most of the scores are typical; the Careers span from eights to tens, the rest of the tributes averaging right between five and six. I find myself impressed when Rue manages to get a seven, with Thresh following with a ten. District 11 seems to be a strong contender this year.

Then, it's our turn, and my stomach drops as I'm shown my own face on the screen. Everything's moving so fast that I barely have time to worry before a number is flashed beneath my picture, and it takes me a few seconds to fully process. 

Ten. 

I'm torn between disbelief and shock – ten – because while I was confident about my session, I wasn't that confident. And even with Haymitch nodding in satisfaction at me and the stylists congratulating me, I still feel anxious, especially knowing that Katniss is next. Sure enough, her picture appears, and hardly a second later, it shows…

Eleven!

My quiet exhale is drowned out by Effie's overjoyed squeal, everyone clamoring to drown us both in praise and congratulations about our scores. Katniss seems as dazed as I feel, lips slightly parted, and she blinks at Haymitch like she still doesn't quite know what's going on. 

“There must be a mistake. How… how could that happen?” she asks, disbelieving. Haymitch just smirks as he looks between us. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the glint in his eye looked something like pride.

“Guess they liked your temper,” he says, before turning his attention to me, “And your audacity. They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat.”

Haymitch's words immediately bring to mind the image of us in our parade costumes, literally outshining all of the other tributes with our artificial flames. It seems that the stylists are thinking of the same thing, because as Cinna pulls Katniss into a hug over the back of the couch he speaks in a tone that betrays his excitement.

“Katniss, the girl who was on fire,” he declares, putting on his best showman's voice. Portia gives me her own gentle hug over the couch, her embrace loose but warm, and sends me a wink as she pulls back.

“And Gale, the boy inferno,” she whispers, like the title is a secret between us. I can't help but grin at the ridiculousness of it, like I'm some sort of mythical hero rather than a kid destined for my certain death in a matter of days.

Reality hits me all at once the instant I'm reminded where we are, my smile suddenly that much harder to keep from sliding off my face. Portia's reassurances from earlier echo in my mind. Scores only matter if they're very good… 

My ten and Katniss's eleven are surely the highest scores any District 12 tribute has gotten, and though high scores are good for sponsorships, they also tend to backfire on the tributes who aren't Careers. A high score puts a target on your back, because everyone knows you're that much more of a threat; the Careers like to go after those tributes first, to eliminate any competition. All this means, I realize with growing dread, is that we've essentially made ourselves the biggest targets in the entire arena before we even get in. So much for laying low.

Katniss turns to me, then, face softening when she meets my gaze. She looks… shy, almost, like she's hoping for my praise, and I have to make myself abandon my increasingly negative thoughts. No matter how badly this might have impacted our chances, I don't have it in me to stomp on her hopes. So, ignoring my racing heartbeat, I make myself look very solemn and serious, nodding once like I've reached a hard decision. 

“Well, there's some room for improvement there,” I say, very sternly. She instantly mirrors my nod with a similar weight, catching on to my game.

“The same can be said with your own performance,” she declares. 

Even with the dark cloud looming over my head, my mood isn't entirely dampened yet; we only manage to keep up this act for an entire two seconds before we burst into laughter. Katniss is smiling like I've never seen her, joy lighting up her face, and it's so infectious that I feel my own grin grow to match. 

Fuck it, I find myself thinking, If we're going in with everyone out for our blood, at least I'm going in with her.

I'm briefly overtaken by a sudden bout of madness, then—I fully turn to Katniss, my hands circling her waist before impulsively lifting her into a joyful spin. She's so light that it's almost too easy to lift her, and I have to be careful to not jostle her too much in my excitement. She makes a squeaking noise in surprise as she's lifted, her arms flying up to wrap around my neck to steady herself, and when I put her back down, our faces are much too close to be appropriate. I can't bring myself to care, though, not when she's looking at me like that with open surprise, the space between us warm with happiness. 

Then, someone clears their throat, and the moment shatters.

We jump away from each other like we've just been simultaneously burned, though with how hot my face suddenly feels, the possibility isn't that far-fetched. When I turn toward the source of the noise, Haymitch is sitting and looking between us with growing amusement, while the stylists and Effie politely act like nothing's happened. 

“Having fun?” Haymitch asks, which just makes my face grow even hotter while Katniss scowls at him. I don't think I've ever been happier to hear Effie's voice than I do at this moment, thanking her silently as she butts in to reprimand Haymitch.

“Well, it's certainly cause for celebration!” she defends, “There's no need to embarrass them. I thought it was very sweet.”

And just like that, my appreciation turns to despair. 

When I chance a look at Katniss, though, she doesn’t look as upset as I'd dreaded, instead seeming more annoyed than anything else. My eyes briefly catch hers, and her cheeks go a bit pink, but there's no sign of disgust or dismay; my chest lightens a bit when the corners of her lips quirk into the ghost of a smile. I might not have ruined everything quite yet. 

The night winds down quickly after that, the strain of the last few days catching up to both of us. Plus, knowing that our interviews are in a day and a half, sleep is more important than ever—neither Katniss nor I are very friendly with too little rest. I'm already going to have a hard enough time keeping myself civil for the cameras as it is. 

Even this isn't enough to keep me awake for too long, though, and in a matter of minutes I'm out like a light. 

Chapter Text

Morning comes later than usual for me, the sun already up over the horizon by the time I'm lucid enough to get out of bed. I’m definitely feeling the strain from the last few days of training, my body feeling heavier and my muscles protesting with every movement. Luckily, late for me is still quite a bit early for everyone else; I have enough time to take it slow and let my body adjust as I stumble through another cautious shower, before going down to breakfast slightly less stiff than before. I even manage to have a good ten minutes to myself, tracking the sun’s progress as it rises, before Haymitch comes in to join me.

Initially it feels like just another morning, with Haymitch mostly ignoring me as he combs through the breakfast selection, me pretending he isn’t there until I’m forced to acknowledge his presence. After a bit, though, I notice that he keeps sending glances my way, still with that strange amusement from last night. It’s only after I notice him doing this for the third time that I start to get wary, preparing myself for whatever comments he’s surely gearing up to make about Katniss and me. There’d been no chance for him to truly needle me about it last night, but I recognize that look enough to know that the second we’re alone he’s going to ask me about what that all was, and this early in the morning I know I’ll do something drastic if he approaches me. So I do my best to avoid meeting his eye, doing anything I can to focus on my food, but it's only when Effie comes in that I actually take a breath. 

“Good morning, Gale!” she chirps. I only dip my head in acknowledgement, given that I have a mouthful of food—I'm unwilling to suffer the same lecture she'd given me two mornings ago when I'd mistakenly bid her good morning around a bite of my oatmeal. For some reason, she seems to have more need to correct my manners than she has with Katniss. Nevertheless, she acts as enough of a buffer that I don't feel quite as on edge, and I'm even able to take my eye off of Haymitch long enough to refill my coffee. 

Who knew that one day I'd be grateful to have Effie Trinket around? 

We've formed enough of a reliable schedule over the past few days that I'm caught off guard when Katniss doesn't show up a few minutes after Effie. Instead, it's almost fifteen minutes later that she finally appears, and by then I've finished eating and sit restlessly at the table, my hands bracketed around my coffee cup. I guess my nerves are more obvious than I'd like, because Katniss does a quick double take at my face as she walks in. It's clearly not bad enough to throw her off, though, because she still picks her way through the breakfast spread and piles her plate high before sitting down next to me. She seems to have taken a liking to the lamb and plum stew they set out this morning, since it takes a large portion of her plate, and she digs into it with a fervor I usually only see from her when she manages to get one of the cheese buns from the bakery.

Thankfully, the moment she sits down Haymitch finally stops being so cagey and starts to speak. “Right, let’s get down to business. You two have all of today to prepare for your interviews. Tomorrow, you’ll spend most of the day in the care of your prep teams, so you need to make the most of the time you have now.”

My fingers tap idly on the sides of the coffee cup as I listen, the only other sound being the quiet clink of Katniss’s fork against her plate while she eats. Truth be told, I don’t know what to expect for the interview prep. The prospect of having to make myself palatable for the same people who’ll be cheering for my death in a matter of days makes me angrier than I can put into words. I'll be forced to put on an act, make a more marketable version of myself to sell for the cameras, all for the chance that they might like me enough to decide I'm worth the money of a sponsor. It's enough to make me sick.

On the other hand, I also remember back to that moment on the train all those days ago, when I'd let the Capitol crowds see me less for the attention than it was to serve as a reminder. 

I want these people to see me for who I am. For what I am.  

It's not like I can refuse the interview altogether; they'll still toss me in front of that camera no matter what, and the last thing I want is to give the Capitol an opportunity to make me look like a fool. I could also be difficult as hell up there, only answering in single word responses and nothing more, but all that would do is make me a spectacle. Someone to laugh at, to treat as a joke, but never really take seriously. No, if I want any chance at securing sponsors for Katniss or myself, I have to be likeable. Personable. The issue is that I don’t know how to do that without starting to hate myself for playing directly into their hand.

“You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and me for content,” Haymitch continues on, oblivious to my internal conflict. “During meals we'll reconvene about how you two might want to coordinate.” 

I frown a bit in confusion, still catching up. “I thought we were being coached together?” 

“You are,” Haymitch deadpans. “Hence the meals. To be honest, there's no real way to coach you together for individual interviews. At least this way you can know what the other one is going to do beforehand.” 

The way he says this doesn't put me any more at ease, but there's no real point in arguing, so I just sit back as Katniss asks, “Who's doing what first?” 

“You start with Effie, Katniss,” Haymitch answers. He doesn't need to clarify where I'm starting, given there's only two options; a heavy stone drops to the pit of my stomach. I'm instantly sure this is his way of getting me back for avoiding him all morning. Heaving an internal sigh, I make myself sit up straighter, no longer shying away from Haymitch's gaze. May as well get the difficult part done and over with.

Much to my surprise, though, he doesn't talk to me again for the rest of breakfast, and my time spent with him one-on-one doesn't start with him calling me on my shit. In fact, he doesn't speak at all for a good few minutes—I try not to squirm in my seat across from him while he studies me intensely, an oddly pinched look on his face. After another minute or two of his scrutiny, I'm about to snap at him to either say something or leave me to my own devices for the interview, when he finally speaks.

“You’re Blair's boy, aren't you?”

His words hit me as hard as a punch to the stomach, sending me reeling back just as much as a physical blow would. Distantly, I hear a strangled noise, and it takes me far too long to realize that it's coming from me. Out of everything he possibly could say, there's no way I could have expected this. 

Winded, I struggle to form a response for a solid minute or two, all words suddenly forgotten in my shock—all I can manage is a choked out croak, my voice inevitably failing me. “What?”

“Blair Hawthorne's your father. Or, he was,” Haymitch says. There's a strange tone to his voice that I can't even begin to place, and before I can ask how the hell he knows this, he continues, “You can say what you want about my drinking, but I'm sure as hell not blind. Have you ever been told that you're the damn spitting image of your old man?”

I'm left gaping at him, my mouth opening and closing without a sound like a fish struggling to breathe. There are too many things I want to say, things I want to ask, that yes, I have been told that before, but how the hell would he even recognize my father enough to see him in me? 

My father didn't have many friends besides Webber and his own brother, or at least, not many that I knew of. Even past his mining team and our neighbors in the Seam, Pa was a quiet man who hardly ever spoke to anyone. In the Hob, he'd go in and do his business as quickly and silently as possible, rarely stopping to chat with anyone he passed. It wasn't a matter of dislike, or being nervous about speaking—he just saved his words for when they were most needed. He never talked except to say something important, and to me, he tended to speak the most. 

Thoughts I haven't entertained since the first few months after his death come flooding back to me, a familiar sting behind my eyes. The very idea that he kept this knowledge from me, that he never considered it important enough to tell me that he knew Haymitch Abernathy, fills me with an overpowering emotion that chokes me at the base of my throat. Would he have told me, if he hadn't been in the mines that day? If he hadn't been assigned to that particular area, where the mining captain already knew it was dangerous? What else will I have to learn about him in bits and pieces from the people around me, now that he's gone? What else will I never again be able to hear from his own lips? 

In a desperate effort to keep myself from completely breaking down, I speak. “So… you knew him?” 

To my bewilderment, this single question gets more of a reaction from Haymitch than anything else, though it's still barely a crack in his composure; his face seems to spasm for a split second, twisting into a grimace before smoothing back out. “You could say that.” 

His sudden evasiveness after dropping all of this on me just serves to piss me off, my mouth forming words before I can think twice. 

“How come he never told me about you, then?” My voice is hard, surprising even me, and something flashes in Haymitch's eyes as he works his jaw. “It's certainly news to me. And it's awfully hard to believe that he never told me he knew you , the only living victor in Twelve's history. You'd think it would've been important enough to mention to his son.” 

A heavy kind of silence stretches between us, the type that betrays the hurt that lies underneath. Haymitch takes in a deep, labored breath, like he's recentering himself. 

“... You don't remember, then,” Haymitch mutters, almost to himself, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. The nervous tic is so out of place from his carefully composed mask that it immediately stands out to me, visual confirmation that there are emotions he's hiding under there. At the same time, his words chafe at me.

“Don't remember what? I'd know if he brought you up.” 

“Would you, though?” He shoots back, an entire spectrum of emotion passing over his face in an instant. I barely have time to process his words before I'm suddenly presented with a photo, barely the size of my palm but clearly taken well care of, the only indication of its age being its timeworn edges. It's clearer than any of the photos we have framed in our home in the Seam, likely taken by a much more expensive camera, but the subject is recognizable no matter the quality—a young man, vaguely familiar, cradling an infant against his chest and shoulder. As soon as I see where he's sitting, the floor seems to drop out from under me.

That's the same ratty old couch from our front room at home. 

“No,” I breathe, voice hardly a whisper. The same winded feeling from before makes it that much harder for me to breathe as I stare down at the photo. Memories flood back to me, flashes of that very same man throughout the earliest years of my childhood. The last time I remember seeing him… I must've been six, or maybe seven, at least a good few years before Rory was born. “Why… why now?”

From out of the corner of my eye I can see Haymitch grimace. “I hadn't wanted to, at least not here, but we were in the Capitol before I could have a moment alone with you and actually remember it.” 

I realize that my hand's shaking when the photo suddenly becomes more difficult to focus on, my other hand coming up to gently steady it. My eyes roam over the cheerful lines of my mentor's grin, his face rounder and not yet bearing the marks from years past; the infant laid against him is doubtlessly me, given the fact that I was there for the rest of my siblings' births. By the look of me in the picture, I must've been a week or so old. The photo becomes blurry yet again, but this time I already know my hands are steady. 

“You left.” My voice is flat, a sharp contrast to the roiling anger steadily growing in my chest. There's so much more I want to say to him, but I don't know if I can manage to get it out without screaming, without grabbing both his shoulders and shaking him down for answers. 

Of course, Haymitch already has his defense prepared, even with his guilt writ plainly on his face. “Things happened. Things–events that you and your family shouldn't have to be associated with. A lot of things you shouldn't have to watch happen or see the damage they'd done.” 

I only stare at the photo for a few moments longer before ripping my attention away from it, forcing myself to focus. None of this is going to help prepare me for my interview; my temper spikes again, pissed that he'd found it appropriate to waste some of my precious prep time by assuaging his guilt. Part of me knows that I'm not being fair, that there'd be no other time to tell me before my death in the arena, but the other part is still too angry to care. 

“You’re going to tell me about it all later,” I snarl. I'm not so mad to not be careful handing the photo back, but I make sure to glare at Haymitch as I do so. “Anything else you've kept from me?”

Much to my growing annoyance, Haymitch smirks at my words. “I'm an open book, kid. How about you? Is there anything you've been keeping from me ?”

I can instantly tell what he's implying, but thankfully, I'd at least prepared myself for this. “Katniss and I are good friends, that's all.”

Haymitch holds up both his hands in surrender. “I didn't say anything.”

Though he seems committed to acting like he’s clueless, there's a certain sparkle in Haymitch's eye that makes me scowl. I'm not in any mood to play around, not about this. 

“I'm being serious,” I snap. “I'm not going to use her like that. Ever. She doesn't have any idea, and it's going to stay that way. We're friends— just friends. Nothing else.”

Something in my voice must get through to him, because the look in his eye dulls after another moment, his grin becoming marginally more strained. Still, he doesn't drop his hands, shaking his head in fond amusement. “Alright. Alright, kid, don't get yourself too worked up.”

He must have realized that he's pissed me off enough for the time being, that he'll have to play nice for the rest of our time if he wants me to cooperate. And, even in spite of my better judgement, I still want to work with him. It's my best bet if I want a chance at Katniss winning, and I’m not too proud to admit it’ll be a disaster if I try to go about it by myself.

“Alright, well. ‘Just friends’ can work, but you've got to play it up. Give them a story. There's no way the audience'll root for you if they don't know you're worth it.” The thought of telling the story of how Katniss and I met, to the Capitol and the entirety of Panem no less, immediately makes me scowl. Haymitch sighs. “Especially not if you look like that the entire time.”

“There’s no way I can act happy about being forced to do all of this,” I retort. My anger with him from earlier is still coursing through my veins, making it more difficult for me to just sit and play along, and the thought of having to paste on a smile for the delight of the masses only makes it worse. 

“Then don’t.” Haymitch’s answer is simple enough to deflate me, my prepared argument dying on my lips. He rolls his eyes. “People don’t know you. You got a good training score, you stole the show at the parade, and you took her sister away when Katniss volunteered, but no one has a solid idea of who you are. You’re a blank slate for the interview.”

I’m still annoyed, but I take a moment to think his words over. Frustratingly enough, I know he’s right—the tributes are deliberately kept out of the public eye except for the interviews and parade for this exact purpose, so that our images can be as carefully maintained as possible. I’d been charming on the chariot, but I could just as easily be stoic like I was on the reaping stage with Katniss, or even something completely different and new. 

Suddenly, I’m struck by just how fake all of this is, how the Games are all a big performance meant to further humiliate the Districts. I've known this for as long as I've known about the Games, had it drilled into me by Pa and all the years of watching children die, but it's only now that something clicks.

“There’s nothing I can do, is there?” I ask. Haymitch doesn't answer me, and I keep going, heedless of his confusion. “No matter what I do, how I make myself look, I'm still playing into their hands. This is all just another part of the arena. You never make it out, do you?” 

“ Gale ,” Haymitch warns, and him actually using my name surprises me enough that I look up at him. His face is hard, eyes stormy, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly in warning. Too late, I remember the abundance of cameras and microphones that are surely recording every part of our conversation. 

Funnily enough, this is as good of an answer as I could get. If he thinks that it'll get me into trouble just for saying it, all it tells me is that I'm right, or close enough. I take a deep breath through my nose, holding it for a moment before letting it out in a controlled sigh. 

“Nevermind,” I say, “I have an idea.”

Haymitch, to his credit, doesn't blink an eye in the face of my sudden pivot, just reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose before sighing. “Right, okay. Shoot.” 

To be honest, the moment Haymitch mentioned my father I'd thought back to what Ma had said to me at the Justice Building, the send-off that Pa had been so fond of using. If Haymitch was as close to him as he'd said he was, I'm sure he'll understand what I mean just fine.

“I’ll give ‘em hell.”

Haymitch cracks one eye open to glare at me, but otherwise doesn't react. “You sure are Blair's boy, huh.”

I grin at him.

Despite his exasperated act, Haymitch seems to be in a good mood as we spend the rest of the time with him acting like Caesar Flickerman, asking me questions that I answer in the spirit of the Hawthorne family motto. It's easier than expected, especially given that I don't have to play nice, and Haymitch stops me every time I veer toward going too far. My only “problem spot”, as Haymitch calls it, is whenever he starts getting into questions about my family and friendship with Katniss. I might already be a part of the Capitol’s machine, but I’m determined to keep my family out of it for as long as I can. With Katniss, it’s toward the end of my time with Haymitch that I realize something. 

“I’ll be asked about the reaping, won’t I? And how I know Katniss,” I ask, right after Haymitch calls it quits. He frowns, failing to conceal his exasperation.

“Most likely”, he says. “Like I said before, that’s one of the only things the Capitol knows about you. You getting reaped after carrying away Katniss's sister already got a lot of people invested.”

I chew on my lip as I think this over, already starting to feel a bit sick. This entire time, I've been wary of being too familiar with Katniss in front of the cameras, determined to keep this one part of our lives separate from the Capitol. Like we’d ever really had a say in it. Suddenly I’m all too glad to be done. “We need to talk to Katniss.”

We get to the table around the same time as Effie and Katniss, and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at how Katniss stomps in barefoot, the long skirt of the dress Effie no doubt made her wear pulled up to her mid-thigh. She doesn’t say hello to me or Haymitch when she sits down, instead grabbing sandwiches from the platters haphazardly before tearing into them with the ferocity of a wildcat. I have to tamp down my growing dread about my own upcoming time with Effie.

“So, what did you two work on?” Effie sighs after we've all started eating, seemingly oblivious to Katniss’s rage. Haymitch hums around a bite of his roast beef sandwich. 

“Managed to decide on an angle,” he says. There's a long, awkward moment of silence before I realize I'm supposed to elaborate. Then, I'm stumped, because neither Katniss or Effie will understand what I mean by “give them hell”. For a few good seconds I search for an accurate word to describe it, all too aware of the three sets of eyes watching me.

“Uh... ‘give ‘em hell’, which essentially means I get to be a smartass,” I finally settle on. Katniss snorts into her current sandwich while Effie clicks her tongue in disapproval at my language. 

“Shouldn't be too hard for you,” Katniss mumbles, and I give her my most downtrodden look.

“You wound me.”

“Shut up,” she retorts, but I can see her grinning as she chews. 

Much to my annoyance, Haymitch butts in before I can say anything else. “Gale had something to ask you.” 

“Oh?” Katniss hums, turning to me in interest. I shoot a glare at Haymitch, who doesn’t react except to take an especially large bite of his sandwich. Asshole. Right when I'd managed to make her feel better, too.

“About the interviews,” I start, and something in my voice must clue her in on the seriousness, because her expression immediately darkens. Suddenly, I wish we were somewhere else, somewhere private, without the prying eyes of our mentor and escort and the cameras that are undoubtedly watching our every move. “I realized, with the reaping… I'll have to talk about us being friends.” 

From the way something flickers behind Katniss's gaze, I can tell she understands everything that goes unsaid with my statement. That I won't say anything without her being okay with it. That whatever I say will be things we've already told Twelve, or carefully constructed around the truth. That our time in the woods will still be ours, no matter what.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, turning back to her plate. I watch anxiously as she stares blankly at the grain of the table, clearly thinking. “That's fine. We'll have to change the story about how we met.” 

“Yeah,” I agree. There’s no way we can tell the truth without outing ourselves as seasoned poachers, and unlike Haymitch, the Capitol would definitely care. “It would be easy enough to keep it vague, just say that we met after the mine exploded.”

The mention of the mine explosion seems to give Katniss pause, her hands hovering over her plate for a moment before she resumes her movement. My stomach drops just as she speaks. “That’s a good idea.” 

I immediately recognize her tone as the one she uses whenever she's bothered by something but doesn't want to make it a big deal. 

“Or, I don't have to talk about it if you don't want me to,” I quickly offer, which seems to be the wrong thing to say from the way Katniss scowls down at her plate. 

“It's fine.” Everything about her body language screams that it's not. I can't help but start to get annoyed. 

“Katniss—”

“Gale,” she snaps, just as annoyed. We glare at each other for a tense moment, Effie and Haymitch doing their best impression of the wallpaper. I make myself calm down.

“Why does it bother you if I bring up our fathers deaths?” I ask, voice softer than before. If anything, this seems to piss her off more.

“It doesn't,” insists Katniss, and before I can say anything else, “Now drop it.”

My mouth clicks shut. Now we're both good and pissed off, but I won’t force the issue. She can always come and find me if she decides it's worth it to actually talk to me. “Fine.”

The rest of lunch is decidedly frosty between us, and when we part ways Katniss doesn't even spare me a glance. Despite my frustration with her, I still feel a twinge of hurt.

Based on the way Katniss had acted at the beginning of lunch, I'm not exactly sure what to expect when our escort directs me to my room. I certainly don't have to worry about walking in a dress, if her outfit was any indication, but the ambiguity of “presentation” is enough to make me nervous.

“You don’t have as much to address as Katniss did,” Effie says as soon as we've settled in my quarters, adjusting her latest outrageous wig. “Which is a benefit, because it means we can focus more on your specific areas of improvement.”

I’m torn between feeling sympathy for Katniss, and being worried for myself.

If I'd thought Haymitch was working me down to the minute, Effie seems determined to whip me into shape using every second of the four hours she's got. She starts by evaluating my handshake, which I didn't even know there was a supposed correct way to do, and we spend a lot more time than I’d like with her adjusting my grip and the amount of pressure I’m supposed to use. Then, I’m made to walk back and forth in front of her as she watches, directing me on how to fix my gait. Apparently I tend to walk with all of my weight on my toes, which is a benefit when I'm in the woods, but seems to endlessly vex Effie. 

Once she's appropriately satisfied that I've got my heels on the ground enough for her, she ushers me into an armchair and goes about correcting my posture. I'm not sure if she has much to fix, considering Ma has always been on my ass about slouching, but Effie manages to find issues no matter what. I'm starting to realize that in saying “focusing on my areas of improvement”, she meant nitpicking the tiniest possible details that literally no one else would notice. At some point I become convinced that she’s making up things to criticize me on. No wonder Katniss looked ready to kill when I saw her; I’m barely two hours in and already in danger of throwing something across the room. 

Thankfully, Effie decides to take pity on me after I sit straighter than I ever thought was possible, giving me a five minute break. Immediately I slump back into the chair, tilting my head back to face the ceiling while I take a few deep breaths. I don't care how “proper” it is, sitting like that for too long is sure to mess up my back.

“You’re doing better than Katniss had, if it's any consolation,” Effie informs me, arranging herself primly on her own chair. I ignore the way she pointedly eyes how I'm sprawled out. “She had much more trouble with eye contact, and ducking her head when she speaks. I swear, you'd think she was doing everything to avoid looking at the person she's talking to.”

I snort. That's Katniss, alright. She'd once told me that she never understood the insistence people have for eye contact, that it had always made her feel uneasy, like a prey animal being stalked by a predator. I've never had much issue with her avoidance – there's not much use in staring into each other's eyes while we're hunting – but I know some of the adults around Twelve don't like it. Particularly Mrs. Mellark.

The way Effie talks about it, though, you get the feeling that Katniss is doing it deliberately just to be difficult. I'm not a fan of the way she’s been making subtle jabs at Katniss this entire time, like there’s something wrong with her. I'm half tempted to make more of a fuss just so Effie'll quit comparing me to her.

Five minutes manages to feel more like 30 seconds, and before I know it, the break is over and I'm tossed right back into things. Luckily, it seems that the physical part is done and over with, since I'm allowed to stay in my chair; the catch comes when Effie begins leading me through an entire gauntlet of vocal exercises. I only make it through a few before I stop, having slowly grown suspicious why I'm doing this.

“Is there a problem with how I talk?” I do my best to avoid sounding too angry right from the start, though I know it starts to falter toward the end. Effie, as usual, doesn't notice, and even sounds surprised by the question.

“Oh, no! Well, not exactly. You see, all of you from Twelve have such a funny way of speaking, but sometimes it's difficult to understand you,” she explains, her voice bright like she's explaining something to a child. I put a hand over my mouth in the most casual way I can, just so I don't start shouting at her. I'd had a feeling that she'd gone too long without saying something truly awful. “These exercises are meant to help your enunciation with some of the more troublesome words.” 

“So, you're saying I sound too District?” There's no way I can keep my voice controlled now, but Effie is reliably oblivious to my stormy mood, nodding her head encouragingly. 

The worst part is, it's only now as I stare at her in disbelief that I begin to realize that she truly has no idea what the issue is. It's pathetic, in a way, just how stupid she and the rest of the Capitol freaks are. None of them have a clue just how awful the things they think and say about us are, and trying to explain it simply wouldn't register. It’s normal for them. 

Looking at Effie, my anger starts to turn into disgust. To her, my accent is just another reminder of the Districts’ inferiority, an inconvenience to the Capitol's entertainment. There's no way in hell I'm changing anything.

Effie's words are good for one thing, though; I'm momentarily brought back to the morning before the reaping, when Katniss and I had eaten together. Mocking Effie's odd way of talking is one of the few bits of levity we get on Reaping Day, and any chance we can get to do our impression of her we take.

And just like that, I know what to do.

I straighten up in my seat, angling my body just enough to mirror Effie's position without it being too obvious. Years of practice make it surprisingly easy to pitch my voice up in the fake peppy way of the Capitol, though I'm careful not to overdo it. “Is something like this better for the interview?”

I'd been watching her expression out of the corner of my eye to see if she realized my true intentions, but amazingly, she breaks into a delighted smile with no indication that she noticed. “Yes, exactly that! That's perfect!”

I grin back at Effie just as brilliantly, even going so far to toss my hair over my shoulder in a mimicry of her mannerisms. It takes everything in me not to burst into laughter. Maybe it's cruel of me, but honestly, I can't bring myself to care. If nothing else, the rest of the time with her is infinitely more entertaining.

I'm in a good enough mood by dinnertime that initially I don't think twice about Katniss's absence, or Haymitch stumbling to the table like he's already a few drinks deep. After ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, though, I grow more and more worried, and when the first course comes rolling out a half hour late with no sign of her, I turn my focus onto our mentor. 

“Where's Katniss?”

Haymitch makes some sort of unintelligible noise, waving his hand dismissively. “Hell if I know. Probably in her room. She didn't seem very eager to be in my presence.”

A foreboding kind of feeling starts to build in my stomach. I slowly stir my bowl of soup – a fragrant kind, with a clear brown broth and chunks of what I can only assume are chopped vegetables – as I process Haymitch's answer. He's visibly drunk, more than he has been since the night on the train, and I can tell he’s in a foul mood. More than anything else, though, it's the fact that Katniss hasn't come to dinner that really worries me. I know we can order food from our rooms, but… 

“Well, what did you work on with her?” Effie is the one to probe further, which I'm grateful for. If nothing else, her forwardness is needed in moments like this. It doesn't make me feel any better when Haymitch snorts derisively in response, though.

“Tried every possible angle I could think of. None of them stuck.” 

His curt response brings me up short. Even Effie looks a bit taken aback. I try my best to not let my disbelief bleed into my tone. “You… really couldn't come up with anything for her?”

“Even when she wasn’t outright hostile, she acted like speaking was excruciating for her. I told her to be ruthless, she started being vulnerable. I told her to be vulnerable, and she suddenly got colder than an icebox in January,” Haymitch says, all the while he methodically rips up his dinner rolls and stuffs them into his bowl. I've ignored my own bowl around the halfway point of his speech, disbelief morphing into frustration. “As far as I'm concerned, the girl's hopeless.” 

“She's not hopeless.” Haymitch raises an eyebrow at my tone, but I don’t particularly care if I’m being rude. Anger coils deep in my gut, and even though in the back of my mind I know he’s right about her inability to act, I still feel the need to defend Katniss. “She's just not good at taking direction. Katniss has always worked best in the moment, instead of being prompted by anyone else.”

“Well, then,” I scowl at the mocking tone in his voice. “Maybe she'll actually manage to convince someone in the audience to like her, in the moment , as you put it.”

I’m wound up so tightly that I nearly fly out of my seat when my bowl is taken away, startling the attending Avox enough that she almost drops the dish. Right. We’re still in the middle of dinner. 

Taking a deep breath, I focus on calming myself down as the main course is served: a generous cut of beef that’s been slow-roasted in a delicious smelling marinade, tender enough that it nearly falls apart the moment I touch it with my fork. Flying off the handle at a drunken Haymitch isn’t anywhere near productive, especially when Katniss isn’t here anyway. It’s better to back off and let everyone cool down while we eat. 

Internally, I pivot toward figuring out the reason for her absence. It's not like Haymitch has been especially kind to either of us in the time we've been under his guidance, and Katniss can dish it out just as well as she can take it. She's pretty tough, at least in that regard. What could have upset her enough for her to skip dinner to avoid Haymitch altogether?

I wait until he's finished the bulk of his plate to speak, once I'm reasonably sure that we've both calmed down. I aim for casual, but end up being a little strained no matter how hard I try. “What else did you say to her?”

“Lots of things.” Effie’s quiet sigh is drowned out by me letting out a frustrated huff, biting back the curses I want to aim at him. I know I can be a pain in the ass, but as far as I’m concerned, Haymitch has got me beat.

“You know exactly what I mean, Abernathy,” I warn. The use of his last name must get to him, since his eyes flicker up to meet mine for the first time this entire conversation, but his expression is impossible to read. “What did you say that could have made her want to avoid you?”

He holds my gaze for a good few seconds, as if he's trying to see who'll break first. I don't look away, lifting my chin to stare him down in a challenge. Eventually, Effie clearing her throat manages to snap both of us out of it and Haymitch looks back down to his plate, heaving a sigh.

“Since it matters to you so much…I may have said something about her being sullen and hostile, not the cheery girl on the chariot,” says Haymitch. Much to my growing annoyance, Effie makes a sort of sympathetic noise to this, like she agrees with him. The corners of Haymitch's lips turn up, then, like he's recalling a particularly fond memory, “And that she had all the charm of a dead slug.”

Effie has the gall to laugh, though she at least has the decency to look guilty after. Haymitch, meanwhile, only looks bolstered by her laughter. As if mocking Katniss behind her back is going to do anything about helping her in the interviews. My voice is cold when I reply, just barely disguising my anger. “Great, that's real helpful. Now she won’t even think she has a chance up there.” 

Something like shame flashes behind Haymitch's gaze at that, but he's a little too far into his cups to back down. “Well, what would you have tried? If you think you could have done so much better.” 

Well, to start, I’m not you , I almost say, but I bite my tongue before it slips out. 

“I don't know,” I say instead, because I don't. I barely had any idea for myself, and only came up with something because I had the fortune of remembering my father's motto. With Katniss, maybe she was prickly with Haymitch, and maybe she’s stiff and awkward when trying to act like someone she’s not, but all I can think of is the girl I alone have gotten to see in the woods these past four years. The one who took almost a year to give me an actual smile, and only because I had finally admitted that I was wrong; who meets all of my jokes with a razor sharp wit and isn't afraid to make silly jabs back at me, when she never so much as smiles back in Twelve; who loves her little sister so fiercely she was driven to the woods in the first place because of her. 

Then, before I can even think twice, I start talking again. Anything to prove Haymitch wrong. “But the Katniss I know isn't sullen and hostile. She's kind, she's a protector, she can't stand to see anyone in pain no matter what, she loves her sister so deeply she'd do anything to keep her safe and happy. Everyone in the Seam knows her and respects her, and she has no idea about any of it because she's been forced to focus on keeping her family alive. I'm lucky enough to be her friend as it is.”

I’m met with silence once I’m done, both adults staring at me like I’ve given a particularly fascinating performance. As I catch my breath, Effie sniffles a bit, dabbing delicately at her eyes with her napkin. Nobody talks, even as the world continues around us; the main course is switched out for dessert, a decadent apple pie with bowls of real ice cream on the side. 

“Well, then,” Haymitch finally says, once we’ve all been served a slice of the pie with a generous scoop of ice cream. “Maybe you should be glad that Katniss isn't here. I’m fairly sure that was everything short of a marriage proposal.”

I fully miss my mouth with the forkful of pie I’d gotten, the utensil slipping out of my grip and falling to the table with a loud clatter. The noise is so loud in my ears that I nearly miss Effie's hissing admonishment at Haymitch. “Oh, stop that! I thought it was very sweet.” 

“Besides, you didn’t answer my question,” Haymitch continues as if Effie hadn't spoken at all, “Katniss could be the most lovely girl in the world, but none of it matters if she doesn't show that to the cameras. And she didn't respond to anything I gave her. What do you think I was supposed to do?”

“Not give up on her!” I snap. My face is still burning from what he'd previously said, but thankfully, my anger with him is enough to push through the embarrassment. “What, have you never had a tribute that struggled like this before? Who wouldn’t respond to your suggestions? Did you give up on them, too?”

As soon as the words leave my lips I realize that I've gone too far. Suddenly, it's as if the temperature around the table has dropped by several degrees, the air itself oddly still. No one is laughing now; Effie has gone considerably pale, and even the Avoxes look unnerved by the abrupt shift. 

Worst of all, Haymitch looks torn between rage and the most awful kind of grief I've ever seen on a person's face, before his expression settles entirely on ice cold fury. I'm already opening my mouth to apologize by the point that he speaks, feeling almost sick with shame once I hear how monotone his voice is. “You have no idea how many kids I’ve tried my absolute hardest to help. No fucking idea. I could coach a million kids and try to push them through, try to get them past that point. But you know what? It's when they give up on themselves that I'm made helpless.”

“Haymitch,” Effie cuts in, a note of warning in her voice. But before either of them can speak another word, I suddenly rediscover my voice.

“No,” I say. My protest makes Effie turn her concern onto me, but I don’t take my eyes off of Haymitch beside her, who gives me that same dead-eyed stare. “It’s fine. I want to hear whatever he has to say.”

Now that I’ve given him permission, he doesn’t hesitate to continue on, though he stares me right in the eye as he speaks like he’s trying to make sure his words stick. It’s all I can do to not look away, grey meeting grey, narrowing the world to just the space of the dining table between us.

"Then when they give up on themselves, reject every hand I offer them to get back up, it just makes death inevitable. And I wish that for just one goddamned second you could know what it's like to be in that chair, guiding a kid from some litter back home – maybe even your own – knowing that I've not got the resources to give them any other kind of help than my word. And you know what that gets them, if they don’t take it?”

I try not to flinch as he leans in close to me over the table, his hot breath, reeking of liquor, ghosting over my face and turning my stomach. Still, I hold my ground, evenly keeping his gaze locked with mine in a silent challenge. 

“Certain goddamned death, no matter how good they are in the game." He holds himself there for a second or two, letting his words ring out in the air around us. I’m thinking of a response when unceremoniously, he slumps back into his seat and away from me, making both me and Effie jump; I rapidly blink in mute surprise, a little taken aback. All of the anger seems to have drained out of Haymitch at once, and now he just looks exhausted, some of that grief still haunting his eyes. Effie, on her part, looks just as startled as I feel. 

“... Well, ahem , it’s probably best if we cut things off early tonight,” she says after a long, heavy pause. The dessert sits practically untouched on each of our plates, but even though my skin crawls at the prospect of wasting such fine food, my appetite has completely disappeared. “It’s going to be a big, big, big day tomorrow, so it’ll be good to get some extra sleep.”

Haymitch doesn’t react to her words other than to fumble around in his jacket pocket for his flask, already checked out of the conversation. It’s as good of a dismissal as I’ll get, and even though I still have the start of an apology building in my throat, I make myself get up and back off without a word.

I pass by Katniss's door on my flight back to my room, and I pause just long enough to try the handle. Locked . No surprises there. Then I knock lightly on the wood, just to be absolutely sure; a few seconds pass, but it's all quiet as far as I can hear, even after I knock again. Eventually, I make myself continue on to my room. I can only assume she's either asleep, or doing something where she can't – or won't – respond. And, selfishly enough, I'm a bit relieved that I don't need to shoulder any other person's burdens tonight. I've already got enough on my mind as it is.

As nice as Effie's suggestion for extra sleep was, I've already prepared myself for a restless night. Between the looming interview and everything that's happened today, my mind's racing a mile a minute even with my body being bone-tired, and no amount of tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable helps it settle. Thoughts of a younger Haymitch running around with my father makes up most of my thoughts, that damned photo having worked its way into my mind even with as brief of a look as I had. In the rush of everything that happened, I'd forgotten that I told Haymitch that I wanted to know more about his friendship with my father. Or, well, more like I demanded it of him, but things hadn't ended up going the way I wanted them to. And now I’ll never have the time to find out. It takes more effort than I’d like to push away the reflex to blame someone for it, to find somewhere to aim my anger and grief instead of having to hold it in alongside everything else, but it wouldn’t be fair of me. Besides, I've done enough damage as it is.

Eventually I manage to drift off, sometime in the twilight hours of the night, the eyes of a younger Haymitch haunting my fitful dreams. One moment, it's pitch black in my room and the air is still in the way it only is when everything’s asleep; the next, a weak grey light is filtering in from behind the curtains, illuminating the space just enough for me to see my prep team already setting up shop. I feel like I've been tied to a cart and dragged behind it for a mile or two, but beauty waits for no one, and I'm dragged from my bed to a stool in the bathroom and a coffee cup is shoved into my hands before I fully process that I'm awake.

Considering that they don’t have nearly as much to do as they did for my parade look, I’m baffled that my team manages to work on me well into the afternoon, with only brief pauses for breakfast and lunch that’s delivered to my room. The idea of having someone else fetch my food for me even now turns my stomach, and combined with the nerves already twisting my gut into knots, I barely eat anything aside from the coffee and a pastry Locusta coerces into me after she notices how badly my hands are shaking. Nevertheless, it’s only after the lunch break that they finally begin their work in earnest, now that I won’t ruin it by virtue of doing unnecessary things like eating.

My knowledge of makeup begins and ends with the mere fact that it exists, so I’m a bit confused when Romulus starts to apply a thin layer of stuff onto my face, but I don’t question it. Instead I watch in the mirror as my features are seemingly erased before being sculpted back into existence. By the time he’s done, I still look like myself, only more —my eyes are darker, my lips fuller, the sharp curve of my cheekbones even more pronounced. At the same time, Locusta works away behind me, brushing through my hair with an oil that leaves it thicker and glossy, falling loose around my shoulders like a curtain. Instead of putting it back in my usual style, though, she instead takes a smaller section of hair from just the top of my head to pull back, leaving the rest down. The top section is methodically wrapped around itself to make a small bun, which she then pins in place with a cuff and pin I'm fairly sure is real gold. Then, once I've been deemed pretty enough, I'm thoroughly doused in a fine powder that makes my skin shimmer with gold. I just hope that it all comes off before we’re dropped in the arena, or else I'll be a walking beacon with how much light I reflect.

It's only when Portia finally comes in with a bag I can only assume holds my suit that reality begins to set in. I’m suddenly so nervous that I can hardly button my shirt up in the correct holes, to the point that Portia takes pity on me and steps in. As she and Remus help with the finer details of the outfit, all I can focus on is the way the fabric hangs on me, comfortable and cut close to my body without any gapping or too short of hems. After a lifetime of wearing my father’s hand-me-downs, it’s a wonder to actually wear clothes that fit. 

Focusing on the feeling of the fabric helps to ground me so that I feel steady enough to insist on tying my shoes myself, and once I’ve straightened back up, Portia is waiting there in front of me with the suit jacket in her hands. Swallowing down my nerves, I turn around and let her help me shrug it on, a bit surprised by the weight of it. I’m faced away from the mirror now, and once the jacket is settled I’m overtaken by nerves, seemingly frozen in place. Like if I turn around, I’m taking that final step I can’t come back from, even though my fate was sealed the moment that slip of paper with my name was drawn.

“Gale,” Portia calls, soft, and I know she’s caught on to my hesitation. Still, her voice works to thaw my feet enough that I turn back to face both her and the mirror, which no longer shows my reflection, and instead I meet the eyes of someone entirely unfamiliar to me. His face is the same as mine, sure, and his head moves from side to side when I move it, but this Gale is not the same one I know. He's not exhausted, weighed down by the responsibility of carrying his entire family on his back, or forced to give up everything just to keep himself and his family fed. He's confident, charming, and ultimately familiar. He's someone you wouldn't want to watch go into the Games and die in a matter of days.

I have to drag my attention away from my own face then, just so I don't throw something at the mirror and shatter the illusion of a life that was taken from me the moment I had the misfortune of being born in District 12. Despite my reflexive revulsion, though, it’s perfect. This is exactly what I wanted—to be identical to any other person the audience could meet on the street, to force the Capitol to recognize me as someone like them. 

Plus, the suit is legitimately stunning. The black fabric is covered in jewels, creating a gradient from black to red to orange in patches to look like I'm wearing a dying ember, with my undershirt being the same orange. My pants are made of a sheer, iridescent fabric laid over black silk, and paired with the shimmering powder on my skin, I almost seem to glow. It’s like I’ve climbed my way out of the remains of a fire, subdued but not entirely extinguished.

“Do you like it?” Portia prompts me, after we've all stared at my appearance long enough. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, nodding. 

“It’s incredible,” I say. It doesn’t seem like nearly enough to convey my thanks, but my throat feels like it’s closed shut, and I can’t force anything else out. Thankfully, Portia seems to understand, giving me a gentle smile and straightening the lapels on my jacket one last time. 

The rest of my time with her passes in a blur after the prep team leaves, neither of us speaking but instead sitting in comfortable silence. I still don't entirely trust Portia, just like I don't trust anyone I've met in the Capitol, but she's at least proven to be understanding of my mistrust. Remains patient and kind despite it. It's the bare minimum of decency the Capitol should have for the Districts, and yet I still can't help but appreciate it, and her.

When it finally comes time for us to leave, I follow Portia even as I internally panic, already partway out of my body with nerves. It only grows stronger when we walk out to the elevator and I'm met by Effie and Haymitch, who looks considerably better than he had last night. I still can't bring myself to look him in the eye. I can tell he wants to talk to me, but there’s no time, because Katniss and Cinna emerge from her room when he takes half a step towards me, and then everything else is temporarily forgotten in favor of the sight of my best friend. 

If I'm supposed to be an ember, then Katniss is the fire, beautiful and dangerous and absolutely captivating. I almost don't recognize her at first, having to study her face intensely to see her face under the makeup her team had applied. And yet, sure enough, she's the one standing in front of me like the living embodiment of flame, claiming the room’s attention without a single word. In the back of my mind, I send a thousand gratitudes to Cinna; with this dress, she'll be a hit no matter how her interview goes. 

“You look nice.” Katniss’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, enough that I realize that I’ve been staring. She’s looking up at me nervously, and I have to swallow a few times to finally clear my throat enough to respond. 

“You too,” I say, and then immediately wince. You too?! “I, I mean – you also look nice. Beautiful. Cinna did a good job.”

Something in Katniss’s expression shifts, and she turns her head away before I can fully see her smile, revealing the braid that her prep team had woven around her head with streams of red ribbon. “Thanks.”

We're ushered onto the elevator before we can say anything else to each other, but the image of her smile lingers in my mind, enough that I don't immediately feel nervous upon reaching the stage floor. And even then, faced with the line of our fellow tributes waiting to walk out onto the stage, there's some comfort in seeing Katniss's head in front of me as we take our places at the back. 

Out on stage, there's a large arc where all of the tributes sit for the entirety of the program, with Caesar and the tribute he's interviewing in the center. Just like with everything else, the interviews go by order of the Districts, though this time Katniss is going before me. We'll be the very last two interviews of the program, which could be a benefit – we'll be the freshest in people's minds, if nothing else – but could just as easily be a similar issue in the way it was for our sessions. I can only hope that the audience will hold out for longer than the Gamemakers had.

I don’t have to worry about it for long, at least, with the start of Caesar’s signature theme signaling our entrance onto the stage. When I step foot on the stage, my mind goes entirely blank except for my sole focus on getting to my chair at the end of the arc without my legs giving out. The stage is exceptionally bright, the crowd almost deafening, and though I’m aware of the sheer amount of people and cameras that surround us, I can’t look at any of them. All I can do is sink into my chair, remembering Effie’s lectures about my posture at the last moment and making myself straighten, before staring out at some invisible point in the crowd. At least back in District 12, I knew everyone in the crowd for the reaping; sitting here now, watched by rows upon rows of unfamiliar faces, I think I’m the most nervous I’ve ever been. 

The sound of the crowd swells when Caesar Flickerman, the interview host, makes his debut onto the stage. All my life, he's looked the exact same, even though he's been the host for over forty years at this point. I don't know exactly how they've been preserving him, but every year he's virtually the same in his signature makeup and star-studded suit, just changing out the color in between Games. This year, it seems his color is a powder blue—I watch his painted lips almost in disgusted fascination as he speaks to the audience, warming up a bit with a few jokes before jumping straight into the main event. 

I instinctively avert my eyes when Glimmer makes her way to the seat beside Caesar, draped in a sheer golden gown that leaves nothing to the imagination. My interaction with her during training comes flooding back, the way she'd flirted with me, the way she touched me, and suddenly I’m furious at her mentors for not going with any other angle for her. Doing anything except throwing her to the wolves. Maybe I shouldn't care, should see her as nothing more than someone else who I will have to consider my enemy in a day's time, but I can’t. Just knowing that everyone in Panem is looking at her like nothing more than a piece of meat makes me sick, and I'm glad that the interviews are short by design, because it makes my skin crawl to think of her being on display for any moment longer.

Once Glimmer's interview is finished, a rhythm is quickly established for the program. A tribute goes up, Caesar does his best to banter with them, then as soon as the three minutes are up he sends them back to their seats. Out of everyone in the Games machine, Caesar is the one who makes me the most uneasy; he tends to “help” tributes during their interviews, soothing the nervous ones, giving a hand to boost the ones who fall flat, and even the most cynical people back home tend to like him. At other times, though, he's been the ringleader in making tributes look like fools, twisting their words and reframing their actions to make them look worse than they actually were. In my eyes, his friendly nature is just another way to make us tributes easier to swallow. In the hands of Caesar Flickerman, everyone can be made palatable, but you don't always get to control in what way. 

Tonight he seems to be in a charitable mood, thankfully enough. Most of the interviews go off without a hitch, painting everyone in the best and most helpful light. The districts tick by, one after another, but only a few stick out in my mind: Cato’s is determined to make him look ruthless and cutthroat, while Clove is poisonously sweet. By the audience's reaction, I can tell they're already a lot of people's favorites.

Every so often, in the space between interviews, I chance a look at Katniss sitting a little ways from my side. She looks just as stone-faced as usual, but I can spot the terrified look in her eyes from a mile away, and she keeps trying to discreetly wipe off her hands on her dress. If only we were closer, I wouldn't care if she used my jacket to dry them off. The best I can do from over here is try to send her reassuring glances and hope she sees them.

The crowd momentarily stills when Rue floats over to Caesar, dressed in a delicate dress complete with wings that highlights her youth as well as her demeanor. She seems so much like Prim then, sweet but resolute, that I can barely pay attention to the content of the interview past the sudden stab of pain in my chest. Her time is up before I can push the feeling away entirely, and then her district partner is walking to the center, and I force myself to pull my focus together. Once Thresh’s interview is done, Katniss is next, and I can’t be stuck in my head with her like I have with all of the others. 

Thresh seems to have gone with the route I’d initially entertained, barely responding to Caesar’s questions and attempts at banter beyond terse silence or simple yeses and nos. He’s one of the few who can pull it off, not needing anyone’s approval in order for people to root for him, simply given his physique and demeanor. If you’re strong enough, people will forgive just about anything that comes out of your mouth, bar blatant rebellion. I have a feeling that’s why he’s opted to be obstinate, instead of risking being too radical to be liked, and I feel a pang of regret watching him. In another place, another situation, he might have been able to speak his mind, but here he’s reduced himself to a silent brute solely to escape punishment. It’s the kind of bitter decision we’ve all been forced to make.

My thoughts are cut off by Thresh getting up from his seat, shocking me into awareness just as Katniss stands and begins to make her way to the center. All of my anxiety comes flooding back to me at once, and I sit up infinitely straighter, my eyes not leaving Katniss’s figure from where she stands shaking Caesar’s hand. Without being able to see her face, I can’t read her at all, and it’s this uncertainty more than anything that makes my heart race. In this moment, there’s truly nothing I can do to help her, made to sit here uselessly while I watch.

“So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What’s impressed you most since you arrived here?” Caesar begins. I stare at the back of Katniss’s head in growing agitation as the silence stretches on, internally urging her to speak. Say something! Anything! 

“The lamb stew.” Only I can hear the strangled quality of her voice, but I can’t bring myself to care. She managed to answer, and that’s a victory in and of itself. 

Caesar and a good portion of the audience laugh obligingly, bolstering my relief. “The one with the dried plums?” He inquires, and when Katniss nods, he continues. “Oh, I eat it by the bucketful.”

Then he makes a big show of this guilty indulgence to the audience, which gets more of them to applaud. This is good. I set aside my dislike for him momentarily, grateful for his ease in working with the crowd. 

“Now, Katniss, when you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?” 

Katniss’s answer to this is quicker, more confident, full of the snark I’m used to from her. “You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?” 

This earns a bigger laugh from the audience, and even I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. The longer she talks with Caesar, the more comfortable she’s becoming, to the point that she even stands for a moment to show off her dress. I’m already impressed by her bravado, but then she spins a bit, and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I’ve never seen her do anything like that before. 

“Oh, do that again!” Caesar says, and Katniss complies. I watch in wonder as her dress seems to turn into actual flames before my eyes, the sight inciting cheers and whoops from the crowd. She stops after a good moment, and I have to swallow down some unknown feeling of annoyance when she clutches onto Caesar’s arm. 

“Don’t stop!” he says, to which Katniss actually giggles . I’m glad the cameras are completely focused on the two of them, because I’m sure I look like a fool with my mouth hanging open. I’ve never, ever heard her make that type of noise, and in the back of my mind, I can’t help but feel a bit envious that Caesar is the one who got it out of her. It’s a ridiculous thought, one I immediately dismiss, and yet the feeling stubbornly remains.

After she regains her footing and sits back down, Caesar tries to ask Katniss about her session and training score, to which she does her best to tiptoe around. It helps that the Gamemakers step in to confirm that she can’t talk about it, but then the conversation pivots to the one topic I’d dreaded. “Let’s go back then, to the moment they called your sister’s name at the reaping.”

The reaction is almost immediate, the mood growing somber as Caesar’s tone becomes softer. “And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?”

No . I almost say it out loud, but manage to bite my lip at the last second so the word doesn’t escape. From Katniss’s hesitation, I can tell she’s fighting the same battle. “Her name’s Prim. She’s just twelve. And I love her more than anything.”

My heart squeezes in my chest at her words. It’s the most open I’ve ever heard her be outside of the woods, and it’s almost like the crowd knows not to disturb such a special moment, no one daring to breathe. 

“What did she say to you? After the reaping?” 

“She asked me to try really hard to win.” Another stabbing bolt of pain through my chest, almost knocking the breath out of me. The conversation I’d had with Rory echoes through my thoughts. 

“And what did you say?” Caesar prompts. I can read the tension in Katniss’s shoulders before she answers, her voice low and dangerous in a way that makes me instinctively tense up along with her. I already know what her answer will be.

“I swore I would.”

Then the buzzer goes off, and Caesar is ushering Katniss away as the crowd erupts into applause. Clearly, Katniss’s love for her sister has made a lasting impact on them. I can’t help but aim a petty thought toward Haymitch as I rise from my seat. So much for her being hopeless.

I immediately abandon this thought once I’m in front of Caesar, though, slipping into that same kind of calm that always overtakes me in high stress situations. The open space in front of us makes me dizzy to look directly at, not to mention the sheer volume of the crowd, so I stubbornly fix my attention on Caesar just so I don't lose my cool. I make sure to grip his hand firmly enough when I shake it, sitting back into my seat with a careless type of confidence. Give ‘em hell , I hear Pa whisper in my ear. 

I'll do my damnedest. 

“Gale Hawthorne,” Caesar begins, and I look over at the use of my full name. “After spending your whole life in District Twelve, you’ve had the opportunity to see what it’s like to live in the Capitol. What’s been the biggest difference you’ve noticed between the two so far?”

Surprisingly, the answer comes easy to me. I'm careful to exaggerate my accent on some of the words, leaning back in the seat without a care. “Well, things are much simpler back home, especially since we don’t have any of the fancy gadgets y’all do.”

Caesar seems to catch on quickly. “It must have been quite the adjustment, then, getting to use all of the technology here.”

“... Sure, that’s a nice way of putting it,” I concede, after a moment of me looking at him dubiously. Scattered laughs come from the audience at my attitude, and so I push forward, encouraged. “I was gonna say that it took me nearly two days to figure out how to turn the damn shower on.”

Another laugh, bigger this time. Caesar latches onto this topic thread all too gleefully. “Is that right? I've had more than a few shower incidents, myself, but the symbols have saved me from an unfortunate bathing situation even more.”

I fix him with an unimpressed look. “That's the beauty of District Twelve, Caesar. We don't need instructions on how to put water in a washbasin.”

Most of the following laughs are out of shock, I can tell, but I know I haven't gone too far since Caesar is still smiling good-naturedly. Even so, I make note to pull a little bit back with my next response.

“Tell us more about District Twelve, then. What would you say Twelve does better than the Capitol?” There’s a hint of condescension to Caesar's tone, like it'll be a challenge to come up with anything, but my answer is almost immediate. 

“The people,” I say, then add as an afterthought, “No offense.” 

“None taken!” Caesar reassures amidst the crowd's good-natured laughter, and I take the cue to elaborate. 

“Everyone I've met in the Capitol is nice enough, but nothing compares to the feeling of being with people back home,” I explain. “In the Seam, everybody knows everybody else, and there’s a real sense of community. We help each other in any way we can.”

“Then I'm sure they're all ready to cheer you on when you're in the arena,” Caesar replies, and I barely hold back the instinctual grimace his words incite. Nobody in District Twelve has ever cheered for our tributes, even when they survived past the first day. It's a surefire way to jinx it. “Now, speaking of your district. About that reaping.” 

My stomach drops even as I tilt my head obligingly. It doesn't feel very satisfying to be proven right about this particular suspicion. 

“It was very noble of you to take Katniss's sister Prim away so she could volunteer. You implied that everyone in Twelve knows each other, but are you two particularly close?” Even though I've prepared for this question, expected it to come up, I still catch myself before I snarl at Caesar to leave our friendship out of it. It's harder than I anticipated to lower my hackles and actually give the answer I'd decided on before the interview.

“You could say that,” I say, keeping tight control of my voice so as to not show any of my annoyance. “She's the closest thing I've got to a best friend, and I'm fairly sure she'd say the same about me.”

A murmur runs through the crowd, right as Caesar makes a noise of surprise. “Well, how about that? How long have you been friends?” 

“Four years, thereabouts?” I say, as if I don’t know the amount of time nearly down to the day. Casting a silent apology to Katniss behind me, I continue on, my voice turning somber. “We only got close after we lost our fathers in the same mining accident.” 

A collective sound of sympathy. It itches at me to pad the words, avoiding anything unseemly like died or death , but I can’t deny that it seems to have worked. Now, instead of just being friends, there's a story behind our connection. Something to strengthen our partnership. 

“Oh, how awful. It must have been terribly difficult for you two,” Caesar offers, and I can't tell if the pain in his voice is real or not. Either way, it gives me something to build off of.

“It was, but… I think we helped each other through it, in a way,” I reply. I have to take a second to think over my next words, disguising the pause as me having to collect myself. “Like I said, that's what we do in Twelve. We help each other. Me and Katniss, we always have the other's back, no matter what.” 

“Even in the Games?” Caesar asks, surprised, and I nod. This seems to intrigue the audience, if the sound of their disbelief is anything to go by. It's not rare for district partners to ally with each other in the Games, but never before has anyone stated that they plan to do so beforehand, nor imply that they'd abandon the chance for their own survival to help the other win. 

“Especially in the Games,” I affirm. “We're no strangers to working together and supporting each other. I don’t think anything could change that.”

“You must consider yourselves to be very lucky, then, for you two to have been Reaped together in the same year.” I have to rush to cover the disbelieving scoff that escapes me, turning a wry smile to Caesar. There's no way to completely hide the cynical tone in my reply, though.

“Again, that's a nice way to put it.”

Caesar claps a hand on my shoulder, a pitiful attempt at consoling me even though I can tell that he really feels bad for me. Judging by the distressed murmurs in the audience, I assume they're feeling the same. Like now that they're made to see two friends get pitted against each other in the arena, they suddenly care. It's so ridiculous that I’m almost glad Caesar takes the cue to wrap the interview up, just so I don't do something insane. 

“Well, I believe I can speak for all of us when I say we'll be keeping an eye on you two,” Caesar declares, and the audience almost explodes with the volume of their applause. Somehow, with only a few words and a well-placed tragedy, we've become the new favorites before even stepping foot into the arena. I have to keep myself from grinning in triumph, instead giving Caesar a tired smile before walking back to my seat. 

I can’t see Katniss's expression when I get there, but as we all stand for the anthem I notice that she and I are the main focus of the cameras, barely flicking between the other tributes before going back to us. Just like with the parade, but instead of literally outshining the other tributes, we've earned this attention from me telling the story of our friendship and cementing us both in people's minds. 

The only issue now is that I have no way of knowing how Katniss has taken it.

Chapter Text

Being hunting partners over the last four years has meant that Katniss and I have had to figure out how to get over our disagreements quickly. Both of us have short tempers and are stubborn as hell as it is, but we were even worse when we were younger and thought we knew better than the other—in the early days of our friendship, we’d argue over everything and anything. It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were wasting more time with our arguments than we were actually hunting, when we started our whole deal to become better hunters in the first place. So, after a particularly bad argument that nearly had us splitting up for good, we were pushed to come up with an idea, and eventually we agreed on a simple enough formula. One of us would say something, the other would dispute it, but before it devolved into an entire mess we’d simply say, “Agree to disagree,” and keep on moving. And, miracle of all miracles, it somehow worked.

Over time we stopped saying it, being that we got older and thought it was embarrassing, but the sentiment remained an unspoken understanding between us. Plus, after so much time spent together, we stopped getting hostile over every little difference in opinion. We came to understand each other’s limits, our subtle tells whenever we were in a bad mood, so that by now, it’s just another layer to our friendship. We still bicker and argue with each other over little things all the time, but in all of these years, we’ve only ever had one actual fight.

It was what drove us to look for a solution in the first place, a few months after we first met; it was the coldest part of January, the game had been particularly scarce all winter, and the anniversary of our father's deaths was coming up in the approaching days. Looking back, it was truly a stupid argument, sparked by a snare of all things, but both of us were at the ends of our ropes. All we'd caught in the past week was a scrawny looking rabbit and an old turkey that had seen better days, and when the “brilliant” snare idea I'd had turned out to be an enormous failure, we both blamed each other for it. Katniss said that it was a bad idea from the start; I said that the bait she got was wrong for what we were trying to catch; both of us were so hungry and so stressed that we got into a screaming match, which only ended after Katniss broke the snare entirely and stormed off into the woods. 

Back then, I'd justified going looking for her as me being responsible for someone as young as her, no matter how annoying she was, but now I recognize that I was already frightened of losing her friendship. We'd barely known each other at that point, and we drove each other crazy, but I had grown used to her presence. Whenever I was with her in the woods… for the first time since my father’s death, I felt like I could actually breathe. Though I was too proud to admit it, I didn’t want to fuck up the one thing I looked forward to anymore. So I followed her footprints in the snow until I found her curled up beneath a tree, crouched down in front of her, and apologized for blaming her. And, when I admitted that the snare idea was stupid from the start, I finally got the smile I’d been waiting months for.

After that, the formula we’d devised to prevent any more useless arguments worked better than either of us anticipated, because we haven’t had that kind of fight since. It helped that as we got older, we lost the appetite for picking fights, especially since it made us much more efficient hunters when we weren’t wasting half of our time at each other's throats. Turns out there's a lot you can get done if you don't fight each other every step of the way. 

The thing is, though, I have the suspicion that it's only managed to work this long because we're so used to our lives and issues in District Twelve. The disagreements we had tended to be variations of the same few core problems, and we either solved them or figured out a way to work around them entirely after a while. Now, with us being thrown into the Games, we're already unsteadied enough as it is, but I have an awful feeling that my interview just broke our clean streak for good.

When the anthem ends and we're finally able to get off the stage, Katniss doesn't so much as look at me before starting to make a beeline for the elevators, cutting a line through the other tributes like she's being chased. She's moving so fast I can't catch up to her before she's slipped into one of the cars with a handful of others, the doors shutting behind her with a pleasant chime just as I reach them. 

I stare at the doors, mind struggling to catch up. Around me I can feel the stares from my fellow tributes, hear bits of whispers between them that I can only assume are about the scene that's just played out. Honestly, I don't have any more answers than they do; frustration rises in my chest before I can push it down, and while I turn and go to another elevator car my thoughts are already beginning to spiral. If nothing else, I’m glad that I have a moment to try and puzzle out Katniss’s reaction, even with the continued looks from the other occupants of the car.

By the third stop, though, my frustration is almost entirely replaced by an itching agitation that’s worked its way under my skin, which only grows worse as we make two more stops before I’m alone and finally make it to the twelfth floor. I’m not entirely paying attention when I step out, still thinking over everything, but then there’s the shift of movement and the bright orange of her dress that’s unmistakable. When I bring my surroundings back into focus, Katniss stands awkwardly by the sofa, very noticeably avoiding my eyes.

Neither of us say a word. She won’t look me in the face, and I’m trying to study every angle of her expression to try and glean any idea of what’s going on. Even worse, a different kind of ache has been building up behind my frustration this entire time, continuing to swell even as I desperately try to ignore it. Nothing good will come of me addressing it, and yet it presses up against my ribs and squeezes my lungs until I feel like I can’t breathe, insisting that I finally give it a name. And all the while, Katniss still won’t so much as look in my direction.

Another chime behind me, and the elevator doors open once more, this time bearing our team. I don’t really hear any of the congratulations or praise that are aimed my way, barely even react to Haymitch putting a hand on my shoulder in pride; all I can register is how Katniss turns, finally forced to face me with the adults all behind me. And yet, her eyes seem to slide right over me and instead fixate on Cinna as he rounds me and approaches her, as if I were a column blocking her view instead of a living, breathing person.

Oh. I see.

Suddenly I feel ready to burst, heat and pressure building in my chest like a pot full of boiling water about to blow its lid off. It's almost like I've been stabbed through the chest with how sharp the hurt is, and my jaw clenches hard to distract myself from it. I’m clenching my fists tight enough that I feel something pop, the blood roaring so loud in my ears that I don’t hear Portia’s calls of my name until she practically shouts in my face. “ Gale! ”

I blink rapidly for a moment, startled, before turning to face Portia. She’s looking at me with an expression I’m not in the right state to recognize, and around me it’s awkwardly quiet, like everyone else was similarly shocked into silence by her volume. It takes a moment for me to fully pull myself back together, but by then, Effie has resumed her chattering to Cinna and Katniss. 

“Sorry, I was…” I trail off, unsure of an appropriate excuse. Portia shakes her head before I can continue, bemused. 

“Don't worry about it,” she says. Her tone is meant to be soothing, but all it does is chafe at me. Is it really that obvious? Have I been trying to keep a secret and failed so spectacularly that I instead outed myself to everyone? First Haymitch, then Effie, and now the entirety of Panem—maybe I've finally messed up so badly that even Katniss has figured it out. My heart seems to freeze at that, ice cold fear instantly washing over me like I've fallen into a stream in winter.  “You did wonderfully up there. Everyone’s talking about you and Katniss.”

“Thank you.” The response is reflexive, out of my mouth before I can process, and internally I curse at how hollow my voice is. Portia frowns just enough that I know she's noticed it, too, but before she can pry any further Haymitch is calling over to us. 

“Come on, let's eat,” he says, before turning and leading the way to the dining table. Portia spares one more questioning glance at me, but I don't return it, silently walking past her and following the others. 

We all take our usual places at the table, but this time Katniss seems a thousand miles away from me rather than directly at my side, especially with how she keeps deflecting or outright ignoring questions about me and my interview. At some point, I think even Effie realizes that she won't get an answer out of her, because by the time the main course is served the topic has shifted to generic small talk about the other tributes and their interviews. My eyes are fixed on the fake, decorative potted plant in the center of the table the entire time, and I barely say a word except for a few short responses to questions from Effie. I don't have the energy to entertain her, not right now, not when I'm so overrun with worst case scenarios and every way the Games could go wrong now that Katniss has seemed to make her wishes to be left alone clear. All I can handle is to sit and eat, and thankfully, nobody pushes me for more.

Of course, it's not over when dinner is finished; we still have the recaps to watch, which I've slowly been dreading over the course of the meal. I don't know if I can handle watching myself on the screen at this point, but I’m also desperate to look and find where I'd messed it all up, hoping that the recording will somehow bring me clarity. I try not to overthink about the fact that Katniss doesn't sit next to me on the sofa to watch.

Even now, with all of the tension between us, I can't help but crack a smile at Katniss's interview. At her awkwardness, her stilted charm, the way her demeanor shifts when she talks about Prim. Then my own interview starts, and I'm still somewhat disoriented from seeing myself on screen. The Gale that Caesar’s talking to is both familiar and a complete stranger to me, though cracks of myself that I recognize start to show when I admit that Katniss and I are friends. It’s only through the Capitol’s editing that I can finally see Katniss’s face as she reacts to what I’d said—the cameras zoom in close to her at a few different moments, eager for the slightest bit of vulnerability to pounce on. She manages to keep a politely neutral expression through most of it, but the moment I say that we'll still help each other in the Games, something in her expression shifts. Not a lot, not enough for the audience to catch it, but a shift nonetheless, and one I recognize as her trying to push through pain. My heart feels like it's lodged in my throat. Is that it? Is that what upset her?

The recaps end with yet another flourish of the anthem, the last notes ringing out into the sudden silence that settles over the floor. No one wants to say what we all know. That tonight is the last time we will be together in the Training Center, that Katniss and I will be in the arena by this time tomorrow. Neither Haymitch nor Effie will accompany us to the arena; that honor is given to Cinna and Portia, so any goodbyes to our mentor and escort have to be said now. And then all of a sudden, my chest tightens from something that's altogether separate from my worries with Katniss. 

I'm surprised to find myself a little saddened when Effie takes one of each of our hands in hers and wishes both of us luck, though out of everyone I've met in the Capitol, she's the person I've had the hardest time tolerating. At least she has the decency to make it easier for me to get over it when she adds, “I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!” before kissing both of us on the cheek and hurrying out. 

Facing Haymitch, though, is far harder than I expected. He's crossed his arms and looks both of us over, an odd look in his eye despite his neutral expression. The photo he'd shown me yesterday flashes behind my eyes again, and I have to blink a few times to get past the sudden stinging in my eyes. There's so much I never could have asked about, that I will never be able to learn, and I can't think about any of it too long or else I feel like I'll be crushed under the weight of it.

“Any final words of advice?” I ask instead, just to fill the space. 

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there,” Haymitch answers almost immediately. “Neither of you are up to fighting in the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?”

Katniss speaks up, then, the first time she has since dinner. “And after that?”

“Stay alive,” he replies grimly. Thinking back to the first time he'd said that, on the train to the Capitol, feels like it was years instead of days ago. And this time, Haymitch isn't joking. We both nod, but don't have anything to say in response.

Haymitch doesn't say goodbye to either of us, just turns and walks away toward the hall opposite ours, and when I look over to where Katniss was standing, I see that she’s done the same. For a moment I don't do anything except stand there, all too aware of the stylists quiet presence but unwilling to speak with them. What I really want to do is talk to Katniss. To ask her why she's decided to spend our final night free acting like I don't exist, but she's made it clear without saying that she doesn't want me around her. No matter if it makes me panic or not, I have to honor her wishes. I just wish I knew what I'd done wrong.

At some point, when I feel like I can move again, I go back to my room and start to take off my suit. I lay each piece down carefully across the back of one of the chairs in the room, wary of the gems and delicate looking stitching attaching them to the fabric. Then I turn on the shower to the hottest temperature I can reasonably handle and stand under the stream for a while. Part of me still instinctively balks at wasting this much water, even knowing that it won’t matter at all in the coming days, though I content myself by making up excuses. Logically, I justify it to myself that it's the last proper bath I'll have; emotionally, I feel like if I don’t get this restless buzz out from underneath my skin I'll go crazy, and the pressure and heat of the water distracts me enough that I can think. 

Standing there in the shower, slowly scrubbing away the makeup and shimmer my prep team had so methodically applied to my skin, I find myself thinking about my family for the first time in days. How they might've felt seeing me on that stage tonight. Hell, if nothing else, I know that Katniss has at least one fan, because her dress would have made Posy shriek in delight. I smile a bit at imagining the scene the kids likely made upon seeing me on screen, Ma trying to settle them even as she's just as happy to see my face after being separated for so long. My heart aches if I think about her for too long. I wonder if the Everdeens were there to watch with them, if she and Katniss's mother had sat together and watched us with bated breath, knowing that it's the last time they'll see us outside of the arena. It’s a dangerous line of thinking, but there’s no good reason for me to deny myself anymore, and here in the shower, it’s the safest place for it.

Eventually, though, the water starts getting cold and the itch gets louder again, so I deem myself sufficiently boiled and get out. I put on a matching set of loose-fitting sleep clothes, combing through my wet hair with my fingers before twisting it back into a loose braid. I go slowly, just to put off the inevitable as much as possible, but soon I catch myself restlessly straightening things on the counter and I force myself to leave the bathroom. Never before has a bed looked less appealing—I waste another few moments folding and unfolding my interview suit to avoid looking at it any longer. Now that I’m out of the shower, that restlessness is back in full force, and the thought of having to lie in bed and try to sleep while it feels like there are countless ants crawling under my skin makes me shudder. There's no way I'll be able to sleep well tonight, not with the threat of tomorrow looming over me. Even though I know that I'll need the sleep to keep myself going after the initial adrenaline wears off. The nerves that spike from that thought just make it even worse.

Soon I begin to pace the length of the room, thoughts bouncing between all of the possibilities of the arena we'll be faced with, and the mystery of Katniss's anger that still plagues me. No matter how much I try to put it out of my mind, I can't stop trying to analyze her reaction, or what could have caused it. Half of me is more than a little angry that she's chosen now out of all times to punish me for something I don't even know that I've done wrong, but the other is terrified of going into the arena to my certain death without my best friend at my side. The fear will almost always win out against my anger, at least with her. 

Images of different arenas from years past flash between different scenarios of Katniss getting hurt without me being there, the combined assault making my hands shake and my chest constrict tighter and tighter. Briefly, I wonder if I’m dying, but then push the thought away as it makes my anxiety even worse, already struggling enough as it is. I can’t shake the distinct impression that the walls are closing in on me, the ceiling getting lower and lower as my room seems to box me in like an animal. Worst of all, the bed still mocks me throughout my downward spiral, knowing that it cannot give me what I so desperately need. Out , I need to get out—

I'm up and out of my room in the blink of an eye, and there's no time to convince myself not to do it before I'm knocking on Katniss’s door. My knuckles have barely touched the wood when it opens, like she’s been standing by the door all this time, just waiting for me to break. For a moment, we stand there and stare at each other, me in my sleep clothes, her in a fleecy nightgown, both with a hollow look in our eyes that betrays the fear that’s been consuming us. 

“Have you been up to the roof?” I finally ask, instead of any one of the countless questions that have been plaguing me since our interviews. The roof's the only place I can think of where we can talk, though, and without the chance of anyone listening in. She shakes her head no. My throat feels so tight that I can’t trust that I’ll be able to say anything else, so instead, I simply turn to walk a few feet down the hall before looking over my shoulder. I’m surprised I don’t collapse in relief seeing her silently following me. 

There isn’t anything to illuminate our way up the stairs, but once we’re on the roof, the lights from the rest of the Capitol around us brightens the space. Even in the dead of night, the Capitol never sleeps; the sounds of what seems to be a lively party floats up to us from the streets, drawing us over to the edge of the building to peer over the rail that lines it. Capitol citizens line the streets like bustling ants, only there’s no purpose in these movements other than celebration. It’s not hard to realize what they’re celebrating, and then I’m so thoroughly preoccupied with my disgust that I nearly miss Katniss’s quiet words.

“Are they in costumes?” The relief that floods me from hearing Katniss’s voice is so strong I’m nearly dizzy with it, gripping the metal railing tighter so I don’t lose my footing and tumble right over it. 

“I can't tell.” If I really focus, I can just make out the vague impressions of one of the ants below us as they dance, but they’re just as quickly swept away in the current of the crowd and out of sight. “Not like they'd look any different from what they usually wear, anyway.”

Katniss makes a quiet noise in response, not quite a laugh, but more than leaving me without a reply at all. Even that little bit sends warmth through my chest and relaxes the muscles of my shoulders, finally dropping them after most of the night spent with them tensed. It's pathetic just how much of a sway she has over my emotions, but right now, in a raging sea of circumstances out of my control, it’s the least of my worries. And if it's pathetic for me to want to talk to her one last time before the Games, I figure it's only right to fulfill a dead man's wish. 

“Couldn't sleep?” I'm still watching over the rail as I speak, not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment. Beside me, I hear fabric rustling as she shrugs.

“Not with me thinking about tomorrow. I can't stop wondering what the arena will be like,” she responds, before adding almost self-consciously, “Which is pointless to worry about, anyway.” 

I frown a bit, tilting my head up to look at the yellow haze that hangs over the Capitol's skyline. It still saddens me that I can't see the stars here, especially on my last night outside of the arena. At least I still have the moon, nearing its fullest point, but even that's dulled by the ugly yellow glow from the city lights.

“I don't think it is,” I say. “I think it's normal.”

“Have you been worrying about it, too, then?” Katniss says, but there's an edge to her tone that finally exposes some of that coldness I know she's been holding all night. It's not an earnest question, I can tell, but I answer honestly anyway.

“Yeah, I have.”

With that she goes quiet again, leaving the space to be filled with the distant celebrations below and gentle notes of the wind chimes behind us. The sound reminds me of why I brought her up here to talk in the first place; with a quick glance her way, I toss in an additional, “The wind chimes help to calm my nerves, at least.”

From where I'm standing I can't see her face, so there's no way for me to tell if she understands. She still doesn't respond, though, so I'm left to my thoughts as I look over the city once more. I can only imagine that it's a beautiful night back home, cool from the heat of the day but not quite as biting as it gets toward winter. Nights like this are Vick's favorite kind for catching fireflies, especially around a full moon when he doesn't need to carry a light with him. I hope he's gotten to go out at some point these last few nights, just for him to have some time for himself that isn't so heavy. 

I'm pulled out of my thoughts after a moment, suddenly aware of Katniss moving forward to stand at my side. She's not typically a loud thinker, but there are instances where I can tell she's turning a thought over and over in her head so much that I can practically hear it. She gives no indication of the anxiety that usually accompanies such a state, though, and considering her reaction after the interviews I have a suspicion that she's trying to figure out how best to break the bad news. 

Sure enough, I hardly have the time to brace myself before she takes a breath, voice low enough to not be heard over the background noise but still clear enough for me to catch. “I don't want you helping me.”

Nothing I could do to prepare myself would prevent the feeling of ice cold fear that overtakes me at her words, though it does give me a few precious breaths to choke out a response with. “Why?”

The fact that I'm not immediately protesting, that I've presumably expected this from her, seems to agitate Katniss. “I already told you, Gale, our pact doesn't mean anything if you've already made up your mind about sacrificing yourself for me.” She pauses, clearly still thinking about what she wants to say. I'm startled to hear that her voice is already thick with tears, as if she's barely managing to keep them from falling. “And in your interview, you sounded like you made your decision. Without even thinking about how it would affect me.” 

I'll give Katniss this: out of everything she could possibly say, she went for the one that's sure to cut the deepest. We've always been aware of what buttons to avoid pushing with each other, but now it seems that Katniss has deemed them fair game. 

“What do you expect me to do?” My voice comes out rough, edged with an audible exhaustion as I finally turn to look at her. “I can't hurt you, Katniss. I won't hurt you. And I would never let myself forget if I stood by and kept myself safe when you needed my help.” 

“I don't need your help.” Her reply is automatic, almost emotionless, but her expression betrays her conflicted feelings, her eyes still shining with unshed tears. I shake my head slightly, lips curving into a rueful smile.

“No. You don't.” That's the thing, really. Katniss hasn't ever needed my help, not in any substantial way. When we met, she'd already been managing to stay afloat with her hunting and foraging knowledge all by herself, and all I'd really done was give her a hand with her snares. It's never been the case that I think she's incapable, because I know she's not—it's always been about keeping myself sane. Giving myself the illusion of being useful, of having something under my control, just for any semblance of stability. I've only been able to stay afloat after Pa's death by being helpful, only getting through everything after the reaping by telling myself it's all for Katniss's benefit. There's no way I can tell her that, though, without completely scaring her off. “But you work better when you have someone with you to watch your back. Like I do, too.”

The cars below us seem to take the brief silence as their cue to obnoxiously honk their horns in a truly awful kind of chorus, loud enough that Katniss's quiet response is almost entirely drowned out.

“If you die and I win, I won't be able to handle it. I can't. I'll never be the same.” 

Her voice is laced with such a potent sadness that I catch myself reaching out to her reflexively, stopping just short of her arm. It takes me a moment to swallow past the lump in my throat, a dull ache radiating through my chest. I've never actually let myself think about what I'd do if I lost Katniss, only thinking about it in the abstract, but now I’m confronted with the full force of its inevitability. Either I'll go first, and she'll be left alone, or she'll go first, and… And I…

“But if you died and I won, it would completely ruin me.” I surprise myself with the strength of the conviction in my voice, even as it breaks toward the end. “I wouldn't be able to live with myself in a world without you. What's the point in arguing about it, anyway? There's no way out of this. And I don't want this conversation to be our last.”

Neither of us say a thing for a long, tense moment, her eyes locked with mine. We're both too stubborn to back down, but we also know that in the end, it's all pointless. No matter how much we fight, there's still the chance that all of it will be for nothing. I watch as Katniss slowly comes to that same conclusion, her brow furrowing more while she thinks, visibly conflicted.

The wind briefly picks up around us, buffeting us and disturbing the wind chimes so they erupt into a loud clatter, startling both of us back into reality. Katniss looks away first, wrapping her arms around herself almost protectively; she takes a step away from me, but she doesn't move to leave, which is as much of a peace offering as I'll get from her. 

“About tomorrow.” It's a good sign that Katniss didn't completely turn around and walk away, but I don't want to push her any more than I already have, so I quickly pivot. It isn't any better of a topic, but at least it's something new, and though I know well enough not to mention the plans I've been piecing together, I don't want to leave her completely in the dark. So I pull myself back together just enough to sound casual again, like we're talking about an outing to the woods instead of a death match we're being thrown into in a matter of hours. “I don't know what's going to happen once the count gets down to zero. And I don't know what you're planning to do.”

“Haymitch said to not risk the Cornucopia,” Katniss says, and internally I'm thankful that she doesn't sound as upset as she did before. “It makes sense. No matter how good we are, we don't stand a chance against the Careers.” 

“Not without weapons, at least,” I agree. Once she has a bow in her hands, though, I know that Katniss could easily match any of them, even in close quarters. But I don’t want her to try to get one from the Cornucopia. She may be fast, but I know the Careers will be targeting her first, and based on how the supplies around the Cornucopia have been arranged in past years, her going for any hypothetical bow will put her far too close to them.

“Do you think they’ll have a bow?” She seems to have read my mind, sounding genuinely curious. I shake my head a bit as I huff out half a laugh.

“They’d be stupid not to have at least one,” I respond, thinking back to Katniss’s score. Giving her an eleven, just to deliberately not include the one weapon she knows how to use, would at least be a waste of good entertainment. It’s never about if it’ll actually help the tributes or not; to the Gamemakers, it’s always a question of if it creates enough drama. 

“So it’s either get away from the Cornucopia and be defenseless but alive, or risk getting the bow.” Too late, I realize my mistake in reassuring her—now that she knows there’s sure to be a bow, there’s no way she’ll run from the Cornucopia without trying something to get it. I have to do something to dissuade her, and quickly.

I swallow before I respond, determined to keep my voice even. “We can always figure something out once we’re far enough away from the Cornucopia. You remember what your father’s bows look like, right?”

“Yeah,” Katniss answers, though she doesn’t sound completely confident. I know she’s tried to copy her father’s bows before, but the fact that I’ve never seen any of her attempts says enough. Still, it’s enough for me to push forward with.

“Getting a knife or two will be easy, and after the year when half the tributes died of cold, they’ve made sure that there’s almost always wood in the arena,” I continue, though I quickly realize I’m  coming on too strong, pausing for a moment to pull back just a bit. “We can figure it out.”

“Maybe,” she says. She’s still not entirely convinced, and I have to tamp down my rising frustration just so I don’t pressure her. It’s the surest way to make her suspicious of me, and to make her conviction to get the bow even stronger.

“I know how to make arrows, if nothing else,” I offer. I can feel her eyes as she turns to face me, so I do the same to her, easily meeting her gaze. “And you know I'm a quick learner. If you show me, I can help make one.”

Katniss's eyes roam over my face for a good few seconds, searching for something; I keep my expression as blank as I can, though I’m practically sweating bullets. Finally, she seems to find something that satisfies her, her voice calmer when she responds. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I echo, and give her a half smile for good measure. Frantic energy is still pulsing through my veins, my mind racing with everything I want to say, but I deliberately slow my movements as I turn back to the Capitol below us, focusing on my breathing and taking another few deep breaths. It's only once my heart has slowed even the tiniest bit that I let myself continue.

“And, if we get separated at all,” I say, ignoring how my chest instinctually tightens at the thought, “I'll find you. I promise.”

Another surge of wind sets off yet another cacophony of clattering from the wind chimes, acting as a buffer for Katniss to fully process my words. On the streets below, it seems that even the Capitol citizens have their limits for partying, because the crowds are gradually beginning to thin and the noise getting lower.

“I'm not sure your tracking skills are up to par.” I nearly miss the teasing tone in Katniss's voice as she replies—when I turn to face her again, half in a panic, I’m relieved to see she has a ghost of a smile on her face. 

“I'll have you know, I happen to be very experienced in finding catnip,” I retort, trying to sound offended. She just rolls her eyes in response.

“I'm serious, Gale.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

She shoots me a glare, but it's clear that there's no real heat behind it, and I shake my head good-naturedly in response.

It's hard to tell with the city’s haze lightening the sky, but I know that it's getting later and later into the night, our time together slowly but surely ticking down. We should both go back in, go to our rooms and try to get any sleep we can before tomorrow, but I can’t make myself say the words. If I could, I'd stay here all night, sitting with Katniss and doing nothing but listen to the world around us. At some point, Katniss shuffles back toward me, close enough for our arms to touch. Closing my eyes, I focus on the feeling of the breeze and the accompaniment of the chimes, all of my worries about tomorrow temporarily forgotten. Of course, I know that we can’t actually stay out here, and when Katniss audibly yawns for the third time in a row I make myself move.

There’s only one other thing I could tell Katniss before the Games, anyway, and I've already decided that it would only make things more complicated than necessary. A voice in the back of my mind starts to worry, though, as I step back from the railing and go to follow her to the stairs. No matter how confident I feel, or how much I plan, there’s a very real chance that either one of us – or even both of us – will die tomorrow. The thought of her never knowing how I truly feel about her… but I also can’t help but think that she would ultimately be better off without knowing. Then again, who am I to decide what she can and can't know about? 

“Catnip,” I call, before my better judgement can stop me. Katniss pauses at the top of the stairs, turning her head over her shoulder just enough so I can see the curve of her nose.

“Yeah?” I’m glad that her back is to me, to be honest, because otherwise I don’t think I’d have the courage to keep speaking. My voice is trembling enough as it is; if she were looking me in the eye, I think it would completely give out.

“I – I just…” My voice breaks halfway through, making me wince. The embarrassment grants me a brief surge of energy, at least, giving me the push to finally force the words out. “Remember that I love you, okay?”

My face burns once I’ve finished speaking, and for a moment, Katniss doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t even move, though after another few seconds pass she turns her head forward, just a bit, so now I can only see the line of her cheek. 

“That’s not fair.”

My stomach plummets at how low her voice is, almost emotionless if it weren’t for the audible edge of anger to her tone. Immediately I rush to do damage control, even as I internally berate myself for giving in. “Katniss, I—”

“Stop it,” she snaps, and my mouth shuts on her command. Emotion builds in her voice as she speaks, breaking on a few of the words. “It’s not fair. I can’t think about that right now. All I want is to get home, and I thought you knew that.”

“I do,” I try, even though my mind is screaming at me to shut my mouth. Shame coils low in my gut, quickly accompanied by a burning kind of humiliation, pushing me to try and defend myself. “It doesn’t have to change anything—”

“But it still does!” Katniss whips around as she yells this, but even finally seeing her face isn’t enough to deter me from pushing forward, as if she hadn’t interrupted.

“—And I’m not saying it to make you… do anything, alright? I just… wanted to say it. At least once.” I lose steam towards the end of my explanation, until my voice dies off at the last word. Katniss stands there, glaring at me with an expression too stormy for me to read, and then I'm overtaken by such a strong wave of self-loathing that I almost collapse under it. It's all I can do to stop myself from outright throwing myself at her feet and begging her forgiveness, though it's a close thing. 

She doesn't say anything, staring at me for another long few seconds before turning back around and stomping down the stairs. I let her go, not even wanting to get too close to her with how ashamed I feel, half hating myself for giving in and telling her, half hating myself for feeling so upset over it. Worst of all, the only thought I can reasonably focus on as I make my way back to my room is an almost delusional, neverending plea that I haven’t just fucked everything up.

My body is exhausted enough that I fall asleep fairly quickly, but my mind sets out to punish me with back-to-back nightmares that startle me awake multiple times through the night. Unsurprisingly, most of them are to do with Katniss: me watching her get killed in the bloodbath, helpless to do anything other than listen to her scream my name; her arrow finding its mark in my chest, her eyes full of hate; abandoning her to fend for herself against the advancing pack of Careers, no matter how much she pleads for me to help. By the time I'm gently shaken awake by Portia just before dawn, I feel more like I've been awake for an entire day straight, somehow more tired than I was when I’d fallen asleep.

There's no opportunity to see Katniss before we go into the arena today. My only company is Portia, who gives me a plain shirt and pants to wear on the way to the arena. The actual clothes I’ll be wearing for the duration of the Games will be given to me in the launch rooms under the arena itself, spaces that have been affectionately nicknamed “The Stockyards,” like tributes are no different from livestock being ushered to their slaughter. I spare a quick glance at Katniss's door when we walk out—something in my chest tightens painfully when I see that it's open, the space empty. She's already gone, then. I don't have time to think about it too long, Portia ushering me along the same steps I’d taken only hours earlier to the roof.

I try not to visibly shiver when the hovercraft appears, unnerved by the way it seems to manifest out of thin air. Ever since that day in the woods with the red-headed girl, I've been wary of the things, still mystified by their mechanism and the way that the wildlife seemed to sense that it was coming before Katniss and I did. Still, I obediently step up onto the ladder that drops down from the craft, refusing to show any fear even when I find myself unable to move. Some strange electric current, running through the metal of the ladder, has immobilized my body instantaneously, freezing me in place on the ladder as it's pulled back up into the belly of the hovercraft.

They don't immediately cut off the current and release me once I've been lifted into the cabin space, keeping me nice and helpless against anything they want to do to me. A woman in a long white coat approaches me with a nauseatingly large syringe, and I try my best to keep her in my sight even though I can’t move anything except my eyes, my palms beginning to sweat in trepidation. 

“I'm going to insert your tracker now, Gale. Keep still and don't move a muscle, it'll make my job easier,” she says, which doesn't make any sense. My muscles are completely locked up by a force outside of my control, leaving me unable to do much beyond try to keep my breath steady and my eyes trained on her. As she gets closer, I start feeling like a cornered animal, making me wish I could bare my teeth to scare her off, my heart hammering in my chest as she lifts the needle to the inside of my forearm. All I can do is squeeze my eyes shut tight as the tracker is injected deep under the skin, the pain of the needle insignificant compared to the horrible sense of wrongness that comes with there being something under my skin that is not supposed to be there. 

Now that I'm tagged with the same kind of tracker every other kid sent to the arena has had, the reality of everything happening becomes that much more real. I guess I'm truly a tribute now , I think to myself through the fog of my growing panic, trying not to think about the tracker in my arm and thinking of nothing else. Yet another level to the Capitol’s absolute control over the districts; tributes must be given a tracker before being dropped into the arena, to easily keep tabs on our locations and status. We need to be readily available for every bit of entertainment they can squeeze out of us, after all.

Thankfully the current releases me once I've been satisfactorily fitted with my tracker, the woman leaving without another word and Portia appearing in her place. No one speaks as we’re led to another part of the craft, where the typical breakfast spread waits for me. My endless nightmares overnight have proven useful for one thing, at least; I feel strangely calm as I load my plate with food, almost energized, as if my nerves were soothed by being expressed through the dreams. Either way, I won’t question it, being that it makes it easier for me to eat as much as I can handle without making myself sick. I’m going to need every bit of energy and strength this last meal provides.

The entire time I’m eating, my mind darts between a dozen different subjects, the possibilities of what kind of environment I’ll be thrown into, images of Ma and the kids anxiously watching my entrance to the arena, though I always end up returning to the thought of Katniss. I wonder how she’s doing, if she’s managed to keep herself together through getting her tracker and having breakfast. My mortification from last night has dulled in the morning light, but I still can’t help but worry that I’ve broken things between us for good. In this situation, I truly have no way of knowing how she’ll react, but there’s no way for me to find out now. As much as I hate it, I just have to wait and see what happens.

I’ve worked my way through two full plates when the windows of the hovercraft go from serene wilderness to complete black, a less-than-subtle warning that we’re approaching the arena. They don’t want to give their tributes any clues about what might be lying in wait for us, after all.

Portia and I exit the hovercraft once we’re given the all okay, and I try not to make my interest too obvious when we step out into what seems to be a utility tunnel. I’m a little surprised by how… practical the barren space is, considering the Capitol’s typical design tastes, but then again, this isn’t the part of the arena that’s going to be on camera. I’m sure the actual arena is much more spectacular, the better for the masses.

We follow the directions we’re given to find the room reserved for the purpose of my final preparations, a cold, sterile chamber that echoes with each of our footsteps as we walk in. No other tribute has used this room before, and no one ever will again; these stockyards are built to be for single use only, since they’re typically preserved after the Games as historical sites. It’d be a shame to put all of this effort into each arena only to destroy them, after all, and there’s still potential for entertainment to be squeezed out of these horrible, haunted places. They offer tours of the arenas and special theatrical recaps of each of the Games, Capitol tourists given the chance to reenact each tribute’s grisly death in the very place they occurred. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.

My body moves almost mechanically as I go through my usual morning routine, showering and brushing my teeth while my mind is a thousand miles away. There are too many things to think about, too many worries that each fight for my undivided attention, that I end up not thinking about anything at all, staring blankly at some point in the distance. I’m just aware enough to sense Portia’s presence, feeling as she helps me tie my hair up and delivers my clothes to me, a pre-packaged outfit that even she doesn’t know the components of. As I dress, I force myself to pay attention, making note of each piece: plain tan pants, held in place with a brown belt I think is real leather; a pale green shirt, loose-fitting, worn under a thin, hooded black jacket that I immediately notice is protective to some degree; thin socks that are worn under surprisingly sturdy and well-crafted boots, made from the same leather as the belt. They make me think of Pa’s old boots back home, the ones I wear nearly every day, to the point that the tread’s worn down to practically nothing. The tread on these boots is brand new, at least, promising better traction as I move. 

Portia confirms my suspicions about the jacket once I’m fully dressed, rubbing the material between her fingers as she murmurs. “It’s an insulating material, meant to reflect and keep in body heat.”

I hear the unspoken implication of her words: wherever I’m going, I’ll have to keep warm.

Now that I’m fully dressed, I move to go and sit on the couch that’s by the metal plate I’m going to be lifted into the arena on, but I’m taken by surprise when Portia stops me with a gentle touch. 

“You have one more thing,” she says, much to my confusion. Unless we’re meant to go into the arena with hats, I should be ready to go in, but the question dies on my lips as I turn around to see her holding out her hand to me. “I told Haymitch about your father’s clothes. I’m sorry I couldn’t save them, but he and I got you something for your token, anyway.”

My brow furrows in confusion as she speaks, though I reach out to cautiously accept whatever she’s holding, my eyes going wide once I feel what seems to be a delicate chain. Opening my hand, I see that she’s placed a simple locket necklace in my palm, small enough to be tucked under the green shirt I’m wearing. I try to open the locket as carefully as I can, but my hands are shaking, and after a moment Portia steps in to help me. Once it’s open, though, I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes me. 

“That’s…” I can’t find the words to finish my statement, too focused on examining the tiny photo that sits in the metal casing. I was mistaken, it isn’t merely a locket—the pendant opens to reveal a compass face, with a photo tucked on the inside of the protective metal cover. And in the photo, Ma and Pa beam at me, their faces pressed together in what I can only assume is joy. The photo is tiny, making it difficult to make out details, but I can tell that they’re both young, somewhere around my age. Immediately I know that Haymitch supplied the picture, the memory of the photograph he’d shown me during my interview prep resurfacing in my mind. 

“Do you like it?” Portia’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’ve been staring at the picture without saying anything, clearing my throat and blinking rapidly to rid myself of the sudden blurriness. “The review board was torn on whether or not the compass would give you an advantage, but since it can’t be used as a weapon, they let it pass. Not every token was approved this year.”

“Yes, yes, I—Thank you,” I stumble over my words, unsure of what to say. A simple thanks doesn’t feel like it would suffice, but I can’t think of anything else, struck dumb in this moment by her generosity. She smiles at me, her expression brightening, and even though I give her a close-lipped smile in return I can’t help but start to get suspicious. I have no way of paying her or Haymitch back for a gift this precious, being that I’m minutes away from going into the arena, but I can’t believe that they’d give me something like this without expecting repayment. Is this a way for Haymitch to ensure that I don’t put aside my own safety in the arena? Is it Portia’s way of staking a claim on me as my stylist? 

Even as I turn around and let Portia fasten the chain around my neck, I wrack my mind for an explanation. What will the audience think if they learn that my token was given to me by my mentor and stylist? Will they think that I’ve been bought? That somehow, I have a leg up over everyone else? And yet, every time I think about the smiling faces of my parents hidden behind the delicate metal, my conflicted feelings grow stronger. If this were a way of subtly controlling me, I want to believe that Haymitch wouldn’t be so cruel to use my family against me. The grief I’d seen him show when talking about my father seemed too genuine for it all to have been faked. 

Either way, I can’t find it in myself to reject the gift outright, the metal pressing against my skin once I tuck it under the soft material of my shirt. Once more, I try to voice my appreciation, and again it falls flat. “Thank you, really. If you can talk to Haymitch, I – tell him thank you for me. Please.”

“Of course, Gale,” Portia replies, her eyes softening in a way that makes my stomach ache. 

She sits next to me on the couch as we wait for the cue for the launch, offering me food, which I decline, and water, which I take. I’m not thirsty, and my stomach feels fit to burst, but I know I need to be as hydrated as possible. As I sit there, dutifully taking a drink every so often, all of the anxiety I hadn’t felt on the hovercraft seems to fall on me all at once. I have a vague plan, but there are too many variables out of my control that could easily result in my death, and even if I survive, every moment in the arena could change the possibilities of what I can do. Beyond that, I want to believe that I haven’t scared Katniss off completely, but there’s a very real possibility that she’s already written me off as her ally. The fact that I have no way of seeing her before we’re in the arena makes this fear worse, and replaying our conversation from last night does little to reassure me. My leg bounces anxiously as time ticks by, gradually getting faster and more erratic while my thoughts get louder. 

Portia doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press me to talk, but her silent, steady presence at my side helps to ground me. It simultaneously feels like an hour and a few seconds have passed when a female voice informs us from a speaker that it’s time to prepare for the launch. Once I stand up from the couch, a familiar sense of calm washes over me, dulling my nerves and sharpening my senses. This is it.

Right before I step onto the plate, Portia pulls me into a brief hug, the contact nearly breaking straight through my resolve. I manage to stay upright out of some miracle, but I almost miss her hushed words past the roar of blood rushing in my ears. “Remember what Haymitch said, and focus on one thing at a time. I know you’ll be incredible.”

At that moment, standing in her arms, I finally admit the one thing I’ve been hiding. “I’m scared, Portia. I’m so scared.”

Her grip tightens around me for a brief second, before she lets go entirely, letting me take a step back onto the plate with her hands still holding onto mine. Instead of reassuring me, though, or accepting my fears, she looks me directly in the eye as a glass cylinder begins to descend, breaking our contact. 

“It’s okay to be scared. That’s how you know you’re still alive.” I barely manage to catch her response before the glass seals me off from the rest of the world, hysteria fighting its way up my throat. She still hasn’t looked away from me, and I force myself to straighten when she motions with her hand to stand tall, the last thing I see before my view is completely swallowed by darkness. 

The first thing I notice is that I’m sitting in darkness for a fair amount of time, reaching a count of twelve seconds before the space above my head opens and I’m momentarily blinded by sunlight. I furiously blink to try and clear my vision, determined to get a good look of my surroundings as soon as possible, though I already notice the tug of wind and the scent of pine trees, a positive sign. The moment my eyes begin to adjust, a booming voice comes from seemingly everywhere around me, my body tensing as I recognize the speaker as Claudius Templesmith, the iconic announcer that’s been the voice of the Games for as long as I can remember. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!”

Chapter Text

The moment my eyes adjust enough for me to open them without pain, my head is on a swivel, taking in as much of the arena as I can.

In the distance in front of me, beyond the golden luster of the Cornucopia and the hard-packed dirt clearing, lies a glittering lake. A sparse, piney forest wraps around it and continues around my right side and behind me, getting denser the further it goes from the lake. It ends a bit to my left, where the trees thin out once more and are replaced by thick, flowing grasses, sloping downward into a flat plain. 

I refocus on the Cornucopia as Claudius Templesmith's voice fades into the countdown, each second ticking by in a thunderous, resonant boom. It's so loud that my heart jumps in time with the beat, but it's consistent enough that it quickly fades into background noise as I take stock of the bounty in front of me. 

All twenty-four tributes stand equidistant in a ring around the golden Cornucopia, a metal structure shaped like a horn of plenty, except as big as a house. The mouth must be at least twenty feet wide, and supplies spill from it in a deliberately disorganized sprawl. Just like I'd expected, the supplies of the highest value are right at the base of the Cornucopia, crates of food and tents and supplies all laid out temptingly. I'm not looking at any of that, though; a single tick later, something catches the light, and I finally see it. An elegant silver bow, paired with a matching sheath overflowing with arrows, laid on top of a mound of blanket rolls almost teasingly. Then my eyes move beyond it, lighting on the rack of bladed weapons that lies a dozen feet past it. Distant enough to reach without going too far into the thick of the supplies, but far enough in to guarantee that it'll be within range for a bloody fight…

Immediately I know that it's a trap meant for Katniss. I completely turn away from the supplies at this revelation, eyes scanning the tributes around me – I can see Glimmer a few spaces to my left, with Cato positioned right at the back of the horn, guaranteeing him a few seconds’ delay – before my eyes catch on dark, braided hair, hidden halfway behind the Cornucopia's bulk. No, wait—that's Clove, not Katniss, and my head whips to the other side even as I tense, prepared to run. It's a straight shot to reach the bow, and I know that I can get there before the others. Pa liked to say we Hawthornes are built to survive, because we're better runners than we are anything else, and my height gives me a literal leg up— there! Another head of dark, braided hair, and I'm sure that it's Katniss this time, because she notices me at the exact same moment and even at a distance I can catch her grey eyes. 

And, just as I'd suspected, her plate is directly in front of the mouth of the Cornucopia, providing her the perfect view of the bow. It’s a trap, and an effective one, at that, because Katniss looks just as poised to run to it as I am. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest, but I’m otherwise eerily calm as I hold Katniss's gaze. I shake my head in an exaggerated motion; she’s too far away for me to gauge her reaction, but I know her mannerisms, and even sixty yards away I can recognize her bewildered head tilt.

Then the gong sounds, and I'm launching myself off of my plate before I can think, my legs propelling me toward the Cornucopia and the bow waiting for me. 

I reach the bulk of the supplies in what feels like an eternity but only lasts to a count of five, giving me a few precious seconds as padding to weave through the packs as the supplies get denser. I'm too aware of my unprotected back, my mind screaming at the danger, but I can’t do anything to help it, not when the bow is about two paces away and I still don’t see anyone else near me yet. I have to lift my legs high to step over a particularly bulky pack, wasting a bit of effort to spare the time for me to go around it, and then there's nothing else between me and the bow except a stretch of bare ground.

Luckily instinct and habit kicks in the moment I touch the bow, slinging the sheath over my head like I have a thousand times before grabbing the bow and quickly looking around to scan for other tributes. Violence unfolds around the Cornucopia, some fleeing in various directions, some making the risky decision to try for the supplies. Glimmer's coming my way, but she's still some ways back as she grapples with another girl, not yet a direct threat. I need to get out, and preferably soon. 

The quiver acts as something of a shield for my back, fortunately, seeing as it rests right over the vulnerable spots along my spine. At the last second, I impulsively grab one of the blanket rolls in my free hand – as important as the bow is, I’ll need more supplies to have any chance of making it past the first three days – before realizing that I have no way to carry it without leaving myself defenseless. I've just stumbled into this conundrum when I hear fast footsteps to my left and I swivel on the spot, right as Cato materializes, sword in hand, and jabs at my stomach.

There’s no time for me to try and dodge, Cato moving faster than I can react—I'm propelled backwards a few feet, reeling like I just got punched in the gut. It’s not a sharp, overwhelming pain like I’d expected being stabbed to be like, and for a moment, I have no idea how I’m still standing. Then I risk looking down, and it takes me a second to recognize what I'm seeing. Apparently, I'd been holding the blanket roll against my stomach in such a way that it had managed to take the brunt of Cato’s attack, leaving me with a shallow wound and the blanket skewered onto the blade. It's such an absurd sight that I almost laugh, except I'm still in the middle of the bloodbath and Cato looks furious that I've somehow managed to escape his attack, his eyes glinting with rage.

Fortunately, he can't immediately go for another attack, having to take a second to rip the blanket from the tip of his sword and throw it to the ground. It gives me just enough time to reach back to the quiver, grabbing an arrow and nocking it on the string. I lift the bow, ready to fire the arrow directly at Cato's head, when all of a sudden his face is coming closer , nearly impaling himself on its point as he stumbles forward. 

My confusion settles when I look down again and see that another tribute, one of the scrawnier boys, has collided directly into Cato's back in his mad dash to escape with his spoils. His face is red from running and his terror, sent flat on his back from the impact. Faced with new, weaker prey, and determined to soothe his wounded ego from my unintentional block, Cato pounces.

I take the opportunity for what it is—I glance down when my foot hits against something as I take a step back, eager to leave. A backpack, and a large one at that, with the blanket roll a few feet away; in a fit of madness, I hurriedly snatch the blanket from the ground and open the backpack to stuff it in, swinging it over my shoulder once it's rezipped and getting on my feet. It feels wrong, for some reason, to leave it here when it just saved my life. 

I've needlessly wasted a few seconds for the sake of my sentiment, though, and although Cato is busy with the boy, who's putting up a surprisingly good fight, the other Careers are now out in full force. I don't hesitate to spin around on my heel and take off in a sprint, straight toward the woods, the backpack securely on my shoulders. The loaded bow in my hands is enough to ward off any weaker tributes who haven't already run off or lie motionless on the ground, so the path ahead is relatively clear. 

As I'm passing one of the metal plates, my eyes catch on movement and something fluorescent orange at the edge of the woods. When I turn my head just enough, I recognize it as a backpack, in the grip of someone running from Clove; another second, and they let it lower, baring their face for just a second before they disappear into the woods. I nearly trip over my own feet upon recognizing Katniss’s profile, but then Clove turns, as if sensing my stumble, and instantly focuses on me. 

Fuck.  

Gritting my teeth, I take a sharp turn to the right, away from where Katniss had disappeared and parallel to the lake. I already know that Clove is on my tail, but when I risk a glance behind me, I spit out another curse upon seeing the boy from 4 running alongside her, a wicked looking trident in his hand. I guess I'm a popular target today. Lucky me. 

Whistling coming from my left alerts me to the knife hurtling toward me, just in time for me to leap out of the way, narrowly avoiding a blade to the back of my knee. My relief is quickly undercut upon landing, though, the impact sending a shockwave through my body and painfully reminding me of where Cato had stabbed me. Lightheaded with pain and adrenaline, I can only think about the fact that if Clove tries to hit me again, or if the boy throws his trident, I'm done for. The bow is still loaded, though, and I have enough of a lead on them both…

Making a split-second decision, I skid to a stop before turning and aiming blindly at the two figures. Clove has enough sense to dive to the side, but the boy is too focused on the hunt, and I get lucky for the second time today as the arrow drives itself deep into his skull.

Instead of feeling horror, or satisfaction, or much of anything really, I just turn around and start running again, my mind frighteningly blank. He’s surely dead—no one could survive a direct shot to the head like that, no matter how haphazard my aim was. The most sickening part, though, is that I can’t bring myself to care all that much. All I can think about is how I can get away from the danger as fast as I can.

I don't hear anyone following behind me, but I know better than to let my guard down, and I keep up my speed as I get deeper into the woods, at least until I feel like I'm far enough away from the Cornucopia and the other tributes. Even when I slow down to a brisk walk, though, I start to weave in between the trees and rocky outcrops, erratic and winding, to try and throw anyone off the trail. 

Eventually, I reach a particularly large outcropping of rock and decide that I need to take a brief break, considering how the cut in my stomach is screaming for my attention. I don't want to stop yet, determined to make as much distance between me and the others as I can, but the pain is distracting and I'm sure that I've left a trail from me bleeding. Despite the exertion of the past half hour, I don't feel all that tired otherwise, but I have no idea how much of it is the adrenaline masking my exhaustion and how much is from the past few days of eating better than I ever have before. 

I wince as I twist to remove the backpack and quiver, the movements pulling at the skin no matter how slowly I go. The pain just gets worse when I go to sit down, prompting me to grit my teeth while I inelegantly slide to the ground, not wanting to make any noise. Once I'm finally settled, I tilt my head back against the rock and breathe for a moment. This might be a much bigger issue than I initially thought.

Well. There's no point in delaying.

As soon as I've caught my breath, I bow my head to assess the damage. It certainly looks bad, the shirt around it and the waistband of my pants thoroughly bloodied – internally I groan, even knowing it’s more an annoyance than an actual issue – but when I take a closer look, gingerly prodding the skin surrounding the gash, it really isn’t that deep. Best of all, most of the blood is already dried, and even me pressing around it doesn’t make the bleeding start up again. It seems like the tip of the sword had merely grazed my stomach rather than pierce it, most of the pain coming from the redness that’s sure to form into a nasty bruise. Thank you, blanket roll. 

Upon remembering my savior, I turn to the backpack, eager to see what's inside now that I've confirmed that I'm not about to bleed out. The first thing I notice is the knife, blade lodged in the black canvas, and I carefully work it free. I guess Clove had tried to hit me in the head, based on where it had stuck, but I hadn’t noticed in my desperation to escape. Either way, I'm glad for it now—even with the bow in my grasp, it'll be helpful to have it as a tool. Once the knife is set aside, I unzip the top of the backpack, diving into its contents. 

The blanket is on top, having shoved it into the bag haphazardly, and when I unroll it I'm not surprised to find that there's a series of evenly-spaced holes where Cato's blade had punched through it. Beyond the damage, it's a finely made blanket, woven out of what feels like wool and lined with soft fleece. There's a spot of blood on one side, but otherwise it's in usable condition, and so I roll it back up tightly before continuing. 

I mentally make a list of everything as I go through it all: two packs of jerky and a bag of something labeled “trail mix”, which looks like various types of nuts and dried fruits mixed together; two spools of wire; three blister packs of tablets that I quickly discover are for water purification; two pairs of sunglasses; a water canteen, conveniently empty; and most importantly, a fully stocked first aid kit. 

I toss everything back into the bag except for the first aid kit once I’ve emptied it, popping the kit open and scanning over the supplies. I don't want to use anything that's not absolutely necessary to dress the cut on my stomach, and since it’s not bleeding anymore, I don’t exactly need to do much. Still, infection is a huge risk in the Games, so I settle on taking one of the alcohol wipes and a large bandage. Ripping open the packaging with my teeth, the alcohol stings when I clean the wound, but once the blood is gone it’s much easier to see that it’s already started to scab over. At this point, the bandage is nothing more than an extra layer of protection to make sure nothing messes with it as it heals.

I've just tugged my shirt back down and over my stomach when a cannon goes off in the distance, startling me. The bloodbath must be over, then. The Gamemakers typically wait for the initial fighting to end before sounding the cannons, the casualties too hard to keep track of otherwise. As I put the kit back into the bag and repack it, I count the shots. … 3, 4, 5,…  

I wait for another few seconds after the ninth cannon goes off, in case there’s any more, but once the birds start singing again I turn back to my backpack. Nine dead, then. Somewhat underwhelming for the first day. At least Katniss and I have made it past the first hurdle; the brief glimpse I’d caught of her before she’d disappeared into the forest flashes behind my eyes. From what I can remember, she'd gone south, away from the lake and toward the deepest part of the woods. In comparison, I’d ended up taking a path parallel to the lake, though with all of the random turns I’d made in my effort to confuse anyone trying to follow me, I’m not sure where I’ve actually ended up. 

Suddenly, I remember my token—fishing the pendant out from under my shirt, I open it, leaning over to study the compass’s tiny face. Thankfully the needle shows north to be on my left, at least confirming that I’m still going somewhat in the direction I want. Katniss’s whereabouts I can only guess, but it’s reassuring enough for now that I know the general direction she'd taken as she ran.

Closing the compass and stuffing it back under my shirt, I allow myself another moment of rest before pulling myself back up onto my feet with a stifled groan. The movement still pulls at my stomach, but I’m not as worried now that I know it’s covered, feeling much more comfortable twisting and turning as I put the sheath of arrows on before securing the backpack over it. Once I'm up and everything else is accounted for, I decide to keep the bow out. I don't think I'll run into any other tributes soon, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

With the most immediate issues handled and out of the way, I can completely turn my focus toward my primary goal: finding water. Haymitch hadn't told us to find it as soon as possible without good reason—beside the other tributes, dehydration is the number one killer in the Games. The canteen in my backpack was left empty, which at least makes me think that it's easy enough to find that the Gamemakers didn't feel the need to ration it out to us. Of course, the lake is the most obvious source, but I know that the Careers will have already claimed it for themselves by now. No, if I need water, I will have to get it from another, separate source. And so I start walking again, making my way further east, keeping an eye out for any signs of water in the meantime. 

To be honest, being in the woods again is something of a relief, even though I know that the trees are likely teeming with threats I cannot yet see. I'd missed walking through them, though, listening to the birdsong and chatter of animals going about their lives in the background. And there are a lot of animals in these woods; I quickly discover that the underbrush is full of life, catching glimpses of squirrels and rabbits and even a kind of bird that looks vaguely similar to a turkey. Good. That means getting food has just become that much easier. Their presence makes me feel more confident about finding water, too; they need water just as much as I do, and if I'm lucky, they might be my best bet to get it.

I'm not particularly eager to get right to hunting, though, despite my growing hunger as time and distance passes. I know well enough that I can survive for longer without food than I can without water, and having eaten as well as I have over the past week or so, I figure I have a little more time before things get really bad. The hunger pangs are annoying, but survivable. So instead of shooting one of the rabbits I see, or even breaking into the stash of food in my backpack, I stop every so often at pine trees to look for their shoots. It's a little late in the season for them, but I manage to find some that are still tender enough to eat, popping them into my mouth as I walk. After every delicious meal I've had in the Capitol, the taste of the shoots makes me grimace, but I can’t afford to be picky. Back home, pine shoots are practically a delicacy in the spring, and I'm not about to act like I'm too good for them now that I've had a taste of Capitol food.

The entire time I've been walking, the sun has made its arc overhead before starting to lower, signaling the coming evening. I can go for a long while yet, and have a good few hours left of light, but even with the bow I don't feel confident enough to face any tributes once it's dark. On the other hand, I'm not nearly as small as Katniss is, nor as good of a climber, which means spending the night in a tree is out of the question. I'll keep walking as long as there's enough light for me to see by, but hopefully I can find a place to hunker down before then. Not to mention, as if I needed any more reminders about my primary goal, the tartness of the pine shoots seems to be making me even thirstier than before.

Thankfully, the solution to both of my problems makes itself known after another half hour. I've just passed another outcropping of rock when movement catches my eye—my hand is flying back to the sheath of arrows before my mind catches up to what I'm seeing and I freeze, not wanting to scare them off.

Two does, clearly a mother and her fawn by the looks of them, the younger one still having remnants of spotting on her back. I have no way of knowing if they're actually mutts or not until they decide it's time to attack, but the mother hasn't deemed me deserving enough for her to attack in that case, which makes me think they're regular deer. Either way, there's no point in shooting them – I already have enough to carry with me as it is, and having that much meat all for myself would ultimately be a waste – because I'm not interested in eating them. Trying to track smaller game will be nearly impossible through the layers of pine needles, but these deer will leave larger trails for me to follow. And, based on the moisture I can spot on both of their mouths, I want to think I'm already close to my quarry. 

Deer are creatures of habit, and even in a place as new as the arena, they're going to follow the same paths enough to leave the beginnings of a trail. So, once I watch them meander along just enough to figure out which direction they came from, I keep a sharp eye out as I start walking again. And, as I'd suspected, the pine needles covering the ground make it harder, but either the arena has been allowed to sit for far longer than I'd imagined, or the Gamemakers were careful enough to include pre-established game trails, because it only takes a few minutes of searching for me to spot a faint line weaving through the trees. It's not quite as established as the ones back home, but between the hard-packed dirt, the intermittent droppings, and the occasional imprint of a hoof where the needles are thin, I’m sure I'm on the right track. 

The sun has just dipped below the tree line when I'm finally rewarded for my efforts; if I strain my ears, past the sounds of the forest and nocturnal animals waking up, I can catch the distant yet distinct sound of rushing water. When I first hear it, I instantly stop dead in my tracks, focusing everything on the sound. I'm excited, but I’m also wary of traps, both from other tributes and from the Gamemakers. So after another minute of trying to listen for it again only to completely lose it, I start walking again, in the general direction of where I think the sound is coming from. I wish I'd thought to find some wild mint while I was gathering the pine shoots; the plant's fragrant leaves are the perfect thing to distract my mind from hunger pangs, as well as give my mouth anything else to do aside from almost compulsively chewing on my lower lip as I walk. 

It takes everything in me to stop myself from breaking out into a full run when I finally hear the sound again, stronger this time, hyperaware of the cameras that are surely following my every move. Even if they're not broadcasting my activities right now, I know they keep a steady feed on each of the tributes, to make sure they don’t miss any opportunities for prime entertainment. I don't want anyone to think I've been growing desperate, because I’m truly not at a point where I should be concerned, but I’m also only human—I quicken my pace as the sound gets louder and louder, eager to get to the source before night truly breaks. 

Finally, just when I’ve gnawed on my lip for long enough that I begin to taste blood, the trees around me thin out, before stopping entirely and opening into a riverbank. Smooth, flat stone stretches out until it meets the water, with large rocks lining the banks, bushes and tall grasses sprouting in the places where the treeline runs closer to the water. The river itself is on the smaller side, being a dozen yards across at its widest and not seeming to get any deeper than waist-height, but the water is clear, and looks so tantalizing that I make myself take a step back. Every bit of me wants to go and jump into the fast-moving stream as soon as possible, but I know that I have to be smart about it, my wariness still winning out over my thirst. So, instead of dunking my head straight into the river like I want, I start making my way down the bank closest to me, looking for a place where I can approach the water and still be relatively out of sight. 

Thankfully, this search is much shorter-lived than the one to find the river, and I find the perfect spot within a minute or two; a gap in a particularly large clump of tall grasses right at the water's edge, concealed on one side by the grass, the other by a large, jagged boulder that's nearly as big as I am. It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing, and with the dark steadily creeping in, I'd be surprised if anyone – or anything – could see me. Just to be safe, though, I retreat back into the edge of the woods and hide the bow and arrows in a bush, unwilling to risk the silver reflecting any light, before opening my pack again and grabbing the water canteen, one of the packs of tablets, and the knife. Maybe it's too cautious of me, but considering everything that happened in the bloodbath this morning, I think my paranoia is justified.

A hiss escapes me when I put the canteen into the water, surprised at how cold it is. Not nearly as cold as the runoff from the mountains in Twelve, but cold enough to snap me awake, which I hadn’t noticed myself growing tired until now. Dusk has properly fallen, the nocturnal animals beginning to wake, and as I make my way back to the bush with my pack I know that I have to find shelter for the night. The purification tablet is supposed to work better the longer you leave it, anyway, so I give the bottle a shake for good measure before stuffing it back into the pack. Instead of immediately starting my search, though, I take one of the bundles of wire and set up a few snares around the area. I don’t need the extra weight, but my stash of food won’t last long, and it’s close enough to the river that it won’t be out of the way to check them later.

Only once I’ve set up the snares and packed everything up do I start walking again, deeper into the woods but still within distance of the river. I don't want to be too close to where I found the river, or where I filled my canteen, but I also don’t feel comfortable enough to go too far tonight. Luckily, about ten minutes pass with me searching before I stumble upon an ideal spot. It's another outcropping of rock, like the place I'd rested at hours previously, but this time the rocks jut out to form a natural overhang and an adjacent wall, making a cave-like space with just enough room for me to slide into. A few fallen trees lie scattered around the stones, offering additional concealment if I want to stretch my legs out during the night. Which I definitely will, if I want to be able to get up and move around in the morning without my legs being completely stiff. 

After a bit of maneuvering, I manage to settle in the space with my back against the rock as I face out toward the woods, my backpack lying on one side of me, the arrows on the other, with the bow laid across my legs so it's easily within reach. It's already starting to get cold, night truly falling, so I take out the blanket and tuck it over my legs with the fleece side down, to more effectively trap in the warmth even despite the holes from Cato's sword. Then I zip up my jacket all the way to my chin before putting the hood up, already grateful for the insulating material. The rocks serve to block out any possible wind, but my jacket and the blanket will do most of the work to keep me warm. Now I'm glad that I took a few extra seconds to take the blanket with me from the Cornucopia, the reward entirely worth the risk. While other tributes are surely spending the night trying to keep themselves warm, I'm comfortable in my little nook, enough that I might be able to get some sleep tonight.

I let myself open the water canteen again once I'm fully settled and comfortable, taking careful sips in between bites of jerky from one of the packs. Maybe it's too early for me to have broken into my precious supply, but I need something else in my stomach before I sleep, and having a few pieces of the jerky is better than nothing. Halfway through my first strip, the anthem that precedes the daily death recap plays, prompting me to look up through the branches at the sky. 

After each day in the arena, the Gamemakers project the faces and district numbers of each of the fallen tributes that died. No names, no details of the deaths, nothing beyond the same photos they used for our training scores, to prevent giving the remaining tributes any unfair advantages. Compared to the full recaps that are included in the national broadcast, showing every grisly detail of their deaths, I’m not sure which one I prefer. The projection is just visible in the sky when I look, the Capitol seal displaying for only a second or two before the faces begin, and I start to go down the list in my head. 

District 3, the girl, shows up first—to nobody’s surprise, Districts 1 and 2’s tributes survived the first day. I wince a bit at the image of the boy from 4, suddenly confronted with the image in my mind of my arrow going straight through his skull. It’s been a long enough time since the bloodbath that I should feel  something about the fact that I’d made my first kill, but when I try to dig deep, there isn’t much I can dredge up. If anything, I’m more horrified at the realization that the judgement I’d made on the morning of our first training day wasn’t proven wrong; when it comes down to it, the mechanism really is the exact same. Aiming that arrow at the boy’s face felt no different from the countless times I’ve aimed arrows at the game I’ve killed, and the adrenaline had eliminated any chance of hesitation before I released the string. At least, that’s what I want to believe.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I almost completely miss the image of the boy from District 5, who I now recognize as the one who had collided with Cato and given me a way to escape. Honestly, I feel just as responsible for his death as I do the boy from 4’s, even though it was Cato who ultimately made the final blow. Would he still be alive if it weren’t for me drawing Cato there in the first place? It’s a pointless thing to wonder about, and I immediately dismiss the thought, but I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling of guilt that remains even as I focus on the broadcast. Both tributes from 6 are gone, the girl from 7, the boys from 8 and 9. There’s one more cannon shot to be accounted for, and I know that it won’t be from 12; sure enough, the girl from 10’s photo appears for a few seconds before the anthem finishes and the sky goes dark once again. 

Nine dead, which leaves fifteen alive. Fifteen tributes, which includes Katniss and I. As I finish off my second strip of jerky, I try to think of everyone left. Five Careers are still alive, and presumably in good shape. The boys from 3 and 7, plus the girls from 5, 8, and 9, leaving Rue and Thresh as the final two. Thirteen people who I will have to think and act faster than if I want to find Katniss before they do. I’ll start my search for her early tomorrow, but for now, I take one last drink of my water before tucking it back into my backpack and settling back against the rocks. I keep one hand wrapped around the bow’s handle as I get comfortable, in case I’m woken up by danger, with the other tucked into one of my jacket pockets. Like this, I’m reasonably warm and sheltered, at least enough that I soon feel my eyelids drooping in exhaustion. The lack of sleep from the night prior has caught up to me, to the point that even if I don’t fall asleep, I’m just grateful to be able to sit and let myself relax for once.

When I open my eyes again, though, the sky is the light grey of dawn, the sun not yet over the tops of the trees. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but the tip of my nose is freezing, and when I pull my hand away from the bow I have to slowly work the muscles to get rid of the stiffness. As far as I can tell, nothing overnight has happened, which is both reassuring and foreboding. It means that I’ve managed to find a spot safely tucked away from the other tributes, but also reminds me that I still have no idea where any of them are, including Katniss. Not to mention, a quiet first night after an underwhelming bloodbath means that the audiences are surely growing disappointed. I’m not exactly eager to find out what the Gamemakers have up their sleeves to make things interesting again. 

I’m careful when I get up and repack my gear, figuring out a way to hook the canteen from my belt so I don’t have to continually dig through the backpack to have a drink. It’s about halfway empty, so I decide that the first thing I’ll do is refill it, drinking the rest as I walk back to the same place I’d filled it from before. Along the way, I check the snares I’d set last night, and I’m pleased to see that I’ve caught a rabbit in one of them. A quiet night, having water easily within reach, the snares are already catching game… At the risk of sounding naive, I’m starting to feel like this might be a good day.

Chapter Text

My thoughts turn to focus solely on Katniss as I refill my water canteen and prep the rabbit, hands working purely out of muscle memory while my mind races. I wonder how she’s been doing. If she had managed to find her own source of water, and what supplies she has, if any. She'd had that orange backpack when I caught a glimpse of her, which makes me feel better that she's not entirely empty-handed, but she's still without the bow and arrows in a section of the arena that's almost a full day's journey away from me. At least, it’s a full day’s journey if I want to go back to the Cornucopia and search for her from there, which seems like less and less of a viable option the longer I think about it. I’m not exactly confident about where she disappeared into the woods, anyway, so risking being seen by the Careers to try retracing her steps likely wouldn’t work. I figure the best way for me to start might be walking beside the river to go downstream, at least until I have a better understanding of the arena's terrain and where I am.

For now, though, I refocus on the present to see that I've skinned and gutted the rabbit I caught, which confronts me with another problem of what to do with it. It's not smart to eat rabbit raw, especially not in the Games, where rabbit fever could go from a concern to a certain killer, but I've also missed the small window of time at dawn where I could build a fire with less risk of being seen. If I could get my hands on some salt, or wait until nightfall to cook it, but by that point it might already go bad… I've just gotten up to dispose of the unusable parts of my catch, poring over the options, when a cannon booms in the distance.

Immediately I go still. I have no way to tell where the kill might have happened, or who it was, but I still try to discern any details I can, just out of instinct. My eyes catch on the flash of a passing songbird, making me think of the way the birds had all stopped singing back when Katniss and I had seen the hovercraft in the woods all that time ago. The Gamemakers use hovercraft to retrieve each of the bodies of the fallen tributes, so I pay extra attention to the birdsong around me as I slowly unfreeze. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when they don't stop, making me believe that it isn't anywhere near. At least I can be relieved that I’m not in danger of whatever killed that unlucky tribute.

It's hard to make myself go back to the task at hand after, my thoughts drifting back to the mysteries of the cannon and Katniss’s location no matter what I do. A particularly sadistic part of my mind seems convinced that the dead tribute was her, and I can’t shake the images of her body being taken by the hovercraft. I end up haphazardly tossing the entrails from the rabbit into the forest, having to stop myself before I do the same with the head and feet, which I dispose of by burying them under a thin layer of dirt at the roots of a bush. There's no way I can safely build a fire if I'm distracted like this. It’s better – and easier – for me to try to dry the rabbit and make jerky out of it, even if it means I have to spend more time figuring out how best to go about it. Having to come up with some way to satisfactorily dry the meat gives me something to focus on that's not my growing anxieties about Katniss, anyway, which is an unintentional but appreciated bonus. 

I use the knife from Clove to slice the rabbit meat into thin strips, a flat slab of rock that I'd rinsed off with river water serving as a makeshift cutting board. Then, after sacrificing two precious pieces of gauze, I place the strips onto another flat stone before putting the first one on top, the gauze acting as a barrier between the rock and the meat. My thought is that the weight will help squeeze the moisture from the strips, in the same principle of pressing flowers, and it might speed up the process as compared to just letting it sit in the sun. It's slapdash and not as clean as I'd like, but it works, and this way I don't have to worry about animals or other tributes stealing the meat while I'm away; as an extra deterrent, I arrange a few more heavy rocks on top and around the makeshift press, to make it look like any other rockpile around the river.

It's properly morning by the time I'm done, my muscles already aching from repeatedly lifting and carrying the rocks around. I've already drank all of the water I'd gotten earlier, so I refill the canteen once again before repacking everything and beginning my search for Katniss. My breakfast consists of the rest of the pine shoots from yesterday and a handful of the trail mix, which is surprisingly good with the contrast of the salted nuts and the dried fruit. I eat as I start to make my way through the trees, downstream from where I'd spent the night. I'm too exposed walking directly next to the river, so I walk parallel to it, a few paces deeper into the forest while keeping the sound of the water to my left. Every so often, I stop at an unusual tree or a recognizable stone before turning and venturing further into the forest, keeping an eye out as I make a loop that eventually comes back to the tree or stone I'd noted. Once I reach it, I start following the river again, until I find another landmark and make another loop in the forest. This becomes a pattern as the morning goes on, slowly but steadily combing through the woods. Anyone watching me is sure to get bored by the third loop, which works just fine for me.

At first, I’m exclusively focused on the task of finding Katniss, but as I make my way through the trees I find myself taking note of other details about the arena. There are a lot of different kinds of trees than I'd initially noticed, willows and oaks and others that I don't recognize, though the majority are pine. Additionally, they grow denser the closer they are to the river, along with bushes and other kinds of undergrowth getting more frequent as the water draws closer. The difference is pronounced enough that I idly wonder if it's because of the proximity to water, though I don't know, nor care, enough to put much thought into the theory. It makes me more comfortable after noticing the change, either way, since it may make it easier to find water outside of the river. 

Past the trees, I catch more glimpses of deer and rabbits and other small animals as I walk, along with the same turkey-like birds I'd noticed previously. I'm half-tempted to shoot one, just to see if they really are that similar, but then I remember that I barely knew what to do with the single rabbit I caught. It'd be stupid of me to waste meat just to satisfy my curiosity. Still, it's tempting, especially when they seem to have the same lack of fear that the deer I'd run into had. When I find Katniss, I think to myself placatingly, after one of the birds practically runs over my boots with all of the stupid confidence of an animal unused to being around humans.

The second cannon goes off when I'm in the middle of one of my detour loops, and once again, I pause mid-step. I’ve been so engrossed by my search that I almost forgot about the first one from earlier, but now I’m even more wary than before. One cannon is easy to write off as an isolated death, maybe a skirmish or even an accident, but two in a relatively short time makes dread settle low in my gut. If I had to guess, the Careers have already begun their hunt, and they're taking out the easy prey first. Which, without the bow and arrows, includes Katniss. I start walking again at this revelation, faster than before, with the bow gripped tightly in my hands as I make my way back to the straight path. The reminder of the Careers existence has made me cautious to the point of paranoia, and it’s only the thought of accidentally shooting Katniss that keeps me from preemptively nocking an arrow. Though I'm tempted to abandon the looping path I've been making in favor of just following along the line of the river, the thought of leaving the bulk of the woods unchecked chafes at me, anxiety about possibly missing a sign of Katniss’s whereabouts or even her presence entirely forcing me to keep up the pattern. No longer am I noting details about the woods or the animals, though, every part of me on high alert for the slightest indication of Katniss. 

Back in Twelve, everyone's taught from a young age about the dangers of fire, being that our industry is coal. We're not allowed to use any coal we mine, but it's a finicky kind of mineral, prone to igniting from items left by thoughtless miners or even entirely on its own, if the conditions are right. So we’re taught to stay vigilant, supposed to report any sign of fire or smoke we see, especially considering the fine layer of coal dust that covers the entirety of the district. If a fire gets out of hand, everyone’s at risk. No matter how many rules or regulations they put into place, though, fires and explosions are bound to happen in the mines, even if they have grown less frequent. The explosion that killed mine and Katniss's fathers was the most recent of these freak accidents; before then, Pa would tell me the story of the fire from when he was a kid, which indefinitely shut down one of the most coal-rich mineshafts in the entirety of Twelve. The fire went unchecked for weeks, most of the people living by the mineshaft moving to different parts of the Seam because of the hazard, and it was only until the Peacekeepers started getting sick from the smoke reaching their barracks that they did anything about it. Ultimately, they just sealed off the main entrance to the mineshaft, to try and keep the smoke contained; rumor has it that the fire is still going strong deep below the surface, but it isn't worth the cost for the Peacekeepers to properly put it out. It'll burn until either the coal or the oxygen runs out, whichever comes first.

Apparently, my grandfather had been one of the men who’d lost work from the mine shutting down. It was better to lose money than lose his life, but it still put a strain on the family, enough that it drove Pa over the fence for the first time. But from what Pa told me, the most frightening part about the mine fire wasn't the threat of it spreading to the Seam, or even the heat and the smoke that choked the district for months after. It was the sound.

“I was there with your Papaw when they finally collapsed that elevator, Nightingale,” Pa would say, his voice hushed like he was telling a ghost story. “And the sound was like if Hell itself had opened its gates. You might not believe it, but a fire like that is loud. Like the fire we make in winter, all crackling and sparking, except it's so much bigger. And when they set off the dynamite to blow up the entrance, the roar of the flames was like nothing else I've ever heard. I thought the coal train had run off its tracks and was coming straight for us.”

I’ve just looped back to the treeline along the riverbank when I hear another boom, but even though it’s reminiscent of the cannons that signify a tribute's death, there’s something… off about it. Louder, for one thing, as if either its source has come closer to me, or I’ve managed to wander closer in my search for Katniss. But it also feels prolonged, somehow, like instead of a single cannon fire, it was instead the first shot to announce something bigger. More dangerous. In either case, something about it makes my skin instinctively crawl, and I keep a wary eye out as I step out of the trees to the water's edge to refill my canteen. The lack of cover around the river already makes me itch, but the air is eerily still, like the calm before a particularly bad storm. Then, as I drop another purification tablet into the bottle, I realize—the birds aren't singing. 

This realization happens at the same time that I catch the scent of smoke on the wind, faint but growing stronger, and when I tilt my head up toward the sky, there's the telltale plume already rising high above the trees. If I had to guess, the fire's a half mile or so south from where I am, far enough that I can easily avoid it if I turn back now. But something deep in my gut twists, disgust and despair knotting itself together, when the smoke makes me think back to Katniss’s interview dress. The way it looked like she was wearing flames—Katniss, the girl on fire. It's just twisted enough to solidify my suspicion that following the fire will lead me straight to her.

Every rational part of me urges to turn the other way and leave, back the way I came, but I'm no stranger to making poor decisions, so it's easy to dismiss. I don't bother to keep up the looping pattern from before, taking a straight shot deep into the woods with a single-minded focus. I can tell I’m on the right track when wildlife starts to pass me, deer and rabbits and even the flash of a wild dog here and there as they flee the danger of the flames. Plus, the closer I get to the fire, the stronger the smell gets, until the smoke gets so thick that I start to choke and I pull up the collar of my shirt over my nose for protection. At some point, I have to slide the bow over my shoulder to free my hands so I can keep the fabric firmly in place, cursing my height as the smoke stings my eyes. Katniss might be less at risk of smoke inhalation, being that she's shorter than me, but I can only assume that the tradeoff, being closer to the flames, comes with its own issues.

All of my thoughts come to an abrupt stop when yet another cannon goes off, my feet skidding to a halt as I stop and double over coughing. My rising anxiety immediately swells into icy cold horror, the sound of the cannon making me fear the worst. I can’t even feel satisfaction that I was right, that the sound I can now assume was the fire starting wasn’t a cannon shot, because my mind is flooded with images of Katniss being consumed by the flames moments before it went off. I'm gripped by such a powerful sense of despair that I nearly collapse to my knees, having to hold myself up against the nearest tree while I struggle to breathe, until I'm snapped out of it by a thunderous noise I can only describe as a roar. I'd never been able to really understand what Pa had meant when he told me what the mine fire had sounded like, but I figure, half delirious with adrenaline, it must be something like this. Fear floods my body, my mind briefly going blank in my panic outside of the overwhelming urge to turn and flee. 

Then, through the horrific noise, I almost miss it—a terrified scream, one I've never heard before but somehow recognize all the same, and I take off running before I can think better of it. I don't care about the heat, I don't care about the smoke, and even though my feet catch on seemingly every root and fallen branch, I keep going, toward the place where the scream had come from. This close to the fire, the shirt over my nose practically does nothing, my lungs burning so badly it feels like they're being cooked, but I still won't let myself stop. I’m too close, and even if there’s the smallest chance of me finding Katniss, I’d be dead before refusing to take it.

The smoke is so thick, and both of us are running blindly, enough that we don’t see each other until it’s too late to avoid a collision—all of the rest of the air is knocked from me when her body crashes into mine, the force sending me stumbling back a bit. By some miracle I manage to stay on my feet, but it seems like as soon as she realizes who caught her, the last of her energy drains out of Katniss all at once, her knees buckling. And I know it’s her, if for no other reason than the way she tightens her grip on me in an effort to pull herself back onto her feet; even though her eyes are bloodshot and streaming from the smoke, there's no one else in the arena with that same kind of grey as mine. 

As happy as I am to see her, we have no time for happy reunions, the fire swelling behind Katniss in a terrifying reminder of where we are. It doesn’t seem to be coming any closer to us, like it satisfied the Gamemaker’s purpose, but I don’t trust that they won’t pull anything at the last second. Still wary, I turn and try to tug Katniss along with me to escape, but it’s immediately apparent that something is wrong; her gait is uncharacteristically clumsy, each step faltering, and she’s not nearly moving fast enough.Concern wins out over my impatience, and I stop moving, focusing on her.

“C'mon,” I urge, trying to be gentle as I bend down to her height, so she can loop her arm over my shoulder and stabilize herself. I can barely recognize my own voice, as scratchy and strained as it is, and even the brief use of my voice is painful enough that I nearly bite through my tongue to stop myself from vomiting. Being this close to the raging fire, the smell is almost overwhelming, but underneath the stench I catch something else faint, a sickeningly familiar note to the air that makes my stomach twist. Flashes of images pass through my mind, the accidents that would occur in the mines, the men hauled out with parts of their bodies burned beyond recognition, the awful stories Pa would tell. I keep talking through the pain, even though I'm also trying to piece together where the smell might be coming from, the smoke making my thoughts far slower than normal. “We need to get out of here.” 

“Can't,” Katniss gasps, right as I connect the smell to its source. Sure enough, when I look down, the flesh of her right calf is a horrible bright red peeking through the still-smoking remains of her pant leg, the edges melted and already beginning to fuse to her skin. The sight and smell makes me abruptly light-headed, but I force myself to grit my teeth and push through the feeling, all too aware of the cameras that are surely trained on both of us, eager to get every second of this harrowing moment. I make myself focus on each individual problem, blocking out everything else around me: I need to get both Katniss and I out of here, and quickly. There's no way she can put weight on her leg without hurting herself further. I'll get weaker the longer we stay this close to the fire and smoke, so I have to do something while I still have the strength…

Well. I can ask for her forgiveness later, when we're not in imminent danger of being burnt to a crisp.

I move quicker than she can react, bending further down to hook my hands behind her back and knees, careful to avoid her burn, right before scooping her up into my arms. All of the Capitol meals considered, she’s still remarkably light, a fact I’m thankful for. And despite the half-shocked, half-pained squawk she gives while I hoist her up, she doesn’t immediately protest, instead wrapping her arms around my neck for more security as I start to make my way back from where I'd originally come. There’s no way I can run, not with me carrying Katniss and the burning in my throat and lungs, so instead I settle for a brisk walk as I weave through the broken branches and trodden bushes. Smoke prevents me from seeing any further than a few dozen feet in any direction, but I left an embarrassingly clear path in my desperation to reach Katniss, so it’s not difficult to retrace my steps. 

The trees around us have started to grow thicker when my mind finally catches up to where I'm going, and I stop short as I internally curse myself; anyone caught up in the blaze is sure to run straight to the river for safety, where the Careers are doubtlessly ready to greet them. I could easily change where I’m going and avoid them, if it weren’t for the fact that I need water, to help treat Katniss's burns if nothing else. The canteen I'd refilled earlier isn't nearly enough for both of us to drink, never mind soothe the damaged skin on her calf. So instead of continuing back to the area of the river I'd come from, I turn left to travel parallel to its path. The Careers aren't immune to the effects of the fire and smoke, after all, and there's not enough of them to patrol the entire stretch of the river—I simply need to find a place along the banks they haven't reached.

Finding such a spot is easier said than done, though, especially once my adrenaline starts to ebb and it gets harder to ignore the various aches and pains it had masked. I’m sure I have bruises and scratches from crashing through the bushes, not to mention the soreness I already dread waking up to from the amount of lifting I’ve done today. The worst, though, is the searing pain that comes with each breath, every exhale coming out as a wheeze and a horrible tightness in my chest. All the while, Katniss hasn't made a sound outside of stifled grunts and hisses from being jostled as I walk, otherwise staying silent from where she's pressed against my chest and making me nervous as hell. 

There’s only been one other time I've had to carry her like this, when she twisted her knee around two years ago. Back then, she’d given me a hell of a fight about walking on her own, to the point that she nearly made the injury worse in her stubbornness. Scaring her with the threat of never being able to hunt again was the only thing that finally convinced her to let me carry her home, though she’d still grumbled the entire time. I took it as a sign that the pain wasn’t bad enough for me to worry—which makes her being so frighteningly quiet even more concerning now. If it weren’t for the fact that I think my voice is shot, I’d talk to her, bring up the memory in a way that wouldn’t give away our illegal pastime and make her laugh to distract from the situation. Just the thought of talking makes my throat burn, though, so I keep my mouth shut and try not to cough while I keep walking.

Either my luck keeps getting better, or the Gamemakers have started to take pity on us, because my arms have just gone numb when I stumble upon the perfect spot. A pond filled with lilies and surrounded by tall grasses, fed by a stream that I suspect branches off from the main river, it's secluded enough that it's unlikely we'll be spotted from the banks and just big enough for our purposes. Placing Katniss down at the edge of the water as gently and carefully as I can, I stumble over my feet as I go to inspect around the perimeter of the pond. I'm looking for any signs of other tributes, but much to my relief, we truly seem to be on our own for the time being. And if I've managed to overlook some sign of danger in my admittedly half-assed scan, well, that's an issue for later. For now, I'm just grateful that my legs are steady enough to keep me upright until I reach Katniss's side and let myself sink to my knees. 

While I've been patrolling, Katniss has been shakily unloading her gear, her leg already stretched out in front of her with her burned calf submerged in the water. She's in the middle of adding iodine drops to her own water bottle, so before I do anything else, I detach my canteen from my belt and twist off the lid to offer to her once she's done. Then we spend the next few minutes wordlessly passing the canteen between us, the water soothing my damaged throat even though it hadn't retained its cool temperature when I'd passed so close to the flames. Katniss is taking small, measured sips, so I try to follow her example, but the combined effect of the exertion and the smoke makes it difficult to stop myself from gulping it all down. After a few swaps, I take my last mouthful and give the rest to her before starting to peel off my own gear.

“That's my bow and arrows.” Katniss’s scratchy voice makes me turn to look at her, right after I slide the bow off of my shoulder and test the string to check if it had been damaged in the chaos of our escape. Her attention is completely fixed on the weapon, something like possessiveness in her gaze, and a laugh escapes me despite my better judgement.

“Not even a thanks?” I say, wincing when the sound comes out mangled and painful. Despite her lingering eyes, I set the bow safely aside before pulling off the backpack and sheath of arrows, letting out a relieved sigh once I let my shoulders drop. I suppose I do owe her more of an explanation, and force my abused vocal cords to work. “I got them for you, you know. Before anyone else could.”

“Before I could, too,” Katniss replies reproachfully, though when I look back at her, she doesn't seem all that serious about being mad. So I shrug, casual, as I open my backpack and reach for the first aid kit. 

“Should've been quicker,” I say, shooting a grin at her when her expression turns incredulous. 

Any chance of continuing the topic is lost when I pull out the kit, Katniss’s attention switching to the contents even though I know she has more to say to me. Maybe I'm a coward, but I don't want to have that type of conversation right now, not after everything that's happened in the past hour. I want a few moments where I can just sit with her, reassured that she's here with me again and still in one piece. If slightly burnt.

“I don't think there's anything to help burns in there,” I continue, once Katniss has taken the kit from my hands entirely to rifle through it. Speaking seems to be making my throat feel better, much to my surprise, so I do my best to keep my voice steady as I continue. “Just bandages and the like. I saw a tube of ointment, I think, but I don't know if it's for burns.”

“It's not,” she confirms, locating said tube fairly quickly and studying it. “Says it's to prevent infection, though, so it's better than nothing.” 

The thought of a burn like the one on her calf getting infected makes me cringe in agreement. Strangely enough, though, Katniss doesn't take her leg out of the water immediately, instead rubbing the ointment into smaller burns on her palms that I hadn't noticed before. She hadn't acted like she was in pain at all when she'd been holding the canteen and the first aid kit, so I can only hope they're less severe than the one on her leg. But it's only when she starts to put the ointment on the tiny scratches along her arms and face that I realize what the problem is. 

“Do you want me to look at it?” I prompt, less of an actual offer than it is me asking her what's wrong. And like I’d expected, it's the nudge she needs to finally lift her leg from the pond and assess the damage. I don't even think she's aware of the horrified little noise she makes when she first sees the burn, but I don't really blame her for it; the redness has gotten even brighter, if possible, with nasty blisters forming and the edges darkened from her pants fusing to her skin. It takes up a fair amount of space on her calf, a teardrop shape with the widest part just below the knee and tapering off right above the cuff of her boot. Not nearly as bad as some of the burns I'm sure she's seen, from the miners who go to her mother for help, but still a serious injury. Katniss takes a knife from her belt – similar to the one I have, actually, so it must be from her encounter with Clove – and carefully cuts away the fabric as close as she can get without pulling at the skin. There's still a good inch of fabric left when she's done, though, and when she gingerly uses the tip of the knife to scrape at the melted fabric, she almost instantly jerks it away in pain.

“I need to get it off,” Katniss spits, more to herself than to me, like she's trying to drum up the courage to spur herself into action. 

“I know,” I agree. My unspoken offer to help still hangs in the air between us, more tempting this time. I watch as she thinks, clearly conflicted on whether to accept, unwilling to show weakness to the Capitol while also struggling to keep her reactions under control. Sometimes I tease her for her squeamishness, but it’s never been a real issue to me, and I don't expect her to soldier through it. She tries again to remove the fabric after a moment, with just her hands this time, and only frees a small section before hissing in pain and giving up for good.

“Could you…?” Katniss's voice is weak, painfully vulnerable, and I move forward before she even finishes speaking.

Leaning in closer to her bent leg, I can study the burn with a more critical eye, and I quickly discover that rather than it actually fusing with her skin, the fabric instead melted and cooled on top of it. It makes it easier to remove, but it's sure to be painful, and I don't think I'll be completely able to avoid taking some of the skin with it. It's better to do it now, though, rather than have it heal with the melted fabric embedded in her calf. 

“I'm sorry in advance,” I say as I pull her leg closer, resting her foot in my lap. 

“Just do it already,” she grits out. 

For all of her prickliness, Katniss manages to stay relatively silent as I work on her leg, even though it clearly hurts. After a moment of consideration, I opt to use a piece of gauze soaked in water to carefully scrub the stuff off, rather than just ripping it off without any consideration of worsening her injury. I try not to press too hard or scrub too aggressively, and I don't linger on any specific spots, which helps lessen the pain at least. By the time I’m done, the skin is reddened and angry, Katniss's lips bitten to hell from her keeping quiet, but I've gotten all of it off and it’s starting to look better. Some of the blisters have popped in the process, so I'm careful when I apply the ointment on those spots; Katniss lets out a sigh of relief once I'm done and have it completely wrapped up, pulling her leg back to inspect my work as I put everything back into the kit. 

“Does it meet the Everdeen standards?” I ask, partially joking and partially sincere. Katniss doesn't respond immediately, so I use the time to take my canteen back from her and refill it, even though I'm somewhat anxious for her reply.

“My mother's the healer, not me, but I guess it's good enough.” I laugh once again when she finally speaks, somehow unsurprised at the dryness of her tone. “You could stand to be a little gentler next time, though.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I reply, grinning at her. Something in my chest grows lighter when she mirrors the expression back at me, sheer relief suddenly overwhelming my senses. I hadn't realized just how much the worry of not knowing her whereabouts and condition was weighing me down—now, sitting at the water's edge with her, I'm so glad that she's okay, that I found her just like I'd promised I would, and that we're back together again. 

Enough time has passed that we can safely drink the water from Katniss’s bottle, and as we drink she starts to tell me what she’d been doing on her own. Her biggest priority was putting as much distance between her and the Cornucopia as she could, she says, and by the time night fell, she was deep in the southern part of the arena. Otherwise, the night was similarly as uneventful for her as it was for me, until she was woken by the sound of breaking branches. 

“An idiot of another tribute had decided the middle of the night was the best time to make a fire,” Katniss says, reproach creeping into her voice as she speaks. It's funny to see how strong her anger still is, even though I know I'd be the same way if someone had put my life into danger with their thoughtlessness. Compared to her usual quiet nature, though, it’s a bit shocking. “I was glad that nobody found and killed her before the sun rose, if only because I wanted to kill her for being so stupid.”

I laugh even though my throat is still stinging from the smoke, surprised by her vehemence. It's a side I've rarely seen from her, even during our time in the woods together, and most of the time it’s just a way of venting her frustrations, rather than any actual intent. If I’m honest, it’s one of my favorite parts of her that only I get to see.

“So, did you?” I ask, half joking. She gets quiet after I speak, though, which is unusual enough that I start to become genuinely curious. “Katniss?”

“No,” she finally admits, a note of frustration still in her voice. I can't help but push her further. 

“What did you do, then?” 

“Not much,” Katniss grumbles. “I'd set up a few snares before making camp, and I caught a rabbit. At that point the idiot was gone, but the coals from her fire were still hot enough for me to cook the rabbit with.”

“Better breakfast than I had,” I say, though my mind has drifted at the mention of the rabbit. Based on the position of the sun, it's nearing late afternoon, and I hadn’t exactly made a plan of when I would go back and check on the rabbit I wanted to dry. I just hope it hasn't been completely devoured by the wild dogs I saw. 

“Yeah, well, that's about the only helpful thing she did,” Katniss continues, starting to pick at the tiny rocks in the mud along the water line. “I'd been looking for water when the idiot pretty much led the Careers straight to me. That's how the fire started. I think she or one of the Careers hit something, I don't know, but one second I was running from them, and the next there was this huge wall of fire right behind me. Came out of nowhere.”

So that was the booming noise I'd heard. Not exactly a cannon, but an explosion all the same. There was the other cannon that had fired after the flames had appeared, though, that I'd briefly thought was for Katniss. “Did you see what happened to the others?”

“No.” She throws one of the rocks into the water, watching the ripples with a faraway look. “The wall had sprung up between me and the Career pack. I don't know where the idiot was. I have a feeling it was her that was caught up in the middle, but I didn't exactly check when I was running for my life.”

Katniss doesn't say anything else, and I don't either, unable to really come up with an appropriate response. It's not like she particularly cared for the girl tribute, considering her declaration of planning to kill her, but I can't help but think back to the boy from District 5, who had distracted Cato enough for me to escape the bloodbath. There's a difference between killing someone, and someone dying because of you. 

I don't want to think too much about it, anyway, so while Katniss stares at the pond I turn my focus to the sky. Taking a closer look at the sun, it’s still well over the tops of the trees. Plenty of time left, if we want to move on; and now that I'm not feeling so bogged down by the smoke, I'm already starting to itch from being idle so long. Plus, based on what Katniss just told me, the Careers likely fled to the lake instead of the river, which means that if we get going now, we could safely make it back to my camp by nightfall. 

“Do you think you can walk?” I'm still squinting at the sky when I ask, so I don’t see Katniss's reaction. There's a long pause before she answers, her voice suddenly guarded. 

“Maybe. Depending on where.”

Somehow I manage to stop myself from sighing, though it's a near thing. Her tendency toward suspicion never falters, I'll give her that. “The stream that feeds this pond likely connects back to a bigger river, and I had stayed at a spot further upstream last night. We could make it back if we get going around now.”

As I speak, I look back down and around the area, assessing the state of our things. Neither of us truly unpacked, instead digging out whatever we needed from our bags and leaving the rest alone. It wouldn't take long for either of us to be ready, and once we're back at the outcropping, we can go through everything and properly split the supplies. But when I finally turn back to Katniss, I'm taken aback by the look on her face. “What's wrong?”

Her stormy expression clears almost instantly, but she's never been good at hiding her emotions, and I can still tell that something's bothering her even when she responds normally. “Nothing. It's fine. I can do it.”

A moment passes with me squinting at her, deliberating on whether or not it's worth it to push further. On one hand, while I leave her alone whenever she does this normally, in the arena it could become a much bigger issue if she refuses to tell me what's bothering her. On the other, I really do want to start walking again, and starting a conversation that's sure to turn into an argument is the least useful thing we need. So, after another few seconds, I ultimately decide to leave it alone. For now. She still has that slightly-pinched look on her face, at least until she's solidly back on her feet and shifting her weight to test her leg. Watching her carefully as she makes a loop around the pond, she doesn't seem too pained, thankfully, and when she makes it back to my side she nods once. 

“Good?” I ask, somewhat redundantly, but I want to hear her confirmation.

“Good.” 

We do one last check of our bags before we set off, making sure everything is safely packed and accounted for, but I feel Katniss's eyes on me again when I count through the arrows left in the quiver. Still just missing the one I couldn't get back from the District 4 boy, but even that puts me on edge, hyperaware of how precious these arrows are. Webber had shown me how to make them once, when his own arrows were running low, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility for us to make some in the arena. Once we're back at the river camp, I could maybe start finding sticks and branches that could work as arrow shafts, and some of the feathers from those turkey-like birds as fletches, but the arrowheads…

“I want the bow.” Katniss's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and it takes me a moment to catch back up. The moment I’ve processed her request, though, my immediate thought is, ’Duh’, closely followed by me remembering the burns on her hands and sparking concern. I frown a bit. Normally, I'd say yes without a second thought, but there’s already a risk using a bow, anyway, and with her burns, I don’t want anything to make them worse.

“Can you shoot with your hands like that?” I ask instead. Katniss looks down at her hands reflexively, showing the burns on her palms when she holds them out between us, but just as quickly lifts her head back up to scowl at me. 

“I'll be fine,” she snaps back, the anger I'd seen before coming back in full. I lift my hands in surrender, somewhat taken aback by the strength of her reaction—though I still don’t want her hands to get any worse, this is one battle I don't want to fight. 

“Alright, alright, I was just wondering…”

Thankfully, it seems that just carrying the bow settles something in Katniss, her agitation gradually melting away while I lead us back to the river and further upstream. We don't talk, but we don't really need to, just walking together enough to soothe our nerves. I can't let myself get too comfortable, considering that now with Katniss and I back together, the cameras are surely to be following us closely. But it's still the closest to normalcy we've had since coming to the Capitol, and I'm not too good to turn my nose up at it.

The walk feels much shorter than it had this morning, though I'm sure that's because we don't have to make the same looping detours that I did during my search for Katniss. Since our path is a relatively straight shot, it's a little over an hour before we reach the point where I'd made my rudimentary drying press. I don't bother going to check it – it's not nearly been long enough for it to make much progress, and I admittedly don't want to lift all those rocks again at the moment – but it's a good sign that we're nearing my spot. It also reminds me of the rest of the snares I'd left alone after resetting them this morning, the possibility of fresh meat too good to ignore. Katniss doesn't question it when I swerve off of our path, but I can feel her watchful eyes on me all the same.

I hadn't really expected for the snares to have anything, but I still feel a pang of disappointment when all of them turn up empty. Or it's just another pang of hunger. Now that water has been more or less handled, the other tributes a distant threat, food is at the forefront of my mind. I've been hungrier than this plenty of times before, but those times haven't come with quite so much physical activity, and I'm feeling weaker than I have in a long while. Maybe that's why I don't notice the bird before Katniss does.

“Don't move,” is the only warning I get from Katniss before there's the telltale sound of a bowstring being drawn and released, followed by a dull thunk and cut-off squawk. Turning toward the source of the squawking, I see that Katniss has shot one of the turkey-like birds, hitting it in the neck rather than her signature eye. Meat is meat, though, and when I look back at Katniss, she matches my grin with one of her own again. 

I offer to carry the bird for the rest of our short trip to camp, eager to start preparing it and have an actual meal for the first time in the arena. We reach the outcropping just as the sun dips below the treeline, like I'd hoped we would, and as we step into the little clearing I keep one eye on Katniss beside me. For some reason, I'm suddenly nervous, watching for her reaction. After a moment of her scanning the space with an unreadable expression, she steps toward the stones to drop her backpack—internally, I let out a sigh of relief. 

The familiarity of routine takes over after that, Katniss making a fire a little ways away from the outcropping while I pluck the bird until it's bare. It retains its resemblance to a turkey as I do so, no visible indications of possible Capitol modification, but it’s once I start to gut it that I feel confident that it’s a normal animal. Honestly, with how hungry I am, I'm not sure if I would have even cared if it was some sort of mutt. As long as it's not poisonous, I figure it's fair game – literally – for us tributes to eat. Then again, I don’t exactly trust the Capitol to make mutts out of anything I’d want to eat, and thinking back to some of the ones from previous Games…

I make myself abandon that train of thought once I'm done with the bird, passing it off to Katniss to start cooking before I use a small bit of the water to rinse my hands of the blood. Instead, I find my focus going back to the very first thing Katniss had said to me, once we were safely away from the fire and sitting by the pond. “That’s my bow and arrows.” I’d given the simplest explanation I could, considering everything else that demanded our attention in that moment, but I have a feeling that it’s not really the weapon that’s bothering her. Plus, the last thing we need in the arena is not telling each other anything and getting into arguments. Especially since we’re supposed to be the best of friends, and I don’t know if the Capitol will tolerate any of our bickering.

“Y'know, I'd planned to follow after you when I left with the bow, but then Clove saw me,” I say, before I can think about it any longer. I can tell she's listening, even if she doesn't look my way, instead focused on the flames and the meat cooking in front of her. “And I didn't want to lead her straight back to you. So I had to change my course at the last second. That's how we got separated.”

“Did Clove do that to you?” Katniss doesn’t turn to face me when she responds, and it takes me a moment to realize what she’s talking about. Once I do, a dry laugh escapes me, thinking back to the incident at the Cornucopia.

“No, that was Cato,” I scoff, before proceeding to tell her everything that had happened after the gong went off. My voice falters a bit when I mention the boy from 5, enough that I know she catches it, but I’m still talking and she doesn’t otherwise react. When I finish, she takes a moment to turn the bird over on its other side, the smell from it cooking working to briefly distract me. 

Then the full weight of Katniss’s gaze pulls my attention back quickly enough, and she only speaks once she’s sure that I’m focused on her again. “If you make any more plans like that in the future, you're going to tell me about them.” 

It’s less a request than it is a command, her tone matter-of-fact, and I can still see a little bit of hurt in her eyes. Part of the humor dies in my chest upon seeing it, so that my answer comes out much more solemn than I originally intended. “Already planned on it.”

Thankfully, my response is enough to make Katniss roll her eyes at me, lightening the mood as she turns back to the fire. We stop talking altogether once the bird is fully cooked, and upon my first bite I make a pleased noise that's right on the edge of obscene. The meat is so deliciously fatty that it practically melts on your tongue, and I practically inhale a leg and part of a wing before I make myself stop and take a drink of my water. Even with us trying to slow ourselves down, Katniss and I make quick work of the bird, finishing it right as dusk falls and it becomes clear that we need to settle down for the night. I kick dirt over the coals to extinguish the fire, and Katniss procures a sleeping bag, which I doubt can fit both me and her. Between that and my blanket, though, I figure we can make it work. 

And make it work, we do, after a good amount of fiddling and adjusting: instead of laying in the sleeping bag together, I sit back against the rock like I had the night before, Katniss sitting between my legs, the sleeping bag covering us from the waist down. My blanket is draped over our top halves, Katniss's back pressed against my front, keeping in the warmth of our shared body heat. Some particularly early mornings, back in Twelve, the woods would get cold enough that we'd have to sit huddled together under quilted blankets just to keep ourselves from freezing, though we never sat quite this close. It's the easiest way to sleep while sheltered by the rocks, though, with not enough room for us to sit side by side, and neither of us feel comfortable enough to lay down to sleep. Plus, this way we're both able to get up as quickly as we can if needed, and if I'm completely honest, after being separated from her and finding her in that fire, I don't want her out of my reach. If only for tonight, I want to be selfish. 

We've just gotten fully settled when the Capitol anthem starts, and looking up, the seal is projected again for the death recaps. Tonight, they start with the boy from District 7, meaning that all the remaining Careers had escaped from the fire with their lives. Katniss takes in a sharp breath as the pictures switch, showing the girl from District 8, and I don't need to see her face to know that this girl must have been the so-called idiot that had annoyed Katniss so much. Then, the picture of the District 9 girl appears, hers being the third and final death of the day, before the seal is shown again and the anthem finishes with a flourish. After the recap is done, and everything is silent again, Katniss and I stay quiet, only the sound of the animals around us and the rustling of the trees filling the space. 

I know I'm tired from all of the running and lifting I've done today, but I can tell that Katniss is equally exhausted, especially with the way she keeps slowly leaning back against me until she catches herself and shakes herself awake. After her third time dozing off, I take pity on her, quietly laughing under my breath.

“It's alright, I'll take the first watch,” I murmur to her, and the way she readily agrees without any protest just confirms my suspicions about how tired she really is. Handing me the bow, Katniss makes herself comfortable before leaning her full weight against me, leaving me to watch from over her head while she slowly drifts to sleep.

Chapter Text

Though I do my best to stay awake, I truly have no idea how long I last before I find myself drifting in and out of consciousness, lulled by the warmth and comforting weight of Katniss in front of me. Somehow, even though I have no memory of it, I must have woken Katniss up to take the rest of the watch before fully giving in to sleep, because morning comes with me being jostled awake by her movement as she extracts herself from the sleeping bag and my grasp. 

It's barely dawn, the sky a deep grey that's slowly getting lighter, and I'm still halfway asleep, enough that I end up groggily watching her move around the camp for a good few minutes as I slowly come back to my body. By the time I get myself up, Katniss has already spread out the contents of her backpack on the ground, an obvious invitation for me to do the same and finally take a proper inventory of our combined supplies.  

Most important is our two water containers, and our separate stashes of food; Katniss adds a package of crackers, as well as her own pack of jerky, and the other half of the rabbit from the day before. She offers it to me, as if to share it for breakfast, but I only take a leg before leaving the rest for her—it's not enough to split, really, and we need to do more hunting today as it is. Moving away from the food, there's the first aid kit, and Katniss adds another spool of wire to the two of mine, as well as one more pair of the glasses. Neither of us know what they're meant to do, considering they don't do much to deflect the sunlight, and I take them off after they start to give me a headache. They're clearly important enough to give out to the tributes, so we won't get rid of them, but they're tossed back into my bag with the expectation of them remaining unused. That just leaves Katniss's box of matches, and her bottle of iodine that I put next to my packs of purification tablets. 

Katniss takes the first aid kit as I start to put things back into the backpacks, beginning to unravel the bandage on her calf and check how it's healing. Risking a glance over, I’m a bit surprised to see that it looks… practically the same, actually, in that it hasn't gotten any worse, but the redness and the swelling hasn't gone down at all, and if anything, I think more blisters have formed. Turning to Katniss, she looks just as lost as I feel, both of us much better suited for killing than we are for healing.

“Well, at least the ointment seems to be working,” she mutters to herself, which is true. Nothing looks infected, thankfully enough, but I'm sure it's painful, even with Katniss acting the same as usual. She's funny like that—she hates pain, but hates being helped even more, and once she can get used to her pain, she'll find a way to keep going as she usually does around it. I'm still somewhat in disbelief that she even let me touch her yesterday. 

“What do you think we should do today?” I ask, just to get her mind off of her injury. The only thing we really need to do is hunt, our food supply running low. Not knowing anything about the other tributes and where they are is an itch at the back of my mind, a constant paranoia that I can't shake, but there’s no point in worrying about it until we have more food, and more energy. 

“Hunt,” she answers automatically, our minds clearly on the same track. “And go further upstream, look for any tributes and maybe another place to set up camp. This one is too exposed.”

Pushing away the brief feeling of hurt, I glance over the small clearing around us, and, honestly, I have to agree; the overhang worked well enough when it was just me, but now with another person in the mix, it's a bit too open. That, and I can already feel the consequences of sleeping while sitting up straight for two days in my tailbone. 

“Sounds good to me,” I say. “and y’know, we could… also…” I'm distracted by a glinting of light reflecting off metal, words trailing off as the flash catches my eye. All I can do is watch, going completely still, as a silver parachute floats down between Katniss and I, like it'll disappear right in front of my eyes if I move too quickly. Our very first gift from a sponsor.

Katniss isn't as cautious as I am, immediately going to grab the parachute and open it to inspect its contents. I lean forward, unable to keep myself away for too long, and study the little pot that's inside. It's tiny, easily fitting in the palm of her hand, which rules out any kind of food or tool, at least that I know of. When she opens it, Katniss sniffs the stuff in the pot and promptly crinkles her nose, right before offering it to me—I give my own obliging sniff, and am immediately hit by the same sharp, herbal scent that I’ve come to associate with Mrs. Everdeen and her healing concoctions. 

“An ointment?” I ask, right as Katniss prods at the cream with the tip of her finger. Some of the tension in her shoulders releases, and when she speaks again, her voice is almost reverent. 

“Oh, Haymitch, thank you,” she sighs, before promptly scooping more of the stuff onto her fingers and working it into the abused skin of her calf, “It's a burn ointment, I think. Some kind of fancy Capitol medicine.”

“Thank you, Haymitch,” I echo, tilting my head up toward the sky in emphasis. Though I haven’t thought much about our mentor in the last few days, I can practically feel his presence now, those sharp grey eyes watching us. The compass around my neck almost seems to grow warmer with the thought, and I make myself push past it.

It's when Katniss's leg is fully wrapped back up, fresh gauze keeping the burn protected, that her relief becomes even clearer; no matter how hard she'd tried, I'd noticed her favoring her burned leg while we walked the past day, but now she stands like nothing even happened to it in the first place. Clearly, it’s much stronger than any kind of remedy we could have made ourselves, and it couldn't have been cheap, multiple sponsors coming together to fund it. Medicine we could never dream of back in Twelve, now available only because of the charity of the Capitol’s richest, a charity I’m sure comes with expectations. 

Katniss has rubbed more of the stuff into the burns on her palms while my thoughts have spiraled, and I pull myself out to see her wrapping them a few times over with the more of the bandages. I don’t quite understand what she’s doing at first, and I’m immediately annoyed, about to ask why she’s wasting valuable supplies. Then, she grabs her bow, the bandages protecting her palms so the ointment doesn’t rub off. Suddenly I feel like an idiot.

“Good idea,” I comment, just to cover that I’d had my mouth open to snap at her before I caught myself. The thought of the sponsors seems to have made my mood darker than I realized, and although she doesn’t seem to notice, I can’t help but feel a bit guilty, anyway. Since she has the bow, I let her take the lead, and the guilt eases a bit with the thought that I’m watching her back as we walk.

The relief from the ointment seems to have already improved her confidence, in any case, because Katniss quickly shoots another one of the birds and a rabbit in just a few minutes of us starting to work our way up the river. It's easy enough to tie them to my belt, keeping them out of the way until we find someplace to stop and build a fire further upstream, and the prospect of food in the near future helps to improve my mood. I hand the arrows back to Katniss, who puts them back in the sheath after wiping off any of the blood on them from the game. It’s not the cleanest, but they’re too important for us to discard, and I tell myself that I'll clean them more once we're stopped. 

As we walk, the terrain slowly starts to change once again. It becomes rockier, with the stone outcroppings getting more and more frequent until the banks are primarily stone instead of open ground, forming little crevices and caves in the gaps. As the river starts to curve to the east, the patches of ground between the stones get spongier underneath our feet, moss springing up from under the layers of pine needles. Though it helps cover our tracks, walking also gets that much more difficult, the path becoming more and more uneven the further we go. After a few minutes, it's clear that we'll have to go slower than we'd like, just so neither of us twists an ankle after taking a wrong step. Still, we’ve made pretty good progress by the time we stop to rest, and I’m sure to check my compass every so often, making sure that we’re going in the right direction and noting how the river curves and leads us further and further east. When we stop under some willows a good distance from the banks, sun high in the sky, the little needle confirms that we’re still solidly heading east. 

“What is that?” Katniss asks after skinning the rabbit, staring pointedly at the locket from where I’ve forgotten to tuck it under my shirt. I don’t answer immediately, focusing on building the fire up before I do, hoping to stall for time and figure out what to tell her. She knows just as well as I do that I didn't come to the Capitol with a token—hell, it was a surprise that I even got that bag of cookies from Mr. Mellark. Yet, here I am, a necklace she's never seen before around my neck, and an expensive looking one to boot. But there's no way I can come out and plainly say that it was a gift from Portia and Haymitch. That’d be sure to go over real well with the audience, and likely put both of them in danger from the scrutiny. I have to be careful.

“I'd nearly forgotten about it, but my mother had put one of her old necklaces in the breast pocket of my Reaping shirt, for my token,” I start, making sure to look Katniss right in the eye as I speak. Though my mouth's saying one thing, my eyes say another, practically pleading with her: Go along with it. “Luckily, Portia gave it back to me right before I went into the arena.”

Katniss's hand comes up to her chest when I say that, almost like a reflex, and I catch sight of the gold pin that I recognize from the train. Besides this movement, though, Katniss is completely stonefaced, the only warning I get before she speaks. “Oh, right, I remember now.” 

I almost wince at the flatness of her voice before catching myself. She's never been a great liar, but this is so obvious that it can only be intentional, and with the scathing look she gives me after, it’s all but confirmed. I can only guess what she's trying to say with that look, but I have a few good ideas, especially considering what I'd promised her last night. The instinct to snap at her that this is different is so overwhelming that I nearly give in; redirecting myself back to the fire, I channel my anger into yanking the feathers off the bird with a bit too much force.

Somewhere deeper into the trees, a twig snaps, the sound pulling both of us up short. In an instant, the conversation about the locket is forgotten, and Katniss is grabbing her bow just as I reach for the knives. 

Considering how fearless the animals in the arena have been so far, this could easily be a deer wandering too close. But I think we both know that's a bit too optimistic in a place like this. Building a fire in the middle of the day is guaranteed to be a risk, but we need the food, and Katniss's skill with the bow is enough to lessen the threat. I hadn't expected anyone to find us this quickly, though; all I can assume is that either they'd been on our tail since the beginning, or had already been close enough to track us from the smoke. 

Katniss sends a quick glance my way as she nocks an arrow on the string, understanding instantly passing between us in that split second, grey meeting grey. It's only after Katniss lifts the bow to her shoulder, aiming in the direction of the noise, that I finally catch the glimpse of dark curls peeking out from behind a tree. My heart plunging into my stomach with recognition, I call out right as her fingers on the string start to go slack, ready to release.

“Wait,” I say, sharp. Katniss immediately stills, but doesn't lower the bow, staying poised and ready to fire at any sign of danger. Not that this visitor is a real danger to either of us. If anything, the fact that she was able to follow us without a sound until now fills me with something like pride, impressed with her stealth. Maybe that's how she got that seven in training. Making my voice gentler, like the way I talk to Prim and Posy, I direct my next words past Katniss's shoulder. “You can come out. We aren't going to hurt you.”

Katniss's incredulous expression quickly morphs into one of understanding as soon as Rue edges out from her hiding place just enough to see her profile, the sight of the girl finally convincing Katniss to lower her bow. Rue doesn't move any further, clearly skeptical of my reassurance, and I can’t exactly blame her; for someone as small as her, running into just one other tribute would be dangerous, never mind two who are already in an alliance. I'm searching for something else to say, to ease her worries and show that we really aren't threats, when Katniss speaks up.

“You hungry? We have more than enough for the three of us,” she says. She's right—once the bird is properly plucked and gutted, we'll have it plus a full rabbit to eat, guaranteeing to leave us some to store. We don't really need to store it, though, especially considering that once we find another place to set up camp, I can set a few snares and catch easy game. Rue takes a moment to think this over before moving again, shifting just a bit further from out behind the tree, enough that I can see one eye peering out at us. 

“Really?” She sounds so young, her voice disbelieving, that for a moment I have to clench my jaw tight and force myself to count to ten in my head just so I don't start screaming at every single one of the evil assholes watching us. Rue shouldn't be here. None of us should be here, to be sure, but especially her. Especially this small girl who barely looks her age of twelve years, who keeps glancing behind Katniss and I toward the meat cooking over the fire, hunger clear in her gaze but fear keeping her rooted to the ground. Fear that's entirely misplaced, because I don't think either of us could ever knowingly lay a hand on her in a threatening way. It turns my stomach the same way it does to think if I could ever hurt Katniss—every single part of me rejects the thought.

“Really.” Outside of my thoughts, Katniss continues to try and coax Rue out from behind the tree, one of her rare smiles angled at the girl. “Don't worry, we can easily get more.”

This reassurance seems to do the trick in unfreezing Rue, who finally ventures out into the open as her big brown eyes flick between the both of us. “I can help cook.”

“You don't need to,” I reply, successfully regaining my voice upon processing her offer. Each one of Rue's responses drives an ache deeper and deeper into my chest, a strange sort of recognition sparked by her words. I think back to Katniss when we’d first met, the cautious, quiet little girl who always insisted on paying back every single kindness she received, and it’s too easy to see her in this tiny tribute from District Eleven. If I wasn’t already confident about offering an alliance with Rue, I know myself well enough to admit that the resemblance would have pushed me over the edge.

When she finally joins Katniss and I by the fire, Rue still stubbornly contributes what she can, digging in the little pack she’s been carrying around and producing such a wide array of plants and berries that I’m a little impressed that she’d managed to fit them all in there. No matter what either of us say, she does what she can to help, adding a generous handful of some kind of root that neither Katniss nor I recognize but tastes good enough when roasted alongside the meat. She recognizes the bird, too, even in its half-plucked state; something called a groosling, which she says is a common sight in her district. According to her, entire flocks of the birds will sometimes wander into the orchards where she works, and everyone will get a good lunch that day. I want to ask her more about District Eleven, desperate to know anything about the other districts, but she’s looking so longingly at the cooked rabbit as Katniss replaces it with the groosling over the fire that I decide it’s better to wait with my questioning. 

“Here,” I say instead, pushing aside my own hunger in favor of taking one of the knives and  dividing up the rabbit into six roughly equal pieces, before offering the lot to Rue. She stares at it with wide eyes, like she can't quite believe what she's seeing, and I push past another dull pang in my chest at the sight. “Take whatever you want. Katniss wasn't joking when she said we can get more. Between her bow and my snares, we're all set.”

Even though she's still looking uncertainly between me and the rabbit, one of her hands goes to hover over one of the hind legs, stopping just before touching it like she's double checking that it's alright. From the other side of the fire, Katniss pipes up, “It'll only keep for a few days, anyway, and we've got the whole bird plus the rabbit to get through.”

Between Katniss's encouragement and the freshly cooked meat right in front of her, Rue's hunger quickly wins out over her hesitation and she takes a huge bite as soon as the meat's in her hands, closing her eyes in bliss. I give her one of the front legs and a piece of the belly, too, before offering the rest to Katniss and getting a hard look in return. 

“You didn't eat anything this morning,” she says, somehow managing to make the simple statement sound like a threat. “Don't be an idiot.”

“Alright, alright,” I reply, even as I can’t stop myself from grinning at her. “I was just being polite.”

She really doesn't need to say anything else, anyway, because the smell of the meat has finally gotten to me and my hands are shaking so much with hunger that I have to make an effort not to drop anything. Combined with some of Rue's roots, it's not a bad lunch, all things considered, and once the groosling is roasted to Katniss’s satisfaction she joins us with a leg in hand. 

“I've never had so much all to myself before,” Rue says after a contented sigh, having finished the hind leg of the rabbit and already starting on the belly. This statement surprises me for a brief moment, considering that District Eleven’s industry is agriculture, but then I remember how our miners are forbidden from using any of the coal we collect. It must be the same in Eleven, then, that the workers aren't allowed any of the food they grow for the rest of Panem, and a bitter taste blooms at the back of my tongue. 

“I'd have thought, in District Eleven, you'd have a bit more to eat than us in Twelve.” It’s a little jarring at times, just how often Katniss and I will have the same thoughts without even speaking to each other, simply because of how similarly we think. Her words are spoken toward Rue, who tilts her head curiously. “Y'know, since you grow the food.” 

And, like I expected, Rue's eyes widen in shock. “Oh, no, we're not allowed to eat any of the crops.”

“They arrest you or something?” Katniss's question is almost flippant with the way she speaks around her bite of groosling, a display that would surely send Effie into a fit if she saw it.

“They whip you and make everyone else watch. The mayor's very strict about it,” Rue answers. All my amusement from the image of Effie sputtering about Katniss's lack of table manners dissolves in an instant, Rue's matter-of-fact tone sending a shiver down my spine. You’d think that it happens regularly, from the way she says it. 

Technically, Katniss and I should be given that same treatment regularly for each piece of game we bring over the fence – or even worse, considering how far we stray from the fence to begin with – but the Peacekeepers are some of our best customers. Hell, even the mayor's daughter buys our strawberries. I've never liked Mayor Undersee or old Cray, especially considering Cray's taste for young and desperate Seam girls, but it's hard to not be somewhat thankful that they're so awful at their jobs. Something twists in my stomach when the thought pops into my head: is it better to have an old, incompetent sleaze for a Head Peacekeeper, or someone better at the job but infinitely more loyal to the law and enforcing it? Maybe that's the payoff for being the lowest of the districts—getting to stay in the Capitol's blindspot and deal with the Peacekeeper rejects, as long as we meet our numbers and don't kick up a fuss. 

“Do you get all of the coal you want?” Rue asks in return, which startles a laugh out of me and a smile from Katniss. 

“No,” I answer, shaking my head in wry amusement. “Past whatever we track in on our boots, we have to pay for our coal just the same as everybody else.”

The longer the district talk lasts, the more fascinated I become. I'm sure that our conversation is being erased from the broadcast footage as we speak, given its illicit nature; we're taught nothing about the other districts and what life is like in them, for fear of inciting another rebellion. If you don’t know that there’s even grass on the other side, how are you meant to realize that it’s greener? The moment you let your workers talk amongst themselves and see how differently they're treated, they might start getting ridiculous ideas in their heads, like realizing that they deserve better treatment than what they've already got. It's ironic, in a horrible sort of way, that the only way we even know the small things we do about the other districts is because of the very event designed to drive us all further apart. 

Once we’ve all had our fill, Katniss and I get up to gather our things and extinguish the fire, ready to continue on our path. The sun is still high in the sky, reassuring me that we have more than enough time before dusk falls and we’ll need to find a place for the night. Things are looking better than I'd expected, honestly; Katniss wraps the rest of the groosling in her sheet of plastic, all three of us refill our water, and when Katniss notices a long burn on one of Rue's forearms, she takes a moment to dig out the ointment and apply it to her skin. 

“You guys have good sponsors,” Rue says, more than a little bit wistful. 

“Have you gotten anything yet?” Katniss asks as she places the cap over the tub and stuffs it back into her bag, glancing back when Rue shakes her head. I can't stop the frown from appearing on my face, even though I half-expected that to be the case. Younger tributes – who aren't Careers, anyway – always tend to get fewer sponsors, just because their odds are already so low. Which, of course, makes it so that they're even worse off than they could be otherwise. It's a vicious cycle, and one that all but guarantees their deaths.

“You will, though,” I reassure her before I can think better of it, the images of all the tiny tributes I've seen die over the years flashing through my mind. “Just wait and see, the longer we last in these Games, the more people will see just what you’re capable of.” 

“Maybe,” Rue says, but I can tell she's trying not to smile as she does. 

She still looks a bit lost once we're all packed up and ready to move on, repeatedly looking between Katniss and I with a look I can only describe as reluctantly wary. It's only when she takes a half step back, almost like she's trying to leave without us noticing, that I realize the issue.

“You're coming with us, right?” I ask, bending down just enough to catch Rue's eye as I give her a crooked smile. The one she gives back is small, unsure, but hopeful enough that I can tell she’d been waiting for either of us to say something. Twisting back to face Katniss, who's a few paces in front of us, I call, “You think we have room for one more?” 

“Why not? She’s smart enough to still be alive, and she knows more of the plants around here than I do,” Katniss replies. It’s a typical Katniss response, only commenting on the logistics of having Rue be our ally even though I know she’s already attached to the girl. When I turn back to Rue, she hits me with such a bright smile that I'm momentarily blinded, and I already know her answer before she even opens her mouth.

“Okay,” she says, nodding once as her hands go up to hook around the straps of her backpack. “It's a deal.”

I hold out my hand to her, expression suddenly solemn, and when she takes it I shake her hand like we've made a very serious business deal. Rue lets out a giggle, the sound warming me enough that it takes a moment for me to realize that Katniss is calling over to us again. 

“Alright, you two, we need to actually get going,” she says, with the slightest hint of a smile in her voice. It's a note I tend to only hear when she speaks to Prim or Posy, to the precious people she feels like she needs to shield from the rest of the world. I don't know exactly how to feel now that it's used for me, too.

Just like before, Katniss walks at the front of our little group, but now Rue is safely between us as I take my usual place at the back. My height makes it easy enough to see over both of their heads and all around us, so I give myself the job of keeping an eye out for any ideal places for our camp.

Katniss and I normally aren't very talkative types, especially when we're together in the woods, but if nothing else, Rue could give Vick a run for his money in talking your ear off. We've only been walking a minute or two when she starts pointing out about a dozen plants as we walk, telling us what they are and what they're used for, where she gets them in the meadows of District 11. And, to be fair to her, it's all useful knowledge, but entirely boring for anyone who isn’t Katniss and I. Maybe it’s a good thing to keep the audience’s attention off of us for a bit. After a while, Katniss starts reciprocating Rue’s facts with ones of her own, filling in the gaps of each other’s knowledge all while I scan the trees. 

The longer we walk, the better a picture of Rue's personality I get, now that she's sure that we're serious about sticking with her; she’s funny, and stubborn, and much more observant than I'd expect from someone her age. About a half hour into our walk, when the river starts curving north, Rue stops and singles out a pine tree a few yards out from the water's edge that's seen better years. The branches are notably sparse, the needles falling off in piles at its base, but outside of it clearly being the victim of a disease, it’s nothing remarkable. I have no idea what she's making a big deal about, and Katniss is trying to hide that she's losing her patience, but the way Rue's insisting makes me keep squinting at the tree to catch anything special. 

A minute or so later, when I'm just about to give up, I finally spot it. Around halfway up, right like Rue was saying—something round, as big as a hawk’s nest but without any of the telltale twigs and branches sticking every which way. We're too far away and the branches are blocking too much for me to properly see what color it is, but the longer I look at it, the more I have this funny feeling. A nervous feeling, my heart racing, like I've seen this kind of thing before and know that it means danger. Like I've run into them in the woods back home with Katniss, and we always make an effort to avoid them as much as we can, because they're not anything like normal ones…

“Tracker jackers,” I blurt out, without thinking. Katniss straightens up like she's been shocked, alert, and I rush to reassure her. “Not here. It's what Rue was pointing out. A tracker jacker nest in that tree.”

“They've been all over the place here,” adds Rue, who looks at us both in curiosity. “Do you not see them much in Twelve?”

Tracker jackers were one of the Capitol’s many muttation weapons they’d created during the rebellion, planting the nests all over the districts like biological landmines. Like the jabberjays – birds made with the uncanny ability to mimic human speech, they were mostly used to eavesdrop and record the rebels' plans before reporting back to the Capitol – they’d left behind the excess populations in the districts once the war was over, only destroying the nests closest to the Capitol city itself. Unlike the jabberjays being left to die in the wild, though, the tracker jacker nests being left in the districts was far more deliberate, a subtle reminder of the Capitol’s power. Jabberjays were left behind because the rebels figured out how to use them against their creators, feeding them false information and ultimately making their creation a failure; tracker jackers, having no real purpose outside of spreading fear and harm in the districts, were far more successful, earning them the privilege of getting to live.

The arena being full of tracker jacker nests isn’t exactly surprising with this in mind, and I’m glad Rue pointed it out, but it’s also a threat I’d rather not deal with. Wasps are already territorial enough, but tracker jackers take it to an extreme, chasing perceived threats to the point of relentlessly tracking them down, and not stopping until they’ve killed whatever they’ve targeted—hence the name of tracker jackers. It’s not a quick, painless death, either—the venom from their stingers is so notoriously toxic that full grown men can’t handle more than a few stings before their bodies give in and they die. For some, even one sting can be fatal, and for others the terror and hallucinations from the venom drive them insane. Every time Katniss and I have stumbled upon a nest in the woods, we’ve decided it’s better to avoid the area completely than take the risk, but it’s been a thankfully rare occurrence.

“No,” Katniss answers, shaking her head, right as my mind catches up to Rue’s casual manner. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that she was used to running into tracker jacker nests in her life. Bloodthirsty Peacekeepers, food scarcity even though they produce most of the stuff, tracker jacker nests being a common sight… the picture I'm getting of Eleven isn't the prettiest one. It's not like Twelve is much better, but something about the way Rue talks about her home district forces me to realize just how deep the Capitol's cruelty goes. I'm a little ashamed that I'm shocked about it, just like I’m ashamed that neither Katniss nor I noticed the nests before now—both things that were right under my nose, but I was too focused on surviving to even know they were there. 

“They left a lot of nests in the orchards where I work,” says Rue, when we’ve started walking again, and with much more caution than before. Now that she’s pointed it out, I keep finding tracker jacker nests wherever I look, even when I’m not trying to look for them. She was right; they really are everywhere here. “So we have to be careful, and carry plantain leaves for the stings.”

I don’t recognize the name of the plant she’s talking about, and something must clue Rue in on my confusion, because she makes a quick detour from our path to pluck off the broad leaves of an unassuming plant I would have otherwise overlooked. Maybe Katniss was right about me needing to work on my identification skills, back during training. Yet another plant to remember, another remedy easily found if you know where to look—it’s all a bit overwhelming. In front of us, Katniss makes a noise of recognition when she sees the leaves in Rue’s hands. “I remember seeing my mother use something like that once. Tracker jackers in Twelve are rare, though, so she doesn't have much need for them.”

“We should collect some more, just in case,” I say. Turning my attention to Rue, I add, “Lucky that we got an expert like you on our side, now,” and grin when she ducks her head, shy.

By the time the sun starts to lower beneath the tree line, we've gone far enough that the trees start to thin out. At one point, I feel exposed enough that I nearly call out to Katniss and Rue for us to turn back, but the need to see where the river concludes is too great. The rocks get bigger, grouped closer together, until it feels more like we're rock climbing than walking. When it starts getting too tiring to clamber our way over the rocks, Katniss stops, turning back to face us as we rest and recover our breath. 

“Do we care enough about what's up here?” Katniss puffs out, echoing my own doubts from before. I don’t answer her immediately, gulping down a good portion of my water instead, and the silence only lasts for a moment or two before Rue fills it.

“The lake is close, but it's guarded by the Careers,” she informs us, wiping the sweat off of her forehead with the back of her hand as she does. Her tone is casual enough that it takes me a moment to fully process her words, and when I do, I swing my head around to see Katniss regarding her with the same curiosity. 

“Really?” I ask, though I’m not really looking for a confirmation. I’d already assumed as much from the very beginning, which is why I looked for the river in the first place. It’s reassuring to know that I was right, at least. Besides, the reminder makes me think, my mind buzzing with information. Outside of us allying with Rue, and unless something spectacular happens in the few hours before sundown, it’s been relatively boring for the Capitol audience over the last day or so. And boring is the worst possible thing for the Games to be—the Gamemakers will be looking for a way to drive us tributes together soon, forcing us into fights. But if the Careers are already close by, combined with the nests Rue pointed out…

My eyes are following the river upstream until it disappears over the horizon line, only halfway conscious of what I’m saying as I continue to think. “Well, they can have it for now, at least. We need to find a place for the night.”

“Somewhere back in the forest,” Katniss adds, to Rue and I's ready approval. I suppose all three of us feel better with the cover of the trees over our heads. If we're moving faster making our way back than we did before, no one mentions it; once the shade of the leaves hits me, I finally feel like I can actually breathe.

Admittedly, I’m not doing a great job of looking for a place to stop as much as I am still thinking about my half-baked plan with the Careers. Katniss must sense how distracted I am, because after a few good minutes she throws a sharp glare my way. The guilt that washes over me in response is enough to force me to focus, at least.

She's the one who winds up spotting it in the end, anyway: an unassuming opening in the rock face of the riverbank, a good twenty yards or so away from the water's edge, where a tiny stream branches off of it and trails into the crevice. At first, I'm skeptical, especially considering I have to awkwardly hunch over to move around without hitting my head, but I’m surprised at how spacious it is. Not to mention the water, while basically just a steady trickle, is enough that we won't need to constantly refill from the river. 

“Nice catch, Ca-Katniss,” I comment, stumbling over my words to correct myself before the nickname slips out. It's not like it's a secret – I'm sure half of Twelve knows Katniss solely as Catnip because of me – but for some reason, it feels wrong to call her that with the cameras rolling. Like it's something the Capitol isn't allowed to see. She doesn't react besides raising an eyebrow at me, but whatever she sees in my face must convince her to not question it. 

“This place is perfect,” Rue agrees, pulling our attention back to the cave around us. It's just perfect enough that it's obvious the Gamemakers planted it here for tributes to use, but to be honest, I'm too tired from the previous few days to really care about the potential dangers of staying here. For now, it's safe, and with a little maneuvering, the entrance can be relatively hidden from sight from the river. To me, that's all that matters.

“Well, that settles it, then,” Katniss says to Rue, who promptly swings her pack off of her shoulders and plunks it onto the ground. 

As much as I want to avoid filling the space with smoke, it's too dark in the cave once the sun lowers enough, so I have to compromise by making a small fire with the driest wood we can find. It's not ideal, but it works, and the warmth is an added bonus. Katniss takes it as an opportunity to re-heat the rest of the groosling from earlier, and as we eat we make another inventory of our supplies, now that Rue is part of our alliance. 

The most impressive part of Rue's stash is, once again, just how many different types of plants she’s managed to collect over the small time we’ve been in the arena. I recognize some of them, between Katniss’s lessons and the edible plants station, but there are almost twice as many that I don’t. Neither does Katniss, apparently; she rolls a small, bluish berry between her fingers suspiciously, before asking, “You sure this is safe?”

Rue, for her part, doesn’t blink before stuffing a handful in her mouth as emphasis to her accompanying answer. “Oh, yes, we have them back home. I’ve mostly been eating these the past few days.”

Katniss and I share a wary look, but go to taste a few of the berries for ourselves. To my surprise, it’s sweet, a little tart, and while I prefer the blackberries back home, it’s definitely not bad. Best of all, none of us seem to be poisoned, which is the biggest concern with unfamiliar berries. Still, when we divide up the rest of our food between the three of us, I let Rue and Katniss take most of the berries for themselves. 

Outside of the food, Rue has her own small waterskin and a slingshot I suspect she made herself, along with an extra pair of socks and a jagged rock that serves as a knife. 

“I know it’s not a lot,” Rue rushes to say, almost seeming embarrassed to show us, “but I had to get away from the Cornucopia as fast as I could.”

“You did just right,” Katniss reassures her, while I pick up the slingshot and look it over more closely than before. 

It looks like it might have been one of the ready-made slingshot packs that sometimes show up in the Cornucopia supplies; the backpacks might have the elastic bands and leather pouch necessary to make a slingshot, but the tributes have to figure out something to use as a frame, not to mention figuring out how put it all together. Gamemakers like to include these “deconstructed” weapons in some Games as a way to showcase tribute's resourcefulness, or more often, present more of a challenge. For Rue, though, it seems like it wasn't much of a challenge at all. The branch Rue used for the frame has been carefully cleaned and trimmed of any rough edges, the bands attached to it with a careful hand to ensure that they don't get pulled too loose or too tight. When I draw it back to shoot a pebble across the cave, it's surprisingly powerful, hitting the far wall with a solid ping and leaving a sizable dent in the stone.

“You can do a lot of damage with this little thing,” I say appraisingly, before handing it back to Rue. “Did you make this?”

“I put it together,” she answers, ducking her head in the way I'm coming to recognize as her blushing. Looking over her head, my eyes meet Katniss’s; neither of us say anything, but after a moment Katniss’s lips turn upwards into a knowing smile, and I mirror her before we turn back to Rue.

“Well, for just putting it together, you did great,” I reply. She still doesn't meet my eyes, but at least I can see her grin to herself in pride, which is good enough for me. 

We've just finished dividing up our food supply when the trumpets blare outside, signaling the start of the daily recaps. There shouldn't be anything to show today, considering no one has died, but I still look up and toward the entrance of the cave out of instinct. From where I'm sitting, I can only see the very edge of the Capitol seal, but it's enough to confirm that no faces follow the seal, the broadcast unusually short before the anthem ends and the sky goes dark.

It stays quiet for a long moment after the recap ends, the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the nighttime animals outside filling the space. None of us want to say it, for fear of incurring the Gamemaker’s ingenuity, but I can see it on both Rue and Katniss's faces that they've also noticed the relative quiet of today. It isn't necessarily a problem yet – there’s still plenty of time for something to happen – but it also isn't something to ignore. Most importantly, the lack of any deaths reminds me of what I’d been so preoccupied with earlier. We'll need to discuss what our next moves are, anyway, so it's as good a moment to tell them as any. Not to mention that if I want any chance of it working, I'll need both her and Rue's full cooperation.

Taking a deep breath, I keep my voice light, adding another twig to the fire to avoid their eyes. “So. About the lake, and the Careers.”

“Yeah?” Katniss responds. She already sounds hesitant, like she’s caught on to what I’m doing, and I have to bite my tongue for a moment so I don’t let out an exasperated laugh. If nothing else, she knows my mannerisms just as well as I know hers—she probably figured out that I was planning something from the moment I hadn’t wanted to push forward and see the lake. Still, it’s not just the two of us now, and I want the cameras recording us to catch every second of what I’m saying now, too. 

“I have an idea of how to deal with them. And it involves those tracker jacker nests Rue pointed out.”