Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Once, there was a girl who could not be burned. The fire took her home, her family, even the hair from her head, but still she stood. People whispered that the flames loved her too much to let her go. Others said she had made a bargain with death. But me? I think some of us are just too stubborn to fall when the world tells us to.”

The children leaned closer, wide-eyed, their cheeks smudged with coal dust. A few coins clinked into the tin at Van’s feet, though most offered only crusts of bread or scraps of dried meat. She’d take anything.

“Of course,” she added, leaning in so the smallest boy in front could feel like she was speaking only to him, “stubbornness doesn’t save you from everything. Even the girl who could not be burned had to pay a price.”

Groans rippled through the circle — they wanted a happy ending, not another Seam tragedy dressed up as a fairy tale. Van gave them a crooked smile and swept her hand toward the tin. “Stories don’t fill themselves, you know.”

A few more coins dropped, along with a stale heel of bread. She tucked it quickly into her pocket. By tomorrow it would be hard as stone, but tonight it would soften in water and pass for dinner. That was life in Twelve — coal dust in your lungs, hunger in your stomach, and a story to carry you through both.

“Scaring children again?” came a familiar voice. Marcy Keene leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirk half-hidden beneath her tangled hair.

“Entertaining, not scaring,” Van shot back. “Though maybe if I told a story about you, they’d run home crying.”

The kids laughed, scattering as the clock tower bell tolled, low and heavy. Noon. Van’s chest tightened. One more hour until the Reaping.

“Alright, kids, that’s enough. Go home,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. Even children knew what was about to happen on the main street.

Her gaze flicked back to Marcy. A freshly shot rabbit dangled from her belt. “I see you still haven’t lost the taste for hunting on Reaping Day,” Van muttered. “Brave, with Peacekeepers on every corner.”

“And you still haven’t lost the taste for spinning stories to kids in exchange for their last piece of bread,” Marcy shot back, raising an eyebrow. A beat later, a faint smile tugged at her lips. They both knew where those scrappy kids really found their bread.

People here called them “mice.” Small, quiet, invisible—until you stepped on their tails. Children from the Seam survived any way they could: slipping into bakeries, lifting coins from distracted pockets on the merchant’s street. There wasn’t much in the way of fun in Twelve, so a story was worth even their last crust.

Van kicked at a loose stone, watching the kids scuttle away. “Do you… do you think anyone in your family was ever reaped?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Marcy shrugged, glancing down the street. “I dunno… maybe. Maybe not. Nobody really talks about it. You?”

Van chewed the inside of her cheek, twisting her fingers. “Don’t know. Palmer? I mean… maybe way back, someone had to go. Or maybe not. It’s hard to tell, records are so messed up.”

They paused, the quiet heavy around them. Then Marcy straightened, brushing dust from her sleeves. “See you at the Reaping,” she said, and without waiting for an answer, she turned and slipped down the street.

“Yeah… see you,” Van muttered, watching her disappear. Then she let her hands fall to her sides, staring at the main street, at the buildings worn black from coal smoke, at the people moving like shadows.

The streets was emptying, children scattering toward home, shopkeepers drawing shutters tight as if that could keep the day out. Van lingered a moment, her hand brushing the rim of the tin at her feet, the few coins and crumbs rattling inside. Not much, but enough to trade for a crust or two.

She walked the uneven cobblestones back toward the Seam. The smell of coal smoke grew stronger the closer she came, acrid and clinging, the same smell that soaked into every wall, every blanket, every breath.

Her house leaned against its neighbours, as tired as the people who lived inside. Van pushed the door open with her shoulder. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the sharp bite of liquor. Her mother sat slumped at the table, a bottle tipped against her arm, muttering in her sleep.

“Perfect,” Van whispered under her breath. She stepped past, gathering the heel of bread from her pocket, tearing it in half. She left a piece near her mother’s hand, though she doubted it would be eaten before it went stale again.

In her room—little more than a cot and a crate— Van pulled the old costume jacket from its hook and shrugged it on. The seams tugged in places, loose in others, the fabric stitched over so many times it was more patchwork than cloth. A plain shirt clung underneath, the collar worn soft, trousers patched at both knees. Her boots were cracked at the toes, laces replaced with rough twine, but they held together well enough. She tugged her hair back with a strip of faded cloth and glanced once at her reflection in the window. Not neat, not fine — but presentable. The Capitol cameras would see a Seam girl in a patched costume, standing straight. That would have to do.

Van sat cross-legged, chewing slowly on her share, letting her eyes close for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the district beyond her window. When the bell tolled again, it rattled the glass in the window. Van opened her eyes, heart skipping, and pushed herself to her feet. She straightened her collar, brushed dust from her hands. Her mother hadn’t stirred.

“Guess it’s just me then,” she muttered.

Outside, the streets flowed with people, all heading the same direction. Van fell into step among them, shoulders brushing against neighbours, friends, strangers, all silent. No one needed to speak. The square was waiting.

“Van!” a voice called, and she turned to see Marcy hurrying to catch up. Her patched dress clung unevenly to her frame, seams tugging at the shoulders where it had been mended again and again. She had smoothed her hair back with water, but a few stubborn strands curled loose around her face. “You could’ve waited for me,” Marcy muttered, nudging her shoulder when she reached her.

Van shrugged. “Didn’t know you’d want the company.”

They walked together, boots scuffing on the cobblestones, the silence heavy around them. Ahead, the square loomed—blackened buildings pressed close around its edges, the Justice Building rising at the far end like a block of stone. People were already being herded into lines: children sorted by age, adults pushed to the edges, Peacekeepers standing stiff at every corner.

Van’s gaze drifted, unfocused, and a memory slipped in without her asking. She’d been thirteen, maybe fourteen, when she first met Marcy—sitting on the steps outside the bakery with a swollen lip and empty hands. Van had stopped, not because she was kind, but because she was curious.

“What happened?” she’d asked.

“Stole a roll,” Marcy had muttered through bloodied teeth. “Got caught.”

Instead of walking away, Van had dropped a story on her—about a mouse who tricked a cat into thinking it was a lion. Marcy had laughed, even through her split lip. After that, she stuck around, sometimes bringing scraps, sometimes bringing silence, but always listening.

Now, years later, Marcy was still at her side, smirk half-hidden, eyes giving her away. They weren’t best friends, not like sisters, but they’d carved out a space for each other in a place that didn’t leave much room for attachments.

The crowd in the square pressed tighter as the Peacekeepers barked orders, forcing children into neat rows. Van swallowed, the memory fading as the present pulled sharp around her. She and Marcy slipped into place, side by side.

The square was quiet at first, a low hum of whispers running through the Seam children pressed into their rows. Then the bell rang, sharp and heavy, cutting the noise clean away. Van shifted on her feet, fingers tapping lightly against her patched jacket. Not scared—not exactly—but her gut tightened in that way it always did before the Reaping.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the square, bright and metallic. “Welcome, citizens of District 12, to the 100th Annual Hunger Games and the 4th Quarter Quell!” He paused, letting the words hang like a blade. “This year, we honour our Legacy. Two tributes per district, selected from those with… family history in previous Games.”

Two tributes. Legacy. Van’s eyes flicked to the single black cup at the center of the stage. One cup. All names. Girls, boys, winners, unknowns—mixed together. Anyone could be called.

The announcer smiled for the cameras. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!”

A hand dipped into the cup. Van’s stomach twisted, and for a heartbeat she dared to hope it wouldn’t be her.

Then the voice cut through the square:

“Vanessa Palmer.”

Chapter Text

The words hit her like a stone in the chest. Her legs moved before her brain could catch up, carrying her out of the line and into the open. The crowd blurred, a wash of faces and shadows, the weight of their stares pressing down.

Fear struck then, sharp and electric. This wasn’t a story, not some tale she could spin and end with a crooked smile. This was real. The Games. Death waiting just beyond the square. Her throat tightened. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but she couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop walking toward the stage.

She wanted to scream, to bolt, to vanish into the black streets of the Seam. But instead, her legs carried her forward. Every step was heavier than the last, each heartbeat thundering in her ears. She was chosen. And for the first time, she felt the raw, cold truth of what that meant: she would fight to survive… or die trying.

At last she reached the stage, forcing herself to meet the announcer’s eyes, giving a curt nod. The cameras followed her every movement, the crowd’s murmur rising and falling like wind in the coal shafts. Not small. Not invisible. But not invincible. And that realisation—that gnawing, hollow certainty of what awaited her—made her stomach twist harder than anything she had ever felt.

Van let her hands fall to her sides, breathing shallow, trying to steady her racing heart. The world felt unreal—faces blurring, voices muffled, the stage tilting just slightly beneath her. She could see families clutching children, mothers holding their sons’ hands, fathers standing straight, stern—but then her gaze flicked past them all, searching.

Her mother wasn’t here. Of course not. She’s probably still passed out, curled over a bottle, oblivious. But now the thought struck harder: her mother didn’t even know. Didn’t know that her daughter’s name had been drawn. Didn’t know that Van was about to be sent into the Games.

A hollow knot formed in Van’s chest. The stage felt taller, the crowd louder, and the cameras heavier as if every lens could see straight into her thoughts. The rehearsed calm she had held walking onto the stage wavered. No one was here for her. No one would be waiting for her when she comes back. If she comes back.

She pressed her fingers against her thighs, breathing shallow, letting the anger and emptiness settle into her bones. Alone. That was the word she circled in her mind, over and over. Alone in front of the Capitol, alone facing the Games, alone with the knowledge that the one person who should care didn’t even know.

And yet, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. Cameras or no cameras, the world or her mother’s absence, she was still Van Palmer. She had been called. Chosen. And she would have to face it.

“Magnificent! Let us continue our celebration!” the announcer cried, his grin stretching wide for the cameras. To Van, that smile was repulsive, grotesque against the weight of what was unfolding.

His hand dipped into the black cup once more, fingers swirling, then plucking a single slip of parchment with practiced ease. Van’s mind roared with questions, a storm of thoughts battering her: Who would it be? Who would be dragged with her into this death march?

The paper unfolded with a crisp snap. He cleared his throat and proclaimed, his voice bright and merciless:

“Natalie Scatorccio!”

In that instant, time seemed to fracture. The crowd shifted like a tide, parting to reveal the girl whose name had been called. Her pale, almost bleached hair gleamed starkly against the gray sea of coal-dusted faces, making her stand out in painful clarity.

Van’s gaze locked onto her. She read the disbelief carved across Natalie’s features, the way her wide eyes stared ahead as though the world had hollowed out beneath her feet. For a heartbeat, Natalie didn’t move—frozen, suspended in the moment—until her body obeyed before her mind, carrying her step by step toward the stage.

“Come now, no need to be shy!” the announcer trilled, his voice almost giddy with delight.

The words rang cruel, mocking, as Natalie’s slow ascent turned into a walk that felt mechanical, almost puppet-like, every movement betrayed by the rigid set of her shoulders.

When Natalie mounted the stage, her gaze lifted from the floor and locked with Van’s. It lasted only a heartbeat—a flicker of recognition, of something unspoken—before she turned away, facing the crowd with her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

Her jacket hung loose at the shoulders, patches visible where the seams had split. Beneath it, a plain blouse peeked through, the collar refusing to lie flat. Her skirt was dark and practical, the hem uneven from repeated mending. Scuffed boots, laces replaced with twine, grounded her to the stage as firmly as chains. She hadn’t dressed to impress the Capitol. She looked as though she couldn’t care less what they thought.

“And here they are, our tributes from District Twelve!” the announcer declared, arms flung wide toward the girls as though unveiling prizes at a fair. His smile glittered under the harsh midday sun. “Come now, let’s see a handshake!”

Van stood opposite Natalie, slowly reaching out her hand. Natalie caught it and squeezed, hard enough to make sure Van felt it.

For a heartbeat, the present melted away. The handshake on the stage, the polished lights, the cameras—all vanished. All that remained was the memory: little Natalie holding out her hand, a silent challenge, a spark of something unbreakable. Van felt the weight of that moment crash over her, overwhelming and vivid, every detail of the past bleeding into the present.

The flashback hit her like a wave, sudden and unrelenting. They had met years ago, both too young to carry the kind of weight the Seam pressed onto its children. All Van could see was that small, fierce version of Natalie—the girl crouched by the slag heaps, hair wild and dark, eyes sharp and unafraid, blazing with the same stubborn defiance that had startled Van all those years ago.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Van had said.

“Neither should you,” Natalie had shot back.

From that day on, they hadn’t been apart. They stole what little they could together—crusts from the market stalls, apples bruised enough to go unnoticed, scraps too small for anyone else to bother with. They shared secrets in the woods, voices hushed as though the trees themselves might be listening. In the evenings, when the streets grew quiet, they whispered about the lives they wished they could have, about the places beyond the Seam that neither of them had ever seen.

There had been laughter, too—real laughter, sharp and breathless, the kind that made the hunger and the fear fall away, if only for a while. They made up stories out of shadows, dared each other into reckless games, stitched together a kind of childhood from scraps of imagination.

And when the nights grew colder, when the weight of their homes pressed too heavily on their shoulders, they made promises to each other—promises that felt stronger than blood. That they would never turn away. That they would always find each other in the dark. That nothing, not even the Seam itself, could break them apart.

“Best friends forever!” little Natalie had cried once, hair spilling over her shoulders as she thrust her hand toward Van. Her voice had rung with absolute certainty, as though saying it aloud could bend the world into keeping it true.

Van had laughed, shaking their clasped hands until their arms ached. “Best friends forever!” she echoed, before bolting into the trees with a shout of, “Catch me if you can!”

They had raced through the undergrowth, lungs burning, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. Back then, the woods had belonged to them alone, their secret kingdom where nothing and no one could touch them.

It had felt unbreakable. Eternal.

Now, standing on the stage with the cameras watching, Van felt the ghost of that oath settle heavy in her chest. She looked at Natalie—not the girl from the woods, but the girl beside her now, hardened, changed, no longer her friend. And yet the memory of what they had been clung stubbornly, refusing to let go.

A moment later their hands slipped apart, and Van stepped back just as the anthem began to play. It felt strange. She had watched this ceremony year after year, had grown used to the rhythm of it. But now, standing on the stage as a tribute herself—it was different. It was wrong.

When the anthem ended, Peacekeepers moved in, leading them toward the Justice Building and separating them for the final goodbyes. Neither Van nor Natalie had family waiting.

Minutes dragged on. No knock at the door. No one for her. Van had almost convinced herself it was over, that she would be taken straight to the train, when the latch clicked and a voice carried in.

“Marcy Keene.”

The door opened just enough to reveal a head of dark hair Van knew at once. She crossed the room in an instant, wrapping her arms tightly around Marcy. To her surprise, Marcy didn’t pull away. For once, she didn’t make a joke, didn’t deflect. She only held on, as if she knew what Van needed—and deep down, needed it too.

“You’re alright,” Marcy whispered, fingers threading through Van’s fiery hair. Not a question. An affirmation. A fragile promise.

They pulled back at last, and Marcy managed a strained smile. “You’re clever. You know how to set traps… remember the times we hunted together?”

“I do,” Van said on a breath, her brow furrowed. “It’s not so hard. I can get food. I’ll manage.” The words weren’t for Marcy—they were for herself.

Silence stretched, heavy, until a Peacekeeper appeared in the doorway, reminding them that time was over.

“Just… try to win, alright?” Marcy said quickly, clutching Van’s hands one last time. Her face twisted as if it hurt just to look at her. She pressed a quick kiss to Van’s cheek, then finally let go.

“Goodbye,” Van whispered, before the Peacekeeper pulled her away.

Back in the corridor, she was led straight toward the platform. Outside, the train waited, and under its shadow stood Natalie, already under guard, her gaze fixed on the ground, her expression empty.

Reporters swarmed the platform, cameras trained on their faces, hungry for every flicker of fear. Van forced herself to hold steady, locking her jaw, refusing to give the Capitol the satisfaction of feeding on her emotions.

Just before boarding, her gaze flicked toward Natalie—and in that instant, she caught something in her eyes. A flash of defiance, raw and reckless. It came the very moment Natalie stepped in front of the nearest lens, raised her hands high, and flashed both middle fingers square at the cameras. But just before she turned away, her gaze darted to Van, a spark there that felt less like rage and more like a reminder: we’re in this together, whether we want to be or not.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A Peacekeeper lunged, seizing her wrist, shoving her hard toward the train. Van followed next, swallowed by the same iron grip. They were escorted down the corridor and split off into private compartments. The door shut behind Van, leaving her alone in silence.

The cabin was unlike anything she had ever seen. Velvet seats, polished wood, glass gleaming in the pale light. Luxury, real and impossible. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, unable to settle, drinking in the abundance like it might vanish if she blinked.

She stripped off her patched jacket and worn clothes, dropping them in a heap on the carpet. The bathroom beyond beckoned with marble and steam. When she turned the handle, hot water burst to life—a miracle. She stepped under the spray, letting it scald her skin, the heat sinking deep into her bones. She stayed there until time blurred, until her breath rose in clouds, until she could almost forget where the train was taking her.

At last, she shut it off, wrapping herself in a towel, her hair clinging damp to her neck. From the wardrobe she pulled a simple set—plain trousers, a long-sleeved shirt. Not Capitol finery, not sequins or silk. Just something she could move in. Something that felt like her.

She left her compartment and made her way into the shared lounge.

Natalie was already there, back turned, shoulders squared against the glow of the lights. Glass clinked against glass, and when Van’s eyes adjusted she caught sight of what Natalie was pouring—liquor, amber and heavy.

Van said nothing. She only lowered herself into one of the armchairs, watching quietly as Natalie finally turned and dropped into the seat across from her. The blonde hadn’t changed out of her reaping clothes. Her patched jacket still hung loose at the shoulders, the hem of her skirt still frayed, boots still dusted from the Seam.

“Have you ever seen him? Our mentor?” Van asked at last, breaking the silence that had stretched too long. The only other sound had been the slow tilt of the glass and the swallow that followed.

Natalie only shrugged, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room, unfocused, as though she’d stepped outside her own body. She didn’t look at Van. She didn’t look at anything.

Van opened her mouth to press again, but the soft hiss of the automatic door cut her off. Footsteps followed—heavy, uneven, dragging just enough to betray the man behind them.

Van turned toward the sound of footsteps and saw the victor of the 85th Hunger Games—Ben Scott. He had lost a leg during the final battle, and since then relied on crutches to move. It wasn’t a choice; complications had made prosthetics impossible, even for the Capitol’s finest surgeons.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sinking into a chair with a heavy sigh. Only at that moment did Natalie seem to register his presence.

“Legacy…” he began, lifting a notebook from his lap and flipping to a marked page. His eyes met Van’s. “I thought you might be interested in knowing your history. This is what I could find.”

He opened the page fully. “Your ancestor participated in the Games between ‘45 and ‘55. Records are messy, the ones who fell early… they’re rarely recorded anywhere. And maybe it’s the reason you’re here,” He gave Van a guilt-laden look, then shifted his gaze to Natalie. “As for your legacy…”

“I don’t care,” Natalie snapped, springing from her chair and grabbing the bottle of liquor with her. She stormed from the room, leaving silence in her wake.

Van watched Natalie disappear into the hallway, then let her gaze drift across the room. The Capitol had made an enormous show of this year—the hundredth Hunger Games. Everyone was talking about the “Legacy Tribute” rule, though no one really understood it. Two tributes from each district. Always two. But who would be chosen? Who counted as “legacy”?

Some said the Capitol looked back at families, at past champions, at anyone who had left a mark in previous Games. Some said it was random, just the Capitol playing with odds. And in District 12… well, they weren’t anyone. Their families had no champions, no records worth noting. Or at least, that was what Van thought. No one really remembered the ones who didn’t win. Only the victors. And in District 12, there were only a couple. That was the truth. Everyone else—just shadows, forgotten as quickly as they were chosen.

Her thoughts wandered to the other districts, imagining how they would line up, how the crowd would scream, how the cameras would capture every face. This year wasn’t just about survival—it was about history, spectacle, and fear. The Capitol wanted to showcase the 100th Games. Two tributes per district, emotional connections, family lines, rivalries… all of it twisted into a story for them. And for Van? They were just part of that story, whether they liked it or not.

Chapter Text

Van returned to her compartment; there was still an hour before dinner. Ben had advised her to rest until then—and later, when Natalie’s temper cooled, to try speaking with her about the Games.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, only to notice something at once: the clothes she had left in a heap on the floor were gone. The sight struck her with a sharp, unexpected ache. The garments had been little more than rags—patched, fraying—yet they had been hers. The last piece of home she carried. And now even that was gone, whisked away as if it were something shameful, something unfit for the Capitol’s train.

Home.

She had forbidden herself to think of it ever since her name was called, but now the thoughts surged, unstoppable. Had some pitying neighbour gone to the Palmer house, only to find Vicky Palmer slumped over the kitchen table, passed out in her usual pose, an empty bottle her only companion? Most likely.

And if her mother did know? How would she react? Would she cry? Would she feel even a flicker of regret for never being the mother her daughter needed? Van couldn’t picture it. She couldn’t imagine Vicky Palmer shedding tears for anyone but herself.

Her mother had started drinking after Van’s father died. He was crushed in the mines when she was seven. He hadn’t been a perfect man—there were no glowing memories to hold onto—but his death was still a loss, a hollow absence that settled like coal dust over everything. For Vicky Palmer, it was the breaking point. That was the first time she reached for a bottle.

Not long after, she lost her job at the market. Kicked out, not simply dismissed. The merchants had dragged her into the street, slurring and staggering, and told her never to come back. From then on, Van had to find ways to feed herself.

She remembered how Natalie used to sneak food to her, even though her own family barely had enough. For that, Natalie took the blows. Her father would shout, spit-flecked and red-faced, his voice rattling the walls: “Do you know how hard I work to put food on this table, and you give it away to some street mutt? You’re useless!” Sometimes he hit her too. And on those nights, when the bruises burned and the house felt colder than the Seam itself, Natalie would slip into Van’s, curling up on her small bed just to escape.

It was a twisted kind of mercy. Van had nothing to give, yet she could offer Natalie what she needed most: a place where no one shouted, no one raised a hand, no one demanded she be anything more than a frightened girl with nowhere else to go.

The thought hollowed her out. The bed beneath her felt too soft, the room too clean, the silence too heavy. For the first time since stepping on the stage, Van felt the full weight of what she had lost—not just freedom, not just safety, but the faint, impossible hope that someone, somewhere, might be waiting for her to come home.

A knock at the door pulled Van from her thoughts. She dragged her hands through her hair, steadying herself. Dinner time.

She followed the corridor into the shared lounge, where a table groaned beneath dishes of rich food. Natalie hadn’t arrived yet; the room held only the escort—his name still a mystery to Van—and Ben, who stood at the window, watching the landscape blur past.

Van slipped her hands into her sleeves and lowered herself into a chair. Her eyes darted over the spread, unable to settle. There was too much of everything—meats glistening with fat, baskets of bread still steaming, fruits she had never tasted. Her hunger twisted in her stomach, but more than that was the shock of it. A lifetime of scarcity had trained her to keep count of every crumb, and now she sat in front of abundance so obscene it almost hurt to look at.

The silence stretched as Van finally reached for a piece of bread, tearing off the edge and dipping it into the bowl of thick stew. Ben shifted from the window and lowered himself into the seat across from her, moving carefully with his crutches. He didn’t touch the food.

The escort, all bright eyes and too-white teeth, broke the quiet. “So! District Twelve, my shining stars.” His voice was warm, rehearsed, every syllable shaped for the cameras. “I suppose introductions are in order. You may call me Cassian.”

Van swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Cassian,” she repeated, tasting the name. It felt foreign in her mouth.

The door slid open behind them with a hiss. Natalie stepped in, her hair slightly damp as if she’d only just washed it, though her patched clothes still clung to her frame. Without a word, she dropped into a chair, reached across the table, and filled her glass to the brim with wine.

Cassian’s smile wavered, his carefully polished cheer flickering for a moment. He glanced at Ben as if for guidance, then back at Natalie. “Well—ah—that’s… bold,” he said, the Capitol lilt straining at the edges. “Most tributes don’t… indulge this early, but—well! To each their own, hm?”

Natalie downed half the glass in one gulp, her eyes never leaving Cassian’s. Van caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the desperate struggle to keep his composure. She almost smiled. Almost.

Cassian quickly lifted his own glass, rallying. “To history in the making,” he declared brightly.

Ben’s jaw tightened. He didn’t raise his glass.

Natalie refilled hers without a word.

Van didn’t touch her glass. She let the Capitol’s empty toast dissolve into silence, then shifted her gaze across the table, meeting Ben’s gaze. Cassian’s smile looked carved into place, desperate not to crack.

“How are we supposed to… do this?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady. “The Games. What do we even start with?”

For a long moment, Ben didn’t answer. He sat hunched forward, crutches leaning against the chair, his hands folded together as though he could squeeze the weight of his memories into something small enough to hold. Finally, he spoke, voice low.

“You survive the first day. That’s it. Don’t think about the rest until you’ve made it past the bloodbath.” His gaze flicked between them, lingering on Natalie before returning to Van. “Run if you can. Fight only if you have to. And don’t—” he hesitated, his mouth pulling into a grim line, “—don’t trust too easily.” His gaze drifted for just a moment, as if caught on a memory too heavy to name. When it snapped back to them, the steel in his eyes looked older, weathered, and Van suddenly wondered who he had once trusted—and lost.

The silence that followed pressed heavy on the table. Van nodded slowly, chewing over his words, while across from her Natalie tipped her glass back again.

Van leaned forward slightly. “Nat,” she said, softer this time, almost a plea. “You heard him. We have to—”

Natalie cut her off with a sharp laugh, bitter and humourless. “We have to what? Work together? Play nice?” She finally lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Van. There was fire there, but not the kind that warmed—it seared. “You do what you want, Palmer. I’ll do what I want.”

Something in Van’s chest sank. She studied the girl across from her—the same girl who had once slept on her bed to escape her father’s shouting, who had once shared crusts of bread without hesitation. Now she was drowning herself in Capitol wine, spitting back any scrap of help offered.

“You haven’t changed,” Van said at last. The words came out low, disappointed, heavier than she meant them to. Not an accusation. Not quite. But close.

Natalie’s eyes flicked up, just for a heartbeat, before dropping back to her glass. “Why would I?”

“There are clothes in your room,” Van pressed, her voice tight, almost stubborn. “Better than those.”

Natalie gave a crooked smile, all edges and no warmth. “Better? Or just cleaner? You really think it matters what I wear when they’re going to kill us anyway?”

Van’s fingers curled against her knees. She wanted to argue—to tell her it mattered, that in the Games everything mattered, every glance, every detail, every chance at a sponsor. But the words stuck in her throat. All she managed was: “It’s not the same as home.”

Natalie tilted her glass, swirling the red liquid so it caught the light. Her smile turned sharp. “No. It’s worse.”

The laugh that followed was short, cutting, the sound bouncing off the polished walls. It wasn’t loud, but it hollowed out the air, left Van colder than silence ever had. The sharp edge of Natalie’s laugh still hung in the air when Ben cleared his throat.

“Enough,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his tone. Both girls turned to him. “Listen. I don’t care how angry you are, how much you hate this, or each other. That doesn’t matter once you’re in the arena. Nothing else matters except staying alive.”

Ben leaned forward slightly, crutches braced beside his chair. “After the first day, the Games become about more than just survival. Observe everything—the terrain, the movements of other tributes, even the traps they leave behind. Look for resources you can use: water, shelter, food that others overlook.”

His voice was steady, practiced. But as he spoke, his hand tightened on the edge of the table until his knuckles blanched. For a moment, his gaze wasn’t on them—it was somewhere else, fixed on a memory he couldn’t shake. When he looked back, the lines around his eyes seemed deeper, carved by something older than hunger or exhaustion.

“And sponsors—if you want them, you earn them,” he continued, softer now. “Not by flashy displays, but by being useful, visible in ways that make them notice you without painting a target on your back.”

Van nodded slowly, absorbing each word. “And… what about strategy? How do we make it through without… without getting caught in the middle?”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “You adapt. You watch. You wait. And you make decisions based on what’s right in that moment, not what you think should happen. The arena doesn’t care about planning. It cares about what you do when the unexpected hits.”

Van nodded slowly, absorbing each word.

Natalie, who had been swirling her wine in silence, lifted her gaze to Ben. “And if someone’s making the same calculations as us?” she asked, voice low but sharp. “Do we avoid them? Or use it to our advantage?”

Ben’s eyes flicked to her, a shadow of a smile crossing his face. “You’ll know when the time comes. Timing and observation matter more than brute strength here. And you,” he added, nodding slightly at Van, “don’t forget that.”

For a moment, Van felt a flicker of surprise. Natalie, who had been sharp and distant, had just reacted to something—a word from Ben, a suggestion about the arena, a piece of strategy—and for the first time, she spoke normally, her voice even, controlled.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the shift was enough to catch Van off guard. The girl wasn’t just defiant or bitter; she was thinking, planning, testing the waters. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of the table, calculating.

Van realised then that Natalie wasn’t just reacting—she was already moving, in her own way, trying to figure out how to protect herself, how to act when the Games began. That thought made Van’s chest tighten, a mix of unease and grudging respect. Natalie might be unpredictable, but she was dangerous in a way that demanded attention.

Natalie tipped her glass back, but for a moment her eyes lingered on Ben’s crutch. Something unreadable flickered there—pity? respect?—before she buried it with another gulp of wine.

Finally, Cassian cleared his throat, stepping forward with a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, ladies, it seems we’ve already covered the basics,” he said, voice light, almost teasing. “But the Capitol does enjoy a few… finer points. Timing, presentation, how you make yourself look appealing to sponsors without looking desperate. Think of it as… performance.”

Natalie lifted her glass, swirling it with an air of mock ceremony. “So, smile, wave, wink a little,” she said, voice teasing but precise, as if testing Cassian’s reaction.

Van glanced at her, frowning slightly. “It’s not just a performance. They’re watching for more than charm. It’s—strategy.”

Natalie leaned back, studying Van with a raised eyebrow. “Strategy, huh? And what’s your strategy, Palmer? Pretend you like them while quietly hoarding all the good bread?”

Van felt a flicker of amusement despite herself. “Better than drinking it all before anyone notices,” she muttered.

Cassian cleared his throat, a little sharper this time, reminding them of his presence. “Dinner is nearly over,” he said. “Rest well. The Games are coming, and preparation is everything.”

Natalie set her glass down with a soft clink, the liquid inside barely touched now. Without a word, she pushed her chair back and stood. Her patched clothes looked out of place against the Capitol’s polished luxury, but she carried herself like she didn’t notice, like she didn’t care. She didn’t spare Van or Cassian another glance as she slipped out of the dining car, the hiss of the automatic door swallowing her departure.

Silence lingered for a moment before Ben shifted in his seat, gathering his crutches with a weary motion. He rose carefully, steadying himself, then looked at Van. “Get some rest,” he said simply, voice quiet but carrying the weight of finality. He gave her the smallest nod before moving toward the door. Cassian followed soon after, all bright cheer and empty politeness, leaving Van alone at the table.

She stared down at her plate, the untouched food cooling, her appetite long gone. The train hummed beneath her, steady and unstoppable, carrying her farther from home with every mile. She tried to picture the Capitol—the lights, the noise, the crowds—but all she could see was the Seam and her mother slumped over a bottle, unaware that her daughter’s name had been called.

Van pressed her palms together tightly, grounding herself in the silence. The Games were still days away. Training, strategy, sponsors—all of that waited ahead. But tonight, all she could think about was how quickly the world had shifted, how suddenly her life no longer belonged to her.

For the first time, she wondered if it ever had.

Chapter Text

Van had fallen asleep almost as soon as she lay down, exhaustion pressing her into the mattress like a stone into the earth. The train’s constant hum was strangely soothing, the rhythm of the tracks lulling her despite the chaos of her thoughts.

But sleep wasn’t kind. Dreams came in fragments—faces from the Seam blurred with strangers, the hiss of the Reaping bell bleeding into the sharp crack of a gun, her mother’s silhouette slumped at the kitchen table. She stirred restlessly, twisting beneath the sheets, until—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her eyes flew open. For a moment she couldn’t place where she was—the polished wood, the velvet curtains, the softness of the bed all felt foreign. Then the door slid open without waiting for her answer, and Cassian swept in, a smile already plastered across his too-perfect face.

“Wake up, my star!” he sang, his voice bright and airy, as if they weren’t on their way to parade themselves for a Capitol hungry for blood. “Big day ahead, and we simply must prepare. We’re nearly there, can you feel it? The Capitol is waiting.”

Van pushed herself upright, dragging a hand down her face. Her eyes felt heavy, her chest heavier. She wanted to say no, she couldn’t feel it at all—only the train rumbling beneath her, carrying her farther and farther from everything she knew.

Instead she muttered, “I feel it,” though the words tasted strange, half-truth and half-lie.

Cassian clapped his hands as though she’d said something marvellous. “Splendid! Breakfast in the lounge in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late—presentation, presentation, presentation!” He fluttered out as quickly as he’d entered, leaving Van in silence again.

She sat there a moment longer, staring at the clothes folded neatly by the door. They weren’t hers. Nothing in this room was hers. Van drew her knees to her chest, pressing her forehead against them. The Capitol might call her a star, polish her, dress her, parade her—but all she could think was that they hadn’t seen her yet. Not really. And when they did, she wasn’t sure which would frighten her more: their approval, or their indifference.

Her arms tightened around her legs, forehead pressed against her knees, as if curling herself small enough might make the weight in her chest easier to bear. For a while she stayed like that, listening to the steady hum of the train.

Then, slowly, she lifted her head and turned toward the window. The world outside blurred past in streaks of green and grey. Trees stretched tall against the sky, their branches clawing upward as if trying to reach something they’d never touch. Farther off, mountains rose dark and steady, unmoving no matter how quickly the train cut across the land.

Her chest tightened. Back home, she’d walked those ridges with Marcy, setting snares where the underbrush grew thick, following rabbit tracks through the snow. She wondered if Marcy was in the woods now, carrying the same bow, listening to the same wind. Or maybe she was in the Seam, watching her mother with those sharp, careful eyes that always seemed older than her years.

She wondered what Marcy had thought in that moment — if she’d understood what it meant, if she’d already started mourning her. The hug had been brief, but Van had felt Marcy’s heartbeat racing as though it were her own. She hadn’t wanted to let go.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, following the blur of trees until they vanished behind the train. District Twelve was gone, swallowed up by distance, and all that was left of it lived in scraps inside her—coal dust, patched clothes, Marcy’s stubborn loyalty.

Van closed her eyes. She didn’t know if those memories would help her in the days ahead, or if they would only break her further. But she clung to them anyway, because they were hers. The Capitol could strip away her jacket, her boots, even her name, but it couldn’t erase the way the mountains looked when the sun slipped behind them, or the way Marcy’s voice had trembled when she whispered goodbye.

Van sat still a while longer, then pushed herself up from the bed. The Capitol clothes she’d worn yesterday lay folded on a chair. Plain compared to the extravagant fabrics she knew awaited in the city, but softer than anything she’d ever owned. She pulled them on without much care, fastening the sleeves clumsily, then rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stepped into the corridor.

The scent of food met her first—warm bread, fruit, something roasted and rich. By the time she entered the lounge, the others were already there.

Natalie was already seated, picking up a fork with deliberate care. She ate slowly, methodically, taking enough to fill her, savouring each bite without greed, her posture relaxed but alert.

Ben sat across, calm and encouraging, his eyes following the girls as they ate. “Take your time,” he said softly to Van. “Eat enough to feel full. Don’t rush, but don’t hold back either. You’ll need every bit of strength you can get.”

Van nodded and began to eat more steadily. She filled her plate generously, appreciating the rhythm of it—cutting a slice of bread, spreading a little jam, picking up a piece of fruit, chewing deliberately. The food didn’t feel luxurious; it felt necessary, grounding.

Natalie glanced at her once, a faint half-smile tugging at her lips before she returned to her meal. Ben’s presence, quiet and steady, made the space feel safe, a rare relief amidst the anxiety building for what lay ahead.

For the first time since leaving District Twelve, Van allowed herself to focus on something simple: filling her stomach, letting the warmth of the food remind her that she was alive. Slowly, methodically, she ate, learning to trust that this—this small act—was part of surviving.

Cassian leaned slightly forward, hands resting on the table, his smile carefully practiced. “Today is the first true step of your journey,” he said, voice bright and controlled. “The Capitol, cameras, reporters—it’s all part of the parade. Dazzling, overwhelming, perhaps. But it’s your chance to make an impression. To be seen. To be remembered.”

Van picked at her toast, trying to process the words without letting herself tighten again. Impressions, cameras, parades—those were luxuries the Seam had never offered, and yet, here it was, pressed into her life like something she had to master.

Natalie’s eyes, dark and alert, flicked toward the small holoscreen embedded in the corner of the lounge. The feed flickered on, the familiar Capitol blue tint washing over the room. “Oh,” she muttered, not moving from her seat.

The screen replayed the Reaping. Clips of the square, the crowd, the solemn names being called. District by district, the tributes appeared—each face framed by the bright, sterile light of the Capitol cameras.

The announcer cleared his throat, voice booming across the stage. “From District One…” he said, letting the words carry. “…the Jewellery and Luxury district,” he continued, sweeping his gaze over the audience. “Lottie Matthews…” he announced, pausing just long enough for the name to resonate, “…and Laura Lee!”

Lottie Matthews stepped forward first, tall and composed. Her posture was perfect, almost practiced—shoulders back, chin lifted, eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and performance. Even from this distance, Van could see the way she smiled, carefully, measured, as though aware of every camera and every spectator. There was a confidence that felt trained, deliberate, and Van couldn’t help but notice it with a mixture of awe and unease.

“Lottie Matthews,” Ben said, his voice heavy with gravity, “the mayor’s daughter, volunteered to show what true legacy looks like.” He let out a long, measured sigh, his eyes lingering on the screen with a quiet weight of regret.

Next to her, Laura Lee moved differently—nervous, small gestures betraying her tension. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, and Van caught the faint tremor in her voice when the announcer spoke. Unlike Lottie, Laura Lee seemed aware of the cameras but unable to fully control the anxiety spilling from her posture.

District 1 always had that polish, that smoothness—they had wealth, training, practice. Even without knowing the girls personally, Van could feel the contrast between them and the tributes from the Seam: practiced confidence versus survival instinct, presentation versus grit.

Natalie shifted slightly beside her, eyes narrowing. She studied Lottie and Laura Lee the way a player studies a rival on a chessboard, noting their stance, their subtle tells. Van followed her gaze, realising that Natalie wasn’t just looking—she was already calculating, quietly measuring what advantage, what weakness, might be gleaned from this first glimpse.

Van let her own eyes linger on Lottie’s precise movements, the subtle elegance of her gestures. She felt the weight of the Capitol’s scrutiny pressing down even through the screen. The parade of tributes wasn’t just spectacle—it was a test, a performance meant to display strength, control, and appeal.

Even though District 1’s girls seemed flawless, Van knew the truth of Panem: beneath the polish, everyone had fear. Everyone had weaknesses. She forced herself to remember that as she watched, letting the image of Lottie Matthews imprint in her mind—not just as a competitor, but as a reminder of the stakes waiting ahead.

He raised his voice slightly, then moved to the next district. “From District Two…” the announcer said, “…the Masonry and Weapons Manufacturing district,” he continued, his tone measured and commanding. “Taissa Turner and Allie Stevens!”

Taissa Turner didn’t move so much as occupy the space. Every muscle in her body was taut, coiled like a spring. She scanned the audience with cold, calculating eyes, taking in the lights, the cameras, the Capitol observers, and Van felt that gaze reach through the screen. It was the kind of presence that made the world seem smaller around her.

Allie Stevens lingered slightly behind, shifting her weight from foot to foot, glancing at Taissa as though she were the axis around which the tribute pair rotated. Van noticed the subtle exchanges—the tilt of Taissa’s head, a nearly imperceptible nod, a sharp inhale from Allie—and realised that these two were already moving as a unit, unspoken coordination threading their stances together.

Cassian gave a delicate shiver. “Oh, lovely — more stone-faced soldiers. You can always count on District Two to make violence look so unfashionable.” He dabbed at his lip with a napkin that didn’t need straightening, then sighed. “No sense of drama. None. I do wish they’d teach them a little grace. It’s not enough to be dangerous — one should look good doing it.”

For a brief moment, Taissa’s eyes flicked to the camera, and Van caught something almost human beneath the precision: a shadow of doubt, a flicker of unease that she quickly masked behind her sharp expression. It made Van’s chest tighten, a reminder that even the most confident facade had cracks.

Natalie beside her shifted slightly, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. She didn’t speak, didn’t comment, but her gaze followed every micro-movement, noting tension, balance, intention. Van could feel the silent calculations unfolding next to her, mirroring her own instincts.

Van exhaled softly, her mind tracing the aura of the two tributes. District 2 wasn’t about charm or presentation like District 1—it was about control, precision, and coiled energy. Every glance, every gesture, every pause seemed rehearsed yet organic, like a machine built for survival and dominance. And Taissa Turner, with that faint, fleeting hesitation in her eyes, was the pulse that made Van wonder just how far that machine could reach.

“And now, District Three,” the announcer said, stepping closer to the edge of the stage, “the Electronics district. Robbie Delgado and Misty Quigley!”

Misty Quigley adjusted the small lenses of her glasses, her fingers lingering over a tablet that wasn’t actually on the stage. Even though it was ceremonial, her movements carried the same meticulousness she brought to everything she touched. Every micro-motion, every tilt of her head suggested she was already cataloging the environment, scanning for patterns. Van’s eyes traced the careful rhythm of her gestures, noting a calm confidence that didn’t need to be announced.

Robbie Delgado stood slightly apart, his posture uneven, a flicker of discomfort passing through him as he caught the edge of the cameras. There was a tightness in his shoulders, a faint twitch of awareness whenever Misty adjusted her stance or the announcer spoke. Van recognised it instantly—he had always been someone who reacted to the energy around him, often letting others’ confidence, teasing, or authority shape his movements.

Misty’s gaze moved to the crowd for a heartbeat, then quickly back to Robbie, as if silently weighing what he might do, how he might react under pressure. Van noted the subtle dynamic between them—an almost imperceptible mentorship, a protective streak, and yet an insistence that he would have to act for himself once the arena began.

Van felt her chest tighten, not from fear but from recognition. District 3 wasn’t about brawn or charm; it was about intellect, observation, and adaptability. And Misty Quigley embodied that completely—capable, precise, the kind of mind that could turn even the smallest detail into advantage. Robbie, by contrast, seemed like he might falter without her guidance, but Van could see the potential if he learned quickly.

Natalie leaned slightly closer, eyes sharp. She wasn’t commenting, but the way she watched Misty and Robbie made it clear she understood the stakes: some opponents weren’t loud or obvious—they were silent, methodical, and potentially more dangerous because of it.

Van exhaled, letting the tension settle into her stomach. This district reminded her that the Games weren’t only fought with muscle or boldness—they were a test of observation, decision-making, and the subtle power of knowing what others weren’t saying.

“From District Four… the fishing district,” the announcer’s voice boomed, carrying over the polished stage. “Jackie Taylor… and Shauna Shipman!”

Jackie stood on the left, posture stiff, hands at her sides, jaw tight. On the right, Shauna mirrored her stance, a small gap between them, eyes locked on Jackie as if no one else existed. Neither looked at the cameras, neither tilted their heads for the audience. The glittering Capitol lights didn’t reach them—they weren’t performing.

Van’s stomach clenched. It was clear in an instant: these girls weren’t here for showmanship or pride. They were here together, holding onto the only thing that mattered—the other. Their eyes spoke a language no one else could understand: regret, fear, loyalty, and the wordless apology that they had both ended up in this place.

Natalie leaned back slightly, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Look at them,” she said quietly, a trace of sarcasm in her tone. “All that training, all that prep… and they just look like they want to crawl under the stage and hide.”

Van glanced at her, surprised at the bluntness, but it fit—Natalie always had a way of cutting to the point, even in moments like this.

Jackie and Shauna didn’t notice the cameras. They didn’t notice anyone. Just each other. And in that silent misery, there was a strange kind of strength that Van felt even through the screen.

The next two districts passed by with little to catch their attention. Faces blurred, names repeated, the Capitol’s polished show feeling increasingly hollow.

Then came District Seven.

Van’s stomach tightened as Travis and Javi Martinez appeared on the stage. Seventeen and thirteen, barely more than boys, yet already bearing the impossible weight of their father’s legacy. Bill Martinez, a victor whose name carried fear and admiration, would be watching them. Watching his sons fight for survival in the same arena that had once defined him.

Natalie’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. There was no movement, no gesture, not even a breath that Van could hear—but the tension in her shoulders, the sharp line of her jaw, the way her gaze held them, betrayed everything. Shock. Sorrow. An ache she refused to voice, as if saying anything would diminish the weight of the reality before her.

The boys stood side by side, stiff and aware, their youth at odds with the gravity of their situation. Their faces were calm, controlled, but Van could sense the undercurrent of fear, the pressure of expectation that no training or talent could ever fully erase.

Watching them, Van felt the chill of inevitability, the cruel calculus of the Games pressing down not just on the tributes, but on the ones they loved. Natalie’s silent stare mirrored it all—the disbelief, the empathy, the grim understanding that these children were now ensnared in a story far beyond their years.

The broadcast rolled on, faces and districts blending into one another — Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven — a blur of trembling hands and hollow smiles. Van stopped trying to match names to faces; they all looked the same under the Capitol lights.

And then… District Twelve.

Van shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a tight knot of unease settling in her stomach. She didn’t want to relive it all again, yet her eyes refused to leave the screen. A flash of red hair appeared, and for a heartbeat she didn’t recognise herself—at that moment, standing on the stage, she looked… different. Hardened, smaller, yet carrying a weight she hadn’t fully understood until now. Her chest ached as the memory of her absent mother hit again, sharp and unrelenting, stabbing through her like a cold knife.

Then Natalie’s name rang out. Van’s gaze snapped to her, catching the tension coiled in her shoulders, the subtle stiffness of her posture. A flicker of empathy, of shared dread, passed through her before she tore her eyes away and returned to the screen.

She watched as their hands met, fingers brushing for a moment that barely lasted five seconds. Yet for Van, it stretched endlessly—an eternity suspended in the smallest gesture.

The anthem faded, and the screen dissolved back into the Capitol’s crest. For a long moment, no one moved. The train hummed beneath them, steady and indifferent, carrying them closer to the place where all of those faces would collide.

Ben reached for the remote and switched off the television. The room felt quieter without the Capitol’s voice filling it, but not lighter. He leaned back in his chair, his crutches balanced against the armrest, and studied the two girls across from him.

“Alright,” he said at last, his tone steady, measured, the voice of a man used to holding others together. “You’ve seen them now. The Careers, the young ones, the ones who’ll claw at whatever chance they’ve got. That’s what we’re up against.”

Natalie tipped her chair back slightly, arms folded, her expression unreadable. Van kept her gaze fixed on the polished table, replaying the images in her mind—the sharp elegance of District One, the steel of District Two, the fragility of District Seven.

Ben let the silence stretch for a beat longer, then leaned forward. “So. Tell me what you’ve got. What can you do? Every tribute who makes it past the first day has something—a skill, an edge, even if it doesn’t look like much at first. I need to know what you bring to the arena, both of you.”

His eyes moved first to Van, waiting, not impatient but insistent. The weight of the question pressed down, not cruel, but unavoidable.

Before Van could answer, Natalie shifted in her chair, swirling the last of her wine before setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Aren’t we supposed to do this after training?” she asked, one brow arched. “When we’ve actually seen the others in person, seen what we’re really up against? Feels a little pointless to sit here listing hobbies while the Careers are sharpening swords.”

Her tone had teeth, but there was no venom in it—just a certain dry sharpness, the kind that left her words cutting but not cruel. Respect threaded underneath, a begrudging acknowledgement that Ben deserved honesty, even if she couldn’t resist pushing back.

Ben regarded her evenly, not rising to the bait. “You’re right. Training will show you more about them than a screen ever can. But knowing what you bring into that room matters just as much. Sponsors, allies, survival—they’re going to see it, whether you tell me now or not. Better you know it first.”

Natalie leaned back, gaze flicking briefly toward Van before settling again on Ben. The edge of her smirk softened, not quite surrender but close enough. “Fair,” she admitted quietly.

“I can set traps,” Van said finally, her voice low but firm. “Snares, mostly. Rabbits, squirrels, the small things. And I know how to find food in the woods—berries, roots. Enough to get by.”

Her eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward Natalie at the table—but she didn’t linger there. Instead, the image of Marcy rose unbidden in her mind: the two of them crouched in the underbrush, whispering over a snare line, grinning when it worked, splitting whatever they caught. Van’s chest tightened, and she forced herself back to the present.

“I… I’m good at watching,” she added quickly, her voice steadier now. “At noticing things other people miss.” The words hung in the air, plain and unadorned. She didn’t dress them up, didn’t try to make herself sound like more than she was.

Natalie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I can hunt too,” she said, her tone sharper, quicker, as if she didn’t want Ben to mistake her silence for weakness. “Not just traps. I know how to track, how to shoot.”

Her fingers toyed with the rim of her empty glass, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Animals don’t care if you’re tired or hungry. You get one chance, and if you miss, you go without. I don’t miss.”

The last words landed heavy, edged with something more than pride—something Van recognised. The memory of years past, when Natalie had shown up at her door with a scrawny rabbit or a half-wild look in her eyes, insisting she could provide. For a moment, Van felt that same stubborn fire across the table—the Natalie she used to know, fierce and certain, carving her survival out of nothing.

Ben listened without interrupting, his gaze moving between them. When Natalie finished, he nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.

“Good,” he said simply. “You both have something worth holding onto. Don’t underestimate that.” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “The arena will test more than your skills. It’ll test your patience, your choices, who you trust and who you don’t. But knowing what you can do—what you already know—will keep you alive when everything else falls apart.”

The train rumbled beneath them, carrying them faster, closer to the Capitol with every mile. Silence settled over the table again, but it wasn’t the sharp, bitter silence from before. It was heavier, slower, the kind that made Van feel the weight of what lay ahead pressing in around her.

She glanced at Natalie, but Natalie’s eyes were fixed on the window, on the blur of trees racing past. Whatever she was thinking, Van couldn’t read it. Maybe she didn’t want to.

Ben pushed himself to his feet with a quiet grunt, reaching for his crutches. “Get some rest if you can,” he said, his tone softer now. “In a few hours the Capitol will want to see you shine.”

He left them with that, his steps uneven but steady as he disappeared down the corridor.

Cassian lingered a moment, brushing imaginary dust from his perfectly tailored suit, eyes glinting with that practiced Capitol charm. “Do try to behave, my shining stars,” he called over his shoulder, voice bright and theatrical. “The cameras will notice everything—and we wouldn’t want them to be disappointed, now would we?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he followed Ben, leaving the girls alone in the cabin, the silence stretching long and heavy behind them.

Van sat a moment longer, her hand resting on the cool surface of the table. The train shuddered as it slowed, the sudden stillness making Van lift her head. A voice crackled faintly over the intercom, something about refuelling, but she barely listened.

After a few moments, Van caught movement near the doorway. Natalie pushed back from the table and slipped out onto the walkway. There was something in her hands, though Van couldn’t tell what—just a small, bright glint, held loosely as she stepped into the light. For a heartbeat, Van wondered if it was some Capitol trinket, or perhaps a tiny snack, before her curiosity got the better of her.

She rose, hesitated, then followed, descending the narrow steps onto the side platform. The air was crisp, carrying the faint mechanical tang of the stopped train. And then, as she rounded the corner, she saw it: Natalie’s hand raised to her lips, a thin curl of smoke drifting upward. The glint she had noticed was the ember of a cigarette, tiny but defiant, burning brightly against the pale sky.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Van just listened to the quiet crackle of burning tobacco, the hiss of the train’s pipes cooling.

“You’re going to get yourself killed faster, doing that,” Van said at last, her voice more tired than scolding.

Natalie let out a thin stream of smoke, her mouth twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Killed faster?” Her voice was soft, almost amused, though the edge in it was unmistakable. “Like it makes a difference. That’s the joke, isn’t it? They’ve already decided how this ends. We’re just filling in the blanks.”

She flicked ash into the dirt, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “Capitol lines us up, year after year, and calls it what? Spectacle? Tradition? All I see is kids being sent off like cattle while they clap their hands and pretend it means something.”

Her laugh was low, bitter, carried away by the night wind. She took another drag, slower this time. “Maybe it doesn’t matter how fast it happens. Maybe the only choice left is how much you make them choke on it before you’re gone.”

Van shifted, unsettled by the quiet fury threaded through Natalie’s words. There was no shouting, no grand rebellion—just a sharp truth spoken into the dark, one that felt heavier than any Capitol speech could ever make her feel.

Natalie crushed the cigarette beneath her boot, flicking the last ember into the gravel. She glanced at Van briefly, eyes sharp but steady.

“Don’t forget this,” she said, her voice low, the words rough as ever. But when she looked at Van, something flickered in her eyes—just for a moment. Not defiance, not mockery, but the ghost of a promise once made between two girls in the woods. “No matter what happens in there, remember who you are.”

Van lingered a moment on the platform, taking in the cool midday air. The words settled in her chest, quiet but heavy. She let herself breathe, just for a second, before turning and climbing back onto the train.

The train rumbled back to life beneath them, metal groaning and shaking as it began to move again. Van’s eyes drifted to the horizon, thoughts heavy with what lay ahead, but a quiet resolve had settled into her chest.