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"This is a song about encroaching dread." -John Darnielle, about his song Peacocks.
When Mick woke up, his heart raced with a terror he couldn't immediately attribute to anything.
Even when he got his bearings, reminding himself he was in his home and safe, his heart wouldn't still. Possible explanations raced through his mind for a few moments until he landed on the obvious answer.
It was July 4th, the day of the reaping. Today, two children from each of the twelve districts that divided their country would have their names declared to the nation. The children would then be sent to an arena to fight to the death.
And Mick could be one of them.
You were eligible in the reaping from your twelfth birthday until your nineteenth. Mick was seventeen, turning eighteen soon. He'd made it this far without dying, but that wasn't necessarily a comforting thought. Maybe he'd just been lucky.
You had to be lucky to survive the reaping. Even luckier to survive the Games.
Reaping Day was always terrifying.
The idea of being shipped off to the Capitol, dressed up, and paraded around before being thrown into an arena was Mick's worst nightmare. Even beyond the whole 'getting murdered' part, he hated the thought of being forced to perform for the Capitol. The elite of their country were terrible from a distance. He wasn't really sure what he'd do when put face to face with them.
Every year, he was paralyzed with anxiety on Reaping Day, even if he forced himself to go about his life like normal. Every year so far, his name hadn't been called.
But that didn't mean things couldn't change. Sure as the sun would rise, someone would be sent to the Capitol. There was nothing protecting him. Nothing protecting any of the kids in their district.
But going over this was a waste of energy. Mick knew he had to put aside his terror, at least for right now. When it was closer to the Reaping, he could worry. But today wasn't a day he could waste time.
Mick disappeared into the woods surrounding his district, pushing the fence above his head with a stick, the movement so deeply ingrained that it was practically muscle memory. His bow was hidden in a hollow log, and he barely needed to break stride to scoop it up and toss it over a shoulder.
Much as he hated taking advantage of it, today was a trading day. He always hunted as much as possible before the reaping, then made some discreet trades under the table for the supplies he'd need in the weeks to come. Mostly basic things he couldn't come by in the woods.
Fabric, tips for his arrows…. mostly things like that.
He pulled himself into a tree, crouching on a low branch while he looked around. The view was familiar. Right… A few years ago, he'd built a platform up in this tree to shoot from. He looked up towards the wooden plank and decided this wasn't the day to risk it. It had been a few years since then, and he kinda doubted it could still hold weight. Yeah, he'd settle for sitting on this branch.
He was lost in thought, then glimpsed a slight bit of movement from the corner of his eye. A doe had wandered into the clearing. Mick switched positions, rising to his feet. It wasn't really easy to shoot a bow from a tree like this, especially sitting on the branch. At least there was a belt wrapped around the tree to steady himself, even if it seemed stupid to leave it here.
He looped his elbow through the belt and nocked an arrow. The sound was almost silent, the arrow cutting through the air and lodging itself in the doe's chest. The thing stumbled away, disappearing into the forest. Fuck. He didn't want it to suffer.
It took a little too long to unloop the belt and shove the bow over one arm. He climbed down, following the trail of blood and finding the doe. It was dead already, thankfully. He'd aimed for the heart, shot to kill.
This was perfect. Mick knew he couldn't just leave the doe out in the open. When he was younger, back when his father would venture out into the woods with him, he'd showed him a collection of old treehouses that probably weren't that safe to climb around in.
The old houses in the woods were perfect for cleaning larger game, and that was exactly where he headed. He'd delegated one specific treehouse for this purpose. It was far from the rest, a fact which he thanked the gods for on the daily. If it hadn't rained recently, the treehouse smelled terrible. On the rare occasion he didn't have to work in the lumber department of their district and he had some free time, Mick would lug buckets of water out and scrub the small room.
Before long, the sun was directly overhead and he knew he needed to head towards the square. Even with the deadline, he took his sweet time approaching, not wanting to leave when he was in the midst of cleaning the game.
The pens that contained the children were filling up by the time he arrived and got his finger pricked to check in. His parents had to be here already, didn't they?
Up on the stage, District Seven's lone living victor stood, completely masked by their cloak. A lot of the victors that happened to be Capitol favorites would play into their desires. Their victor was one of these. Crowned nearly a decade ago, their name had been lost to time. Even the Capitol simply referred to them by their haunting nickname they'd received shortly after the Games.
Pyro.
They were short. That was the only defining feature visible. Mick had seen reruns of their Games a few years back and had sworn to never view them again. They'd used a fire ax at first, their years of experience with axes giving them an advantage. Whenever they caught an opponent, they'd made quick work of their enemies by hacking away at them. Then some sponsor had decided to gift them a blowtorch and a gas mask to play into their whole appearance.
Most years, tributes from 1, 2, or 4 were crowned victorious. Most people called them the 'career tributes.' When they won, they were normally in a vicious pack that hunted down and murdered the rest of their enemies, then turned on themselves.
As far as years where careers didn't win, Mick was certain Pyro's was the most horrifying he'd seen.
Half the tributes had been hiding in the vast field that made up a significant portion of their arena, and they'd taken straight to it, lighting it up without hesitation. It wasn't the most brutal thing he'd ever seen, to be honest. But what made it stick was their choice to stalk the edges of the field, using their ax to take out the other children.
The Capitol had been overjoyed. Sponsors had pooled their money and gifted the kid a fireproof cloak. And then it was all over.
They still donned the cloak and the gas mask, barely speaking unless directly asked a question. And even then, their words were muffled and hardly distinguishable.
As far as victors went, Mick rather appreciated Pyro, even if they were somewhat terrifying. The children from Seven knew how to fight when they made it into the Games. And if they didn't know to fight, they knew strategy. And he was sure that could be attributed to their teachings.
Pyro retreated to a chair as Helen, the Capitol escort, arrived. She was the woman who read out the names of the tributes. As always, she waited for their mayor to read the Treaty of Treason, a dull speech explaining the origins of the Hunger Games.
Helen crossed to the ball full of the possible female tributes first.
The name called was unfamiliar. It didn't entirely register, but he watched a young girl walk up to the stage and stand by Helen, her head held high. The other children surrounding her stayed silent, as if any acknowledgement of her impending death would lead to their own.
Then she reached into the second.
"Michael Mundy!" The woman called, her eyes searching the crowd. It took a moment for the two words to register as the crowd shrank away from him, a tide receding back into the ocean.
Mick had dreaded this day for years. It was never guaranteed. There was no real way for him to have known, but somehow he had.
This would be one of the last days of his life.
He climbed the stairs and stood on the stage next to the girl, his slumped posture the only thing preventing him from towering over her. She was barely thirteen. At the oldest.
The next minutes seemed to pass in a rush. The two tributes shook hands. The Mercenaries dragged them away towards the Justice Building to say their goodbyes.
It was only once he'd been locked inside that Mick began to come back to himself, realising what had just happened. He was a tribute in the Hunger Games.
He was going to die. Sure, he was seventeen and had more practice with archery than most other tributes would, but that didn't mean anything. It had been a long time since he'd starved, but he was still thin and lanky, not built to fight.
The reality of this situation was beginning to sink in when his parents opened the door to the tiny room he'd been led to, their expressions mournful.
None of them enjoyed starting conversations, and Mick was beginning to wonder if they were going to just stare at him. Thankfully, his mother spoke. Unfortunately, what she said was almost worse than just sitting in silence.
"You hunt, don't you? How different can it be, really?" His mother asked, placing a hand on his knee.
It was an instinctive reaction, he didn't mean to frighten her, but he noticed her flinch as he pulled away and immediately hated himself for it. Was he already becoming the monster the Capitol would expect?
Mick's father rose to his feet, moving between the two. "Don't you-" He began, a warning laced in his words. He paused, simply shaking his head and turning towards the door. "Mick, try and come home."
There was nothing to be said in response to that, nothing that could capture the rush of emotions Mick felt as he watched his parents leave him.
The Mercenaries led them to the train and for some reason that was when Aspen lost her fucking mind. She started fighting back and screaming and eventually they dragged her away before Mick could even try to help.
The Capitol normally loved watching tributes freak out before they were taken away, the cameras glued to their reactions. Dragging her away seemed like a bad sign, but there wasn't anything he could do at this point except get on the train.
The small bedroom they guided him to was nicer than anything he'd seen in District Seven, but he had no desire to stay there. He waited a few minutes, waited for the train to begin rumbling beneath his feet, and turned the doorknob, heading out to the main sitting room.
Standing alone in a corner was his mentor.
Mick had lied earlier. He was terrified of Pyro. The victor was terribly intimidating without even trying to be. Or maybe they were trying. That would certainly explain the mask and the cloak. The Capitol didn't even have cameras on them right now, and he supposed some small part of him had assumed it was just for show. Evidently not.
The train was spacious and well decorated, and he was taking full advantage of that space by keeping as far from Pyro as possible. Mick was sitting on the far end of the couch, his gaze angled towards the television. He was watching the victor from the corner of his eye.
Quiet footfalls approached the room and he looked up to see Helen in the doorway. She didn't seem at all surprised by Pyro's downright creepy choice of locations in which to stand. Right in the corner by the door.
"Am I correct in assuming that you'd like to know more about the other tributes?" She asked, not acknowledging Pyro past a slight nod in their direction.
Mick considered it for a moment before speaking up. "It'd be nice. Yeah."
"Eight had two volunteers." Helen reported, the information clearly on the tip of her tongue. "Outside of that, there wasn't much out of the ordinary. The recap should begin soon."
"Two?" Mick turned to fully look towards her for the first time, letting Pyro out of his sight for once. "The factory district had two volunteers?"
Stranger things had happened, he supposed. But the children from District Eight were always scrawny and short and malnourished. They rarely had any volunteers, let alone two.
"Yes. It seems…unlikely, doesn't it?" She agreed. "Some of the escorts on the train were able to view their reaping, and they had two volunteers. Both for their siblings."
By the time the reapings began, Aspen hadn't resurfaced from her room.
Mick leaned back against the couch, staring up at the television. Most of the reapings had been uneventful, passing by more quickly than they normally seemed to.
Then the cameras arrived on District Eight and everything slowed. The first girl called was young and thin, barely looking to be twelve. She was on the stage and the man calling names had already reached for a boy's name when someone stepped forward and volunteered.
Dark skin and tightly braided hair. She wore a yellow dress as she marched towards death.
The same thing happened again minutes later. The older boy shoved his brother behind him. There was no question about it. They had to be siblings.
The two volunteers shook hands. Mick looked towards Helen, wondering if she was thinking the same thing as him. She clearly was, since she said it a moment later.
"One of them will be the victor." She predicted. "This is exciting, the Capitol will love this. Especially if one of them wins. An underdog."
There was a lengthy pause btween the last two words she said, her tone dripping with malice in a way that scared Mick in a way citizens of the Capitol rarely could. The truly frightening thing about most Capitol citizens was their bloodlust. They'd been raised on the Games and adored it. A sharp contrast to those in the districts. They seemed to accept it as a truth of life; something inevitable that was unable to be escaped.
Helen didn't seem to be in either category. Her prediction didn't carry the typical tone of fear the district citizens did when discussing the Games, nor the excitement. Her voice wasn't neutral either, carrying a simple prediction of what she believed would happen. She was angry about something that wasn't immediately clear.
Regardless of her intentions, he agreed with her. It wasn't even that he thought the Games would end up being rigged. It was just obvious that the two were determined. They both had something, someone to come home to. People that cared about them.
Instead of allowing the reapings to play out, Helen rewinded the District Eight reaping to the beginning and zoomed in on the stage, on one man in particular. District Eight's Victor, a man named Antoine Martin. He'd won over three decades ago and still remained the mentor for Eight.
Helen observed the victor closely as he watched the two volunteers, his expression perfectly neutral. As always. For a moment, when Thomas announced his name, his lips pressed together.
Mick sat on the edge of the couch, glancing toward the woman, who had a victorious smile on her face. She wrote something on a notepad as he spoke. "What does that mean? Why are you watching this?"
Helen looked toward him, weighing her options. "There have been rumors that Antoine has illegitimate sons in the districts."
She didn't wait for him to share an opinion or ask any clarifying questions. before turning the volume up. His opinion clearly didn't matter since he was going to his death next week. As far as Capitol citizens went, she seemed less bloodthirsty than most. And maybe that was enough for now.
⤝❖⤞
Mick stood off by himself before the tribute parade. Both Pyro and Helen were attempting to comfort Aspen, and he'd found himself by one of the horses that was tethered to the chariot behind his. He was obscured enough that neither tribute nor mentor had noticed him.
Or so he thought. He was looking around, taking notes of the costumes the other tributes were wearing when someone walked up behind him.
"What are you doing?" The other boy asked, genuinely curious.
"My district partner is…scared. I felt like I was in the way." Mick answered, looking towards him. He made eye contact for half a second before his gaze flicked down towards the ground.
Thomas studied him for a minute, his dark eyes sharp. "You're Michael? From Seven?"
"Yeah. You're Thomas from Eight?" He didn't actually need to ask. He knew exactly who the other boy was. All the tributes had numbers pinned to their shirts.
"Most of my friends call me Tommy. You can, if you want."
Mick didn't know what to think about that, but he smiled slightly. An offer of friendship was new to him. And even if it was from a boy he'd be battling to the death soon, at least it was an offer. "Alright. My friends call me Mick."
Thomas grinned at him. "Are we friends, then?"
"Guess so." Despite himself, Mick's smile widened a little. It was just his luck that he'd make his only friend before going into a death game.
The tribute parade was exactly as terrifying as Mick had always assumed it would be. The roaring crowds, the slow approach towards the stage assembled in front of the mansion shared by the twin presidents.
But it was over eventually and he was finally able to retreat to his room. Helen, Pyro, and Aspen planned to watch the tribute parade recap, but he didn't care much about that. If they watched Seven too closely, they'd just see his white knuckled grip on the reins.
He could sleep and wake up to a morning full of training and human interaction. Not his ideal day, but better than dying.
Mick didn't really have a plan for training. He was already excellent at identifying edible plants, so he doubted he'd need to do that station. Avoiding archery seemed like the best idea here, since he didn't want to let the Career pack know everything about his skills and talents, limited as they were.
He was standing by the wall, looking around the cavernous room they'd been stationed in, when Thomas walked over. Without any sort of preamble, he asked a question completely unrelated to their day of practice and strategy
"Have you met Antoine?" Thomas asked, tilting his head. Mick just shook his head. He hadn't met Antoine, nor had he planned to. Again, as far as victors went, Antoine wasn't… terrible. He helped the children of Eight. Not like there was much he could do about the fact that many of them were starving before they even entered the arena.
"Do you want to? He's down here. Your mentor is too, I guess." Thomas told him.
Mick blinked, a little confused. "They're not… supposed to be. Right?"
"Uh. Probably not. But he said he doesn't care and Pyro doesn't either" He pointed towards a corner mostly hidden in shadow, and sure enough, there he was, the shorter victor at his side.
The two tributes approached, slowing as they realised the two victors were mid conversation.
"I do not think it is a good idea to encourage this sort of senseless violence. Helen is-" Antoine was hissing towards Pyro, his words barely audible. As soon as Thomas and Mick reached them, he fell silent.
"This is Mick. He's from District Seven." Thomas informed Antoine.
The victor didn't seem that interested in this conversation. "Okay. Congratulations."
Pyro said something, and despite their words being extremely muffled, Antoine seemed to understand. "Exactly. There are no winners." He agreed, his words directed towards his companion. For reasons Mick would never understand, he chose to insert himself into this conversation.
"But you won." Mick pointed out, his voice flat. Thomas sighed deeply, as if Mick had just started a conversation he'd heard a million times. He looked sideways at someone who'd walked up next to him, raising his eyebrows. Jersey. The other tribute from Eight.
Before Mick could greet her, Antoine began his tirade. "The Hunger Games do not have a winner. We are Victors, yes. Winners? No. It is ridiculous to even-"
Thomas rescued Mick by grabbing his forearm and dragging him away without a single word of explanation. He stopped by the edible plants station and released his wrist.
"He'll get over it. He's just like that whenever you say he won." Thomas shrugged. "Should've warned you, sorry."
⤝❖⤞
The time came for his private training session and Mick knew exactly what he needed to do, even if he hadn't been given much instruction by Pyro. He had to demonstrate the only talent he actually had. His archery.
Aspen disappeared into the room, her stride somewhat confident.
"What do you think she's gonna do?" Thomas asked, watching his district partner, clearly having noted the change that had come over her.
"Not sure. Maybe climbing?" Mick shook his head. Much as he hated to admit it, he doubted Aspen would survive very long.
Thomas seemed to be thinking the same thing, so he returned to his state of silence.
It wasn't long before they summoned Mick into the room. Thomas offered him a small smile and he returned it. He took a deep breath before pushing the door open and walking inside.
None of the Gamemakers seemed to be paying that much attention, truth be told. They were gathered around a table filled with food and drink. On one end of the raised platform sat a roast pig.
In another universe where Mick was more hotheaded and didn't particularly care about his survival, he might have shot the apple from the pig's mouth. In this one, he didn't.
Instead he just shot some arrows. His accuracy was surprisingly accurate despite the tension of the bowstring. Once he adjusted, it was just like he was home again.
They dismissed him back to the seventh floor and he found Helen, Aspen, and Pyro lounging in the sitting room. He slumped onto the couch near Aspen, as far as he could get from everyone.
Pyro mumbled something, and to his surprise, Helen seemed to understand.
"How did you do?" Helen translated, looking towards Mick.
"Pretty well, I think. They didn't seem to care that much, though." Mick shrugged.
In truth, he'd done incredibly. Most of his shots were precise and would be lethal if directed at a person. One of the clones stationed in the corner had launched clay birds towards the ceiling for him to shoot at. He'd taken half down in one round and had noticed some of the Gamemakers observing him, smiling.
Helen just nodded, not pressing for any more information than what he'd already offered. "I suppose we'll find out."
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the only commentary a quiet conversation between Helen and Pyro, but half of it was incomprehensible from Mick's seat.
The announcement of the scores commenced and he sat anxiously, waiting for his own score. Aspen scored an eight, which was surprisingly high. He glanced sideways at her, wondering what she'd done to gain that mark. Well. He'd find out eventually.
The photo of him at the reaping appeared again. The number below it? An eleven.
Pyro cheered, throwing their hands into the air. They said something almost audible this time, and Helen barely needed to translate. "We'll need to get you ready for the interviews."
That didn't happen.
⤝❖⤞
Mick stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. He was trying to look unbothered and normal about this whole situation, as if he didn't have to go on that stage in…twenty five minutes? Fuck. There was a row of chairs designated for the tributes, but Jersey and Thomas were mid conversation and Mick was holding a cup of water and if he spilled it on her dress he'd never forgive himself.
Someone grabbed his upper arm, pulling him through the doorway. Nobody in the room seemed to notice his disappearance.
"You need to calm down. You are not my tribute, but your mentor is a lunatic and I will tell you this. You will not receive a single sponsorship if you do not figure something out." Antoine was speaking very quickly and quietly at him. It took a moment for Mick to realise what was happening.
"..Are you giving me advice?" He asked, still confused. Antoine closed his eyes for a moment, muttering something under his breath.
When he spoke, his words were measured and careful. "Yes. I am giving you advice. Calm down. Go out there and speak. You received a high score. Make them wonder what it was for. Do you understand me?"
Mick nodded, pulling his arm away and heading back into the room. He finished the cup of water and tossed it into the bin, taking a seat in his chair. Olivia called him out to the stage after a few more minutes.
He looked out towards the audience, catching sight of Antoine and Pyro sitting next to each other, passing a piece of paper and a pen back and forth, scrawling messages.
His interview didn't go as terribly as he'd feared it would. He answered some questions and generally made himself seem a lot more likable than he actually was.
The official bets of the presidents were announced late at night, as always. He hadn't realised just how exhausted the tributes must have been in previous years. Emotional turmoil piled on top of constant training on top of a perpetual performance.
Blutarch Mann had bet on Thomas Willis.
And Redmond Mann had bet on Michael Mundy.
He was so emotionally numb at this point that he didn't exactly know how to respond to this. Again, he just retreated to his room, hoping he'd have the strength to face the next morning.
⤝❖⤞
The tributes from Seven and Eight weren't on the hovercraft together. Maybe last night was the final time Mick would get to see Thomas and Jersey before their faces were in the sky.
On the hovercraft, twenty three faces were on repeat in his mind, ticking over and over. The boy from Eight seemed to stick with him specifically.
What if he had to kill Thomas?
If he wanted to make it back to his parents, he'd have to kill people.
"How different could it be, really?" His mother had asked. Mick had denied her, then. He'd told her that he didn't want to kill people and that it could be different, had to be different!
She hadn't believed him then, and he barely believed himself now.
They descended into the launch room and Pyro led Mick into a small room with a glass tube in one corner.
The two sat in silence until the announcer ordered the tributes into the tube, the voice cold, metallic, and unforgiving. He took a deep breath before entering the glass cylinder, watching Pyro.
They rose into an arena that was dangerously unfamiliar territory to Mick. It seemed like some sort of bombed out city, most of the buildings destroyed and broken down.
The cornucopia was about forty metres ahead of him. He wasn't a runner at all, wasn't built for it and always found himself losing races. But there, in the mouth of the Cornucopia… a silver bow and a sheath of arrows. That was his. That was meant for him. And he was going to get it, even if it meant risking his own life.
The moment the countdown ended and the gong rang out, Mick sprinted towards the horn, towards the bow. Somehow, miraculously, his fingers closed around the bow and the strap of the sheath before anyone else reached it.
He got greedy and reached out to grab a backpack as well, throwing it over his shoulder and turning to run.
It must have been a miracle or godly intervention of a sort. He made it out of the bloodbath and sprinted straight towards some of the buildings, then climbed up to a nearby roof.
Mick knelt on the edge of the building, squeezing his eye closed as he watched the other child run. This seemed like an impossible shot, truth be told. He was an excellent archer, but to the degree necessary to be able to achieve this shot? Maybe not.
He'd wondered how different it could be, killing a human. The terrible truth was that it wasn't different at all.
He could practically hear the crowd gathered around the screen in Seven gasping as he let go. The arrow soared through the air and found its mark in the chest of the boy from District Six.
Mick straightened up, watching the other boy collapse to the ground. He wanted to move, to turn away and look somewhere else, but he couldn't help staring. The cannon rang out, the echoing boom jolting him back to himself. He turned his gaze away, wondering if he'd lost more than himself.
The cannons continued, the bodies finally being tallied.
⤝❖⤞
Three days into the Games, he was lying on the ground, half asleep, when he heard footsteps. Another tribute had crept up on him.
Mick grabbed the kukri from the place next to his makeshift bed where he'd left it. Killing someone with a bow was one thing. But a knife was… more personal. It was so much worse.
The other child collapsed to the ground, her eyes wide as she made a vain attempt to save her own life.
Five days in, the tinny notes of the anthem sang through the arena, startling Mick enough that he sat up straight in his little shelter, accidentally knocking into the stick he'd used to prop up a blanket. It had been long enough staying here anyway. He needed to relocate. This building was haunted by the girl he'd killed.
It didn't take long for him to gather his belongings, scooping them all into a backpack and pulling it over his shoulder. He stumbled towards the part of the building where the roof had collapsed, craning his neck upward to watch the faces.
Four cannons today. The first face was unexpected, the boy from Two. Huh. He didn't want to think about how strong someone must be to kill him. The girl from Four.
The last face appeared and Mick felt his heart drop. A dark skinned girl with the number 8 pinned to her shirt. Jersey was dead.
His emotions regarding the girl were tangled. He didn't know much about her, but he remembered the little girl she'd volunteered for. That little girl had to know her sister was dead, now.
One question haunted him, now. Where was Thomas?
His face hadn't appeared amongst the stars yet, so he must still be alive somewhere, wandering the arena. He didn't have any allies left. Maybe Mick could find him… maybe they could be allies.
He descended the stairs of the building, clinging to the railing with his free hand, looking around for people.
Mick paused, his bow slipping from his grip and falling to the concrete as he stared into a shattered piece of plate glass, trying to piece together his reflection. The person staring back at him didn't seem human. His hair was long and matted, his eyes wide and angry. One of the lenses on his glasses had broken. Streaks of blood painted his clothing and skin. He looked inhuman. He looked like a mutt.
Michael didn't quite know why that was the realisation that sent him over the edge, but it was. He pulled his paring knife from his pocket and was only moments away from slashing at his hair when he heard something strange. A muffled voice from the alley next to him.
"Mick?" They called.
⤝❖⤞
Mick raised his bow towards Thomas , wishing he could close his eyes, wishing he could block the betrayed expression of his only friend.
Michael was clutching his bow, staring at Thomas. “I didn’t want it to end like this.” He whispered.
Tommy was doubled over, clutching his stomach as blood poured out. He collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. He just shook his head. How else could this have ended?
He was dying anyway.
The Hunger Games had no winners.
But Michael had already let go of the string.
The Hunger Games had no winners.
But he was leaving the arena.
The Hunger Games had no winners.
But he was being crowned.
The Hunger Games had no winners.
But he was going home.