Archive of Our Own

“Freak!”

“Bitch!”

“Whale!”

The mirror seemed to speak to her, those hideous blue eyes staring back lifelessly in a dull daze, every blemish angrily scrawled onto her skin highlighted in clear definition for Iris to stare wistfully at.

What had she done to deserve this?

Her fingers brushed through her hair, trying to straighten the mad, pale curls that dangled like hapless yellow noodles down the side of her face. She knitted her brows, biting her lip so hard, a small trickle of blood pooled on the pale pink surface.

What was the point?

She sighed, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking it, her foot stomping on the bathroom tiles in frustration.

Stupid girl!

Outside, the symphony of laughter and cheering was in full swing, the District Four schoolchildren out and about in their array of sporting pursuits during their two-hour-long lunch break. Many, including her little brother Riva, were out in the field kicking about in a game of football, a few opted for a quick ride in the surf, a couple more chose to hone their tennis, badminton and volleyball skills.

At least that left Iris alone with the monsters in her head.

A stream of water trickled down the sink and she gathered a small pool of it in her hands. Bringing the water to her face, she splashed the cold liquid against her cheeks in a vain, last-ditch effort to look less like an undead zombie risen out of the depths of Davy Jones’s locker.

Little Miss Try-Hard!

She gripped the edges of the sink, the weight of her own demons slouching her body forward as the reflection continued to stare at her, taunting her with its imperfection.

Pearl-less oyster!

Her eyes squeezed shut, one hand clasping the side of her head, trying to will the voices to stop.

Sea urchin!

She tried to form up her ‘mental sea walls’, tried to conjure up her happiest memories, of Jolien twirling her around the docks as a little girl, of Timmy dancing in a clown costume on her birthday, of her siblings teaching her how to shoot a bow and arrow at the Career Academy.

But sea walls never lasted in District Four.

There was always a stronger tidal wave, a stronger force of the elements, a storm that concrete and stone could not weather forever.

And Iris was the unfortunate casualty.

So lost in her thoughts was she that she barely even registered the three silent assailants creeping into the bathroom, their prim, expensive shoes tiptoeing quietly against the tiles with practised Career ease.

Suddenly, Iris’s world began to tumble.

Three pairs of strong, muscular hands wrapped around her, locking her in a tight cocoon of captivity. She let out a yelp, but the combined force of her assailants was too much to bear.

Iris shrieked, crashing headfirst into the door of the bathroom stall with a loud bang!

She groaned, rubbing her head as pain shot through her. Her vision blurred briefly, forcing her to blink to refocus on the three looming figures towering over her, slowly advancing like three menacing Careers ready to pounce on her in the arena.

“Please,” she begged softly. “Just leave me alone-”

“Aw,” one of the girls cooed, her face breaking into a wide sneer of pearly-white, perfect teeth. “Is little Iris scared?”

“Well, Baiji,” her friend snorted, twirling one of her perfect braids nonchalantly. “It seems like Jolien and Timmy’s Victor bravery was not passed down to this little runt.”

A tear trickled down Iris’s cheek and she moved a hand to quickly wipe it away, but Baiji lunged, grabbing her wrist in a vice-like grip.

Why her?

Iris trembled, her whole body shaking violently like palm trees in District Four’s worst thunderstorms. The seconds seemed to tick on for eternity, drowning her in a terrifying sequence of heartbeats as her three tormentors gave each other knowing glances. Iris bit her lip, desperately hoping for the school bell to ring, but she knew there was still plenty of time before their next classes began. No, this was the perfect time to torment a poor Fisher girl, and Iris was powerless to protect herself.

“Let’s see, barnacle face,” Baiji’s friend Lorelei mused, her nails tapping against the sink in slow, echoing clicks against the polished surface like a countdown to Iris’s worst fears coming true. “What to do with you?”

“Let me go,” Iris pleaded, another tear trickling down her cheek.

Baiji cackled, her laughter all too reminiscent of that of the pirates that often tormented the ships sailing out to sea.

Although perhaps the pirates would be more reasonable than she.

“Ooh, girl’s not so confident now, huh?” the third wicked sea witch, Moray, snickered, wagging her freshly manicured finger in Iris’s face. Iris wrinkled her nose, Moray’s strong perfume attacking her nostrils in a nauseating burst of flower power. “Where’s the girl who kissed our teacher for a better grade?”

“Wh-what?” Iris stammered, her eyes widening in panic. Her hands fidgeted, trying to wrestle out of Baiji’s grip, but she tightened her fingers, clutching Iris so hard her wrists began to ache and throb. “I-I never…” Her mouth flopped like that of a fish, unable to form any defence. She wracked her brain, trying to think of something to say, but it was like a kelp forest in there, all jumbled up and tangled in a web of alarmed outrage at the ridiculousness of Moray’s accusation.

She was fourteen!

Tears began to flow freely down her face as Baiji grabbed her by the ponytail, pulling her hair so hard Iris let out a scream, hoping with any last bit of optimism in her heart that a sailor in shining armour would swoop in to save her.

Alas, no one could hear her, and even if they did, no one in District Four would help her.

Lorelei scoffed and a wave of horror thundered through Iris’s veins as the tall, obnoxiously beautiful girl brandished a pair of scissors, her wicked smirk turning downright malicious.

“N-no, please…”

Moray rolled her eyes, kicking off one shoe and pulling out her dirty, sweat-crusted sock. Iris tried to scream again, writhe, kick, struggle, but Baiji held her down, Moray’s free hand prising her jaw open as her sock was plunged into Iris’s mouth. The muffled screams continued, bile rising up her throat as one, sickly drop of fluid trickled onto her tongue. Disgust raged in her, vomit threatening to tear out of her, but this was only the beginning of the girls’ plans for her and she knew that if she had the audacity to hurl on their perfect clothes, they would never let her leave the bathroom alive.

Lorelei edged closer, slowly, surely, striking fear into Iris’s heart as she snipped the scissors, bringing them inches away from her fringe. “Time to make you real pretty, ugly duckling,” she drawled. Iris shook her head wildly, thrashing around as much as she could but as soon as the first thread of hair tumbled to the floor, she sagged backwards, utterly defeated.

Jolien, Timmy, where are you? I need you now more than ever…

But she knew, even as she closed her eyes and suffocated in her own misery, that her older Victor siblings were trapped in their own eternal torment, their care for her dripping away with every drop of alcohol they flushed down their throats in futile efforts to forget everything about their past as tributes and presents as Victors.

Iris was merely collateral damage.

“Iris Fisher!”

Impossible.

Jolien’s eyes snapped to attention, all the alcohol and morphling draining out of her head in an instant as her eyes searched for Iris in the crowd, her head spinning in disbelief.

No, impossible!

She leapt to her feet, her jaw dropping to the floor. She spun on her heels, glaring straight at the escort who, bless her absolutely stupid soul, was grinning like a madwoman at the stunned crowd, bouncing childishly in uncontained excitement.

“Rigged!” she screamed. The escort turned, her face scrunching in a scowl. Jolien marched forward, swiping to try and grab the slip of paper from her hands, but the escort dodged, screaming a cacophony of words about how ‘ungrateful’ and ‘dishonourable’ she was acting. “There’s no way, no! It’s rigged!”

“Jolien!” Timmy hissed. Suddenly, Jolien felt a pair of hands grab her by the waist, hoisting her into the air like an unceremonious ragdoll. She kicked into the air, still glaring at the escort with every ounce of bloody murder that she could muster up.

No, anyone but Iris…

The escort scoffed, muttering under her breath. She hoisted a hand into the air, holding up the tiny slip of paper for the cameras to see.

Jolien let out another scream.

Cameras zoomed in on the paper, revealing, in fine print, the name ‘Iris Fisher’.

“No!” she howled. “Rigged, rigged!”

“Jolien!” Timmy hissed again, slamming her down hard against the chair. His bloodshot red eyes scanned their surroundings, his body blocking her from the crowd’s view. “Please, we can’t let the Capitol see us like this, or they’ll make sure she falls in the Bloodbath!”

Jolien gritted her teeth, still shaking with anger, but Timmy was right. She looked back at the crowd, her heart shattering at the sight of a lone, blonde girl sobbing her way up the stage, her face partially hidden with a straw hat she’d sworn would hide her ‘hideous’ hair. From the boys’ section, the fourth Fisher sibling, Riva, had burst into tears too, a hand reaching out as though he could somehow pull his sister away from the Reaping and back into safety.

Three siblings in a row…

Jolien buried her face in her hands, allowing herself one final, muffled scream of despair.

Where had she gone wrong?

She’d followed President Snow’s every order, danced to his every rhythm, toed his every line.

Had her friendship with Axel given it away?

Had her phone calls and letters with Gwen and Orchid been intercepted?

Had her outings with Marina and Mags drawn too much suspicion?

It was her fault, it had to be, that sweet, little Iris was now condemned to die. It had already been her fault that Timmy was Reaped into the Hunger Games, that should have been her signal to stop.

But no, the fire of rebellion had all but consumed her and now, another one of her precious little siblings was being sent to die for her actions.

Was Riva next on the chopping board? Would he too be Reaped this year, guaranteeing that at least one of her siblings would perish in the arena? Had she messed up that badly that the Capitol and the Gamemakers were now trying to exterminate the Fisher family off the face of the earth?

She craned her neck, trying to look around the screeching escort to catch her little sister's eye. As enraged, panicked brown met petrified, brilliant blue, Iris's eyes narrowed, the fear turning into something Jolien's heart refused to stitch up and deny.

Anger.

Jolien buried her face in her hands, ignoring Timmy as he tried to speak something into her, but she couldn't hear anything, refused to hear anything.

When Kai, that horrible brute of a boy Kai shot his hand up to volunteer as the male tribute, Jolien could feel the fragmented pieces of her heart crumbling to dust.

Kai’s sister Lorelei loved to torment Iris.

And where had Jolien been all those times?

Hiding away in her own sorrows, neglecting her scared little sister.

Jolien, for the hundredth time that year, wished herself dead.

“You’re going home as a Victor, ‘Ris,” Timmy said firmly, slamming his mug down on the table.

Iris stared up at him, her eyes sore from crying. At least Kai was in a different room now, led away by Marina and Mags for some, as Jolien had called it, half-hearted mentoring. She twiddled with a small strand of rope, taking in the raw determination on her brother’s face that had been missing since his return to District Four from the Hunger Games last year.

“You’re the best archer in the District,” Timmy continued. “I’ve seen you in the Career Academy, you’re fantastic! And you’re smart, smarter than half of Panem. Come on, ‘Ris, you can win this!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her so violently that Iris winced, murmuring for him to stop.

“I’m not a Career,” she whispered softly in feeble protest.

Jolien scoffed. “Well, technically, you are, since you’ve trained in the Career Academy. Just show them your skills in training, they’ll definitely let you in the Career pack.”

“And what would I do in there?” Iris countered, shooting Jolien a frustrated look. She threw her hands in the air, all of the hopelessness she’d felt during her Reaping washing back like a wave coming onto the shore. “Kill innocent children? Cry until they kill me in my sleep? No one would even care about me, they’ll stab me the first chance they get!”

Jolien crouched in front of her, her hands gently resting on Iris’s shoulders. A warm, fuzzy feeling, one Iris hadn’t felt since the day Jolien was Reaped for her Hunger Games, trickled through her chest. That firm yet comforting expression her sister always fixed on her whenever she got scared during a thunderstorm returned like an old friend to Jolien’s face, and with it came the safety, comfort, love that Iris realised she’d sorely missed.

“Iris,” Jolien said quietly. “Gwendolyn Whitfield. Woof Casino. Gadget Schroeder. Which of these had even half of your physical skills? And how many of them survived their arenas? There is a way of winning for you too, Iris. You just have to play the game right and I know that the little girl who aced all her tests and outsmarted the Career Academy trainers in the survival runs can do it. Please, Iris, believe.”

Believe.

Such a dangerous word, laced with fatal sweetness and hope.

Could Iris actually win? She thought about the Victors Jolien named, thought about what little she remembered of their respective Games. Strategy, wit, resilience. Common themes for all of them. Her attention turned to the large mirror on the opposite side of the train carriage, grimacing at the ugly little freak that stared back at her. Jolien and Timmy followed her gaze, their faces hardening into iron.

“Iris,” Timmy muttered, moving to block her view of the mirror. “You can’t tell us you really believe what those three idiots say about you, right?”

She paused, staring down at her worn shoes. She shuffled her feet, her mind trying to figure out how best to avoid a direct answer to Timmy’s line of questioning. “Well,” she began meekly. “Everyone stares at me whenever I walk. Everyone has something bad to say about my looks. Everyone thinks I- I-” She shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together.

Jolien sighed, lowering her head slightly. “Iris Fisher, you are going to wow the Capitol, you hear me? No, don’t argue with me, you know it’s true. You are beautiful, you are sweet, and the Capitol will love you. All you have to do is smile and they will all fall to their knees and go, “Aww,” at the sight of you.” She stopped, and Iris didn’t miss the cloud that flashed over her sister’s eyes. “Timmy and I will handle your publicity stuff, we will get you the sponsors you need. Don’t worry about that. Just smile, wave, and act all sweet for the cameras, got it?”

Iris slumped in her chair, trying not to fall into another breakdown of epic proportions.

“Where was all this advice,” she murmured slowly, staring down at the floor. “All these years, all those times I came crying home and you weren't there?” Her eyes shot back up at her older siblings, darting between their faces bearing pursed lips, glaring at their shuffling feet.

She could be nice, she could be sweet.

But she wanted an answer, before she and Death would meet.

“Iris-" Jolien whispered softly, reaching out a hand to comb her hair.

Iris flinched, swatting her away. “Don't Iris me!” she hissed. “I came home every day with bruises, scars, my hair torn up, and what did you do? You slammed the door on me! So why should I listen to you now, huh? Like, oh, “you're beautiful, you're sweet, blah, blah, blah”, yeah, guess what? Could've told me this ages ago!”

Jolien and Timmy had no response for her.

“Caesar, are you ready for your first live appearance as host of the Hunger Games?”

Caesar straightened his bowtie, admiring his smart little suit in the mirror as a stylist straightened his blue hair. Turning to flash the producer a big grin, he gave a thumbs-up.

At fourteen years of age, this was the opportunity of a lifetime for Caesar Flickermann.

“Always ready, Bonnie!” he squealed, rising from his seat.

Bonnie laughed, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Go kill ‘em, Caesar.” She led him to the stairs that led up to the stage, the muffled roars of the crowd buzzing in his ears. Chants were beginning to erupt, the bright lights flashing directly into his face.

This was the stuff of dreams.

The world began to blur around him in a kaleidoscope of noise, colours and perfume, serenading his senses with the nauseating burst of fame and glory he was finally about to grasp with both hands.

“It's showtime.”

Rushing onto the stage, he let out a big, booming laugh, his grin so wide he could probably fit a whole sandwich in his mouth.

And the crowd goes wild!

“Gooooood evening, Panem!” he yelled, hoisting both arms in the air to wave at the screaming Hunger Games fanatics. The sea of wigs, makeup and dresses beneath him surged as one, uniting to cheer on their newest little celebrity. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Thirty-Third Annual Huuuuuuunger Games!”

Hoots, hollers, shrieks.

Caesar laughed, realising he probably looked like a maniac but hey, the people were eating it all up on a silver spoon. The spotlight was on him and he loved every second of it. His brain went into autopilot mode, reciting his script with the usual feverish exuberance that had taken him this far as a child actor and presenter, yapping on and on excitedly about the fanfare surrounding this year's crop of tributes.

“But now,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “The moment you've all been waiting for, the Reaping Recaps!”

He ducked to the side, falling dramatically on his oversized leather velvet chair to the audience's raucous laughter. Behind him, the screen flickered to life, showing the stage in District One on Reaping morning. He allowed the recording to play out, waiting until both male and female tributes were up on stage before giving some light commentary. “And that's Diadem Montgomery and Coiner Ashton for you, ladies and gentlemen! A very strong pair indeed, and as Diadem said, we will be very much looking forward to some spear action from this pair this year, folks! Can I just say though, Coiner's little hat there looks ravishing! A new addition from Jasepin Cordelianer's collection, if I do recall correctly, and definitely a must-buy for the summer!”

The Districts Two and Three Reapings passed by much the same way, the tapes played and Caesar gave his own insights on the proceedings, stopping once in a while to make a few quips and jokes for the crowd to giggle at.

“And now,” Caesar said, waving his hand dramatically. “It's time for the four-time champions and this year's reigning champions after back-to-back wins, can they do it again? We've been loving ourselves some seafood buckets lately, let's see if we're in for another feast this year too, let's give it up for District Four!”

And then he saw her.

“Iris Fisher!”

It was like seeing a double rainbow on a sunset as the neon lights of the Capitol were flickering to life.

A blonde girl with glistening blue eyes in a straw hat and a simple dress stepped onto the stage, her legs quivering with each creak of the small set of stairs.

Caesar had never seen a more beautiful girl in his life.

He sat there, eyes glued to the screen, stunned speechless as the girl reluctantly took off her hat, allowing her beachy blonde waves to tumble freely down her back, her bangs haphazardly cut in a way that Caesar found oddly captivating.

The screen went silent for a minute, the Reaping's proceedings muted as Jolien and Timmy Fisher rushed forward, Jolien's face pale with horror as she let out silent screams Caesar himself could hear through the screen.

When the spotlight flashed back to him, he struggled to find the words to speak.

Iris Fisher had taken his breath away.

“Fuck you, Iris!” Kai snarled, grabbing Iris by the shoulders and shoving her down. Iris yelped, wobbling her arms but she somehow managed to hold her ground.

What now?

“Fuck you and your stupid little mermaid dress,” Kai growled, jabbing a finger at his own, rather modest, merman outfit. “You get those rainbow shining pearls and all from Tigris but she gives me this! Now look all around you, even District Two prefers you! What, did you cozy up to Tigris like you cozied up to-"

“Leave her alone!”

Both of them turned, Kai's face only having the time to form a perfect ‘O' before it received the full brunt of a powerful sucker punch courtesy of one very angry (and very strong) Jolien Fisher. He howled, falling to the ground in a pathetic heap, whining about how Mags would teach Jolien a lesson.

Iris allowed herself a small snicker, the corner of her eye glimpsing Mags flinging a bunch of sugar cubes into her mouth like they were popcorn.

“Gah, should've known you two were one of a kind,” Kai was shouting as Timmy fought to restrain Jolien. “Two little bitches who can bat their pretty little eyelashes and have the world handed to them!”

“Wow, he's something, isn't he?”

Iris nearly jumped out of her own skin. Turning on her heels, it took everything in her to fight back the urge to flinch at the sight of Cyrene, the towering girl from District Two who'd vowed to ‘mow down the field’ during her Reaping.

“Uhm, yeah,” Iris replied, rubbing the back of her neck. “It's fine, he's all talk and mostly no action anyway.”

Cyrene nodded, her calculating brown eyes still trained on Kai as he fumbled to his feet, shouting something at the bewildered boy from District Two, Stryker. “Stryker's not much better,” she said coolly. “Before the Hunger Games, he picked a bunch of little girls to fight against as practice. Half of them had to be stretchered off the gymnasium when he tried to ‘show off for the crowd'.”

Iris winced, her mind suddenly wrought with the thought of Stryker doing the same thing to her, only this time, he was fighting to kill.

Stop it, she scolded herself. No use in worrying about the Games before they've even begun.

“Tell me about it,” another voice groaned. Iris watched as Diadem Montgomery strode up to them, a permanent scowl etched on her otherworldly gorgeous features. “Coiner is much worse, this bitch thrives on negative attention. He thinks it's so cool to beat up the Avoxes and the young servants in his household, like, dude, get a life, man!”

Iris and Cyrene both rolled their eyes and as the trio continued to bemoan their District partners, it dawned on Iris that though they all hated their male counterparts, at least they were united.

If the Career pack lasted well into the Games, Iris was sure the three boys would try and skewer her first, she realised with a shudder down her spine.

An idea began to form in her head as she half-listened to Cyrene's chatter about the amazing seafood she'd eaten on the train.

No, no, she thought with a violent shake of her head. No, no, no. That couldn't be it, she couldn't be the one to pull it off, or even suggest it. And even if she did manage to convince the other two girls, how would the rest of Panem see her?

Doubt clouded her vision, threatening to topple her weary legs.

And yet, it could be the difference between life and death.

“Alright, Iris,” Tigris murmured gently, smoothing her dress. “You ready for your interviews?”

Iris nodded, trying to mask the nervousness she was undoubtedly parading on her expression.

Think of the time you aced those tests in the Career Academy, or the time you beat those girls in tennis, or the time-

“Well, Lorelei was right, someone looks awful.”

Don't say anything rash, Iris.

Iris squeezed her eyes shut, trying to tune out Kai's mocking tone. She jammed her fists into the small pockets of her dress.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“What are you trying to go for, emo fish princess?”

Don't you dare cry, Iris. Don't. You. Dare.

“Kai,” Tigris snapped, the fearsome tiger lady rounding up on her male tribute. “Please leave this room at once and leave Iris alone.”

Kai rolled his eyes. “Whatever, it's your funeral,” he murmured, slamming the door shut behind him.

Remember Iris, you got a nine in your private sessions. That’s higher than his eight. Remember that.

“Iris, sweetie, you still okay?” Tigris asked, her voice softening.

But Iris was no longer listening.

A mental barrier snapped wide open in her mind, waves of rage and suppressed outbursts crashing over her like the tsunami that had killed her parents. She gripped the creases of her dress, a new feeling bubbling inside her, an underwater volcano of certainty about to burst.

“I'm fine, Tigris,” she said slowly, a hint of a smirk creeping up her face. “In fact, I have never been more fine in my entire life.”

Caesar was having a blast on stage. With every wave to the crowd, the room seemed to break out in deafening cheers, screaming his name like there was no tomorrow. Every time he told a joke about him having a curfew and needing to do his homework, it felt as though all of Panem laughed with him, chuckling along to his every word.

He had them hook, line and sinker.

The interviews chugged on, Caesar exchanging banter with the pair from District One, smirking at the devious schemes of District Two, soothing fears and talking about modern tech with District Three.

How had his predecessors made it seem so difficult?

Sipping on a brightly-coloured mug of water, he watched the male from District Three stumble on his way off the stage, feeling a slight tinge of pity for him, but it didn’t last long.

Not when she was up next.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we turn our attention to our third pair of frightening Careers, and this time, it’s our favourite swashbuckling, spear-hurling fishing District, remember all those moments? We start with the girl, a very lovely one, if I do say so myself,” he said, a little more sheepishly for his liking as a few laughs chorused from the back of the auditorium. “The sister of not one, but two Victors, what does she have to say for herself? Let’s give a warm, Capitolite welcome for Iris Fisher from District Four!”

The bright lights dimmed for a second, but Caesar didn’t notice. The whole place could’ve had a blackout and he wouldn’t have budged a muscle. Not when the most blinding light had been flashed in front of his face, in the form of Iris clad in a shimmering blue dress with folds and creases resembling gentle, flowing waves tumbling around her as she moved, the top of the dress a sparkly bright shade like the sunlit ocean surface slowly transitioning into deep, navy hues towards her ankles like the dark ocean depths, topped off with a simple yet effortlessly charming twine seashell necklace.

Damn.

She glanced around, her lopsided smile faltering at the cameras flashing all around her. Caesar took that moment to compose himself, reminding himself that she was just a tribute and would, more likely than not, die in the arena not long after their interview.

She’s from District Four, she’s not Capitolite, and she’ll likely be in a coffin soon enough at the hands of the boy from District Two.

Iris’s cheeks flushed, rosy red in the most endearingly adorable way possible, her blue eyes wide and surprised at the short, blue-haired boy grinning up at her.

Only one way to properly greet her then.

He took her hand, cold to the touch and shivering hopelessly from the air conditioning.

Caesar desperately hoped her next move wouldn’t be to slap him.

Lifting her hand, he bent down and gave it a gentlemanly kiss, that goofy grin of his never slipping, not even once, even as his insides felt like they were about to explode. “Welcome to the Capitol, Iris!”

Caesar could feel his heart skip a beat as Iris’s face grew even redder, her feet shuffling as she gingerly took a seat beside him, one eye still warily trained on the cameras. “Thank you, erm, Caesar.”

“So, how have you been finding our glitzy little city? Your brother Timmy was enamoured by the food last year, how about you? Enjoying our fine cuisine?”

Iris shrugged, a hand rising to twirl a strand of wavy blonde hair. “It’s been brilliant, for the most part. I mean, I do still miss the seafood back home in Four. They don’t serve much seafood here.”

“Ah,” Caesar said. “That’s a suggestion for next year’s organisers to take note of then! Have more fish, and definitely have some lobsters on the menu too! I have to admit, I had a bucketload of those and I might have gained a few pounds, just couldn’t control myself around those damn lobsters!” He patted his belly, bringing out a small, hesitant chuckle from Iris and a hearty boom of chortles from the crowd. “Say, Iris, you must have plenty of fans waiting for you back home. Anything they can expect from you in the arena?”

Iris paused, her laughter fading. “Erm, doubt anyone apart from my siblings and the other two Victors really wants me home, Caesar. At least, not particularly.”

Caesar blinked, his hand flying to his chest in dramatised shock. “I find that very hard to believe!” he exclaimed. “What about friends? Or someone special back home, surely a beautiful girl like you has one of those, right?” He leaned in conspiratorially, giving her a subtle wink.

Iris’s blush deepened, her hand fidgeting aggressively with her hair now. She stared off to the side, as though thinking of the right words to say. And then it was Caesar’s turn to blush, because a playful smile suddenly crept up her face, the twirling of her hair growing more deliberate as her eyes began to twinkle with mischief.

Uh oh.

“Caesar,” she said coyly. “Are you asking me this because you have a crush on me?”

Dang, this girl is smart.

The crowd erupted in “oohs”, craning their necks in like they wanted to intrude on an intimate conversation, the gossip-loving hawks spotting their juicy fill of the night.

Okay Caesar, time to play your cards right here.

“Well, it would be impossible for me not to, my dear, you may or may not have taken my breath away when you came up onto the stage,” he told her, returning her smile with all the charm of a young presenter.

Iris waved her hand, as if trying to dismiss his words. “You flatter me, Caesar, but that’s an exaggeration if I’ve ever heard one.” Her muscles relaxed though, the tremor in her legs slowing with each passing moment. “People in Four bully me a lot, that’s why my hair got cut up like this.” She pointed to her hair, left untouched by Tigris and allowed to flow down her back in her natural, beachy waves. Caesar peered closer, noticing the unevenness of her bangs, the jagged, messy cuts along the sides.

Had they done this to her?

Stifling back a burning desire to reach out through the screens and punch whichever piece of crap would do this to her, he let out a scoff, patting her on the shoulder. “They’re just jealous, dear, but we here in the Capitol love you, don’t we, guys?” He turned to the crowd, spreading his arms and they instantly started cheering, hooting, hollering, only this time, for Iris.

Iris giggled again, the sound pretty and light, like a cool, seaside breeze. “I guess so,” she conceded.

“Tell me,” Caesar continued. “I have been told that you’re quite the studious gal. Very different from most District Four tributes, I must say. Sports not quite your thing?”

Iris gave another shrug. “I honestly prefer math over things like football or tennis. Sacrilegious, I know, but it’s what I like. Geology is pretty cool as well, ooh, and marine biology, that stuff’s awesome and I wish I had more classes on that.”

She continued to ramble on and on about her interests, her hands flying around in expressive gestures, her shy voice now rising and brimming with excitement.

And Caesar hung on to every last word that came out of her mouth.

The buzzer rang and Iris let out a startled, “Eep!”

“Well, that’s all the time we have, folks,” Caesar said ruefully, his heart sinking. This was, by all accounts, likely the last time he would ever speak to her, and probably the last time he would see her alive, even. He shuddered at the thought of those rich blue eyes staring glassy and lifeless into the sky, her body going cold, limp, forgotten in a sea of tributes and casualties of the Hunger Games.

It wasn’t fair, but it hurt even worse that it took a crush for Caesar to realise this, he reminded himself with a pang in his heart.

He took Iris by the hand again, lifting her to her feet. She looked nervous again, wetting her lips as she looked around, as though trying to find a way out of the auditorium with immediate effect. “Give it up once again for Iris Fisher, the darling of District Four!”

As the crowd continued to cheer her on, Caesar leaned in, remembering the producers’ advice that in District Four, exchanging cheek kisses was considered customary for a farewell. Iris too, leaned in, a small quirk in her lips.

Unfortunately, Caesar, the great, almighty idiot he was, leaned in the exact same direction as Iris.

As their lips puckered and drew closer, Caesar nearly yelped in alarm as he found his lips pecking hers, sending a million volts of electricity sparking and sizzling up his brain. He froze, feeling like all ability to think had been fried, short-circuited, unable to function anymore. Iris gasped, blushing furiously yet again.

Is now the time for her to punch me? Caesar thought with a grimace.

A giggle blurted out of her, then another, and then both of them were full-on laughing their butts off, Iris holding onto Caesar’s shoulders as she squealed with laughter. “You did that on purpose!” she teased, jabbing him in the chest with her finger. She flipped her hair, giving the audience a sly wink. “Xoxo, District Four.”

Even as she hopped off the stage, paling after her District partner mumbled something in her ear, Caesar found it hard to tear his eyes away from her, the infatuation only growing stronger in his chest.

This girl was going to drive him crazy.

“May the odds be ever in your favour.”

Iris was vaguely aware that her pedestal had screeched to a rocky halt, but she wasn’t exactly paying attention to that rusty, old thing.

Not when the arena before her was unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

The Cornucopia itself was in the middle of a sprawling hotel lobby of golden chandeliers, marble pillars and hanging plants with vines snaking down whitewashed walls. Down each corridor, she could see intricate patterns woven into the carpeting, beautiful pieces of tapestries adorning every corner of the walls that enclosed long passageways to what she could only assume were other sections of a grand, luxury hotel reminiscent of the one built for Capitolite tourists in District Four. A grand piano sat in the corner accompanied by a plush, velvet stool, the keys moving on their own to play soft, soothing music Iris found horribly ironic for the occasion.

As the timer ticked down, she took a deep breath, gripping the blue ball gown she’d been given as arena wear as tightly as she could to rein herself in, trying to steady her breathing.

Come on, Iris, you can do this. Just remember the plan and stick to it.

“Five, four, three, two, one.”

The gong rang and Iris leapt off the pedestal, years of training in the sport-loving District Four sending her feet rampaging across the hotel lobby in spite of her dress. All around her, tributes began screaming, grappling, howling in pain and frustration, but Iris only had one target in her mind: that golden bow and quiver of silver arrows sitting right in the middle of the Cornucopia.

Her ticket out of this mess.

Her fingers closed around the quiver, slinging it over her shoulders.

Five arrows, five shots, five possible kills.

She loaded an arrow, scanning the rampaging Bloodbath for an easy target.

There, the girl from Seven, strong and muscular with an axe, fighting Stryker for an axe.

She took a deep breath, trying her best not to overthink it.

Jolien did it, Timmy did it, Mags and Marina have both done it.

Killing was simply part of the Hunger Games, she reasoned. It was either kill, or be killed.

But her fingers wavered on the string, unwilling to release.

“Wimp!”

“Coward!”

“Freak!”

Lorelei’s voice sang in her head, taunting her as the seconds ticked by, the girl from Seven landing a solid punch on Stryker’s face.

Now or never, Iris.

Thwack!

The arrow sailed through the air, speeding across the luxurious Cornucopia area, but from Iris’s perspective, it moved at barely a snail’s pace, every microsecond slowed to replay perfection as the arrow drew closer and closer to the fight and its target.

She bit her lip, forcing her legs to stop trembling as it struck the girl from Seven square in the chest, her eyes going wide in alarm before she dropped to the floor.

Dead.

Stryker crawled to his feet, glaring at Iris, who could only shakily load another arrow, the sounds of fighting around her nonexistent.

“Took you long enough, barnacle girl!” Stryker yelled, hauling the axe as he turned to slash the boy from Five in the chest.

Iris’s lip was bleeding now, every muscle in her body screaming for her to stop, that this was not her, this wasn’t right, that there had to be another way.

But again, this was the Hunger Games.

Kill or be killed, Iris.

Thwack!

The Bloodbath seemed to freeze, all eyes suddenly drawn to the flying arrow in the air as it soared, gaining speed and momentum, a sole, deadly projectile dancing across the space, waiting to hit its mark.

And just like that, Stryker from District Two crumbled to the floor, coughing out blood as his fingers clawed uselessly at the arrow stuck in his throat.

All of Panem must’ve stood still then, the Mentoring Room must’ve blown up in flames. Iris didn’t care, her fingers now shaking violently as she allowed herself a whimper, the guilt and anguish of having taken out two lives now suddenly washing over her. She crumbled to her knees, trying her very best to fight the onslaught of tears she knew was coming. Her quiver bounced uselessly against her hip, filled with three remaining arrows that felt sacrilegious to even touch.

Dead, dead, dead!

“Traitor!” Kai shrieked, letting out a roar of fury as he hefted his trident, charging straight at Iris, who was trying to clamber to her feet, willing her knees to move but they just wouldn’t budge. “I never should’ve trusted you, you bitch!”

He drew his trident back, preparing to impale Iris with it, but then he stopped. Kai’s eyes bulged out of his head, a trickle of blood sputtering out of his mouth.

He too, fell to the ground, dead.

Diadem came up beside him, plucking her sword from his back. She flashed Iris a grin, as though the kill had meant nothing to her. “You okay there, Iris?” she asked, hauling Iris to her feet.

Iris nodded feebly, her gaze wandering to where Cyrene had just flung a set of throwing knives at Coiner, the Career boy from District One screaming in pain as his body was used as a human pincushion.

The Career Alliance, for the first time ever, had torn itself apart in the Bloodbath.

And the girls were now in charge.

Iris nocked another arrow, her grip shaky as she surveyed the Bloodbath around her, now slowed to a crawl as tributes stared on in shock, trying to make sense of the open betrayal unfolding before their eyes.

But they too were potential enemies, obstacles in the way of Iris returning home from this mess of an arena.

Thwack!

An arrow struck the boy from District Eight in the chest, the sly and quick-footed market thief crumpling to the ground.

Thwack!

Another arrow, striking the small girl from District Twelve in the back as she tried to flee, a small squeak escaping her lips before she fell forward, dead as a doornail.

Thwack!

Her final arrow impaled the boy from District Six in the knee, causing him to howl in pain as he fell to the side, his head smashing against the floor with a sickening crunch. As blood spewed from the side of his face, Iris knew with a sickening crunch in her own gut that he too, was dead.

Around her, Cyrene and Diadem continued to mow down the other tributes, taking the total Bloodbath death tally up to fourteen, in a cruel twist of irony, exactly the age Iris herself was.

But Iris would play no further part in the carnage.

She stared in horror at the dead corpses that surrounded her, at the blood now soaking her dress in a frightening shade of red.

"Oh, fumbling flippers," she murmured, staggering further into the mouth of the Cornucopia, her face turning what she could only assume was a deathly shade of pale

Her last meal before entering the arena began piling up in her throat. She tried to clamp her mouth shut, but it was no use.

Face burning with shame and humiliation, she threw up all over the Cornucopia.

Caesar jammed his hands into his pockets, ducking his head as he shuffled into the bar, already teeming with screeching stalwarts of the Capitolite elite, those who would kill for the chance to kiss President Snow’s feet, drinking away their spirits with live footage of the Hunger Games playing on big screens.

The job as host of the Hunger Games had, for the most part, lived up to its expectations. The whole nation was practically doting on him and fawning over his every move, he was pampered to perfection and his every need met, his salary was eyewatering even by Capitol standards, what more could he possibly want?

Perhaps it was the desire to see the tributes he’d joked around with in the interviews and felt genuine connections towards actually alive and not in body bags or coffins.

He stopped just short of where many of the revellers were chugging whisky and wine, large platters of elaborate pastries sitting uneaten on the main table. He peeked through the crowd, his small stature allowing him to pry through the gaps of drunken, dancing bodies, giving him a decent view of Iris and the Career pack creeping their way through the arena.

That one girl from District Four he never could stop thinking about.

Standing on his tiptoes and craning his neck, he searched the crowd for one particular face, his gaze finally landing on the boy with sandy brown hair and dark circles around his eyes, nursing a drink while chatting to a much older woman with dark skin and a leaf necklace.

Timmy Fisher, the most recent Hunger Games Victor from District Four, and Orchid Bloom, District Eleven’s first-ever Victor.

Slipping his way through the crowd to reach them, he caught bits of their conversation as he drew nearer.

“Stop drinking, Timmy,” Orchid chided, reaching to snatch the glass away from him. “Come on, your sister is in the arena, at least be sober for her.”

“But what if she dies?” Timmy croaked, shaking his head uncertainly. “I don’t want to be sober when that happens.”

“Timmy Fisher!” Orchid explained, her hands on her hips. “Have you no confidence in your own little sister? She’s killed five tributes already, need I remind you? That’s more than Jolien in her Games and equal with yours! She’s more than capable of winning, especially with all those sponsors her little ship with that boy Caesar is drumming up.”

Timmy shook his head again, resting his head in his hands. “It’s not enough though, not enough for the gift we want to send to her. It’s just short of the amount, and that amount will keep going up day by day.”

A sponsor gift for Iris, huh?

Caesar hopped forward, revealing himself to a disgruntled Timmy and a rather startled Orchid. “I can get her the money she needs!”

Timmy groaned, tossing a hand into the air. “Ugh, not you again, what, creeping up on her older brother too now, you lovesick little puppy?”

Ah, crap.

Caesar blinked, trying to work out any reasonable counter for that claim. “Well, I mean, I do want her to win, and I’ve got the money here, so-”

“Oh, you want her to win?” Timmy laughed, slamming the bar table with his fist. “For what? So you can use her as you please?”

Caesar gasped, backing away slightly at the crude choice of words from Timmy. Use her as he pleased? What was he implying? The potential meanings churned in his gut, sending a wave of nausea hurtling over him. “I’m sorry, what?” he managed, turning to Orchid for some explanation.

Orchid shot Timmy a glare. “He’s fourteen, Timmy Fisher!” she snapped. “Of course he doesn’t know!”

“Know what?” Caesar demanded, narrowing his eyes. “Look, I like Iris, yes, everyone knows that. But I also don’t like the thought of you and Jolien, my favourite Victors, by the way, losing your little sister in the arena after surviving it yourselves. It’s all so… wrong.” He frowned, weighing his words carefully. What was he thinking, what was he implying?

Orchid’s eyes widened. She chewed her lip, stepping off the bar seat to lean closer to Caesar. “Don’t say anything that could get you into trouble,” she warned. “But you have a good heart, Caesar. Just promise me, promise us, that you won’t expect anything out of Iris if you sponsor her to victory, alright?”

“Of course!” Caesar yelped, alarmed that either she or Timmy would’ve thought otherwise. “Why- why wouldn’t I, I mean, she’s her own person and all, right?”

“He doesn’t know,” Timmy mused.

“Doesn’t know what?” Caesar demanded again, crossing his arms and feeling all of a sudden very much exasperated with their secrecy.

What were they hiding from him?

“Caesar,” Timmy said slowly, his face growing stern now. “I suggest you speak to Switch Kim when you can. Tell her you want to know about your past. She’ll know what to say.”

Switch Kim?

The cheerful Victor from District Five?

What was she going to do, give him a circus lesson?

Before he could protest, however, Timmy continued. “We have in mind a very special and unique set of sponsors for Iris. Your money will be appreciated, but I have one thing I ask in return.”

“Ask away, Timmy,” Caesar replied, raising his eyebrows.

Timmy sighed, swirling the drink in his glass. “I ask that you care for Iris with all your heart if you are indeed going to pursue her after these Games. And-” Timmy’s voice cracked a little, his expression softening. “Don’t ever let them take her to be one of the ones they use for their own pleasure, alright? You alone can save her once she gets out of the arena.”

On the screens, Iris had stopped the Career pack’s advance, frowning as she examined the corridor ahead of her, the cameras zooming in on her eyes darting to and fro, looking at the twin rows of mirrors set up facing each other.

And the little holes in their frames, not to mention the way their reflections looked a little off.

At least, that was what Iris was explaining to a perplexed Cyrene and Diadem before forcing the pair to crawl beneath the mirrors, effectively avoiding a deadly acid trap.

As Caesar left the bar, heading straight for the Tribute Centre and the District Five section in particular, he was left with a million more questions and almost no clear answers.

Iris’s quiver clattered against her leg, the bow growing heavy in her arms as she continued to trail the ever-chatty Diadem and Cyrene around the luxury hotel arena, fawning over the grandiose furnishings and lavishly decorated interiors that screamed wealth and indulgence.

Rubies, diamonds, gold, all manner of precious metals were aplenty in this arena, used so frivolously like the Districts of Panem weren’t currently starving, Iris thought to herself.

The Career pack had only managed to take down one more tribute over the last couple of days, the boy from Three hiding in one of the hotel’s luxurious, quartz-filled bathrooms that made the train and Tribute Centre bathrooms look like mouldy school showers in comparison.

The tribute count was dwindling and soon, Iris knew that the Careers would have to split up.

Or they could turn on their weakest link.

Her.

She squeezed her bow, only half-listening to Cyrene tell Diadem about all the fascinating dreams she’d had since she was a kid, charted and committed to memory for whatever purpose.

“Hey, Iris,” Diadem suddenly said. “What about you? You’ve never told us what it’s like to live with two Victors. Must be grand!”

Yeah, grand.

Iris bristled, wondering how much of the truth she should actually spill with all cameras now trained on her. “It’s… different,” she admitted. “They’re not the same people as they once were.”

Diadem frowned, turning to Cyrene. “What does that mean?” she asked.

Cyrene, however, remained silent, a flash of understanding simmering over her eyes. She nodded solemnly. “I get that, it’s also different seeing the Victors you’d once seen on the big screens in the flesh. Hercules, Scipio, Freya, the whole lot of them.”

Iris didn’t miss how she’d left out arguably the biggest Victor among District Two’s ranks, the one foreboding presence nobody could ignore. She was, after all, not exactly ignorant of the taunts and sneers thrown in the way of Jolien and Timmy whenever Iris and Kai had their backs turned during Training.

His stories of untold depravity in the Capitol alongside that horrible President Snow were much more disturbing.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that in a District where he essentially reigned as king and supreme leader, Draco Hadley would not have let the local populace simply live their lives in peace without pulling off far worse antics away from prying Capitolite eyes.

“It’s always different. For everyone,” she muttered quietly. “And they’re away a lot more nowadays. For Capitol errands, and to teach in the Career Academy, of course.”

Diadem brightened up once again, seemingly finding a good excuse to insert herself back into the conversation. “Speaking of Career Academies, what do they teach in District Four? You guys are like, so random, no one really knows what to expect from the fishing District, you know?”

Well, they teach us not to stupidly volunteer for the sake of volunteering, for one, Iris wanted to say.

Though that trend was going in an awful direction.

“We train on boats,” she said at last. “Fighting on small dinghies, bow and arrow drills on churning waves, spear and trident fishing to get our reflexes going. Plenty of extracurricular sporting stuff too, but that’s just because everyone in District Four is a sports fanatic.”

“Huh,” Cyrene remarked. “No wonder your tributes have infinite lungs.”

Iris chuckled, fiddling with her hair. “Stamina is pretty much drilled into us since birth, I suppose.”

“Hey, look!” Diadem chirped, pointing excitedly at a room on their right. “They’ve got a whole boutique in here!”

“Aww, yeah!” Cyrene exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “Ugh, these dresses suck. And they’re covered in blood. I could definitely do with something new.”

Iris stared feebly at the boutique, her hands twitching around her crumpled, torn, navy blue dress. The boutique itself was massive, lit up with gleaming golden chandeliers topped with emeralds and sapphires and lined with rows upon rows of all manner of outfits, each one more eye-wateringly extravagant than the next. A topiary of a sea serpent stood tall and proud as the centrepiece, flanked by mannequins displaying bejewelled dresses Iris felt herself unworthy of even gazing at, let alone wearing.

But the sea serpent, now that was sickening.

Jolien’s arena had been infested with sea serpent mutts, plaguing her older sister with terrifying nightmares of slithery, scale-covered beings sliding up her bed. Was this on purpose? Had she unknowingly been led towards, wandered right into a room built solely for the purpose of triggering as many alarm bells inside her sister’s head as possible?

“You guys go on,” Iris whimpered. “I- I’ll keep watch.”

“Okay, but we’ll call you in to ask you what you think,” Diadem called out, grabbing a handful of outfits and sashaying her way to a changing room. “Gotta make sure the sponsors love us and all!”

Cyrene nodded, giving Iris a knowing grin before darting into the adjacent changing room, leaving Iris all alone in the eerie quiet of the boutique with nothing more than the gentle whirring of air conditioning for company.

She sat on a silver-crusted stool, laying her bow down to rest her shoulders, but as soon as the weight had been lifted off her body, her heart began to ache with remembrance.

Five cannons, all caused by her. Five coffins, being shipped back home to their Districts, because of her. Five arrows in that stupid quiver she still had slung around her waist, all dripping in blood, never hers.

“We were right all along!” Moray’s voice cackled in her ear. “Little Miss Perfect is a scoundrel underneath that slappable face of hers!”

She rocked back and forth, biting her cheeks. She didn’t know why she felt the need to do so, but as she proceeded to dig her fingernails into her wrists, it brought her an uneasy comfort for some reason.

Maybe it felt good to be grounding herself when she felt like floating away with mild stings against her skin.

Just then, the familiar metallic tingle of a parachute beeped from behind her and Iris’s heart nearly ground to a halt, the sudden panic of a potential mutt or a trap quickly fizzling out as common sense sank in.

A sponsor.

For her?

She watched as the parachute with a small navy blue tin emblazoned with the number ‘4’ fluttered towards her, its little wings rustling softly as it drew closer. Iris reached up, letting the parachute fall into her hands. Ripping the tin lid open, she checked its contents, pulling out a silvery-white hairbrush and a bottle of perfume spray.

But why?

Iris set aside the sponsor gifts, knowing full well Timmy wouldn’t simply gift her random cosmetics for purely aesthetic purposes. She turned the tin over and a small note glided out, landing gently on her lap.

HAIRBRUSH- SPIKY SURPRISE

PERFUME- BOILED BONANZA

THE CHANGING ROOMS ARE SOUNDPROOF

• JOLIEN, TIMMY, MARINA AND MAGS

It took a while for the gears to click in Iris’s head.

But once they did, she gasped, nearly dropping the accursed items.

Suddenly, the boutique seemed far smaller than it actually was, the space between her and the two changing rooms way too close for her comfort.

If she went through with this, she would go down as one of the most brutal tributes in Hunger Games history.

But if she didn’t, she would be dead before dawn, most likely.

“Come on, Iris,” she whispered to herself, trying to quell the shakiness of her fingers. “Just two more kills.”

“Ooh, Iris!”

Iris’s hands closed around the sponsor gifts.

Now or never.

She pasted on a big, excited smile, skipping over to Diadem’s changing room. She didn’t even notice or even care what her outfit was, simply closing the door behind her and listening with her mind far, far away from the arena to Diadem as she rambled on about how her dress would surely turn her into a fashion icon worthy of plenty of sponsors.

The first time Iris had ever hit someone in the head was when she was ten.

A newbie in the Career Academy, she’d been paired up to spar on a boat with a bigger, tougher girl with actual experience out on the open seas. The girl hissed at her, spitting in her face, calling her a slew of insults Iris never dared to even internalise. When the girl grabbed her and tried to put her in a chokehold, Iris kneed her in the ground, pushing her to the ground and with one, powerful scream, punched her so hard on the head the girl lay bleeding with a concussion until the ambulances picked her up.

That girl, Baiji, would never forgive Iris for that.

“Say, Diadem,” she interrupted, pretending to check Diadem’s picture-perfect golden blonde hair. “Your hair’s a little razzled. Here, I got you a hairbrush, let me fix it up for you real quick.”

Diadem beamed. “Oh, of course, Iris, you’re such a dear!”

She turned around, exposing the back of her head to Iris. Iris raised her hairbrush, pressing it to the top of Diadem’s head.

Diadem let out a choked gasp, her eyes widening in shock. She coughed, a drop of blood falling to the floor. Iris withdrew the hairbrush, forcing herself to breathe, to think of sunny days in District Four curled up with a book by the beach watching the dolphins swim in the distance.

But she could never unsee the long, bloody spikes on the hairbrush, not the multitude of oozing puncture wounds in Diadem’s head.

Boom.

The cannon fired.

Iris dropped the hairbrush, fighting the urge to scream, to throw up on Diadem’s corpse.

One more kill.

It could be so easy, just one more kill, then another, then another…

That wasn’t the Iris that her siblings had raised.

It would shatter everyone’s memory of the girl too scrawny to lift a sword who just wanted to be left alone with her books and her animals, if that memory wasn’t already torn to pieces by her six kills in the arena thus far.

But maybe it was the Iris that her siblings needed.

She closed the door behind her, squeezing her eyes shut as Cyrene shouted, “Iris? You there? Was that a cannon I heard?”

So the cannons could still be heard in the changing rooms.

“I’m fine, Cyrene,” Iris called out, stepping into Cyrene’s changing room. “Girl from Ten. Tried to sneak up on me. I finished her off,” she lied. She held up the bottle of perfume, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “Here, found this. Super expensive, rare, luxury brand from the Capitol. If we use this, we’ll be able to promote it as a brand we like and earn tons of sponsor funds. This is a reality TV show, after all.”

Before Cyrene could respond or even question Iris’s bloodied hands or dress further, Iris brought the perfume bottle to Cyrene’s face and let out a squirt of grey mist. Cyrene blinked, swatting away the moisture.

Then her face erupted in boils so enormous, Iris could barely make out her facial features from the sheer, instant damage, Cyrene’s hands flying to her neck as a strangled scream escaped her lips.

“Iris!” she managed, one hand reaching out towards Iris as her body turned a gnarly, sickly shade of green. “You-, I-”

Boom.

The final two.

Iris hobbled across the hotel, a bandage covering the gash in her leg. She’d survived the last mutt attack, but her bow was gone and all she had left was a singular arrow, its tip still smeared in the blood of mutts and tributes alike, her face dirty and caked with dirt and gore like the stone-cold killer she was.

She could imagine the rest of Panem right now, watching her with glowering faces, wishing she’d simply roll over and die.

Iris wondered if that would be such a bad thing after all.

She winced, the pain in her leg threatening to keel her over.

It was too much for one girl to bear.

Her heart still bled, more than her leg ever would, for the two girls she’d called allies and in another life, would’ve considered friends. Their lively chatter, silenced because she wanted to go home and deny them the chance to ever do the same.

Wasn’t it lovely, all alone?

Heart shattered like glass, face turned to stone, never to smile, never to laugh, never to grin ever again.

She remembered them all now, kicking herself for having never remembered them before. The tributes she’d killed in the Bloodbath and beyond, their names all flooding into her head like a roll call played on loop.

Raiven, Stryker, Wover, Arabella, Aston, Diadem, Cyrene.

A tally that nearly exceeded both of her siblings’ kill counts combined. And with what? Half the effort? Half the flash? Twice the ruthlessness?

Was she really as sweet and pretty as everyone claimed she was? Or, Iris mused, was this simply her trying to claw at a mirage of herself that was never actually there?

Had the bullies of old been right all along? Was she, Iris Fisher, really the monster all along in a dolphin’s skin, allowed to swim in a pod within the Fisher family, allowed to even exist in the vast ocean she knew as life when in fact, she deserved to be dead, or better yet, never have been born in the first place?

She clutched her lone arrow, admiring the spiky point of its tip once more.

Blood.

Fresh blood? No, stale blood.

But she could make it fresh once more, just one more kill.

Iris spun the arrow around, but before she could do anything else, a hard weight toppled on top of her, knocking her to the floor with a loud flurry of screams.

The girl from District Ten.

Iris howled in pain, writhing as she tried to break herself free from the clutches of Bessie, her hand grasping for her fallen arrow.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Bessie stretched out a foot, kicking the arrow with such force it flew across the corridor, way out of Iris’s reach.

Iris’s heart raced, every instinct inside her telling her to scream, to let the world know that she was not a monster and just a little girl about to face her own death, welcoming it with open arms.

“Aww,” Bessie jeered. “Is the pretty little princess gonna cry?”

“Please, Iris, believe.”

Jolien’s words replayed in her mind, that desperate, pleading look on her face as she grabbed Iris by the shoulders on the train, the first sign of the caring, strongheaded sister she’d known before Jolien’s time in the arena.

But would she not simply drink away her sorrows again even if Iris perished, and along with the trauma, any memory of Iris herself?

She probably already had a small, little box ready for her, where her ashes would be dumped, set out to sea in tearful sobs and goodbyes of regret from Jolien and Timmy, heck, she'd even seen her making a call to a carpenter in Four while on the train! What else could that have possibly been for?

Nobody fought for her, nobody was on her side, nobody had ever come to her aid when she needed it the most. Timmy could have chosen any other form of weapon to take out the two Career girls, but he’d chosen the flashiest, most sponsor-worthy method of all, the one he knew would traumatise Iris the most.

And Iris had had enough of being passed around like a pretty little doll.

She was Iris Merrin Fisher and this was her story.

It was time to fight back.

Suddenly, it was as though Bessie’s face had morphed in her field of vision, turning into the sneering faces of her bullies, the devilish eyes of Moray, Lorelei and Baiji, the haughty looks on those who’d spent the last few years tormenting her, all in a rotating wheel of fire and fury for Iris.

Kill, Iris, kill.

She roared with rage, twisting and turning as Bessie pinned her to the floor, her wrists trapped in a tight, iron-like grip. Her knee shot up, kneeing the butcher girl right in the stomach. Bessie howled in agony, loosening her grip just enough for Iris to wriggle around a bit more and bury her fingernails, sharpened from biting since her last kill, into Bessie’s skin. The girl from Ten seethed, her foot slamming hard against Iris’s knee. Iris yelped, red, hot agony surging through her as a soft crunch erupted from her leg.

With a bloodcurdling scream, Iris brought her head up with a jolt, headbutting Bessie square in the face. Bessie doubled over, hands flying to her head, specifically her left ear. Iris squinted, her brain working overtime to process the deep gashes on the left side of her head, the dried blood on that ear in particular.

There was her opening.

Iris swung her wrist towards Bessie’s right shoulder. Her opponent caught it, twisting it so badly that Iris cried out, more than she probably should, but it was a good enough momentary distraction for Iris to bring out her left fist and land her second punch right on the other side of Bessie’s head. Bessie screamed, her gaze darting around, unfocused, blinking rapidly. Iris boxed her ear again and Iris pushed Bessie off of her, dodging a kick to her groin and deflecting a strike to her chest with her elbow, all the while angling her body to shield her wounded leg from Bessie’s counterattacks, her foot screeching for attention Iris was not able to afford.

Iris struck Bessie in the head again, but this time Bessie tilted her head to the side. With a sickening crunch, Iris shrieked, recoiling her hand back.

Don’t stop, Iris, fight like you mean it.

Anguish ripped through her wrist, her fingers paralysed in place as pain flared up her arm. 

But when she looked up at her assailant again, stars dancing around her vision, she saw Baiji, Moray, Lorelei, then Kai and the Career boys, goading her for not being good enough for the Career pack.

And finally, she saw Jolien and Timmy, staring sullenly at her in their drunken stupors.

You know you want to hit them, Iris, she snarled at herself. Kill, kill, kill!

She threw her entire body weight at Bessie, dragging her down to the ground with another flurry of punches with her other fist. Grabbing the girl by the collar of her dress, Iris lifted her up again and slammed her into a small table laden with bright opals and sapphires. Bessie groaned, her movements growing sluggish now.

Time for the killing blow.

Time for her to finally slay that revolving pistol of faces that writhed beneath her.

Iris’s hand closed around Bessie’s throat. Ignoring the scratches and kicks raining down on her back and stomach, she squeezed tighter, her right knee digging deeper into Bessie’s lower abdomen while her right leg dangled uselessly to the side. A cold snicker escaped Iris’s lips, all desire to have mercy on this useless creature vanquished as she stared down at her scapegoat, applying more and more pressure, her snickers turning into a full-blown cackle of triumph worthy of a sea witch.

“Xoxo, District Four,” she drawled, letting go of one hand to wave four fingers in Bessie’s suffocating face.

It took only a minute and a half more before Bessie stopped struggling.

The cannon boomed.

Oh, blubbering blue whales, what had she done?

All the adrenaline drained out of Iris all at once. The faces disappeared, revealing now Bessie, her windpipe crushed beside her, the ghost of her final moments of pure horror forever frozen on her face.

You’ve proven them all right, Iris. You are indeed a monster. Iris Merrin Fisher, the bloody murderer of the Hunger Games.

As she lay there, her body ripped to shreds with searing, agonising pain like she’d never felt before, feeling as though she’d been doused with a cruise ship-sized load of molten hot lava, her vision blurred, the twinkling lights and soft piano music of the arena fading into the screams of her slain tributes, images of their bloodied faces dancing across the ceilings, sharpening in focus as the world around her seemed to disappear. The faces drew closer, morphing into beings more terrifying than even the worst of mutts, pale ghosts dripping in blood from their eyes, noses, ears. The screams were now playing to the tune of the piano music, each note shrieked in symphonic perfection as the blood-crusted diamonds of the arena poured out of the faces’ mouths, raining down upon her, spinning her around and around and around.

She screamed, not from pain, not from fear, but from guilt, shame, regret. And a growing will that maybe, just maybe, she should’ve chosen the route of death anyway.

But it was too late for that now and Iris Fisher could only lie there wailing, unaware that she was being lifted by a hovercraft, her mind crumbling with her shaking and powerless to try and salvage it before it burned to ashes.

“Bloody Iris, say her name three times in a mirror and you’ll find an arrow lodged in your chest!”

Iris couldn’t wait to tear her stupid dress off.

Pressing a hand against her mouth, she clutched her stomach, willing the vomit and bile back down her throat as she ran from the party in the Capitol, kicking her heels off midway as she broke into a full sprint, her eyes swerving to avoid any of the bright colours, the opulent furnishings, the grand tapestries and paintings that the Tribute Centre was absolutely brimming with.

But looking down only gave her a clear view of her navy blue dress.

She tried not to look at it, tried to fix her gaze on that happy medium between the dress, a new, fresh, tailor-made one, but one she couldn’t help but see the blood of eight tributes on nonetheless, and the decorations along the walls of the Tribute Centre.

It was sadly very much impossible for Iris.

She burst into the elevator, frantically pressing the ‘4’ button. The door wasn’t closing quickly enough, the screams weren’t fading, the blood on her dress wasn’t going away. The elevator slowly rose to the fourth floor, that stupid, same soft piano music jingling all the way, filling her head with tormenting reminders of the fourteen souls, innocent and young, who’d perished in the Bloodbath.

“Murderer!”

“Coward!”

“Traitor!”

The door slowly slid open but Iris didn’t even wait. She practically prised it open herself, squeezing her way through. A few Avoxes jumped at her early return, quickly stepping back into position, their eyes wide and startled.

Iris tore off her dress, ripping it to shreds as she burst into her room, peeling off her lavish, intricately sewn accessories and her glittering jewellery, flinging her wardrobe door open.

More fancy dresses, more fancy skirts, more fancy accessories.

Death, death, death!

Welcome back to the arena, Iris Fisher, we hope you’re dressed well for the occasion!

There, the one pair of simplicity in clothing she could find. A simple T-shirt and pants, black and grey as she preferred them to be. Simple, dull colours, worlds away from the arena. She managed to fish out the simplest, dullest grey socks and a pale grey blanket, all of which were specially prepared by Jolien and Timmy after she’d lashed out at a doctor trying to give her a fancy, multicoloured shirt to wear.

Once dressed, Iris buried herself in her bed, trying to picture it as her coffin, slowly lowering itself into the ground, where she could be forgotten for good.

Someone knocked on Iris’s door.

“Go away!” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “Please, just give me one moment of peace! Or just come in and shoot me, I don’t care!”

“Iris, it’s me.”

Iris gazed up from her soaked pillow, her vision splotchy at best as the voice of Gwendolyn Whitfield, District Nine’s first-ever Victor, came through from the other side of the door.

What did Gwen of all people want with her?

“Erm, come in, I guess?” Iris called out feebly, her head dropping back onto her pillow.

The door slowly opened, revealing the bright, flaming red hair of Gwen, her face beaming with her usual warm, comforting smile Iris had always seen on television. “Hey there, Iris,” she whispered, her voice ever the soothing, gentle tone that had, according to Jolien, been a source of reprieve for many Victors over the years. She sat down on the edge of Iris’s bed, her hand reaching out to undo Iris’s braids. “I know you probably don’t want to see your siblings at the moment, so I figured I should check on you.” She paused, studying Iris’s face, which must be the perfect portrait of putrid ugliness in her sorry state of sorrow. “What’s on your mind right now?”

Iris stared blankly at her, her mouth opening but no sound coming out, her chest feeling so heavy she struggled to even lift herself off the bed. What was on her mind? That stupid slow arena music mingling with the screams of Diadem and Cyrene? That had to be a big highlight. The true brutality of the Bloodbath, viewed from the eyes of a spectator, showing her shooting down five tributes including an ally and a favourite from District Two with a lot less hesitation than she’d remembered? Probably also a weighing factor. Her final fight with Bessie, portraying her punching the poor girl from Ten and crushing her windpipe in a fit of rage? Yeah, not exactly something Iris could forget either.

“Bright lights,” she finally uttered, hoping this answer would suffice, but also not quite sure what she truly meant by that.

Gwen pondered for a moment, then nodded understandingly. She grabbed a teapot from Iris’s bedside table, one that Jolien must’ve put there when she wasn’t looking, and poured out a cup of warm vanilla tea for Iris, holding out the teacup for her to grab. Iris watched the teacup as it moved towards her resting hand and she could feel herself gravitating towards it, wanting to be pampered and cared for by Gwen. She raised her head, resting it against the headboard of her bed and finally, accepted the teacup, taking a slow sip. “Do you- do you do this to everyone after their Games?” she blurted out, unable to contain her curiosity.

Gwen shrugged. “Started doing it since Gadget won her Games. Figured the Victors would appreciate a fellow Victor being there for them. Not all the time, though, District Two isn’t particularly receptive and Jolien tried to kick me out pretty violently.” Gwen sighed, staring wistfully at the wall. “She’s apologised for it, though, but she still doesn’t really speak to me much.”

Iris nodded mutely, not quite processing any of this information. She slurped some more tea, feeling the cozy bitterness slide down her throat, the tinge of sweetness momentarily clouding the rings and screams of the arena that still danced in her head. “I have to go back and train more Careers in District Four, don’t I?” she asked, again not entirely sure why she would ask Gwen of all people.

Gwen didn’t answer immediately. She turned her head, checking the door as if scared Jolien or Timmt might burst in at any moment. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Gwen offered at last. “But I expect the Capitol would want to see you in the Career Academy from time to time, if only to demonstrate your loyalty.”

Iris scowled, her head tumbling back onto her pillow. “I don’t want to touch any more weapons,” she said quietly.

“There are things you can teach apart from weapons, Iris,” Gwen reminded her. “Your ability to detect mutt and trap zones in the arena would be invaluable to any who would listen.”

Iris gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, right, tell the big scary pirate kid who’s dead set on volunteering for the big prize that he’s gotta sneak around like an Outlier? Fat chance they’ll listen.”

“Oh, I have a feeling they most likely won’t,” Gwen conceded. “But the few that do, well, I have a good feeling about those.”

Iris didn’t respond, she just lay on the bed, teacup awkwardly dangling from her finger, letting herself sink deeper into the mattress, into the pit of her own despair. “Can you fix me, Gwen?” she croaked out.

Gwen shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I cannot wipe away all the trauma for you, Iris. But I promise I’ll do all I can.” She took the teacup, placing it back on the bedside table. “It’s too soon to work through it with you. For now, I want you to close your eyes for me, okay, Iris? Just breathe in, breathe out, and imagine yourself far away from the arena, in a dilapidated shack, facing the ocean, with a double rainbow on the horizon.”

Iris obliged, doing her best to picture the exact scene Gwen had described for her, but even as the rainbows materialised in her mind, all she could see was blood, so much blood, covering shimmering jewels now stained with red bobbing on the ocean surface. She began to breathe, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling-

A hand, smooth as silk, slipped on top of hers. Iris tensed, every muscle and fibre in her body screaming, “DANGER! DANGER!”

Was it President Snow, come here to taunt her after her Victory?

Was it Draco Hadley, come here to torment another female Victor?

Was it the Head Gamemaker, come here with all the shiny new bits of jewellery she’d bought especially to bring out the screams in Iris’s eyes?

She began to spiral, the tears itching in her eyes as the rainbows began to fade, the colours sapping into dull whiteness along with the sunset she’d tried to imagine in place of the bloodied jewels.

“Iris, it’s me, Caesar Flickermann.”

It was like something had short-circuited in her brain. If Gwen’s appearance here in her room had been a surprise, then Caesar’s had been completely mind-blowing.

What was he doing here? Was his job not done? Wasn’t he around simply to fluff up her feathers, preen her ego, hype her up to the Capitol audience so that they would sponsor her?

Or had all the care he’d shown towards her been, Iris dared to hope for even a second, genuine?

She lay still, not daring to breathe or move, her hand lying flat against the bedsheets.

“Gwen told me you were in here,” Caesar continued. “Figured maybe you’d like to talk to someone your own age?”

“Bessie was sixteen, only two years older than me,” Iris uttered, unable to contain herself. Her eyes remained squeezed shut, not wanting to see the face of the admittedly cute host of the Hunger Games. “And yet I still killed her.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Caesar tried to assure her.

“I could have killed her quickly,” Iris murmured, her body writhing a little from the memory. “Anyway, what’s it to you? Congratulations, your favourite tribute won, what, do you expect a favour from me or something?” She felt bad for judging him so quickly like that, but the stories she’d heard from hushed voices when no one thought she was listening, from the warning Mags gave Timmy the other night when everyone assumed she was in her room curled up into a ball and crying, well, those stories terrified her, to say the least.

And she needed to know if Caesar was about to make her the latest addition to those stories.

“I know what happens when someone the Capitol likes wins,” Caesar replied and Iris could almost hear a faint bitterness in his voice. “That’s how I found out my real mother is Switch Kim.”

Iris’s eyes fluttered open, her head bolting upright like a jack-in-a-box. “Wh-what?” she spluttered, her mouth wide open in shock.

Caesar looked away, his blue hair sagging over his face. “Yeah, guess that’s how I got my sense of witty humour. Not the easiest bit of news to stomach, but Mom- err, I mean, Switch- she’s really nice with me. More than I probably deserve to be treated by her, honestly.” He looked up at her, all traces of the lively boy full of energy up on stage evaporated, leaving behind only a shell of solemnity. “I would never let that happen to you, Iris. And that’s why Timmy told me to play up my crush on you, makes sure the Capitol will always firmly ship the two of us together, keeps you safe from Draco Hadley’s clutches.” He chewed on his lower lip, his gaze returning to the floor. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, I’m sorry, I should go.”

Caesar withdrew his hand, leaving behind a tingling, wanting sensation prickling at Iris’s skin. Without waiting or even thinking about it, her hand snatched Caesar’s by the wrist, dragging him back down insistently. Caesar raised an eyebrow, a blush forming across his cheeks at the sight of their joined hands.

“No,” Iris decided. “You stay. Please.” 

Why was she doing this? This was Caesar Flickermann, the most popular boy in all of Panem, pretty much. And a fanatic on the microphone too, witty humour extraordinaire, also admittedly handsome.

She could feel the heat rising in her face, but in the moment, she didn’t really care. “Let’s start this over again, shall we?” she suggested, sticking out her other hand for him to shake. “I’m Iris Fisher. I like math, storytelling and marine biology classes. How about you?”

Caesar looked down at her hand for a moment, then grinned broadly, that same, childish grin that had captivated her attention during the interviews firing itself back to life. He shook her hand enthusiastically, exclaiming, “Nice to meet you too! I’m Caesar Flickermann, and hey, I’ve always loved ocean animals. Like, I’ve only ever seen them in the Grand Aquarium, and it’s beautiful and all, but I bet seeing them in the sea would be spectacular. Especially whales, never seen one before but I hear they’re beautiful, majestic things!”

Iris laughed, the outburst of mirth sounding foreign on her lips. And yet, there it was, clear as the rainbows returning to her mind, this time, without the vivid imagery of her arena. As she began to go on an incredible tangent about different types of whales and their behaviours in the wild, interrupted only by Gwen who stopped by to deliver Iris’s favourite seaweed and squid snacks that she went on a different tangent on with Caesar, she pictured in her mind’s eye an array of fluffy white clouds, pasted on a clear blue sky with the sunshine beaming down over her face.

And somewhere over the rainbow, Iris could see the first rays of hope in the distance.