Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[ It wasn't pretty like the movies
It was ugly, like what they all did to me ]

His small body trembled at the repudiation of the darkness that enveloped him. He could hardly make out the rock-ridden walls of the mineshaft and, yet, he was convinced that they closed in on him. Panic triggered a sharp intake of breath. Coal dust flew in through his mouth and down his throat. A spluttering cough brought tears to his eyes, and he spat, and spat, until the last of the dust was expelled. He didn't want to cry. He was down here to be brave, to do something to help.

The image of his brother, before he had left home this morning, flickered into his mind. He was looking worse by the day. Now, his sickeningly pale skin hung loosely from his bones. He had been curled up tightly in his blankets, claiming it was the only way to stop the shaking, and Creek had planted a gentle kiss on the top of his head. His parting words, now, rang in his mind. "I am going to make all of this okay. I promise."

Glade had only looked up at him with those big, brown eyes.

His heart sank.

He didn't want to fail his brother. Then again, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something dangerously wrong about this place. Perhaps it was the eerie silence, filled only by the occasional creak of the shaft lift. Or, perhaps, it was that, down here, he had never felt so alone. To be lost down here was a death that Creek feared more than any other, for he would die cold and with nobody to find him.

And then who would save his family?

He shuddered at the thought.

"See, kid. There's nothing down here for you." A gruff voice startled him. He had almost forgotten that he wasn't alone down here. The stocky man at his side grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the lift. He grumbled. "Now that you've wasted enough of my time.. Will you get the hell out of here?"

Creek sighed as the doors of the cage shut behind him.

He hated to give up, but he knew that the man was right. He didn't belong here. This wasn't how he could help Glade.

But there had to be another way.

And he was going to find it. No matter what it cost.

6 Years Later…

The archives of the City Hall were a solitary place. Once in his life, it may have daunted him to be the single source of sound. Now, in the labyrinth of filing cabinets, the smell of old paper was an expected companion.

He gently extracted a file from its folder, careful of the fragility of the thin paper. After all these years, it still stunned him that the majority of the Games' history sat on these very pages. For something so important, they could have disappeared so easily.

He read the front of the file aloud, his eyes darting across the page.

Name: Saxony Hampton

Hunger Games: 24th Annual

District: 8

Sex: F

Age: 16

He could have named every fact from the file from the top of his head. She had killed three tributes in her Games, two of which on the final day, and outlasted through the use of a strategic alliance. The first time Creek had read her file, he had been critical. To place so much trust in others during the Games seemed a morbid mistake, and he saw much more logic in the Victors who had gone it alone.

They were smart. They had known that nobody could be trusted.

Yet, he never went a year without reassessing the Victor files and, this year, he found Saxony's file fit an increasingly common trend. After weeks of reading up on the 45 Victors who came before her, he spotted it instantly. Her alliance had worked in her favour, with all three of them making it, at the very least, 50% through the Games.

Whilst Creek remained adamant that alliances were a gamble in a Game that rewarded only one… For the Victor? Well, a betrayal from an ally was an anomaly. More often than not, each Victor had a core group that had aided them through the Games.

Creek slid the file back into the cabinet and clicked it shut.

Saxony Hampton: pattern followed. Strong alliance until the final days. No betrayals. Hypothesis: allies are not the problem; rather, it is the allies that the Victor chooses that determines the outcome.

He scribbled onto his notepad, his pen guided by the swift movement of his calculations.

It was a gut punch, of sorts, to read over his own words. There, plain as day, was the pattern that confirmed he had been wrong. Two years of encouraging 'Keepers to bet on the lone wolves had built him a fair fortune, but that was besides the point. At its core, that had likely never been a factor at all, despite how foolproof he had believed it to be. This was his speciality; he could not afford to be making such significant mistakes.

"Everything okay?"

The soft voice broke his fixed gaze with a start.

The older woman had a habit of sneaking up on him. "Fuck, Sloane!" He sighed, checking his watch. "Shit, it's past 8." He tutted to himself. "You shouldn't creep up on me like that. I got caught up in the Victor files. Did you know the pattern follows all the way until the 24th Games? Saxony Hampton, too, spent most of the Games with her allies." He ran a hand through the dark curtains of his hair, shaking his head. "I'm not sure how I didn't realise it before, but of 45 Victors, only 7 of them entered the Games without a solid alliance. Seven. I thought it only logical to go through the Games alone. Seeing as, you know, only one of you is getting out of there." Sloane's brow raised to reveal the wrinkles of her forehead. "I guess I was wrong…"

"I don't mean to meddle." Creek's words faded at her interruption. Sloane very rarely had a reply for him. Despite managing the archive, she had very little interest in the history of the Games. "But isn't that the point of your reanalysis? It seems to me that it would be a waste of time if you found no faults in your logic."

And, just like that, Creek's spiralling mind came to a stop.

He took a deep breath; he so rarely took things this personally. The idea that his one speciality (the one thing that had cost him everything) was faulty had clouded all objectivity. "You're right." He said simply. "Let's lock up."

As they always did, the pair walked in unison to the crossroads that divided the Seam from the neighbourhoods of the town centre. Sloane stopped to listen as Creek finished the last of his ramble. "...so it adds up. Let's just say, the 'Keepers will be leaving the Reaping happy." Sloane didn't reply, staring blankly. She knew what he had been waiting to ask.

His body swayed, and his fingers tapped together. Sloane narrowed her eyes, no doubt curious, as everyone seemed to be, of what the Seam labelled the Ashfly Peculiarity. Creek had spent a life of receiving strange looks, though, and he knew Sloane likely didn't realise she was doing it. She was about as judgement-free as they came. So, he spoke undeterred by her scrutiny. "Did you drop it off?"

She nodded. "As you asked me to."

He exhaled a breath he had not known he was holding in. "Thank you." He said. It had become more and more difficult to drop the tesserae off at his family's home. If Forest opened the door, and these days he often did, he would outright refuse it - forever dogmatic in his distaste for Creek's attempts to help.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

He shook his head. "No." The thought of what tomorrow would bring was overwhelming, but Creek had organised the events of the day weeks beforehand. "The Reaping will take up most of the morning. After that, I'll spend the rest of the day at the gambling dens looking over the tributes." This time of year was always the busiest. He crinkled his nose at the memory of the, usually quieter, dens being packed to the brim with 'Keepers and the people of the Seam alike. "No, I won't see you for a long time. At least, not until the Games are over."

"I see."

A silence hung in the air, but Creek had nothing more to contribute.

"Goodbye, then." She said, finally.

"Bye."

And then the pair were alone once more, each taking the path to their respective, disparate side of District Twelve.

The walk to the gambling dens was monotonous, broken up only by the splintering of his heart. His childhood home was grey and bleak, sitting on the end of a street of identical buildings - all attached. To anyone else, it would have looked like a grim sight. To Creek, nothing was more devastatingly beautiful than the billowing of curtains from the open window of his old bedroom. He couldn't help but stare as he passed by; he longed too deeply for it to ever let it go.

He craved the days when his brothers had shared a wall with him. They had always woken him, early in the morning, with a jump on his best. Then, it had been the nuisance of brotherhood. Now, it was a reminder of all that he had lost.

The summer breeze blew against his olive skin and, with goosebumps forming on his skin, he was transported to a distant memory.

He never remembered the sun shining so bright, but, somehow, it seemed another existence entirely through his youthful eyes. His shoulders, for once, were at ease with the relief of responsibility and his smile was wide and true. He wondered when he had last smiled like that. Perhaps it had been this very memory. Perhaps that was why it had stuck with him throughout the years.

The distant sound of laughter erupted from behind him, breathless and free. He turned, slowly, and took in the unending green of the hills before him. How long had it been since he had seen green like this? Nature had fallen to the back of his mind with time, but he had always known it was out there. He just hadn't gone looking for it.

But as he looked out at the nurtured blades of grass, he wondered how he could have been so ignorant.

"Tag, you're it!" A young girl cried out as she ran past, slapping a hand on his arm.

She was the very picture of a girl of the Seam. Her dark hair flowed behind her in waves and, as she turned back to him, her grey eyes burst with childhood wildness. His cousin, Amberlite, had always moved about life as a free spirit. He didn't see her very often anymore. He didn't see any of them very often.

He watched, through his younger self's eyes, as he chased after his younger brothers. He knew he had been holding back, giving Forest and Skye an early start, but he swiftly caught up to Forest and tackled him to the ground. His brother cried out as Creek stabbed fingers into his ribs. "Stop it!" He exclaimed, through heavy breaths, but his smile was stretched and his laughter never-ending. It had been a long time since he had seen anything but a sneer on that face.

Once he had let Forest up, he looked around one last time, knowing the memory was fading.

Curiously, for the first time, Creek noticed the absence of his youngest brother, Glade. It must have been before he was born. It seemed unimaginable, now, to have lived in a world without Glade. He couldn't help but, selfishly, note how simpler everything had been back then.

But that wasn't Glade's fault.

He hadn't chosen to get sick.

Creek had made the choice that had cost him this idyllic life.

And that was nobody's fault but his own.

The memory shattered, and so did his heart.

And Creek, once again, walked alone under the barren sun.

He stared up at the water-stained ceiling of the gambling den, drowning out the drunken noise as much as possible. He had learned that his inability to think in loud places was one of his so-called 'peculiarities'. Yet, he couldn't help but feel it was those around him who were the peculiar ones. It was only logical. How could one focus on the voice in their head when there were so many voices around them?

"Hey, Atlas!" The 'Keeper to the left, Pavlos, slurred. "Need another one of those?" He pointed to Atlas' empty glass, and Creek sighed.

He certainly did not need another one. The man's muscular legs were hardly enough to hold him up straight as he swayed from side to side. "Yeah." He nodded, eagerly. "Another one will do just fine."

Creek shook his head.

But what was it any of his business? They were far from friends; in fact, they were clients. As long as he got his fair share at the end of the night… fuck the rest of it. Atlas could get as goddamned drunk as he wanted.

As Pavlos left for the bar, Creek pulled a stack of papers from his satchel and laid them out across the table. "No spilling drinks." He muttered, looking pointedly at Atlas. He had already wiped the table of its stickiness twice. "With some help from Sloane, I've been able to access the records for this year's tesserae. From there, I've constructed a table…" He flipped one paper over. "Displaying those people with the most slips in the Reaping Bowl this year." Notably, his own name was amongst the top twenty. "As always, the 18-year-olds have the most slips based on their age but…" He flipped over another page. "If I have this right, fifteen of the top twenty are 17-year-olds. So, I would strongly recommend gambling for that age."

"Done." Atlas feigned a yawn. "Can we drink the night away now?" As if on cue, Pavlos arrived back at the table from the bar and handed Atlas a filled glass of an amber spirit. "All this statistical nonsense grates on me."

Creek clenched his teeth together. "We haven't even discussed volunteering odds or the towns they will be Reaped-"

Atlas scoffed in interruption. "Lighten the fuck up, Creeky." He slurred, flopping his body onto the chair beside him. Drops of liquor spilt on Creek's arm, splashed from the glass, and he wiped them off with a grimace. "Same thing every year, i'n't it? Some unfortunate Seam kid is whisked away from their already miserable lives to die in the bloodbath. No biggie." He winked. "You're not the only one good at finding patterns."

Creek stared back blankly, his fingers tapped rhythmically on the table. "But it's not so simple-"

"Creeky!" Atlas' laugh erupted from the very core of his stomach. "I'll place my bet for the 17-year-old Seam kid now. No worries. No stress. You don't have-"

"Would you shut the fuck up for a minute?" Creek snapped, and Atlas choked on his drink.

Fuck. He shouldn't have done that.

It was bad enough to talk to any old 'Keeper that way, but that wasn't the root of the shame. Atlas was a drunken dick, sure, but he was also the only reason Creek was here in the first place. Without him, good fortune may have never struck the Ashflys in the way it did.

"Panem, Creek…" Pavlos muttered, brow raised.

Creek massaged his temples; the lack of sleep of the last week left an aching haze in his mind. His eyes connected with Atlas, and he instantly averted his gaze back to his tapping fingers. Was that hurt he saw there? Whether it was or wasn't, it left a pit in his stomach. Atlas had been there for him at his worst; who was he to speak to him in such a way? It was another reminder that he could never stay liked for long. Eventually, the monster within would always break through.

"Sorry." He muttered. "Look, I better go." He had already begun packing his papers away.

"See you 'round," Atlas grumbled as Creek's chair squeaked back on the planked floor.

"Yeah, see you."

The next morning, Creek woke up with a start. He hadn't slept so deeply in weeks, now used to the late nights he spent pouring over tables and diagrams. The gambling dens would be filled to the brim this morning with the few 'Keepers who were fortunate enough to get the day off. Creek, however, had a Reaping to attend.

He examined himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his white dress shirt, then pushed his arms into a tight, navy blazer. The suit had been one of the rare times that Creek had spent his earnings on himself. It had been a worthwhile investment; people always took those well-dressed more seriously. His dark hair hung over his forehead in a frizz, and he combed it back into its usual curtained style. The odds were not in his favour this morning, and it was always those who were most composed when reaped that were observed as the early contenders.

The District Centre was a maelstrom of activity and people. Creek pushed through as hastily as he could, ignoring the stall vendors as they called out to him. The lines for registration were long but efficient. Creek had always respected the systematic approach the 'Keepers took and, as he approached, he obliged. "Name."

"Creek Ashfly."

"Finger."

He held out his hand for his finger to be pricked, then pressed a bloody fingerprint beside his name. The 'Keeper waved him off, and he pushed his way through the other seventeen-year-old boys to get a good view of the stage. Around him, boys, Seam and town alike, chattered with restless energy. Creek stood still, arms at his sides, and stared blankly, straight ahead. When the Justice Building's rusted doors creaked open, the crowd fell into a reverent silence and a swarm of butterflies fell into his stomach.

It was a feeling he anticipated every Reaping Day as he stood, united, with the rest of his District in anticipation. It wasn't very often that Creek felt that he belonged somewhere, but in these small moments, he was no longer peculiar. No longer the cutthroat monster. He was like everyone else, watching and waiting to learn which of them would be this year's sacrifice.

The man revealed behind the doors was imposing in stature, his dark, narrowed eyes staring out at the crowd. Morbid Chance was atypical for an Escort and, with a shaggy, brown haircut and fanged teeth, Creek thought he could pass as one of the Seam beggars. "District Twelve!" He hissed as he reached the microphone. "It's a pleasure to be back." His lips turned upward, but the attempt at a smile died in his eyes.

The Reaping followed the usual schedule without fault. A video played on the large projector, detailing the story of the origin of the Games following the Dark Days. Then, condemned the rebellions 45 years ago and reasserted the Capitol's dominance over the Districts. Creek appreciated the directness of it all; the Capitol were simply more powerful, and they were not afraid to make it known. Finally, Morbid ended the video with the words. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

Those words had always piqued his interest. For they did not all share the same odds, and for many of them, Creek included, the odds would never be in their favour.

"We'll start with the boys." Those around him shuffled, sharing glances with one another. Creek leaned forward as the name was plucked from the bowl. "Forest Ashfly."

No.

No, that couldn't be right.

His brother was only 13; the odds were in his favour…

But it was his young brother's dark eyes that stared, wide and horrified, on the projector screen. As Creek's eyes connected with his, the present faded into the past.

Those same dark eyes stared back at him, but they rested on a face not yet weathered down by life. Creek was curled into a ball at the corner of his room, his body shaking and feeble.

He had spent the first week of that winter pushing down every sign of the cold that was to come. He hadn't wanted to believe that he might be sick. He didn't have time to care for himself, not whilst Glade suffered as he did.

But the sickness had quickly drained all the strength within, leaving him in his helpless state. The first thing he felt when Forest found him, hiding his muffled coughs, was embarrassment. He was supposed to be his older brother; he wasn't supposed to be so weak. He had tried to stand, but his knees had fallen out from under him, and Forest was forced to catch him.

"To your bed." He said, his voice quiet. "I'll help you."

And he did. Forest had slung his arm over his shoulder and pulled him to bed, then covered him in blankets. "Rest." He had returned with tea and a damp cloth for him to press against his head. The routine continued for the next couple of days as Creek regained his strength until, finally, he was able to rise from his bed.

Forest had returned to his room one last time, with one final steaming cup of tea. The boys hadn't talked over the days; Creek had been so ashamed, but he felt the urge to speak now. "Thank you." He said, his voice rasping from the soreness in his throat.

Forest had crossed his arms and huffed. "You always do this, Creek." He shook his head, and Creek's eyes darted away, honing in on his cup of tea. "You think you're the one protecting this family. But all you ever actually do is make more work for me."

His younger brother had stormed from the room, and the boys had not spoken of it since.

As his brother pushed through the crowds, Creek's mind whirred.

How many 13-year-old Victors were out there?

The answer was as forthcoming as breath. "None"

Then, it was Creek's turn to push through the crowds, toward his brother, as he shouted those infamous words. "I volunteer, I volunteer!" His breath caught as his own face appeared on the projectors, his dark eyes staring back at his panicked state.

Calm the fuck down.

The odds rest with those who are the most composed.

Be. Composed.

He pulled his blazer more tightly around his shoulders and straightened out his usual slouch. He didn't have to push through the crowds anymore, for they parted as he came. When he reached his brother, his shock had been replaced by a disdainful sneer. "What do you think you're doing?" He hissed, standing at the foot of the steps.

Creek didn't respond. He pushed his brother to the side and was steadfast as he stepped up to the stage. The eyes of his District followed him. The odds of a 13-year-old being reaped were slim, but the odds of this? Well, Creek supposed he had just become the probability he had always treated as a fantasy. A volunteer from District Twelve.

At the very least, his file would be a noteworthy addition to the City Archives.

Morbid beckoned him to the microphone, his long fingers crooked toward him. "And who might you be?" His smile was sickly sweet.

"Creek Ashfly."

Morbid feigned a sharp intake of breath. "That must be your younger brother down there." Creek nodded. "Is there anything you would like to say to him?"

He was acutely aware of the cameras that rested on his face, capturing every angle. "Is it strange that I find this cool?" The microphone released a sharp squeal and Twelve raised their hands to their ears, wincing.

Shit.

He only hoped it had looked less stupid to the Capitol.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He could not afford to be making mistakes, as small as they seemed.

Every screw-up was another chip off his stack. Another card dealt against him.

"We'll move on to our girls." Morbid pushed him, gently, away from the microphone before he reached into the bowl of names to his left. As the note was plucked out, Creek only hoped his partner would make for an easy death when the time came. "Amberlite Graham."

He wanted to remain expressionless; he knew he should, but he couldn't help as his jaw hung open in horror. The cameras panned to her, her grey eyes frenzied as her imminent death dawned on her.

Those grey eyes brought Creek back to that memory in the hills, those many years ago.

His little cousin.

The wild spirit amongst the green.

His District partner in the 70th Hunger Games.

His mother burst into the room first, her footsteps a storming thunder as they sought their confrontation. As soon as she saw him, standing in the centre of the grey, dim-lit room, she raised a shaky fist. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and it reminded Creek of those long nights she had spent by a coughing Glade, who entered next, holding to his father's hand.

"What have you done?" His mother's voice broke, but she couldn't hold to the anger and her fist fell to her side. "Oh, Creek." She choked out, hovering just before him. More than anything, Creek wanted to hold open his arms to encourage her into them, but he restrained himself. He didn't deserve her comfort, not after everything he had done.

"I'll win." He said. "I'll win, and I'll bring back money and food. Food, mother, real, good food. Not the grain of tesserae but breads and fruits and…"

His mother cut him off. "I don't want that!" She cried out, shaky hands grabbed at her scalp. "Why can't you understand? Why have you never understood? I don't want your money, any of it!" She shrieked. "Not if it's earned in this way. With…Cold. Blooded. Murder."

Her words didn't hurt, not anymore, for she had every right to despise his passion and his choice to pursue it. His heart still ached at the reminder of the day when he learned more about his mother from a single video than he had in his 17 years as her son. The short clip was ironed into his brain; he had watched it so many times. It had been a part of the compilation of the Final 8 interviews of the 51st Hunger Games; it was one of the rare times that a Twelve had made it that far. Creek had been curious about how he had done it, what his life must have been like back home.

The voices in the recording echoed in his head.

"What is your name and relation to the tribute?"

"Rada." The young girl sniffled, and the eyes that leaked her tears were a rare, emerald green. "He's my boyfriend." The girl's chin wobbled as she choked out the words. "I don't know what I'd do if he doesn't come home."

Creek stared back at those emerald green eyes now. Whilst the tears had dropped slowly,then, in a melancholic pain, they now fell fiercely down his mother's lined face with unbridled disdain. "I can't even look at you." She said, finally, and, with those parting words, she pushed past her husband and stormed from the room.

His eyes fell to the floor in shame.

She had turned her back on him, as he had her, and he could not blame her for that.

He could only blame himself.

His father approached more gently, guiding Glade with him. "Creek." He said, but Creek didn't look up, his stare still fixed on the dust-ridden ground. "Creek." He said again and, this time, there was a firm command in the place of his soft speak. Creek met his father's eyes, knowing it was the least he could do. "Do you remember what I told you those years ago?"

Creek knew. He would never forget it.

But he shook his head anyway.

He didn't want his father to know the memories that he clung to himself, so as not to feel so alone. It would only hurt him more when Creek had to leave, as he always did.

His father's voice steadied. "I told you, once, that there was more to life than passion. I want you to remember that now." He ran a hand across his dark beard. "This is something you are passionate about; you always have been. But don't let that blind you. You are not perfect; nobody is. You will make mistakes, Creek." His voice lowered. "But if anyone is prepared for this, it's you, and you will survive. I know you will."

Creek's eyes darted to the floor again, and he shuffled back and forth. "But is that what you want?" He murmured; he felt his blood boil, and he could not help it. How could his father even say these things to him? After everything he had done to his family, how could he want Creek to come back to them?

"What?"

He met his eyes again, his voice rising. "But is that what you want? For me to survive?"

"I-"

His younger brother spoke for the first time, his voice high-pitched as he cut off his father. "Yes." He nodded, eager. "Survive. Please." As Creek looked at him, he blushed shyly. "You are my brother, aren't you?"

"I am."

"I remember you."

Creek drew in a breath. It had only been a year since he had left and, yet, so much had changed for Glade in that year. He had gotten better. He had gone back to school. He had gotten a life, and he had left Creek behind.

But he remembered him, still. Somewhere, in the back of his young mind, he would know everything Creek had done for him. And, for a moment, that was enough.

"Come home." He said again, in that simple, sweet voice.

Creek decided, then and there, that he would. If not for himself, if not for his mother and father, then for the young boy that he had given up every piece of himself for. "I will." He returned, with a small smile.

Skye entered next, and he wore a grim smile. "I thought it would be better to come alone."

"And Forest?"

Skye shook his head. "Sorry, Creek. I tried to talk him into it… He doesn't want to see you right now. I'm sorry."

He had already suspected it, but he could not help the way his throat had closed in. Forest had always rejected his help. He had every reason, he supposed. Where Creek had become conniving and cruel as a result of the family circumstances, Forest had maintained justice and integrity. He was everything everyone had wanted Creek to be, and that's why he could not die in that Arena. He carried too much potential, too much hope for the Ashflys, on his back where Creek carried only pain.

"Can I hug you?" Skye asked quietly, eyes wide like a puppy.

Creek did not respond, and his brother took it as acceptance, launching his arms around his waist. He had never been good with intimacy and, even with his own brother, he could not bring himself to wrap his arms around him.

When his brother pulled away, his face was firm, and his tears were dry. "I know who you are, Creek."

It reminded him of that day a year ago when Skye had shown up on the doorstep and spoken those same words. Creek had refuted them then, as he was tempted to do so now, but Skye had never stopped returning to the boarding home on his weekly visits.

"You aren't a killer."

Creek sighed.

His brother was right. He wasn't, not yet.

But if he was to win? Well, he knew more than most how vital killing would be.

After Skye, there was only Sloane. Creek was surprised she had even come; they had shared a lot of time over the years, but they weren't exactly friends. She didn't say much; in fact, she seemed supportive of Creek's decision to volunteer. "You know what to do." She had said as she left. Creek only hoped she was right.

None of those he had met over the years at the gambling dens came, and Creek could not blame them. They had known each other well, but it had never been a relationship based on mutual liking for one another. Besides, they were likely scrambling now that they no longer had him to rely on.

As he made to leave the room, he did so with a pit in his stomach.

A thought had crossed his mind that terrified him. The tears in this room, the goodbyes shared, the good luck given… It had been a long time since he had felt like anyone cared about him. Had he taken it for granted all this time? Despite everything, could they possibly still have love for him in their hearts?

He slammed the door shut behind him, as if to slam out the thought from his mind.

He had made his decision when he had paid the price of rejection for the sake of his family. And even if it was true, even if parts of them still cared for him, there was no point turning back now.

It was too late.

It wasn't the first time that day that he wondered whether fate was playing with probability. That, perhaps, after years of predicting the Games, it had thrown a challenge into Creek's face. It was illogical, of course, and Creek was not superstitious.

But there she was, Saxony Hampton sitting opposite him on the train. Her now sickly thin face was traced with lines, her dark hair, braided into dreads, was streaked with grey. Yet, there was no denying that she was the same full-lipped and fierce-eyed woman he had read the file of just yesterday.

Panem- had that been yesterday?

It felt like decades had passed since he had last entered the archives. He craved it now. That was a place where he had control, where he had a plan. Here, anything could happen, and Creek was growing more and more sure of that.

But if anyone is prepared for this, it's you.

His breathing slowed. He knew all there was to know. With that knowledge, he could adapt to whatever the Capitol threw at him. That's what he told himself, at least.

Saxony cleared the scramble of his brain with a single glance. "Creek, is it?"

"That's right."

She looked him up and down and turned to Amberlite. "Amberlite."

"It's very nice to meet you." Amberlite wore a shy grin. Her tears had dried since she had returned from the goodbyes, but her eyes still darted left to right in their Ashfly Peculiar way. "What's your name?"

"S-"

Creek cut her off. "Saxony Hampton. District Eight Female and Winner of the 24th Hunger Games at 16-years-old. You killed 3 people in the Arena, 2 of which on the final day, and outlasted through use of several alliances." He cleared his throat. "You developed a particularly close bond with the District Six Female before she was betrayed by your alliance member…" Creek paused. "The District Twelve Male."

Saxony narrowed her eyes at him. "Her name was Sky. If you are going to recite the most horrific experience of my life as if you're reading lines from a script, the least you can do is remember their names." He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to come across as rude; in fact, he had meant to impress her. Her eyes softened as she shifted them to Amberlite. "But your cousin," Creek flinched at the word. "Is correct. As District Twelve does not have a Victor, a random Victor from the other Districts is selected each year to mentor you." She took a deep breath in. "I have been doing this for many years. More than I would have liked to." Her hand massaged her temple. "If you let me help you, I can and I will."

"That, I have no doubts about." Creek nodded, and Saxony looked back to him, this time with an approving smile.

"Good." She said, "The first question I always ask is whether you would like to be mentored individually or separately. You do not have to make any decisions about an alliance yet, but I believe it's only fair to give you this choice. Individually, my advice may be more specialised toward your skillset."

"Then separately will do just fine," Creek replied.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Amberlite turn her head to him, but he kept his eyes trained on Saxony. He didn't want to imagine the hurt that twisted her face. He was letting the logical side of him do the talking, and that side of him knew that emotions could not guide him on the topic of Amberlite. Not if he wanted to win.

Or, perhaps, deep down he feared the rejection of the family member most like him.

He had hardly seen her in years, and he knew how she likely viewed him.

To the Ashflys, he was nothing more than a traitor. He had decided, long ago, that they were right about that. So he wouldn't be Amberlite's hero; he refused to be, because he knew he would only fail her in the end.

"Then we shall start with you, Creek."

Saxony led him to the next cart over. Creek's step wavered as the door opened and a golden light shone upon him. The lamps lit up the room like no other Creek had seen before, and he was forced to squint as he entered. The room itself reminded Creek of a brighter, more sophisticated version of the gambling dens back home. To the side, there was a bar with an Avox standing behind it and bottles of liquor hanging from the wall. Throughout the room were scattered four tables, partnered with chairs, all a dark, polished oak that blindingly reflected the light.

Saxony turned to him, her head cocked to the side, as he stood in the doorway. "Are you coming?"

He blinked and then followed her in.

"Want a drink?" She asked, already leaning against the bar.

"Water is fine."

They took their glasses to the dining table at the far end of the cart, Saxony with a glass of wine and Creek with his water. As they sat, Saxony pulled out a large, rectangular device that was a more portable version of a television. When she pressed a button, it burst with light."

"I watched and took notes of the Reapings as you said your goodbyes, but I would like to go through them again with you. Is that okay?" She didn't wait for an answer and turned the device to him. "We'll start with District One."

The Career districts were just as Creek expected. Each of them was fierce and steadfast as they volunteered; many smiled as they announced their names to their District. Creek kicked himself as his own volunteering replayed in his mind. It had been a wasted opportunity.

Besides the Careers, Creek's interest was hardly piqued by the outer-district kids. The majority of them wore rundown clothing, with dirt on their faces, and looked as if they hadn't eaten in days. Some cried, others bared their teeth. None of them wore the image that Creek knew was integral for a Victor.

"What did you think?" Saxony asked as the recap closed on the tearful face of Amberlite.

He sighed. "The Careers seem promising." He settled on.

Immediately, Saxony's twisted expression gave way to a wince on his face. He knew he shouldn't have said that, for he knew better than most her history with Careers, but, then again, he knew now was not the time to be secretive.

"I understand how brutal they are in the Arena-"

She cut him off, her words as sharp as a knife. "Do you, Creek?" Their eyes met, unblinking, and Creek wondered how eyes so dark could burn so brightly. "Have you watched as they slaughtered your best friends? Your family? Without remorse, without guilt. With only cold, calculating intent." He did not answer. "Have you?" She snapped.

"No." He looked down at the bouncing of his knees.

"They are monsters, Creek." Her voice was soft now. "That is not the price you want to pay for victory. Believe me."

If only she knew that he had payed that price once before. And he was willing to pay it again, with his life on the line. Soon enough, she would find out. Everyone did.

But Saxony was somebody that he looked up to; she had done what he had always dreamed of. So, for the first time in a long time, he dared to hope that he could keep the monster away. If only for as long as he could.

"Okay." He said. "How about the Eights?"

Of the outer district kids, the two seemed to have the most fire within them. The girl was taller than most, and her face was gaunt but held firm as she had walked up to the stage. The boy, on the other hand, had bounced up to the stage with a nervous fervour.

"The Eights." The older woman smiled now, her sagged skin folding around her sharp cheekbones. "Very well, I am sure I could arrange that. After all, their mentor is a very good friend of mine."

The chariot jolted forward, led by two ash-grey horses. Amberlite stumbled beside him, and Creek grabbed her arm to steady her. They still had not spoken, although her grey eyes had flickered back and forth from him on the train.

In Creek's mind, the more distance he put between the two of them, the easier all of this would be. For she was a factor he could have never prepared for and, although he would never admit it, that frightened him.

She bounced up and down on the ball of her heels as they rolled out of the building and into the jeering crowds outside. Even Creek, who had watched the recordings of many of the chariot rides, was taken aback by the sheer energy of the Capitol. Colour burst from every aspect of the crowd, a rebuke to the bleakness of home. His stomach tightened and his breath shortened.

Then, there was a slender hand wrapping itself around his own.

He didn't dare to look down at Amberlite, too focused on keeping his head high and straight, but he caught a glimpse of her in the projectors above. As always, Twelve was dressed as miners with ash-covered faces, dark helmets and dark clothing. Amberlite's eyes were wide and her olive skin paler than bone.

Creek gripped her hand tighter. Although he did not know if it was for her sake or for his own. Fear was a strange thing. No matter how prepared one could feel, it was impossible to repress an emotion that was so demanding in its need for control.

He caught a glimpse of himself once again.

His face was pale and sallow, sagging down by a frown.

Fuck.

He shook his head, as if to throw off the fear from his mind.

"We need to smile." He said, out of the corner of his mouth, to his younger cousin.

"I don't want to."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper in the rushing wind.

"You have to."

Creek parted his lips and flashed his tinged yellow teeth at the crowds below. He could not let his emotions command him, as much as they fought to. He watched as Amberlite followed his lead, her smile shining brighter with the rising crowds.

Slowly, she stood straighter and began to wave at the crowds. They waved back with an overwhelming fervour. "They love us." She said.

"No, they don't." He looked at her and felt his heart skip a beat as those wide, grey eyes looked back. They were the eyes from his childhood, and they stared into the version of himself that he had long since been forced to forget. "Not yet."

"The Eights are interested." Saxony started between a mouthful of egg. "They will meet with you this morning to discuss a potential alliance." Pointedly, Saxony directed this at Creek rather than Amberlite - who sat, indulged in a bowl of strawberries beside him.

Creek withdrew a mug of pure, black coffee from his lips - he had found an appreciation for the drink on the train ride, savouring its bitter taste. "And what about her?" He tilted his head to the right. Amberlite looked up, her eyes darting from side to side.

"Oh, don't worry about me-" She started.

"It's not worry." Or was it? Why, since the parade, had he felt the sudden urge to keep her safe? "The Capitol has seen us together now. They will expect me to stick by your side, and it could harm my chances for Sponsors if I'm seen to ditch my younger cousin."

Saxony nodded thoughtfully. "He's right. Your best chances now are to group. That being said, Camlet, Eight's mentor, has his doubts that the Eight kids will want to work with Amberlite. The boy, Calli, is naturally suspicious and will not be easy to win over. The girl, on the other hand, Violet, is cold and methodical. She will not take Amberlite on simply because you ask her to." Saxony looked to Amberlite now, her dark eyes firm and unblinking. "She will have to prove herself."

Amberlite's throat pulsed with a gulp.

"Then, we will have to find a way for her to do just that."

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a pair of dark-skinned youths around Creek's age. Even if he had not recognised them from the Reapings, the large 8s printed on their skin-tight jumpsuits were an indicator enough. He stepped into the Training Hall to meet his new allies.

The boy spoke first. "You must be Creek." His smile was wide, and his head tilted to the side as he reached out his hand. He took in a sharp breath as the boy's firm grip wrapped around his slender fingers.

"Calli, I take it." He grimaced.

The girl, who was tying her dark, braided hair back, met Creek with fierce eyes. She had been the one who had caught his eyes at the Reaping and, even now, the strength she carried in a simple expression was intimidating enough. "Violet." She said once she had tied back her hair, but she kept her hands to her side.

Creek didn't mind that; he wasn't much of a handshaker either.

"And this is Amberlite." He said, stepping to the side to force her into the interaction.

Calli's smile dropped slightly, but he forced it back into place just as easily. "Very nice to meet you, Amberlite." He took her hand, also, and shook it with fervour.

Violet simply sniffed as she looked down on her. "I take it your mentor filled you in on our thoughts about this alliance."

"She did."

Calli bounced on his heels. "Look, it's nothing personal. We think an alliance with you would be valuable." Notably, he kept his eyes on Creek. "We just need… a reassurance that it will be worth our time. I'm sure you understand?"

Even if it frustrated him that they had made such a quick judgement of Amberlite, he could not blame them. She was small, feeble, and her Ashfly mannerisms made people doubt her - as they always had with him. It almost made him feel better about these allies. They were willing to be merciless when they needed to be, in order to push forward, and that was exactly what he needed for the trials to come.

"We understand." He nodded.

"Great." Calli smiled. "We're going to try our hand at archery, but we'll be sure to catch up later."

They said their goodbyes and left him and Amberlite hovering next to the elevator. He turned to his younger cousin; her face was twisted. "Do you really think they will want to ally with me?" Her grey eyes were watery, and Creek felt a pang in his heart that he quickly pushed away.

"Not if you cry." He snapped, hoping his coldness would whip her into shape. She looked down at her grey and white sneakers, fiddling with her stubby, pale fingers. "Look." He sighed. "There are hundreds of stations here that we can try our hand at. You will be good at something. Everybody is." That was a lesson he had learned long ago. Unfortunately, the one thing that you were good at could be a curse rather than a strength.

"Okay." She sniffed. "I'll give it a go."

Creek piled his tray with as much protein as his stomach could manage. He knew he had very few days of eating left and, with food as accessible as it was, he was adamant about making the most of it. He encouraged Amberlite to do the same, pointing out the red meats to her. When they exited the queue, with their trays in hand, they were met with the hustle and bustle of the dining hall.

Creek felt a flush rise to his face as he took in the crowds of young people. Oftentimes, he relied on the plans he had set out in his head, but no matter how thoroughly he thought things out, he never could quite master the navigation of the social hierarchy. It intimidated him, now, to be forced to choose a table. He knew where he sat mattered. He couldn't sit near the Careers; that was only cause for trouble, and to sit near the younger, meek kids would invite an unwelcome distraction.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for the perfect table…

"Creek." A squeak from Amberlite broke his train of thought. "The Eight boy is waving us over." He followed where she pointed with her head and found Calli at the very back of the room. He was distanced from the rest of the tributes but not so much so that they seemed outcast.

Creek breathed a sigh of relief. "Perfect."

The pair made their way over to the table.

"Hey." Calli grinned through a mouthful of food. "That's a lot of meat you've got on that plate, little one. Sure you'll eat all that?"

Amberlite smiled shyly as she took her seat. "I'll do my very best."

"Good, good."

An awkward silence fell over the group as they ate away at their plates. Creek was sure that none of them, him included, had ever had so much food in one sitting. The thought was confirmed when all four of them finished with half-empty trays.

"I think if I have any more I'll be sick." Calli chuckled, clutching at his stomach.

"Ditto," Creek said.

Violet, for the first time, spoke with narrowed eyes. "So, how has the training been going?"

Creek tapped his foot on the floor nervously. He and Amberlite had spent the last couple of hours trying their hand at anything that piqued their interest. Still, they had not found the one thing that Amberlite naturally excelled at. "We have something prepared that I'm sure will impress you. How about tomorrow morning?" The lie slipped from his tongue as if rehearsed a thousand times.

"Tomorrow morning it is." Calli grinned.

The discussion was interrupted by a commotion on the other side of the room and the group, Creek included, turned at the sound of raised voices. A blonde girl with plump lips and a permanently furrowed brow had stood up and was pointing a finger at a redhead with wide eyes and a freckled face.

Creek could only just make out the words of the One female. "You better shut that fucking mouth of yours, Four. Or it's going to get you into trouble." Her face was twisted in such pure disgust that even Creek felt the need to avert his gaze. The boy, the one from Four, cowered under her pointed finger.

When she sat back down, she seemed to notice the silence that had taken over the Training Hall. "What the fuck are you all looking at?" She barked, her face now purple as a plum. Their group turned back to their discussion with haste.

"The Careers arguing is never a bad thing," Calli said, his tone hushed.

Violet nodded. "The more fractures, the better."

Creek couldn't agree more. The majority of Career wins from the past Games had made it as far as they did because of the unity of their alliance.

Oftentimes, it was the Career that took a backseat- not the quietest but also not the loudest- who rose to the top. In a fractured Career pack, though, there was only cause for chaos. And the more chaos in that group, the more the odds increased for the rest of them.

"The better, indeed." He replied.

By the next morning, the boy from Four was no longer a member of the Career pack. He had not seen how it had unfolded; he and Amberlite had been too focused, but word had made its way throughout the outer districts quickly enough.

"She challenged him to some sort of duel over there." Calli pointed over to the fencing ring as Creek led the Eights to where Amberlite awaited them. "Beat him in under a minute whilst the rest of the Pack just laughed. Then he stalked off." He shrugged. "Next thing you know, he's sitting all alone and miserable."

Violet chuckled. "Now he knows how it feels to be one of us."

They reached the darts station where Amberlite waited; she bounced left to right on her feet. Creek gave her a firm nod, and she returned it with a small smile. Whether she was ready or not, the deadline had been reached and now was her chance to prove herself.

She took one of the darts from the pile and aimed, just as she had been taught, with her elbow at a 90-degree angle. The dart flew from her fingers, landing on the outer rim of the target. A gulp forced its way down her throat, and she looked at Creek once more with those wild, grey eyes. "Calm." He mouthed to her, and she nodded.

They had discovered her precision with the darts after Amberlite had mentioned a game she had played with the town kids in Twelve. In the game, one of the kids had a slingshot whilst the others acted as moving targets. Amberlite had gained a reputation in the game. Not only were her hits on point, but they were hard and fast, oftentimes knocking the other kids to the floor. It was the first time, in his memory, he had seen her with such a grin since before she had moved away when they were kids.

She grabbed a second dart and, this time, took a deep breath in before she made her shot. This time, it landed just shy of the bullseye, and she turned to them with that very same grin. Instinctively, Creek smiled back, but logic took over, and he pushed his lips down. He didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. Amberlite was simply a means to an end, and that end would leave her dead.

At least, that's what he told himself.

As Amberlite took her third shot, Creek's ears perked at the sound of footsteps behind the group. As the dart flew, he turned to meet the approaching pair of girls. The one on the left, he recognised as the fiery blonde leader of the Pack. On the right was a dark-haired girl, her hair tied back, with tan skin and narrowed, dark eyes. There was a mischief to her that drew Creek in; her eyebrows bounced, and her smile was thin. On her jumpsuit, she was marked with the number 2.

Creek turned back to cheers from the Eights and found Amberlite's dart hanging from the bullseye. She turned to them, but her smile fell as her eyes met the unwelcome visitors. The girl from One's clap was slow and mocking, threat resting in the coldness of her sneer.

"Not bad for such a feeble thing." She snickered. The girl beside her, the one from 2, had halted behind her as if to only observe. "My turn?" She didn't wait for an answer as she shoved Amberlite out of the way.

Creek's heart lurched as his cousin stumbled to the side, but he pushed down his bubbling rage. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, and this was one of those times. Even Calli had grown unusually quiet as the girl from One reached for a dart. It flew from her hand in the blink of an eye, hurtling through the air with unbridled speed, and it landed…

Shy of the bullseye. Shier than Amberlite's second attempt, even.

There was a giggle from beside him, and his head snapped to Amberlite. Her hand rested over her mouth.

Fuck.

The One girl's neck twisted at the same time, her green eyes ablaze. She stalked over to Amberlite and peered down on her with bared teeth. His cousin stood there, helpless and quivering like prey pinned by a predator. Creek's anger could be described as similar to that of a volcano. It would lie extinct for days, weeks even, but when the lava rose to the surface, it erupted in a torrent of dark, blazing rage.

He pushed it down as deep as he could, almost choking on the bubbling rage as he did, but he could not watch as someone of his own blood quivered as she did now. He stepped toward them and shoved the One girl away. She bared her teeth at him, and he bared them back. "Stay away from her." He spat every word, his fists clenched at his side.

She sneered back. "Stupidity must run in the bloodline. I'll be glad to be the first to spill it out of you."

As she stalked off, he caught a glimpse of the Two girls smiling at him before she, too, turned away.

Shit, shit, shit. He thought as they returned to the rest of the Pack. She was right; he was stupid. How could he have made such a mistake? To make an enemy of the Careers? It went against everything he had ever studied about the Games. Every plan, now, was destroyed if the Pack had it out for them in the bloodbath.

Amberlite's body rocked beside him, still shaking. His expression twisted, his frustration now directed at her. He knew she was going to cause problems, and he let her get in the way regardless. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

To his surprise, it was Violet who came to comfort her as she wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Hey, hey…" She said, her voice losing its sharp edge. "They're assholes. And you're a badass for standing up to them. I respect that."

Her voice was small. "They're going to try to kill me, aren't they?"

Calli spoke now, his head tilted, and his eyes softened. "Not if we have anything to say about it." The Eight boy's stare turned to Creek. "Isn't that right, Creek?"

Creek huffed, crossed his arms and stormed away from the group.

Saxony had forced him back to Twelve's floor when lunch began. Apparently, something as damning as being marked for slaughter by the Careers made its way around the mentors quickly. Her face was dark as she flopped to the sofa, her slender fingers massaged her temples. "What were you thinking?"

He stayed standing, looking down on her with weary eyes. "I wasn't."

"Clearly fucking not." She paused with emphasis on every word. "I understand. She's your cousin; you want to protect her."

"It's not that." He was quick to interrupt. "She has to die. I know that. I want that. Her dying means that I win and, Saxony, I am going to win." His voice shook with passion and, for once, his eye contact was locked with her own.

She shook her head. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Creek. If that's what helps you sleep at night, for some Panem-forsaken reason, then fine. But I know ruthless people, and you are not one of them."

A sharp breath flew in through his nose.

She was no different from anyone else. She did not understand him. She did not know what he had done, how much he had sacrificed, for his own selfish needs. But he knew. He knew the monster that clawed at his insides, and it would break free when it needed to. Saxony might not see that now, but he knew that some day, very soon, she would, and so he did not fight back.

"Agree to disagree."

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. "So, what are we going to do?"

He was glad to change the subject of conversation and, fortunately, it had not taken long for his mind to analyse the paths forward. "There's really only one possibility." He shrugged. "If you cannot keep your enemies far away, keep them closer."

To his surprise, Saxony nodded. "I agree."

"You do?" He asked. "But what about-"

She scoffed. "Whatever grudge I may have against the Careers, I will not allow it to put you at more risk."

For what felt like the first time in his life, someone had put Creek's interests before their own. It hit him, right in the chest, and he found he did not have the words to reply. He wasn't even sure if that's what he wanted. For there was a discomfort in knowing that there was another pair of eyes looking out for him.

He had rarely been so carefully considered.

"But Creek, I have to ask…" Her brow raised, her forehead folding in an array of wrinkles. "This plan… Was it formed to protect your own interests? Or hers?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

She nodded. "I believe I do."

Frustratingly, Creek doubted she'd reached the same conclusion.

As if she had been listening to his conversation with Saxony, the girl from Two awaited him outside the elevator to the Training Hall. He didn't let the surprise show on his face, maintaining neutrality as he walked past her. She doubled her pace to match his own, her dark eyes never leaving his face as they walked.

"You'll need my help, you know."

"I'm not sure what you're referring to." He mumbled.

He had not yet figured out his way into the Pack, but it certainly had not been through her. The smile she had given him following the interaction with the One girl had chilled him. There was something in the way her eyes narrowed as her lips curved up that made him feel as if she knew something that he did not.

She chuckled. "Castella does not like you. And I can't say that I blame her. She won't let you join us very easily."

"You're down a member, are you not?"

"We are." She hummed.

"And do you see anyone, besides me, that could live up to the standards of a Career?" He knew she had scrutinised the Outerdistrict kids as thoroughly as he had. They were walking skeletons, each with matching gaunt faces and weary eyes. Creek was no different, really. Permanently dark, bags rested beneath his eyes, his cheeks were hollow, and his natural slouch often made him seem shorter than he really was.

But whilst Creek matched them in appearance, he differed in the privilege of his educated mind.

"Well, that is why I want to help you." Her eyebrows raised with a smirk.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to her. She followed suit.

"Simply because you think I would be beneficial?" He did not trust such an enticing offer. It was much too easy.

"Let's just say that the Pack could use another brain to balance out its brawn."

He huffed. "Indeed it could." Then, he continued toward where the rest of the Pack awaited them.

Castella, the girl from One, stood at the head of the group with crossed arms and a scrunched nose. Creek imagined that it was the very look she gave to the plethora of servants who doted on her every step in One. His blood boiled and he pinched his leg at his side to quell the rage. "Freyja." She said, looking at the girl from Two as they approached. "Has this hooligan come to apologise?"

Creek did not let her speak for him. He was here to display his strength, and not an ounce of weakness would be tolerated. "Actually, I have come to make you an offer."

Castella barked a laugh, spit flying from her mouth. "Have you now?"

"Come on, Cass. Let him speak." Her District partner, a dark-skinned boy with cropped, bleach-blonde hair, nudged her. He turned his scepticism back to Creek and Creek met them. His mind screamed at him to avert his gaze, drowning in the discomfort of the eye contact, but he stood firm.

"I assume the Academy in One taught you about the history of the Hunger Games?"

"Of course."

"Where are you going with this?" Castella scoffed.

He turned his attention back to her. "I would like to challenge you to a quiz of sorts. Five questions. First to answer wins a point. If I win the most points, I've proved my value to you all, and I promise to be an asset to the Pack. If you win, you are welcome to kill me in the bloodbath, as I am sure you have been planning on doing."

Castella stared at him, almost speechless, until another round of barking laughter broke free. "Panem. You must be more stupid than I thought."

"Is that an agreement?" Freyja asked from beside him, her eyes wide in fiery challenge.

Castella narrowed her eyes at her and then turned to the rest of the Pack. "What do you think? Do any of you see sense in such foolery?"

"We are down a member." It was the girl from Four, and Creek noted the way her ears poked out of her auburn hair. He nodded to her in appreciation.

The boy from Two shrugged, almost lazily.

"I don't see why not. We have little else to do around here." The boy from One said.

Castella shook her head, almost in shock, and turned back to Creek with a furrowed brow. "Fine. If it's what the people want, let's have it."

Creek smiled, long and thin. "Excellent."

The Pack surrounded Creek and Castella in a semi-circle with Freyja at its head. It had been decided by a game of rock, paper, scissors that she would be in charge of asking the questions. Creek hoped she did not try to manipulate the game in his favour. He knew he would be able to win, fair and square. He had chosen to give away his life in exchange for this knowledge, and it would not let him down now - it couldn't.

"You can only answer once I have finished the question." Freyja cleared her throat. "The first person to answer wins. If it comes close, the Pack will vote on who was fastest. It's simple, really. Are you both ready?"

"Get on with it." Castella snapped.

Creek nodded, clearing his mind of all distractions as he awaited the question.

The words left Freyja's mouth as if in slow motion, and Creek hung on to every one. "What is the name of the most recent female Victor from District One?"

"Juno Valentis."

Castella answered before the name had even reached his mind. And of course she had; Juno was her goddamn mentor. He clenched his jaw, staring Freyja down.

What game was she playing?

She only winked back at him. "That's one to Castella!" She hardly paused as she moved on to the next question, and Creek tried to calm his now scrambled mind. "Which tribute holds the title for Most Kills in the Arena?"

"The One Female from the Fiftieth Hunger Games."

Fuck.

Again, it was a question about District One history. Castella had likely had these very facts recited to her for her entire life. Creek knew them, of course, but they did not fall from his lips as easily as breath.

"That's two for Castella."

"Seriously, do we need to keep going?" Castella snarled. "He's wasting our time."

Freyja smiled. "We agreed it was first to three. So, we'll do the first to three."

Castella huffed in response.

Creek steadied his breath, deeply through his nose and back out through his mouth. He knew this. All those hours spent in the archives, all those years where the Games had been his only companion. They would not, they could not, culminate in nothing. Because then, perhaps, none of it would have been worth it, and he knew that realisation would kill him faster than the Games would.

"What Arena did the 23rd Hunger Games take place in?"

This time, Castella spluttered as the answer did not fall from her tongue so easily. Creek took advantage of it, his mind retracing back to only months ago when he had reanalysed the correlation between Arenas and District Victors. "It was a mountain area. Steep hills, green valleys and slender lakes."

Freyja flashed her teeth. "Now we have some competition. That's Two - One to Castella." Creek's chest filled with pride, and he felt himself stand taller. Castella remained silent by his side. "What year did the tribute interviews, on the final night of Training, begin?"

"The 20th Hunger Games." Again, Creek was first to the answer.

It was tied up now. 2-2.

He was so close now, he could almost taste it. It was no longer about joining the Pack, or winning the Games, or Amberlite. He had to prove to himself that his passion for the Games was true and special. Otherwise, it had all been for nothing. He had become a monster and had become none the better for it.

"For your final question…" Freyja slapped a drumroll on her lap. "Who is the eldest mentor this year?"

Creek paused to watch Castella splutter, her face as purple as a plum. He knew the answer, of course he did, but he found more satisfaction in her not knowing. Of course, she had not bothered to pay attention to the mentors of the Outer District kids this year. They were not competition to her, especially Twelve.

Arrogance truly was her fatal flaw.

"Saxony Hampton, Victor of the 24th Hunger Games and Mentor of District Twelve," Creek stated as he turned away from Castella and back to the rest of the Pack. The One boy nodded with approval. Freyja only winked.

"And that's 3 for Creek!"

Castella grunted as her muscular arms wrapped tightly around her chest. "Don't think I won't take note of that last question, Two."

Freyja's brow only bounced. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Dinner was eaten in silence, a tension hanging over the team of District Twelve. Amberlite's eye contact was even more erratic than usual as her eyes darted from Creek to her plate to Saxony and then back to Creek. There was a relief in Creek, though, that had not been there before.

Now they all knew him as the monster he had always known himself as. There would be no more excuses for his behaviour, no more hope that he was a better man than he seemed. As Amberlite's grey eyes looked to him once more, he imagined it was he staring back at himself. No doubt, a ruthless killer was what she saw now in place of her cousin. He could not explain to her why he had joined the Pack. Not only would it have been too arduous a conversation, but he was not sure he had reconciled it himself.

In his mind, he only repeated over and over that it had been the most logical option.

When Saxony's plate was cleared, she stared at them. Her dark eyes were as blank as a sheet of paper. He shook his head at how she must view the two of them as their eyes darted back and forth from her cold expression.

"I assume you have both formed a plan for tomorrow's private sessions."

Amberlite squeaked. "I'm going to do my darts."

Saxony nodded. "Very good, Amberlite." She turned to Creek. "And you?"

"I have a few ideas."

He did. In fact, he had pondered on what he might display at the private sessions for years now.

"And those are?"

"I am skilled in my memory, an underutilised form of strategic combat. I'll start by reciting some facts to draw them in. I've been practising with a spear, too, and I'm not half-bad. The girl from Two offered me some pointers this afternoon." Although the rest of the Pack, minus Castella, had supported his victory in the challenge, there was still a clear divide. Freyja seemed to be the only one willing to risk the isolation caused by one-on-one time with him. As helpful as it was, her decision-making was unnatural and illogical for a Career. In a way, it made him trust her less.

Saxony again nodded her approval. "Getting a high score is a safe bet for sponsors, that's for sure, but it comes with some risks. Amberlite, with a target already on your back, don't give them any more reason to hunt you." She squirmed in her seat beside him. "Throw your darts but do not hit the bullseye and perhaps miss one for good measure." Creek knew it would hurt her pride to do such a thing, just from the smallness of her nod, but he agreed that it could be easier to sway the Career's attention from her if she received a low score.

But that is not your main goal.

No, he would not aid her at his own expense. If, however, it was a sub-benefit of joining the Pack, then he would be cruel to not seek it out.

"Creek, as the weakest member of the Pack, you will need to prove yourself to them. I hear the One girl already lacks respect for you, and I'm sure the rest of the Pack only holds out through their honour code. Honour dies in the Arena. Proving your usefulness is the best you can do for yourself right now, and that starts by getting the highest score possible." Creek nodded as she recited his own thoughts back to him. "You're prepared for this, more than any tribute I have ever mentored before. Stay calm and give them everything you've got."

She didn't need to tell him twice.

As always, Freyja seemed to await him outside of the elevator. Her typical grin was spread across her face as she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to the side. "How are you feeling?" She asked.

"Just fine." He stated, blankly.

"And yourself?"

"Better than ever."

They stood there, awkwardly, for a minute as Creek waited for her to carry on.

He was never quite sure what she wanted from him, or why she seemed to spend more time with him than she did any of the other Careers. He didn't mind, though. Keep your enemies closer was a principle he could get on board with.

"We'll be watching the Scores revealed at Two's apartment tonight." She said. "The others wanted to leave you out. One isn't sure we can trust you yet. We'll be going through our strategy for the bloodbath, too, you see." She cocked her head. "But I told them that it was my apartment and so I want you there."

"Makes sense." He didn't let her into the suspicion in his mind.

No Career did anything out of the kindness of their heart. There had to be a hidden motive somewhere.

"Well, that's settled then. I'll see you tonight." Her brow bounced. "Good luck!"

The tributes were made to sit in a line of chairs, all leading up to the door to the private room where the Gamemakers awaited them. Creek sat on the very last chair, just after Amberlite. Her seat remained empty, and he looked over to where she laughed with the Eights. He was surprised at the pang of jealousy it caused to see that smiling face with another group of people.

That was the smile from his childhood. Back when he still had his brothers, back when Amberlite saw him as more than just a coldhearted monster. He had been living a lie, back then, though. He often believed that the calculating and cold nature had been with him since birth. It was only his inevitable decision to begin gambling on the Games that let that nature appear from behind the mask.

As Peacekeepers swarmed into the room, Amberlite rushed back to her seat and bounced up and down. She didn't look at Creek, and he was glad for it. Those grey eyes were a constant reminder of who she had seen him as then and who he was now. That hurt, as much as he hated to admit it, because the truth inside of him was dark and careless and he had never wished to expose anyone to it.

The Private Sessions began with Castella; each tribute received 15 minutes to show off their best skills.

Creek waited with growing anticipation, his knees bobbing up and down as the clock clicked on to midday. By the time it had reached noon, both Violet and Calli had completed their sessions, and the Eleven boy was just finishing up.

"I'm nervous, Creek." A small voice beside him said. He looked to her and saw the way she was pulling at her hair.

"Don't be." He shook his head; the two stared forward as he spoke. "You are a natural with the darts. Truly. Even the One girl could see it."

"Really?"

"Really." His voice was firm as he watched the Eleven boy exit the room. "Just pretend like it's me, up there in that box, instead of them. Just like I was there on that day we first discovered your skill. Okay?"

She looked down to where her shoes swung back and forth.

"Amberlite Graham." A voice called on the loudspeaker.

She sighed. "Okay. I will do that."

Then, she got to her feet and exited the hallway into the room. Creek despised the fear that he felt for her in those moments. He, too, had a mission to accomplish, and it was that he should be fearing for.

At the same time, he could not help it. As he watched her leave into that room, to be watched by a group of bloodthirsty men and women, all he wanted to do was to follow her in there. To watch over her.

He couldn't, though, and so, as he always did, he shoved the feelings and the thoughts down into the deepest part of himself and let nothing but the coldness within him show. When his name was finally called, he rose from his seat with an uncompromising resolve and entered the room.

There was a formality in the air of Two's floor of the apartment block that was wholly lacking in what he was used to in Twelve. There seemed to be at least double the Avox, all of whom raced around the room in preparation for the evening. The grand dining table was just as large, but the dark wood was polished and shone, and the plates of food were arranged in a grandiose pattern.

There was an unease from those around him as he exited the elevator; even the Avox were unafraid to have a double take. He supposed there had not been an Outer District kid in many years, since the 54th Hunger Games, if he recalled correctly, and so he did not take it to heart.

Although the opulence was such an apparent departure from his life in Twelve, he observed that it likely complemented his lifestyle. Whilst everything was grand and luxurious, there was a quiet, cold bitterness in the expanse of the room that opposed the community feel of Twelve. He wondered what life would have been like, had he lived in a world where his natural-born cruelty was the norm. It would have been easier, he supposed, and so he told himself that he belonged in the apartment, no matter what those around him believed.

The boy from Two, Midas, beckoned him to his seat at the dining table. He was likely the quietest member of the Pack, and Creek got the sense that he was too proud to conform to their expectations. He would not make the mistake of lowering those expectations, though. Midas, like the rest of the Pack, had shown he was skilled enough to volunteer and that made him just as dangerous as the rest.

The Ones and Freyja were already seated when Creek arrived, and he joined them with a nod. By the time the Fours had taken their places, the group had already begun eating. The array of cutlery seemed dramatic to him, but he simply followed the lead of Midas beside him, using the smaller fork for the starter dish and later the larger one for his main.

For the most part, the Ones carried the formal conversation with several questions directed at the members of the Pack. It was at complete odds with the dynamic he had found with the Eights, and the banter was cold and mostly at the expense of each other.

"And what did you show the Gamemakers, Twelve?" Castella's nose was scrunched as she looked at him, as if he were one of the Avox that served her. "More of your silly facts, I presume?"

"You would be correct." He grumbled; she was seriously starting to grate on him.

"As well as some of what I learned with the spear."

Freyja winked at him. "Thanks to me."

Although formal, the conversation was certainly not useless. For starters, he learned more about the District Four female, Felicity, and her upbringing in an esteemed house. Most of the rest of the Pack had similar backgrounds, each of them discussing their family businesses and reputations within their respective Districts. That was not to say that they were all the same, though.

In Felicity, Creek found a certain meekness that the rest of the Pack lacked, and it explained why she had taken a backseat in the Pack. In Midas, there was a bemused indifference to the strategic aspect of the Games. Rather, it seemed to Creek that he was ready to begin bashing in heads and slicing throats. Opalite was outspoken and proud, but there was a calculating angle to the times in which he chose to engage in conversation. Of the Careers, minus Freyja, he appeared to be the most threatening in his capabilities.

Freyja, however, remained a mystery. She did not speak about her District, nor her family or their business. Rather, she sat at the table with a leg up and laughed when nothing was funny and made remarks that provided nothing of substance to the conversation.

Still, by the time the meal was over and they had migrated to watch the screen in the living area, Creek knew he had a stronger mental grasp on the dynamics of the Pack.

The Pack piled onto two sofas, and Creek joined Freyja and Felicity at the far left side. Being on the outside, he was left out of much of the conversation, and it began to settle in him that the outsider status may become permanent.

Castella scoffed at something Midas had said. "Nobody has ever got a 12, idiot."

"Actually," Creek started. "That's not true. When the scores first began in the 17th Games, two members of the Pack received a 12. Again, in the 18th Games, two received a 12. This was later rectified in the records by the Gamemakers, who believed that the score had become too easily given out, and the four tributes were given 11s in the official documents." He paused at the burning red of Castella's face, but he could not help it as his mind spoke for him. "But, by all accounts, these tributes did in fact receive 12s. There is even recovered footage from the 18th Games of this occurring; I'm sure we could find..."

"Would you shut the fuck up already?" Castella snapped, and she was joined by a mocking laugh from the boy from One. He even caught Midas rolling his eyes as he turned back to the screen, where the Master of Ceremonies now sat. Julia Flickerman was a sharp-tongued woman with ruby-red hair and blood red lipstick. Creek had never formed much of an opinion on her; she asked tough questions at the interviews and made mocking comments on the TV, but he supposed it all came with the job.

Freyja leaned over, her hand cupped to his ear. "Are you trying to make them hate you?"

He sighed and shook his head. Truthfully, he was not. In fact, he had hoped that the correction would give him an in with the other Careers' discussion. He was used to being misunderstood, though, and, a long time ago, he had lost the desire to explain himself any further than how he was interpreted.

Freyja continued. "When this all wraps up, I'm going to take you somewhere. Okay?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked into the dark, mischief of her own. He did not think it logical to go with her. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to run back to Twelve's apartment when this was all over, slam his face into his pillow and sleep like a log. Unfortunately for him, it happened that Freyja was his sole ally within the Pack and he thought it equally unwise to piss her off. So, he shrugged and turned back to where the broadcast had begun.

"We'll start with the Darling of the Capitol, Castella Wright." He couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. Castella contradicted "darling" in every sense of the word; she was a brute and a savage and nothing more. "She has achieved a score of 10! A brilliant start." He did not need to look at her to know the smug smile that rested on her face.

The boy from One scored a 9 and was equally as proud.

When Freyja's name was called, she didn't even so much as tense beside him. "With a score of...10. An impressive show from our Career ladies, so far!" The left side of her mouth flicked up as the rest of the Pack hollered their congrats.

Felicity went on to get a 9 and the Four boy a 7. Castella remarked that they had made the right decision about him - Creek had still not figured out why he had been exiled, but it seemed a topic that the Careers did not want to raise.

The continued broadcast with the rest of the Outer Districts was dull. Mostly 4s and 5s with a 6 once or twice - both Eights received a six, and Creek found himself forcing down a surge of pride. When it finally got to Twelve, though, Creek's breath was held, and his fists were clenched.

"Amberlite Graham, from District Twelve." Julia stared deeply into the camera, and Creek felt that he had never held longer eye contact in his life than he did in that moment. "With a score of 5." A breath released from him, which he quickly disguised as a cough.

"Finally, our newest member of the Career Pack... Creek Ashfly!" Freyja squeezed his arm. "And he seems to be keeping up with a score of 8!" Creek nodded in self-approval and, for the first time, he felt as if he was a true member of the Pack as the applause thundered around him. Even Castella maintained a blank expression, and Creek thought, for a moment, that he saw her nod.

Following the scores, they went on to discuss the strategy for the bloodbath. To Creek's relief, Amberlite's name was not mentioned. Although the Four Boy was not so lucky. "As soon as I get my daggers, I'll be on him," Castella said with a growl. Nobody objected and, for Creek, it seemed to him best to remove the boy as a factor in the Game.

Creek, alongside Freyja, was given the role of guarding the cornucopia. They were to grab their weapons as quickly as possible and ensure the Outerdistrict kids did not get too close to the centre - where the most beneficial items were. Midas and Felicity were, essentially, the killers of the Pack. Their job was simple: slit as many throats and stab as many hearts as possible to reduce the competition.

Neither complained, nor flinched at the weight of their task. Creek found a greater respect for them in that moment, as they took on the duty they had worked toward their entire lives. They did not carry the heavy weight of shame, as he did, and it showed in the calmness of their strategy. Once again, he wondered at what his life could have been like were he born into one of their families instead of his own.

But he had not been.

And, by becoming one of them, he had turned his back on their family rather than impress them.

And so, he could not wonder about hypotheticals. In place of pride, all he could do was sit with his guilt and shame.

It took him back to those cold, lonely nights at the boarding house, when it would all become too much and reduce him to a tearful disarray.

He did not need to be loved, or accepted, to survive, though. It was not in the cards for him and that was okay.

It had to be.

Relief washed over Creek as he stepped out into the harsh winds of the rooftop. Through all the commotion of the last couple of days, he hadn't been able to escape confinement in favour of the open air. Since that day in the mining caves of Twelve, all those years ago, he had chosen to never again take the free, coolness of the outdoors for granted.

Yet, somehow he had and, now, Freyja led him back to that undeniable sense of freedom.

The Capitol skyline shone in front of his eyes, each building as tall as the next. Although he had seen the city as the train had arrived, it was no comparison to the way it lit up the darkness of the night. As always, there was a temptation in him to analyse every aspect.

The amount of power the city must be using from Five, how tall the buildings are compared to Twelve, how many people lived on each floor of the towers.

But he was tired and the sight was so wondrous. Instead of analysis, for once, he let his mind turn off and simply observed the vast grandeur of it all.

With all the lights dazzling his view, it took him a moment to remember Freyja. But there she was, just in front of him, leaning on the railing and staring at him with those all-knowing eyes. Creek again felt there must be a trick up her sleeve for her to have brought him to such a place - alone.

"Why are we here?" He finally asked.

She shrugged. "I thought you would like it."

He scoffed in response and shook his head. "And what do you know about me?"

She paused for a moment, taking her time to look him up and down. "Not as much as I would like to. That, too, is why I brought you here." She smiled then, wide and tooth-filled. Although he had only known her a couple of days, such a genuine smile was unnatural on the usual stoniness of her face. "But why are you here, Creek?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She raised her hands, as if showcasing the city before them. "You volunteered, just as I did, to be here. Why?"

"I volunteered for my brother."

Freyja laughed in his face. "But you just happen to know so much about the Games?"

The further she pushed, the more Creek's fingers fidgeted with one another - pinching, scratching and tapping. "I've spent a long time in the Archives of Twelve's City Hall. They have the records for all of the past Hunger Games in hundreds of drawers." He tilted his head. "They were good reading, and they interested me. Plus, I had a lot of time on my hands. That's all."

Freyja hummed. "What interested you?"

This time, Creek found himself answering without the distrustful hesitation. Nobody had ever seemed so interested in his work.

"The patterns. In every file, I found a new strength, or weakness. A new reason why somebody won, or lost. Over time, I began to find trends. Perhaps it was a decision they made, or a weapon they chose. It's strange, really, but from there I began to calculate the odds of the tributes each year. Whether they would die, or remain victorious in the end."

"I don't think it's strange." She said, and Creek's stomach churned. Again, she was different from those whom he was used to, and that scared him. With the people that he knew, he had a formula. How to speak to them, when to, what to speak to them about - it was all mapped out in a grand diagram in his mind. "But why the Games?"

He stumbled over his words. "I-I don't know." He supposed he had never really thought about the why; it was simply a twisted fascination born into the monster of his mind.

She chuckled, "Because it's ugly." She turned back to the city's skyline. "It fascinates you because every other aspect of life hides its ugly underbelly. Even in this city, the lights and the buildings act as a mask for the exploitative nature of our country." She turned back to him. "You like the Games because, like me, you like the truth. And there is no greater truth than that which broadcasts its ugliness, plain and uncensored, to the entire world."

They stared at each other, as if taking one another in again for the first time. "Is that why you're here?"

"Partly." She shrugged. "And partly because it was the purpose I was given since my birth. My family isn't like the others." She referred to the Pack. "They're blacksmiths with very little. They used everything they had to send me to the Academy, to send me to the Games. But that was not enough for me; I had to find my own reason to volunteer for my heart to align with their wishes."

"And that was?"

"As I say," Her smile was crooked, and her head tilted. "I wanted to experience the truth."

Creek did not have a reply to that.

"I like you, Creek. Those others are here for fame and pride and money. But you? I think, as I am, you seek the truth of the brutality of the world." She stepped closer to him. "I think we will make a fine pair. Don't you?"

Creek's skin prickled with vulnerability. He did not know if Freyja was right about him, but the idea that she could see through him so clearly frightened him.

But there was something else, too. In all his years, nobody had claimed to truly see him without denying the monster inside. Freyja knew his ruthlessness, his cruelness, and yet she claimed to like him despite it.

Against all his distrustful instincts, he found himself wanting to find out if she was right.

His stylist powdered his face with a brush, and he admired how the white of his skin contrasted with the midnight black of his tuxedo. He had never thought of himself as particularly attractive, but, as he stared into his own dark eyes, he supposed that the stylist knew what he was doing.

"You look…daring," Saxony said, settling on the word after a moment of taking him in. "The eyeliner is certainly a choice."

He, too, had been unsure about the dark pencil drawn around his almond-shaped eyes but, strangely, he found it suited him. He had always embraced the darkness inside of him, ever since he had gambled away his family, and there was a comfort in now having it on display - a warning, of sorts, for the person he was.

"Have you settled on a strategy?"

The two had discussed all morning, and into the early afternoon, his plans for the interview and had settled on two options. He had been the first to suggest that he emphasise the cold, villain that he knew he would become in the Arena. That way, the Capitol knew what to expect from him and would applaud when he delivered just that. Saxony had not been against the idea. Still, she had pushed for him to allow more warmth into his performance. She said that sympathy was an underestimated emotion for evoking sponsorships. Creek felt that, instead, she wanted her mentee to distinguish himself from the Careers as much as possible - he saw how it frightened her, for him to become one of them.

"I don't want to wear a mask." He said, finally. "Villainous, cutthroat, cold. That would be me at my most genuine, and I think the Capitol will be drawn to that."

He watched as she massaged her temple. "Fine. I understand." She shook her head. "But Creek, there is more to you than that. I saw it when you volunteered for your brother. I saw it again when you defended Amberlite. I find it difficult to believe that, at your most genuine, you are as ruthless as you want to appear."

Creek didn't respond. Days ago, he had decided that Saxony had placed too much faith in him and he would not be able to sway her. He did not waste his energy on doing so now.

He knew who he was, more than she ever would.

Creek was the last tribute of the night to be received by Julia Flickerman. It was evident, as he entered the blaring lights of the stage, that the crowd had lost the energy in the hours between Castella and Opalite and himself. As he walked to Julia, his face was a mask of bright eyes and flashing teeth, and he winked at the crowd.

It was, perhaps, the most difficult performance of his life. He had always been an adept liar. But here? On this stage? He found his expression flicker more than once as the bright lights flashed in his face and the roaring crowd drowned out his thoughts. It took several pinches to his arm to drive him back into reality, where he was taking his seat opposite the Master of Ceremonies.

Again, the mask slipped back on, and the lies slipped effortlessly from his tongue. "Julia, it is a pleasure to be here tonight!" Every word was rehearsed, a result of the practice questions fired at him by Saxony and the scenarios that had played in his mind. Otherwise, he would have been in shambles on that stage.

"As it is a pleasure to have you, Creek Ashfly!" Julia's tongue flickered in and out of her mouth as she spoke, like a serpent examining its prey. "You happen to be our only volunteer from the Outerdistricts this year. I have to ask, was this a heroic feat to save your brother from his almost certain death?"

(Creek's heart would not have known how to answer that question. Still, he had not worked through the multitude of factors that had driven him to volunteer that morning. Fortunately, his mind had been prepared, and any emotion he may have felt at such a question was shut out.)

"Oh, it was nothing more than a happy coincidence." He chuckled. "I had been planning to volunteer for months. Forest being reaped sure made it a spectacle, though. Appreciate you, bro." He saluted the camera with a smirk, and the Capitol roared with laughter. In truth, the joke had left a bad taste in his mouth when he and Saxony had planned it out. He could imagine the sneer that Forest now wore as he watched his brother use him in the very Games that he despised.

His stomach twisted.

Stay calm. Stay focused.

And Shut. The. Fuck. Up. He told the voice inside his head. Julia was halfway through her next question when he zoned back in.

"-Reason you volunteered?"

Creek scrambled for an answer, hoping he had interpreted the first half of the question correctly. "I have always had a deep fascination with the Games. The costumes, the parades…" A villain, cold and ruthless. "The deaths. When I was 8, I told my mother that I wished the Games happened more than twice a year. It was the first time she had ever hit me." The Capitol erupted into laughter, and Creek attempted a smile to join them in it. "That didn't stop me, though, and I began to research everything and anything I could about the Games." That was only half true. He had not done it in the rebellious way that he framed it; rather, he had hidden it from his family for as many years as he could whilst he trialled other paths in life - a teaching assistant to his father, a miner in the caves.

"From there, I discovered patterns and trends. Factors that made a tribute more likely to win than any other. Pretty soon, I was in the gambling dens of Twelve." His voice lost its cool nonchalance, replaced with a boyish eagerness as his words turned to the one area in life he had proven worthy of. "A few weeks of work as a consultant was all it took to feed my family for an entire year. Don't get me wrong, I am hardly wealthy by your standards." He winked at the crowd. "But back home, I have certainly done well for myself." As his words came to an end, he had found that he had leaned forward in his seat and his eyes were wide with passion. He was quick to rein himself back in, returning to his relaxed posture and cool expression.

"So, volunteering was about fame? Power? Pride?" Julia pushed.

He pondered for a moment and found that he thought of Freyja's words on that rooftop as he did. "Curiosity. Very few people in this world can say they have been where I am now - talking to you. Even fewer can say that they survived the Arena. I wish to know, after all these years of viewing the Games through paper and screens, what it is like to live it. That is why I am here."

(There was truth in his words that he was certain of. Whether it was the entire truth of his reason for volunteering, he could never be sure.)

He left the crowd with one final wave and wink as he wrapped up the night. Saxony awaited him backstage with a small smile. "You did well." She said, and he could not help the pride that surged through him.

Saxony sat him down one final time that night, eager to leave him with as many parting words as she could muster. "I wish that I could join you tomorrow. Both of you." Amberlite had already departed for bed; the interview had taken a toll on her - unlike Creek, she had not been able to mask her overwhelm on stage. "But they want me with the rest of the mentors. How are you feeling?" Her eyes were weary, her crow's feet more visible with her exhaustion.

He was quick to answer. "Prepared."

It was true. He had done almost everything by the book. If how he had calculated odds all these years was as solid as he believed it was, he would be making it out of the bloodbath tomorrow.

She nodded. "I understand that. You know, I see a lot of myself in you before the Games. I went into the Arena believing that I had already seen the deepest horrors of the world we live in." She closed her eyes, tightly, as if in pain. "I was wrong, Creek. The blood that will be shed tomorrow. The children that will die. Nothing will prepare you to stand face-to-face with it, I can assure you."

He did not want to argue - he was too weary, but also, he found, strangely, that he did not want to hurt Saxony's feelings by doing so. So, he simply nodded.

"You are not who I expected you to be, Creek. When I first saw that calm and confident boy volunteer for his brother, I judged too quickly. You are different. I have mentored for over 40 years. Each year, I had known the person the Arena would shape each tribute into. With you, I am not so sure." She reached out to grab his hand, and the touch of her skin was coarse. Instinctively, he pulled away. "But I can hold out hope." Her voice cracked. "That you won't become those you have chosen to surround yourself with."

The Creek he had always been returned to him then, cold and blunt as his answer left his lips. "It's too late for that." He said, and his mentor flinched. He rose from his seat on the sofa and parted from her with a final glance. "Goodnight, Saxony." He left her there, alone on that sofa, and prayed that he had crushed her hopes. He was doing her a favour, he believed. If her expectations were low, she would not be so disappointed when he met them.

The sound of sobs filled the hallway that held Creek and Amberlite's respective rooms. Amberlite's door, to the right, was ajar just slightly, and it was from that crack that the rapid breathing and violent choking emanated. His breath faltered as he stopped in the hallway and listened to the broken sounds of his childhood echo.

His feet worked before his mind did, carrying him to the desperate sounds of his cousin. She was curled up in a ball, her duvet wrapped around her, and her entire body wracked with sobs. As the door creaked open, she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "Creek?" She asked, her voice quivering.

He could not bear it. "You won't die tomorrow, Amberlite. I will make sure of it." Her breathing slowed with the shaking of her body as she stared back at him.

"Okay." She said, her voice small.

He turned away from her and clicked the door closed behind him. The promise had been empty; he knew that. If one of the Careers marked her as an easy target tomorrow, there was little he could do to prevent the outcome. But it was all he could have said, if not to give her a final restful night, then to ensure her earsplitting sobs did not deprive him of one.