Casper

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

Finnick's POV

Sona glided across the stage with controlled elegance. The slight tint on her skin was accentuated by the white sea of paper her hand fell into, graceful, poised. I would not have been surprised if she was practicing the maneuver on the train. As a single strip became raised to her upper torso, a warm smile crossed her face as she called out the name. 

“Finnick Odair!”

She beamed at the crowd, but her smile slightly faltered when I made my way through the swarm of people. Others also grimaced as I climbed the steps to the stage, a standard reaction to the reaping of a younger tribute. Taking a deep breath, I composed myself. I always knew I’d be a tribute, a victor, at one point or another. My entry into the games may have been earlier than planned, but I would take on the challenge just the same. As custom, I turned to lock eyes with my competition. Her hand wrapped around mind, she steadily shook it. I could tell from her eyes, she was determined, just like me.

Peacekeepers attempted to usher us towards the Justice Building, but as we started to walk my head instinctively turned to face the sounds of cries in the back of the crowd. A man who resembled Cornelia coddled a weeping girl. Her sister. I had seen her around on a few occasions, but at the time I didn’t even know her name. 

When I wake up in the morning my bed is cold, but I prefer that to the heat of another body warming the covers. Pictor must have left before I woke up, but when checking the amount of sponsor money allocated to Bugs I find a noticeable increase in the balance.

Relief seeps itself into every fibre of my being. Dreadful, foreboding, relief. Bugs has already awoken, I must have slept through the alert. My exhaustion has been alleviated but not completely remedied. Just as she finishes preparing to leave for the feast I send the gift. Opening the container, her face melts as she sees its contents. My body feels lighter watching her sigh in solace. My shoulders ease up, my brows unfurrow, and as she thanks me my stomach flips. She always did have a way of making me feel immeasurably better, even in the worst of circumstances.

“You’re welcome.” I whisper, though I know she cannot hear me. I silently promised her I’d do anything to keep her safe, I will never fail her in that. 

However, the gamemakers have decided to make the next day the last. I am again restless when I hear the cannons, and still conscious later when Bugs wakes up to the sound of the terrain crumbling. When she finally makes contact with Everard, it is not in her favour. Perched on top of her, his hand wraps around her throat. What can she do? What can I do? Even if I tried to send a sponsorship it would probably get automatically blocked. My thoughts racing I barely even realise what's happening before Bugs and Everard fall off the edge of the platform. She hates water. I figured that out the moment I saw her plead with Julia to let her work off the boat, it didn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion when only a few days before she almost drowned.

What will she do in the water? Can she even still swim? What if she starts freaking out and loses all control over mobility? Racing with questions my mind starts to spiral, but the descent to madness stops when I see Bugs swimming towards driftwood. She moves fluidly, as if she never took a break from the water. My heart pounds louder than the cannon that rings shortly after.

She survived.

Only two words ring through my head as I collapse onto the nearest seat.

She survived.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games—”

She survived. 

The announcement barely registers, and once it does I sprint to the roof of the Training Centre. It’ll take half an hour at the least for the helicopter to arrive, but I exert every muscle in my body anyways.

About twenty minutes later Sona arrives, her white curls have transformed to a light shade of blue. She must have done it in the past couple of days since I last saw her. 

“She made it!” Sona squeals at me the moment she's in range, and pulls me into a tight hug. “Oh, your first victor! You must be so proud!” 

I say nothing as she releases me, and her face turns dark as she suddenly remembers the dark truth. 

“Poor Emery. Our girl must be absolutely so heart broken. Poor Emery. Our poor babies.” Sona chatters on and on, and while I have gotten used to it over the past few years, at this moment I just want her to be silent. 

“I’m rambling, I’m sorry. I just… poor Emery.”

Every year she becomes more and more aware about the true horrors of the games. 

“Don’t worry about it.” I plaster on a grin for her, and turn around when I hear more footsteps coming our way. Hadley walks up to us. The swaying in her step is enough to know she's been drinking again, but she’s more lucid than she typically was before the start of this year's games. 

“Congrats! Congrats to me, congrats to you, and congrats to our newest victor!” Venom laces her words, she laughs at her own irony before sitting down on the concrete. I can’t blame her, because she knows just as well as I do the horrors that are to follow Bugs throughout the rest of her life. 

Sona sulks and pulls on Hadley's arm, trying to get her to stand up. 

“Getting drunk! And just before the final fight, how irresponsible are you!” Some variant of this conversation happens between the two of them every year, though the last time it took place on the rooftop was apparently the year I was crowned victor. Sona’s beratement is drowned out by the sound of the nearing hovercraft, I try to run up to it but it is now my arm Sona tugs on as she holds me back. 

“I doubt anyone will be very happy if the Capitol Darling gets smushed by a hovercraft.”

The door opens, and Bugs is pulled out on a stretcher bed, several medics at her side pushing her towards the rooftop doors.

“Bugs!” I call out, but there is no response.

“She had to be sedated, was causing a real fuss when we pulled her out, and tried to hit anyone that came close.” One of the medics says, getting out of the vehicle and walking up to me. 

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be fine. She needs some nutrients and a couple of stitches, but compared to other victors we've gotten she’s in perfect condition.” 

I thank the medic and walk to the doors as fast as I can without breaking into a full-blown sprint. Hadley and Sona trail behind me. 

Reaching the hospital floor of the building, I walk into Bugs room at the same time they lift her from the stretcher to the bed. She’s lost a lot of weight, and is skinnier than she appeared on TV, even with the decent amount of food she had in the games. Parts of her hair have been torn out, and in the group of doctors standing just outside the door one of them mentions the words “hair transplant”. I turn to face them while speaking to Hadley and Sona with a scowl, “they must be talking about the physical alterations they plan on giving her.”

“I’m going to yell at whichever doctor attempts to give her breast implants, see you guys.” Hadley says before marching off to the crowd of practitioners. I had planned on doing that myself, but with Hadley volunteering I gratefully took a seat in the corner of the room. Thanks to Hadley, my full attention can now be focused on Bugs, and Bugs only. 

Sona puts a light hand on my shoulder, and tells me her plans to confer with Dara before walking off. At some point I should do the same. About an hour passes before I almost get up to leave, but as I stand I notice the brows of Bugs furrow. Her eyes open languidly, and stare into mine for just a second before closing again.

“Bugs? Angel?” Sat at the edge of the bed, I plead for her attention in the softest tone I can muster up; there is no response. My hand lightly rubs over hers before I return to my seat.

Finnick's POV

I haven’t slept much since the beginning of the games. Mentors typically sleep when their tributes are asleep, and are alerted once their tributes awaken. But how can I sleep knowing that Bugs could be killed at any moment?

Technically Hadley is her mentor, but we’ve sort of swapped roles since the games began. Hadley has been scouting for sponsors for Emery, and adjusting her sleep schedule to match his. I have been doing the same for Bugs. Mentorship has never been extremely strict, and while we are assigned our mentorship roles and the gender of our tributes before the games even take place, the gamemakers don’t particularly care if we stick to them so long as the swap is within our district. While I think this is the first time an explicit swap has taken place, it’s not uncommon for same district mentors to partner up, sharing knowledge with both tributes and finding sponsorships for both as well, especially in the primed districts where alliances are common. Haymitch himself mentors both of the district twelve’s tributes on his own, though he doesn’t really have any other choice.

For all the times Hadley has been rude, inebriated, and even incapacitated, she is still one of the most insightful people I know. I never had to explicitly tell her my feelings for Bugs, yet she was still the one to suggest a swap.

In the past ten days my sleep has been in short intervals at a time, ranging from a few hours to a few minutes. I cannot be alert when I am asleep, and I cannot be alert if I am sleep deprived. It is a damning cycle. Even when I try to sleep, I can’t. What if something happens? What if I wake up and Bugs is dead? 

Emery and Bugs sit now on the fishing platform, sharing laughter and kisses. It makes me sick. Sure, it’s racked up quite a few sponsorships, but I feel sick nonetheless. I know it’s pretend, at least I hope it is. Still, everytime I see Emery get to touch her, to talk to her, to kiss her, I want to gouge both his and my eyes out. It’s disgusting, I know. Bugs is fighting for her life and I am sitting here from the comfort of the Capitol seething with envy that someone else gets to touch her. As I watch the scene unfold, red marks start to grace my palm from how tightly I clench my fists. I can barely stomach the sight. I would do anything, be anything, for her. Yet that manipulative coward is the one she wants.

Manipulative coward, and an idiot apparently. Because that night when Emery is supposed to be on watch he instead falls asleep. I know he’s severely sleep deprived, but in such an environment how can you make that mistake? Thalia’s eyes flicker open. But not in the way that someone does when they’ve just woken up, no. She does it carefully, looking at Emery’s sleeping body and deciding that he is in fact unconscious before moving. I don’t even have to think to know what's going to happen. Thalia moves slowly, carefully. I however do not. Bugs has enough sponsor money. It’s against the rules. I could get persecuted for it. Tortured even. But it doesn’t matter. The Capitol could kill me and it would still be okay as long as Bugs survives. Thalia reaches for the knife. I select the bell. She gradually gets closer to Emery. My hand lurches for the release button. 

It falters.

What if I wait just a second? Just long enough so that Emery gets killed but Bugs doesn’t? That way she’ll have no choice. She’ll have to fight for her freedom. There won’t be any incentive to kill herself. If I let Emery die, I could very well save her life.

But I can’t. How could I sleep at night knowing I forced Bugs into such a position, bringing her such great pain? How could I force Bugs to go against her wishes for my own selfish desire?

But how could I live with myself if she is dead? The concept of Bugs being dead is so atrocious, so egregious that I feel myself getting lightheaded. But is that what Bugs would feel if Emery died? The concept of Bugs feeling such excruciating, life-ending pain is the push I need to place my hand on the button.

But I am too late. By the time the parachute drops the knife is already on Emery's throat.

Thalia lurches at Bugs. She swings at her chest. There’s blood.

Bugs kills Thalia. I try to let out a sigh of relief but there’s no air in me. My head gets dizzy, and I realise throughout watching that whole situation I had forgotten to breathe. Becoming aware of my body, I release my fingers from their grip only to find bloody crest shaped marks on my palms. Raising said fingers to my lips I find more blood. I must have bitten the inside of my mouth at some point.

The bell was rarely ever given as a gift. When it was, the receivers were experienced trap makers. Using it like this was always a possibility, but no mentor would have been willing to reap such consequences. What if they kill Bugs for it? The Gamemakers certainly wouldn’t want to, she’s a fan favourite. Mircea Chrestos, the Head Gamemaker, has always preferred a good performance over politics. He would be reluctant. Snow on the other hand? He’d have no reservations. Only if it served him best though. Would it serve him best? On the right of the split screen is my mentors-only 24/7 broadcast of Bugs. On the left is the official live stream for the whole of Panem to view, aired with a delay. And as I watch Bugs awaken on that screen now, no sight or sound of the bell remains.

Only Bugs, Haymitch, Hadley and I know about the act of defiance. Defiance, not rebellion. It was against the rules but still within the parameters of Snow's grasp. Haymitch and Hadley have already faced… consequences for misconduct, Snow knows they’d be unlikely to do something as stupid as repeat my trivial, foolish action. So what response would serve him best?

Bugs sits idly in the open, not even searching for shelter when it starts to rain. She’s going to catch a cold. The cut on her chest might also get infected. She must be freezing. The thought of her freezing causes all the heating in my room to fail as I shiver as well.

One time during a particularly cold winter, Bugs had forgotten her jacket. Even from a several meter distance I could still see her trembling as the masses left the school to return home or to the docks. Yet Emery, who was standing right next to her, had neglected to even offer his jacket. That moment really stuck out to me, I could never understand it. Surely the discomfort of knowing she was shivering should have exceeded any discomfort brought by the cold itself, yet he still failed to offer her his jacket. Instead he kept his mouth shut and let her freeze.

Why was she mourning him again?

I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. For all the poor things that Emery has done, he’s never brought Bugs so much pain as she feels now. Pain I caused. How could I let this happen? I hesitated, and in that moment of selfishness I killed the one person who gave Bugs the will to live. I’ve screwed everything up.

The more time passes the more I feel my guts churn. She could contract a sickness, or hypothermia even. ‘Please, do something’, a silent prayer rings in my head, I don’t know if it’s intended for Bugs or for some all-mighty deity. Either way, it was heard. For the first time in a long time, she moves. But my excited anticipation immediately dwindles down to horror as I see her reach for the matches. She’s planning on lighting a fire? If the primed see smoke coming from her area they’ll drop everything they’re doing to find the source. It’s suicide. She knows it. Emery’s death, my hesitation, it’s driving her to suicide. She wants to kill herself because of it. 

Fuck that. 

I don’t care if she wants to die, I need her to live.

The only way I can communicate with her is through sponsor gifts. A calendula based antiseptic. I was going to wait until she was more… optimistic before sending medication for her graze, I didn’t want her to immediately discard it.

Calendula flowers are grown in her mothers herbal garden, Anthea uses them for her antiseptics. I remember this from the first time I actually met Bugs, years before I had any care for her. I was ten, and a “recklessly bold” kid, according to mom. That was her way of saying I did stupid shit that got me injured a lot. Just like most of the fishers my mom wasn’t able to afford any proper medicine, but the apothecary always priced her medicine fairly, and even often gave discounts for children. After stitching up my calf, Anthea explained the origin of the sweetly scented ointment, and at the same time, in the corner of my vision, I could see a pair of eyes peeping through the side of the door. She scurried off quickly, and in all honesty I didn’t really think about her after she had hurried away. Hopefully the medicine will stir up some emotions, distract her from someone else other than Emery, so that she doesn’t continue on with the fire.

I almost jump for joy as she moves out from the open into a rocky shelter. Some time later the chip in her arms alerts me that she's asleep. I should probably at least try to sleep as well. The effects of the exhaustion are weighing strong; my brain feels disconnected from my body and my eyelids are so heavy it hurts. I need to be in the right state of mind for tomorrow, for whatever the primed, and the gamemakers, have planned. Taking one last look at Bugs, my heart sinks. Decorating her unconscious face is shiny tears. Such a grueling feeling is the mixture of enragement and despair. I want to go to the gamemakers right now and torture them the way they tortured her. I want to track Snow down and kill him for bringing such misery upon her. I want to be sent into that arena so that I can provide any form of comfort I could possibly offer her.

After Bugs’ tears started to fade, my consciousness did as well. The next day I can’t help but laugh watching her wrangle with the bow and arrow. Though in my eyes she has always walked with grace and charisma, I’m still not blind to the fact that she can be clumsy; and petty. When the bow string hits her cheek she gives it a look almost as malicious as the one she very often gives me. Almost, but not equal to, which is unfair considering I never slapped her in the face. But at least her hateful scowls have softened to annoyed glares in the past few weeks. She may not love me, she may not even particularly like me, but she doesn’t necessarily hate me anymore. As daunting as the impending danger is, it’s quite decompressing to be able to find a moment of peace watching her right now. She can distract me from even the worst situations. 

Her grimace quickly turns to a look of fear as the sound of crashing rocks and wood rings through the screen’s speakers. I quickly switch my attention from the footage of Bugs to the official games footage, broadcasting a birds eye view of the edge of the mountain platform cascading down to the water. The primed have taken up hunting her separately, agreeing to meet back at their base after the sound of a cannon. Seraphina is the closest, based at the other end of the mountain terrain. Though still not close enough, which is why the gamemakers have decided to give her a helping hand.

The fight finished quickly, but at the time felt perpetual. I almost felt the melanin dissolving from my scalp as my hair turned grey from stress. Even after the fight ends, my blonde tresses are still at risk of being desaturated; the cut on her arm is getting increasingly worse. She needs medicine, or else she could very well die from infection. Unfortunately such medicine would cost a fortune, she has sponsor money but not enough. The other tributes are also lacking in food, so when the sky becomes tinted with orange trumpets ricochet throughout the arena.

Bugs would not survive a feast, with the state of her arm she would be surely doomed facing one primed, let alone three of them. But there is another option, a potential sponsor called for a meeting with me shortly after it became clear Bugs was not going to be able to persist with her arm in its current state. Knowing this sponsor, whether or not I should actually take his money is still undecided. An hour hasn’t even lapsed since the announcement of the feast when I meet with him. 

“Hello, Mr. Odair” Pernell Pictor leeringly smiles at me with a voice that is calculatingly warm, malevolence seeping into the undertones.

“Mr. Pictor.”

He takes a seat on the velvet couch and I follow suit, pouring him a glass of whiskey before doing the same for myself. He nods his head in a polite appreciation and brings the crystal to his lips before speaking.

“I’m sure you understand as well as I do that your tribute will not survive longer than a few minutes at the feast, given her current state. I however am so kind as to offer an alternative. I am willing to buy the necessary medicine, as well as any other resources she needs to make it out of the games. Food, weapons, a trident maybe?”

Such a massive amount of money spent on a tribute never comes from the kindness of one's heart. Cashmere, a district one victor, received a high amount from Pernell in order to win the year before me. She had other sponsors, but he was easily the highest spender. Once she was safely out, he was the first one to visit her. According to Cashmere, he did the same to the girl who won the 57th, and the boy who won the 56th. While most victors are eighteen, all the ones he sought out have been sixteen or younger. From what I’ve heard, he stops visiting them once they turn twenty. Cashmere, the last recipient of his sponsorships, turned such an age a few months ago. 

Most buyers don’t actually pay a dime, we are given away to those who Snow wants to earn credit with. And whenever money is being exchanged the receiving hand is always Snow. However, Pernell has a saviour complex, and only sleeps with those whom he feels he helped. He likes the illusion of a fair trade. His altruism is all but a facade though, he simply revels in the feeling of superiority, control. He craves others being completely dependent on him, completely in his debt. In Pernell’s fantasy he must be the sole saviour, however. In my year there were many extremely wealthy patrons sponsoring me, and there was no excitement in him being one of the many. While I have never been one of his victims I know the type well. However, in sheer desperation I still don’t quite properly process what he is intending until he continues his speech.

“She is quite a beauty. It would be a shame to see such a pretty face decaying on the big screen, don’t you think?”

Crystal shards cascade along the floor, and my now open palm twitches with dread and rage. 

She would be better off dead. It would be a far better fate dying in that arena than dying with whispers of hands tracing her every crevice. The bruises of battle could never compare to the bruises of fingertips marking her soul and self, etched into her broken body and carved into her mind. Her skin is better off a corpsely pale than stained with black, brown and purple handprints that could never fade; not even after they have long become invisible to the eyes. She would be better off dead, I will not let her live through that.  

I want to hurt him for even suggesting such an idea. I want to kill him for such a desire. I swear I almost do, my mind is transported back to my arena where every person was a prey for hunt. I feel my body edging off its seat as it readies itself to kill the newest target. A few seconds go by and I realise I must compose myself. A deep breath, then I flash him a carefree, charming smile and chuckle before speaking, “Sorry, I’ve been getting muscle spasms recently. Us mentors don’t get much sleep this time of the year. Unfortunately my girl is recovering from the loss of her love, I doubt she’d be willing to accept any sponsorships that restricted her from being able to grieve alone after the games come to an end. ” 

I was forward. Far too forward, but I could not conjure up any other more subtle method of telling him to go to hell.

He smiles at me in return, one that is just as warm and easygoing, but his eyes are jarringly colder.

“I could only imagine the pain of losing a love, I’m sure you’re right, she would have to grieve by herself for a long time afterwards. As for your insomnia induced muscle impairment; do not worry. I know very well the sleep deprivation that comes with being a mentor.” He chuckles and drinks more of his whiskey, smiling at the Avox who kneels by the scattered glass with a dust pan in hand before continuing, “You, however, seem to be more sleep deprived than your peers though. If I were to guess, I’d say you care for your tribute more than they care for theirs. Would that be correct?"

“Well naturally I care about all my tributes, I wouldn’t say this one is very spe—”

“Oh but she is special, isn’t she? Because when I first intended to sponsor her I originally tried to get in contact with Miss Deadwood, only to find out that you two had changed mentees for no apparent reason at all.”

The smile I wear is still languid and lovely, but hidden behind it is my tightening jaw and grinding teeth. My mouth opens to say something but he interrupts me.

“Relax! I have no judgement or care for how you feel about any of your tributes, none of it is my place.” His eyes make contact with mine, “besides, you are still young, barely even eighteen. It’s natural at such an age to have feelings you cannot control.”

I say nothing.

“I do have one question, if I were to sponsor her anyways, would this be a great help for you?”

He only sleeps with those whom he feels he helped. When I die, I will already be covered in fingerprinted bruises marking my every limb, the hands of whom they belong to make no difference to me anymore. When I was first forced into this role, I slept with district four higher ups to keep her safe, to keep her name out of the bowl, and to keep her from the feared waters. It was almost as if I was trying to practice some form of autonomy. I tried to trick myself into believing that if I was doing it for a benefit then the pain of doing it would be reduced. But unlike the officials of district four, in the Capitol I have no bartering power.  I am nothing more than subhuman to them. An attractive subhuman yes, but an object nonetheless. Some of my visitors commonly feel inclined to sponsor my tributes as opposed to the others, but it was never a fair trade, never a decided agreement. And this sick sponsor may get off on giving me the illusion of a choice, but there isn’t really any choice. There never is. I could very well reject his offer and allow Bugs to look death in the eyes, but that wouldn’t change my situation. It wouldn’t give me any more freedom or liberties to consent. If it’s not him, then it’ll simply be someone else, and then someone else will come along, and another. The cycle is endless and inescapable.

He awaits my response but he already knows what my answer has to be.

“Yes, it will be a great help.”

“And a great help deserves a great thank you in return, don’t you think?”

No.

The cut on my chest is shallow, but at risk of being infected. The crusty dried up blood mixed with mud and sweat, I should probably clean it. I should clean it. I know why, but not how. How can I force myself up and past this crushing weight? Here, hands to my knees, I lay like a sitting duck. Just like my sister. At least my sister had an actual net holding her down. Me? I’m just pathetic. I know she’d want me to keep on going. I know my father would also want me to keep on going. I know Emery would want me to keep on going as well. But what does it matter what they would want? They have no wants anymore. They’re dead. There’s nothing left of them. Nothing at all.

I just feel so alone. What's the point? It's cold, too cold. It started raining not long after Emery’s death, and continued all into the morning. The remaining water in the trees drips onto me every so often from leaves frolicking in the wind. I find myself going towards Thalia's bag and finding the matches. Starting a fire in damp conditions would typically bring even more smoke than usual, signalling my location to everyone in the area. But I can’t find it in me to care. It’s just so cold. Cold and wet. I hate water.

I grab the nearest large piece of wood. The outside is wet but when breaking it apart I find a centre just dry enough to light. Quivering fingers bring the stick to the rough side of the box. Just before my hand withdraws, and thus striking the match, another small parachute falls in front of me. Is Finnick just trying to distract me from my suicidal search for heat? The matches fall from my palm and are replaced by the container attached. Inside is an anti-septic. Certainly for the wound on my chest. But it's not the fancy advanced medicine you’d typically find in the Capitol. No; it’s an herbal remedy. The one my mother commonly used in Four. 

Suddenly I am reminded of her, and I feel guilty for seldom thinking of her during the games. I was too preoccupied with Emery—since the reaping really—to put much thought towards her. I suppose out of all my relationships, this was the one with the most distance. Both shells of people after the death of my sister and father, I found refuge in Emery. Mom however, found refuge in her work. 

Though most days were wordless, some held sentiments that transcended beyond the common vernacular. Smelling the herbal anti-septic I became transported to one of those days. The one of which I jumped off the cliff, after my fathers death. At some point between me passing out in the water and waking up on the beach—I had managed to graze my knee. When returning home blood had dribbled down my leg, and I went to my mothers office to find her hunched over her desk. Eyes puffy, cheeks stained with tears. I didn’t have to question her to know she was crying over my father. Saying no words, her red eyes lowered to my damaged leg, and she waved me over to her desk. Sitting on her desk I watched as she taciturnly cleaned my knee, added the same anti-septic, and bandaged it up. She didn’t ask me how I got hurt, but she did help me after it happened.

My thoughts are naturally transported to Emery’s mom. By now she would have seen the streaming of her son’s death. I can only imagine her reaction would be akin to my mother’s when she lost her eldest daughter. Except my mother at least had my father. Cynthia lost her husband the same day she lost her ability to walk. Another fishing accident. The Capitol doesn’t care if there is a storm, they need their seafood. However, there was an additional bonus to the ones who went out during storms to get it. When it is the middle of winter, food is scarce, and you have four children to feed, circumventing the thrashing waves just isn't an option. They were both thrown overboard. Cynthia hit jagged rocks that peaked above the waterline. She broke several bones, crushed her legs, and permanently damaged her spine, however she survived. Emery’s father, Francis, did not fall onto rocks that would have allowed for a search party to find him. No, he fell into the everlasting ocean. Emery was nine years old when it happened, his younger brother was three, his twin sisters were barely twelve months. 

Emery's siblings… and his mom… how are they going to be able to fend for themselves? I suppose my mother may be able to provide some sort of financial aid, but for four extra people? Sure if I die that's one less person to spend expenses on, but that also means there won’t be any income from my work by the docks. We were already stretched pretty thin when it was just the two of us, and while we had small amounts money left for some excess spending beyond necessities, I doubt it would be enough for four extra mouths to feed.  

Cynthia was always good to me, she was like a second mother. She probably wants me to keep going. My mother wants me to keep going. 

Does Finnick want me to keep going? I suppose he does. It's natural for a mentor to root for their tribute. And I think, despite my hateful gazes and malicious words, he’s somehow found it in himself to like me. 

If I were the one who died, Emery would do everything in his power to make sure my mom was taken care of. So I should probably do the same. For Emery. Back when Emery’s life was on the line, sacrificing myself for him was noble. But now, if I let myself die, it’s just wasteful. Pointless. So I should keep on trying to live. For my mother, for Emery’s family, for Emery.

I huddle underneath a concave cluster of rocks while waiting for the storm to pass over. The reflective blanket offers little warmth, but at least my chances of hypothermia are lowered. Evaluating Thalia’s backpack to make sure everything is still there, I almost smile. She must have ran extremely deep into the cornucopia for this, it really does have most items necessary for survival. I use a spare piece of rope to create a sheath for a throwing knife on one side of my hip, and on the other side of my hip I keep a dagger for close combat. I use more of the rope to tie back my hair, and slip my necklace into my pocket. I don’t need it to get caught on anything or even choke me if a confrontation were to happen. I cook all the fish caught in the net since yesterday, enough to last me three days instead of one now that it's only me, and wrap them in large leaves that I cleaned on the water deck before placing them in my bag. Heating up the water with the same fire, I place that too in my bag. Luckily since the bottle is metal it hopefully will stay hot for a while, and therefore when it gets cold again I can stay warm even if the rain makes creating a fire hard. 

Setting myself back up in the net, my stomach drops looking at the stains of blood from last night. Taking a deep breath, I try not to retch. As the anthem plays, concluding day eleven, the only two faces in the sky are Thalia’s and Emery's. I feel my blood turn hot when Thalia comes into my sight.

“It's human instinct, it's natural to prioritize yourself when it comes to life and death. I don’t think he's a bad person for putting himself first, it's the way we’re wired.”

I suppose I did tell her that, at one point. I feel so stupid, how could I let her do this? I got too comfortable, and Emery had to pay the price for my negligence.

The next day I try my luck with the bow and arrow, and like with the trident I am… not good. When the next try leads to the bow string attacking me I decide that this thing is more of a threat to myself than it is to others. I put the arrows and quiver in my bag and keep the bow across my body. It's probably still a good idea to keep the weapon with me.

Just as I sling the bag over my shoulders I feel the platform shake. An earthquake? Hearing a thunderous rumble my head turns to the side, and in my vision I see the end of the platform collapsing. The view of falling ground gets closer to me, and I have to sprint before I hit the water with the rest of the terrain. Collapsing the platforms? This must be the gamemakers way of getting us closer together. The more I run the closer I would likely be getting to other tributes, but if I stay in place I’m dead.

My eyes alternate between the land in front of me and the falling rubble behind me. I should have also been looking underneath me. My foot gets caught on a rock and I fall over. Before I even register the stinging sensation in my hands and knees I am already off again. I don’t know how long it is until the rumble and crashing stops. Subsequently I take a pause as well. Hands to knees gasping for air. If the collapsing has stopped does that mean I’m near another tribute? Where are they? Should I run off? Which direction though? I could very well accidentally run into the tribute while trying to escape.

A crunch in leaves sends me running in the opposite direction. Looking over behind me I try to spot the noise. A bird. 

Turning my head back around I am met with Seraphina running towards me. 

The district one girl wields a knife as she sprints close. Throwing it, she hardly misses as I duck behind a tree. She is bigger than me. If we come to a close combat fight she'll win. A sharp tug on my hair pulls me backwards. Sitting on top of me, she laughs and graphs a knife out of her jacket pocket. A taunting smile graces her teeth. She takes pleasure in this. Throwing dirt in her eyes I then punch her in the throat. It's enough to make her lurch back, and for me to run away. Crossing the bridge that leads to the jungle terrain, Seraphina follows behind me. Jumping onto the jungle platform, as fast as possible I try to cut the rope with my knife. Hers makes contact with me as I try. With blood spilling down my arm, I move to the next rope. Seraphina, who is now hanging onto the half fallen bridge tries to make her way back to the mountain terrain. Cutting the other rope, The bridge falls on my side. She tries to use it as a ladder. Not too far away is another bridge that she can cross. Even if she falls into the water she may be able to make her way up from the lower deck. So, with shaky hands, I throw my knife at her. It hits her back just as she's pulling herself up from the platform. A scream engraves itself into my ears. Looking behind me while running, Seraphina can be seen pulling the knife out of her back. Blood spurts out as it does.

Not a good idea Sera, anyone knows that removing a knife from a stab wound will just cause you to bleed out more.

I consciously have to stop that thought, it wasn’t in good taste. I run, and run, and run, until I hear the sound of a cannon. It’s probably a good idea to hide in one of the trees, hopefully the thick foliage will shield me from any other tribute. If Seraphina was nearby, there’s a high chance the rest of the primed is also lurking.

At the top of my tree I see the rest of the mountain terrain collapse. They wouldn’t want me going back now that the fight is over. It is only me, Waylon, and the three primed left. They want us close together.

“Everard!” My blood runs still as the district one male calls the name of the boy from two. I can’t see them through the branches and leaves, but from the clarity of his voice they must be right below me.

“Were you the one who got her?”

“No, it must have been Indigo or Seraphina.”

“Unless the four girl got one of them instead.”

Everad scoffs before continuing, “As if, Dair. She might be good but she wouldn't be that good.”

“Lets hurry up and go back to the river, the other two should be making their way back now.”

They were hunting for me. It makes sense. Only Waylon and I are left, and I’m probably a bigger threat. Deciding to split up, it’s a bold move. They’ll figure out later today who the cannon was really for when Seraphina fails to show. They must be based at the river terrain. It's one of the ones directly connected to the cornucopia platform, opposite the jungle terrain. It might be one of the only sources of fresh water, and when there's a river there are animals, so food wouldn’t be scarce either.

A few minutes have gone by since the sound of footsteps faded. This is when I finally move again. Evaluating my arm, a sigh seeps through my lips. It's deep, not deep enough to be deadly on its own, but the simple anti-septic Finnick gave me won’t be enough to fight off the risk of infection. Still, I apply it anyway, before wrapping my jumper around it tight to stop the bleeding.

I set up a new sleeping spot. Its probably best to stay here, I don’t know if the primed are going to go hunting for me again after they learn that I am alive. If they do, they will probably first check the spots they haven’t surveyed already. I had lost my nets in the ordeal but luckily still have all my equipment. The jungle provides vines thick enough for me to create new nets, and by the time I have set up my fishing and sleeping areas it is already sunset.

I need to come up with a plan, to get the primed before they get me. As I climb up the tree a hot red agony shoots through my arm. I can barey finish my ascent without breaking out into tears from the pain. Finally reaching the net, my blood runs cold when I remove the makeshift fabric bandages. The bleeding has stopped, but in its place is pus and swelling. The wound is infected, bad. What can I do? I need medicine, but stuff like this comes at an abhorrent price, especially this late in the game.

Climbing down the tree–almost falling from the sharp pain—I rinse the bloodied clothes in the water and also wash my arm. Just as I start re-applying the herbal remedy the trumpets ring. There must be a feast. I don’t need food, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the primed were running out of land animals to hunt by the river. The amount wouldn’t be unlimited considering the gamemakers clearly want our main source of food to be fish. Waylon probably is starving as well.

I almost zone out entirely from the announcement, but one line catches my ear. “Not only will there be food, but there will also be items. Each one of you needs something desperately, and this is your moment to get it.”

Of course! Having items other than food at the feast is extremely rare, but it isn’t necessarily unheard of. I can think of one or twice in the past when it has occurred.

My medicine will be there. So will the primed. With Seraphina I got lucky, and even then I came out of it with a near fatal wound. I wouldn’t be able to take on the rest of them. Especially not three at once. Especially not with my arm. But I have to. I can’t give up without a fight.

As night falls and I try to coax myself to sleep, all I can wonder is, how the hell am I going to live past tomorrow?

-

-

-

In the morning, after washing my bloodied jacket and retying it around my arm, I pack my knives into my bag and prepare to leave. My arm doesn’t look, or feel, any better.

But still, I must make my way to the cornucopia. I take my first step. However, before I can take my second, a small parachute falls into my eyesight.

No, it can’t be.

I race to open the container; inside I find the medicine that could very well save my life.

How the hell did Finnick find someone who would buy this? So late in the game as well, this would have cost a fortune! I smile and look up, I don’t know where I’m looking to, but I trust that he will see me.

“Thank you.”

I’ll have to thank Finnick if I get back home. But as I mentally picture the occasion my stomach turns stale. I don’t want to picture home without Emery. I can’t. It is something I am fighting for so vigorously yet it is also my worst nightmare. So instead, I press down on my arm. It hurts, but it’s a different time of pain. A pain I can handle, a distraction from the pain I cannot bear.

But I stop before the wound threatens to worsen, and take the medicine Finnick must have fought for so hard.

When I go to sleep that night, my arm already feels immeasurably better. There is no surprise when Waylon’s face illuminates the night sky. That singular cannon I heard earlier today could only be for him. It is the end of day thirteen, and there are only four tributes left. The three primed, and I.

Correction. One primed, and I. Because it is not even dawn of the next day when I hear the two consecutive cannons. So the primed finally turned on each other. Who survived?

The gamemakers are going to try to push me and the other final tribute together. I just know it. But when? How much time to I have before the viewers get bored? My body and mind implores me to go back to sleep, its probably only three or four am. Stupidly, I don’t fight it. Instead I just have to trust the fact that whatever tactics the gamemakers choose is loud enough to wake me up again.

It is. The ground rumbles and groans. The platform is going down. I barely have enough time to sling my bag around my shoulder—leaving my blanket in the vines—before running for my life.

The falling terrain pushes me towards the cornucopia, and when I finally cross the bridge I see Everard running towards me from the river terrain. It is also crumbling. Looking around I realise, all the other platforms are crumbling. I am trapped in the Cornicopia with Everard. 

Locking eyes with him, the direction of his sprint goes from aimless to targetted. He’s coming right at me. What do I do? He’s stronger. Tougher. More experienced. More vicious. He’s bigger, and more muscular.

And that means he’s less buoyant. No amount of training could make up for the lack of oceans in two. I look back to the water, an idea rising in my head. How do I get him off the edge? I grab the knife by my side and throw it at him. Shaky hands, and a moving target. Its no surprise I miss. 

He’s getting closer. I’m at the edge of the platform. I can’t run backwards. I start running to my left but feel my hair being ripped from my scalp as I fall backwards. On top of me, he throws the tuft of my severed hair off the side as he grins.

“You may have gotten Seraphina, but I won’t be so easy to get rid of.”

I look at the water. There’s only one way to get him in there. However the thought of it makes my body quiver, its even scarier than the hand he wraps around my throat. I have to do it. Theres no other way. Why can’t there be another way?

I move my hands up, but instead of trying to dislodge the iron grip around my neck, I hug him close to me. In an instant, before neither he nor I can register what is going on, I roll us to the side.

Before I realise it, I am falling. Falling then crashing then sinking then dying. But I am not on that cliff, and there is no shore for me to mysteriously wash up upon. I have to swim. To survive, I must swim.

It has been years since I had practiced the mechanisms, but the movement remains the same. It is instinctual to me. I find a piece of driftwood from the terrain debris. My motion towards it is controlled and fluent. Clinging onto the wood for dear life, I feel my body go into it’s familiar state of panic. I want to shut my eyes, to run away like every other time I have come near the water. I can’t.

I don’t bother trying to make my way to the lower fishing deck of the cornucopia platform. Instead, I look out into the distance. Limbs wrangle with the water. The splashing waves starts to calm down as the cold stiffens his muscles. Eventually all I can see is a pale body sinking. And then a cannon.

It's been six days since the games started. Even though there's only four in the group, the primed pack is particularly vicious this year. It's lucky in the sense that it means the game makers don’t feel the need to push us together for entertainment right now. It's unlucky in the sense that at some point the blood thirsty hunting squad will be coming after us. But for now, we’ve been doing pretty good for ourselves. Currently we are at the other edge of the mountain terrain platform, set up by a bridge that leads to a meadow with tall, thick, grass. This side is better as it is further from the cornucopia, and thus further from the other tributes. The trees in this area are less thick than in the jungle, but using the thickly woven nets to keep us propped up high we are still well hidden, we even stuck leaves to the bottom of the nets with mud to strengthen the camouflage. Right now Thalia is cooking the fish using a dakota fire hole, which has two underground pits as to reduce the amount of smoke and light created,  therefore making the fire less conspicuous. Emery is gathering greens for dinner and I’m keeping watch up in our tree. Apart from the occasional blood-stopping sound of a cannon, it's actually quite pleasant. Only two tributes have come near our area. Maylee; the twelve year old girl from seven, and Waylon; the timid fifteen year old boy from three. Both times they passed over we had someone on look out, and were able to hide quickly enough to avoid confrontation. Though, if a confrontation with one of those two did occur we would have been almost sure to win, however I don’t think I could bring myself to kill either one of them.

I haven’t received any sponsor gifts from Finnick yet, but so far, I haven’t needed any. I wonder what he’s up to right now, if he's watching me right now. I’d assume that the mentors are always watching their tributes regardless of what footage the Capitol is playing on tv, so that way they always know if their tributes need a sponsor gift. He may also be trying to convince capitol citizens to place their bets on us, or he may even be sleeping. It's not dark yet but all of our sleep schedules are kind of sporadic at the moment.

Speaking of which, after dinner Emery opts to take a rest early, even though the sun is barely setting. He’s keeping the first watch of the night shift once the anthem and death announcements have played, so it only makes sense. He lays on the net underneath the blanket, whereas I’m sitting down on a thick branch just a little bit higher.

Hearing a rustle of leaves, my head shoots down to the source. Thalia softly smiles and settles down next to me on the branch. Over the past few days I’ve grown slightly more trusting of her. Slightly, but enough for us to have become conversational.

“What are you thinking about?” She whispers under her breath. 

“Finnick.” I say honestly.

A giggle graces her lips “He is cute.”

“No, not like that” I laugh as well before continuing, “I’m just wondering what the mentoring process looks like from behind the scenes.”

“Ah right— Emery is the only one for you.” Her tone is playful and joking, but I nod anyway. I have to keep up appearances for the audience. And it is how I actually feel, of course. Emery is the only one for me. 

“Okay but you have to admit Finnick is cute” Thalia nudges my arm with hers.

“I mean, sure. From an objective point of view, he has all the features that society considers desirable. A symmetrical face, strong jawline, considerable height…”

“Rock hard abs.” 

I burst out laughing at the unexpectedness of Thalia's comment. I refrain from commenting however, because Finnick is probably listening right now and I refuse to inflate his giant ego to be bigger than it already is. I can just picture the shit-eating grin he’ll be wearing if he is in fact hearing this conversation.

“Is he as charming in person as he is on TV?” Thalia is almost giddy talking about him, clearly she has a bit of a teenage crush on him. Most of the girls at our school do.

“Sure, yeah.” I mean I find his TV persona and face-to-face persona equally annoying, so I suppose it’s not a lie. However the best moments of him are not when he’s being charming, it’s those serious moments when he drops the facade. When I think of him fondly, I think about our times on the rooftops, or when we joked around with the net-making. When Finnick isn’t putting in effort to please he’s far more palatable in my opinion. After a brief moment, I realise I should probably gear the conversation topic towards Emery. Even though I in absolutely no way prefer Finnick to Em it’s still a good idea to try and avoid giving the Capitol the wrong idea.

“Emery’s more charming, though.” I say softly, conscious of the sleeping body a few branches beneath us.

“Oh, please, no he’s not.” Thalia laughs

“Excuse me?” I whisper-yell trying not to laugh.

“To each their own, I guess…” says Thalia. 

“What is that supposed to mean? Emery is way more charming. And cute.” I say partly trying to put on a show for the Capitol, partly trying to defend my crush of several years.

“I said to each their own! I just mean..” She pauses, and then whispers in my ear, clearly trying to avoid the prying microphones presumably stacked up around here, “he seems a little selfish, you seem to be taking so much care of him and I haven’t seen him attempt to do the same for you.”

I sigh and bring my lips to her ear in return. “He’s taken plenty care of me. It’s just that… in these games it’s not about how much you love other people, it's about how much you love yourself. Emery is just a kid, a kid who has the luxury of caring about himself and his life. It's human instinct, it's natural to prioritize yourself when it comes to life and death. I don’t think he's a bad person for putting himself first, it's the way we’re wired, and I don’t think he loves me any less for it either. As for me, I don’t care about myself, and that's why I’m able to prioritize him. That's not a good thing though, I’m not a better person for burdening Emery with the responsibility of my will to live.”

Thalia pauses for a second, before finally whispering “You have so many profound thoughts. The teenage years are for big thoughts like these, adulthood is for deciding if they are true. Too bad we’ll never find out.”

I continue her contemplation when she pauses.

“I wonder what it’s supposed to be like, being an adult. I want to know, I want to have wisdom and experience to back up my big thoughts. Maybe it's better though, being able to believe whatever you want without the looming knowledge that one day an older you will dismantle and disregard it. I don’t know.”

“Maybe adult-you wouldn’t have known either, maybe she would have kept telling herself that one day when she's older she’ll know the answers. Or maybe one day she could have actually learnt the answers. Whatever outcome would have happened, it doesn’t matter, it's all futile now anyways. What we know right now doesn’t matter when it’ll all just die with us here in the arena anyways.” Thalia mumbles in a disjointed train of thought.

The sound of a cannon goes off and Emery stirs from his sleep as I make a mental note; fourteen down, seven to go.

After maybe an hour of silence the anthem plays, the girl that died today was poor little Maylee, the twelve year old from seven. I quickly wake up Emery and head down to bed, hoping that I’ll fall asleep before my brain tries to conjure up images and thoughts about that little girl dying. But of course it happens anyways so I attempt to make a mental list of the tributes left as a distraction. Seraphina and Dair from one, Indigo and Everard from two, Waylon from three, the girl from ten, and the boy from twelve — the names of whom I have forgotten. “Hey, Thalia, what's the name of the other tribute from twelve?” I whisper, in the darkness I can see her eyelashes flutter as she languidly mumbles next to me under the blanket, “Lowen McCoy, he’s a classmate of mine, his late aunt was actually a tribute in the games several years back.” 

“And the girl from ten?”

“Paxie, I think, why?” “No reason, good night.”

“Good night.”

The distraction did not work. As silently as possible I rise from my sleeping bag and climb up the branches of the tree.

“Hey Em”

My voice is a barely audible murmur, yet it still startles Emery enough to shake him. I smile softly and sit next to him, laying my head on his shoulder. As he kisses my hair my shoulders tighten. I’m used to soft kisses like that from him, but not the romantic meaning attached to them. I finally realised I don’t like it, I like what we used to have. It was pure, organic, there wasn’t any pressure of deeper feelings intertwined within the soft touches and caring words.

“You okay?” Emery brushes a strand of hair away from my eye as he asks.

“I can’t sleep, tell me something to distract me.”

Emery pauses for a moment, “do you remember the day we met?”

“Of course I do” I chuckle lightly as he continues.

“You saved me from getting beat up by some idiots in the grade above us, and all I remember thinking was how good your overarm throw was, especially for a five year old girl.”

“Yeah well my dad taught me how to throw rocks with absolute precision the day before school started, I didn’t think I’d actually have to use it!”

“Your dad was always crazy like that.” Emery says as we both chuckle. I finish my laughter with a deep breath.

“Yeah, I miss him.” I smile and reminisce on all his crazy moments, like the six am knife training or the time I was four and he taught me how to gut my first fish. I didn’t even realise I was feeling better. That’s the thing about Emery, he always seems to know what to do to uplift my mood. 

During the next four days there is only one cannon, Paxie from ten. I find myself almost hoping to hear another one, evil as it is, the gamemakers are sure to push us all together if there is a lack of action.

It is about noon of day ten when I hear the sound of a cannon, it’s ringing blast followed the screams of Thalia. Emery and I rush up the ladder of the fishing platform onto the mountain terrain, only to find her at the base of the tree staring down at Lowen. His dark black hair bloodied from the large crack in his skull, there was also a knife wound in his stomach, and lifeless eyes rolled up behind his half closed eyelids.

“He shot at me from the bottom of the tree, I threw a knife at him and when he dropped his bow from the pain I jumped down on him. I landed on him and he ended up crashing down onto a rock.”

We all stare at each other silently for just a second, Thalia picks up the bow at Lowen’s side, she then lifts him up and retrieves a backpack, and a quiver with several arrows, both slung around his shoulder.

“Do you actually know how to use that thing?” I ask, pointing to the bow.

“Both Lowen and I dedicated a lot of our time into it during the training days. There is a bow-maker down at the seam who told Lowen about how even though the bow is hard to master, once you do it’s extremely lethal. It can send arrows at such a high velocity and power that even if your aim isn’t very accurate, the deep penetration is likely to kill anyways.”

Honestly, the way Thalia was speaking, looking at the bow with an eerie grin while standing over her dead classmate, she came off like a mad-man. I was getting the chills and Emery looked like he was feeling the same way. Though, I guess it isn’t the weirdest thing, I mean at the end of the day she just got access to a weapon that supposedly dramatically increased her odds of survival.

“Come on, we should probably vacate the area so the body can be collected.” Thalia finally turns to us. We start to leave, but once we are out of eye sight I decide to run back to the body.

“I’m going to close his eyelids, the way he’s resting just isn’t appropriate.” Thalia smiles softly and Emery nods.

Running back, I close his eyelids, put his hands together on his stomach, and remove the blade from his torso. I try not to retch and blood squirts out with that motion. Wiping the blood off the blade with the end of his shirt, I hide it up my sleeve. Thalia forgot about it with the excitement of the new bow, and while I understand her reasoning for not giving us access to her other weapons, a hidden knife would still be good to have on hand.

As Lowen’s body is lifted away, Thalia holds three fingers of her left hand to her lips, before raising them to the sky in the direction of the hovercraft.

“It's a district twelve custom, to say goodbye to the deceased. I know in this arena we’re supposed to be enemies, but no matter how far the Capitol takes us away from home, Lowen and I still share the same roots.” Thalia’s voice is solemn, and I am almost certain this moment isn’t going to be shown.

Lowen’s backpack only had some dried meat, another reflective blanket, and another water-filter bottle. Thalia keeps watch while Emery and I go to sleep, huddled under separate blankets this time. Only six tributes left, we can do this, Emery can make it, I’m certain. For the first time in a long time, hope bubbles within me as I drift off to sleep in the calm night.

The sound of a bell softly ringing awakes me from my slumber. The wind shakes it calmly as it falls onto my stomach, a little parachute softening the landing. This must be a sponsor gift from Finnick, but why a bell? As I sit up to inspect it, I notice something in the corner of my eye. Thalia, lurched over Emery. Knife in her hand. Blood coming from his throat.

Thalia looks at me. Jumps over towards me. Metal grazes my chest. Blood spills out from the base of my neck. I grab her by the hair. I turn us around. Thalia is now underneath me. She is trying to attack me. She is trying to kill me. I slide the knife out from underneath my sleeve. Press it to her throat. I pull the knife. As hard as I can I slide it against her throat. Blood spews out. I am covered in blood. She stops wriggling. She’s dead. Thalia is dead. I race towards Emery. He isn’t moving. Blood is gushing. His throat is wide open. I move his head. I try to close it. Blood keeps on spewing. Why can’t I get him to stop bleeding? “Emery! Em! Emery!” I scream. I need to wake him up. He’ll be fine. He has to be fine. I hold my sleeve to his neck to stop the blood. He needs to respond. Why can’t I get him to respond? A cannon rings. Thalia. Another one rings. Its not Emery. It can’t be. Another tribute must have died. Yes, of course. Emery can’t be dead. It has to be someone else. “Emery! Emery, please wake up! Please… Emery, please! Emery! Please… Emery?”

He’s not responding. He can’t be dead. Emery can’t be dead. There's no way. My tears dilute the blood falling from his neck as I hunch over.

“Please, Emery. Please wake up. Please try. You can’t leave me here. Emery. Please.”

No. No no no no no no no. No this cannot be happening. Emery cannot die. The sound of a hovercraft gets closer. They're wrong! He’s not dead! He can't be! Hunching over him I grasp him as tight as possible. They can’t take him away from me. If I stay here, they won’t be able to collect him. Then it’ll give enough time for him to wake up, and they’ll realise that it’s a mistake, that he's not dead. He can’t be dead.

“Emery… you’re not dead.” Whispers grace his pale face but there's no response. “I’m sorry, I’m so so so sorry. I should have never let this happen. It's all my fault. I’m so sorry Emery.” Tears rain on his complexion and I have to pull away before I get snot and saliva on him. Barely being able to see from reddened, ugly, puffy and teary eyes, I grab Thalia's bag, and stuff the blankets inside. My fingertips softly close Emery's eyes, and I take his hands and place them on his chest. As I do so I see a bracelet wrapped around his wrist, under his sleeve. His one token of home. I made it for him, when we were eight. I take my hair tie and place it on his wrist adjacent to the bracelet. I can’t let him go on that hovercraft alone, but it’s the only piece of me I’m able to offer in this arena. I can’t leave him. I can’t. Shaky hands move off of his, and I give him a kiss on the forehead.

“Goodbye, Em.”

Climbing down to the bottom of the tree, I see the hovercraft take him away in the night.

Finnick's POV

When I first saw Bugs arrive with Dara for the interviews, I briefly forgot the mechanisms of breathing.

It is only as we enter the elevator that I realise I was supposed to give Bugs a message of encouragement. But in that moment, completing any of the expectations reality implores me to conform to was simply improbable. Setting my eyes on her had pulled me away from this world as a whole, like an ocean tide seizing me into an endless sea of abyss, I drowned in her presence. 

My stare does not leave Bugs even now as we stand in the elevator. Although I can only see the back of her head, I can still imagine the courteous smile she is giving Sona, who is raving about how amazing our two tributes look. Personally I think Emery looks mediocre. However, if I had the liberties that Sona did, I too would be spending the entire elevator ride rambling about how gorgeous Bugs is. And I would continue on for the duration of the interviews, and for the rest of my life.

Throughout the entirety of Sona's perpetuating compliments, Bugs keeps her eyes glued to the loquacious escort in a respectful manner. Back in school I noticed many had a tendency to interminably chatter to Bugs. She has a kind of warmth that just invites you in, imploring you to pour out your mind and heart to her. Many a time I almost gave into this embracing aura, but I know that the results would be catastrophic. Even now, without the impending threat of Snow, if I were to give her the contents of my complexion she would destroy it as delicately as one could. I couldn’t take it. Not now. Call me a coward, I very well am. Still, if she were to reject me in this way, even when lacing her words with care and sincerity to soften the wound, I would still be left an irreparably disassembled fracture of a human.

I drown in her presence, yes. Yet I welcome the water into my lungs, embracing it, craving it in fact. Swallowing down the harmful fluid with no reservations or regrets. I would rather die in her essence than breathe the air of this earth.

I take my seat for the interview, and as it starts I still do not stop staring at Bugs. While in the past I would usually be spending these interviews sizing up the other tributes, paying meticulous attention to each aspect of what they were saying and figuring out how that will affect my mentees. However, those years I didn’t have Bugs sitting in the line up. My time in the Capitol and my time in district four with her had always been two separate realms. In my moments at the Capitol I was always forced to concentrate, to dedicate myself to the present time. However, there was always relief in knowing that when I arrived home there would be a sanctuary in my yearning for her. The trauma and responsibilities of such a hardened, mature world would melt away in my juvenile, school-boy feelings for Bugs. This time, though, there was no sanctuary for me to return home to. The innocent infatuation I felt for her evolved into a desperate need; and now she is being ripped away from me in the affairs that first initiated my escape to her.

I have to take a deep breath when she stands on stage, regulating myself. When she is in my vision I feel everyone and everything else evaporate away, it is only natural. No matter though, I’ll simply watch the reruns of the other tributes’ interviews tonight. As Bugs takes the centre stage, she slightly bites her lip like she always does when she’s focused. At one point, she makes the crowd laugh, and she looks my way as I chuckle with the rest. I know she's smiling for the viewers, but it almost feels that right now she's smiling at me. Bugs recites the tale of her dress, one with hypnotism and mermaids. I can’t help but smile as she talks, it's just so engrossing to listen to her. Especially when she's talking in areas she's knowledgeable about, she’ll subtly light up and talk a little bit more - with a little bit more confidence - than usual.

But now she's moved onto my least favourite part. Necessary; but unpleasant none the less. As she talks about her love for Emery, I unfortunately can read her well enough to know she's at least somewhat speaking the truth.

“And trust me, I’ll fight hard, harder than any other tribute here, because I’m fighting for the man I love. I’ll do whatever it takes for him.”

I shouldn’t be upset, I'm upset that I'm upset, but my emotions are what they are. Her love and commitment, they are exceptional and admirable. Yet they are also what’s killing her. Emery is selfish, he doesn’t deserve her dedication. If it were me receiving her love, I would never let her sacrifice herself like this. Emery is only human, yes. It is natural for him to look the other way when the result is his survival. Still, Bugs deserves someone who will do everything she's willing to do for them, someone who will not only match her love but exceed it. Someone who will not only be loved by her, and love her in return, but who will also help her love herself independently. She doesn’t deserve such a one sided relationship.

Bugs returns to her place with the rest of the stationary tributes, and my eyes meet hers. She’s absent mindedly fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, I give her a soft smile in hopes of calming her nerves. After a second she stops, and we just stare at each other through the abyss of the environment. The environment even seems to dissipate as we hold our gaze. It’s soothing, reassuring. A tranquil residence in a breadth of turbulence. The tension is both loud and silent, ringing in my ears and shielding them from the noise of the masses. It is an essence so intense I wonder how it is not thrusting itself upon the myriad of others in this room like it has to me. However, all too soon, Emery also seems to hear the desperate screams of this moment, and takes Bugs’ hand in an envious attempt to break her away from me. It works. She keeps her focus on him for the remainder of the event.

-

-

-

One time, three years ago, these two guys started throwing pencils at Emery while he was walking with Bugs to school. She responded by picking one up, running up to them and stabbing one of them in the hand with said pencil. She then returned back to Emery and made some corny joke about “2B or not 2B”. It made him laugh, though. Made me laugh as well. She did get detention for that, I ‘coincidentally’ got detention that same day. When I walked into the detention room she was comforting this girl whom she didn’t even know, who was crying about how her parents were going to kill her for skipping class. I thought sitting behind Bugs and even comforting the girl with her, but the death stare Bugs sent me implored me to choose a seat further back.

I stand with my body half over the balcony as I think about this memory. I don’t know how to go back, back to a district devoid of her. I don’t think I can do it. There’s nothing left for me. Dead parents, dead tributes, a watchful eye that forbids me to care for anyone, and a responsibility given to me by that eye that scrapes away at who I am bit by bit. Reducing me to just skin and bones. A beautiful, charming, corpse of a man.

Bugs hated me, but she hated me, not the appearance of me.  

She’s grown fond of me, over this last week, I think. It certainly hasn’t done anything to diminish my self-devouring infatuation with her. This last week amplified it, of course. Spending time with her only gave me a preview of what life could have been. What life should have been if it weren’t for these games. We could have grown close, truly. Every interaction we have it's like we’re on the precipice, teetering on the edge, of our souls aligning and our minds connecting. There is so much unspoken potential of a deep and intimate relationship, even if it's just a friendship, to form.

“Hey, Finnick.” I turn around to face the girl plaguing my mind.

“Hey, Bugs.” I glance at my watch, 8:18, it’s best she's asleep by nine. She’ll be collected for the games at around six tomorrow. I want to keep her up here with me, dragging out and savouring our last interaction for as long as pragmatically possible. However I cannot blemish her chances tomorrow, not even slightly, for my livelihood.

“You should probably be getting ready for bed, Angel, you’ll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.”

“You really love this ‘Angel’ nickname, you’ve been using it more than any of the others.”

It’s not her fault she's so painfully unaware of my inner turmoil. Yet I still have to resist the urge to grab her by her shoulders in an attempt to perceive my distress, to convince her to remedy it and commit to living. I have to take a breath to regulate myself before continuing.

 “Do you know why? The reason I call you Angel?” Her eyebrows furrow like they usually do when she’s confused, and she shakes her head. I continue, “It's because you’re an Angel in the making, today you’re here, and tomorrow, you’re dead.”

There's a bitter element lacing my voice, it's not directed at her. It could never be directed at her. But the pain in me seeps into my words in any case.

“Well I hope I won't die tomorrow, I want to make it to at least the last few standing before my inevitable demise.”

I sigh, Bugs is reflecting again. I often do it too. “What does it matter, tomorrow, the next day, a couple weeks from now; either way you’re dead.”

Like always, I am just on the precipice of truly communicating everything unsaid. I just want to get on my knees and beg her to stay, tell her I love her and that I can fill whatever void the death of Emery would leave. Tell her I would dedicate the rest of my life to making her content and safe if only she would stay. But how can I make her listen to me? She barely knows me, just a week ago she despised me. I will never be enough to convince her to live. Not at this moment. No matter how much I plead with her, I just won’t be enough. Even so, this time I have to try, really try. For Bugs.

“Bugs, I keep trying to find a way to ask you this that will actually get you to listen. I’ve been wondering if I beg enough times it will finally get through to you, or if I use the right words it’ll inspire you to care, but I know that quality nor quantity matters because either way, you will just ignore it. Which is why I am just going to ask you plainly, right now, it is all I can do, and all I want in return is for you to listen; please don’t die, Bugs. Please try to make it. If not for me, then for your sister.”

“Okay, I will try to live for my sister.” 

Bringing her sister into it was a foul move, but I’m desperate. Lying is also a foul move, I suppose. But when Bugs lies to me in response I don’t question her. Instead I clasp into my arms, as if I could protect her from all the harm that's about to come her way, as if I could shield her from experiencing all the harm that I once did in those games. My lips touch her forehead as I silently beg to whichever deity that will listen. She doesn’t deserve this, to give up herself for a boy who can’t even give himself in response. She’s deserving of so much more than that.

“And if not for your sister, then stay alive for yourself. You are worth so much more than you could ever seem to conceive. You deserve the freedom to fight for yourself, Bugs.”

I feel tears against my shirt, and meet the beautiful eyes they fell from when she pulls back.

“Goodbye, Finnick, I’m glad I got to know you before I leave you.”

“Goodbye Angel, and you’ll never leave me, even once you’ve left everything on this soil you still won’t have left me.”

She gives me one last, sorrowful look, before she opens the door and disappears forever. 

That will be the last time I ever get to see Bugs. The last time I'll ever look into her eyes, and she looks into mine in return. The last time I’ll ever get to brush against her flesh. The last time I’ll ever get to give her the contents of my mind and be blessed with hers as a response. The last time I can ever find refuge, peace, in this horrid, awful world.

Dara comes to me in the morning with simple clothes and a simple expression. It's disconcerting to see her typical beaming smile replaced with a blank, softly solemn face. She also holds my sapphire blue necklace, which I had given her a few days before to be checked by the gamemakers. I’m taken to the roof, a helicopter causes my hair to attack my face while a ladder drops. Frozen in place when I grasp the rungs, I am lifted inside. A white coat is worn by a thin older woman. I try to move away as she comes near me, but I am still frozen when she inserts a needle inside of me. I’m not even able to flinch in pain as she informs me it was a tracker she forced under my skin. Of course. Another method to control tributes, and victors. A blonde avox girl directs me to my breakfast. I force food down my throat like it’s an overfilled trash can. I could vomit at any moment from the nerves, but I swallow the bile down with my lavish meal. As the windows black out and we near the games, I have to stop eating and focus on controlling my breathing. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I want to cry. However, I don’t need the sponsors to see red and puffy eyes. We enter the tube to the catacombs via ladder. Once I'm in my launch room, or more commonly known among districts as the stockyard, I brush my teeth while Dara ties my hair back.

“Would you like to shower first?” She says before reaching for a brush.

I shake my head and tell her that I showered last night. A lie of course. Luckily I’ve been able to keep myself smelling acceptable with a wash cloth, so she doesn’t question anything.

The clothes I must wear for the games consist of a black merino top, navy blue merino pants, thermal fleece lined overpants, and black jacket designed to reflect body heat. I recognise much of the material, merino is a good insulator even when wet, and wicks away water well. It's quite common in four. I also recognise the trouser-overpants to be water resistant. I sit rigidly on the couch while awaiting the call for my slaughter. Sipping slowly on tepid water, Dara filled my left ear with words of encouragement. They don’t register. Nothing registers. In my head I'm not here, I’m in my house with my sister, mother, father, and Emery. We are watching the 64th post game interview while jokingly ridiculing the absurd couture of audience members whenever they briefly show on screen. I know I should be mentally planning, and mentally preparing, but I can’t. For the rest of the games, for the rest of my short-lived life, I will always have to be grounded. With an ear to every sound, eye to every sight. This will be the last time I ever get to be in this moment, a memory where my sister and father are alive, where Emery and I are safe. So I choose to cherish it, even if it may cost in the near future. I am pulled from my mind only when a voice announces launch-time.

“Good luck, beautiful girl.” Dara says as I stand on the circular metal plate. A glass cylinder lowers around me. The cylinder shortly begins to rise, and in too little time I have reached the surface of the arena.

The arena is a mix of landscapes, with the cornucopia, its contents, and the tributes all in a centre opening. But as I look closer I realise that the land is broken up. There are bridges between the opening and the differing scenery, and bridges between the scenery itself. Bridges, about two meters in length, connect a field to a jungle, jungle to forest, forest to desert, and so on. Each different terrain has a bridge that connects itself to the grassy opening of the cornucopia. I look lower and realise that every terrain stands on its own single platform. Below the platform and the bridges is water. Lots, and lots, of water.

What. The. Fuck.

The abhorrent fear inducer that has developed exponentially in the week leading up into the games just so happens to be the only thing in abundance during the games. This has to be a nightmare, there is no possible way that my reality has manifested such a detailed, creative, and sadistic way to screw me over. Nuh uh. But my hope for awakening from this hell dissipates when it is not a morning alarm that throttles my attention, but instead the gong ringing out, alerting us to the beginning of the 69th hunger games. Just like that, I take off.  Emery and I run together. Towards the thick jungle terrain. I hesitate as I come to the bridge. However, it seems sturdy enough. I don’t really have any time to panic. Running. Running. Running. His hand clasped in mine. I get tired but don’t stop. I know my lungs are going to burst. His hand is still in mine. We keep on running.

At some point, we settle down to jogging, and then walking. “We’re lucky the jungle terrain was closest to us, it's the thickest one so we’re less likely to run into other tributes.” I say after a vine hits Emery's face, trying to cheer him up from struggle against the dense foliage as we pursue a water source.

And a water source we find, because after a few hours of wrestling with our environment we come across the end of the platform, and a bridge about thirty meters to our left, and another one fifty meters to our right. The adjacent platform is a mountain terrain, with plenty of tall rocks and shrubbery to conceal us. Potentially a cave nearby as well. Heading towards the bridge, I notice that one of the nearing foundational beams of our platform has a ladder, leading to a lower wooden terrace just by the water. Putting my hands by the floor I lean over the edge to examine the deck, just as I do a shimmer in the water catches my eye. Moving my gaze towards the area I see another shimmering object, and one more about forty centimetres away. Fish. 

The deck is for us to fish for our food. I look to the mountainous terrain, and below there as well is a ladder and deck on one of the beams near the other end of the bridge. I point Emery towards the sight and he quickly comes to the same conclusion.

“If only I had a knife, then I could cut those vines and turn them into nets.” I think out loud while looking back at the jungle. Emery puts his hand on my shoulder. Potentially for the audience, potentially for me. He kisses my temple before softly speaking.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll work it out, Angel.” I feel unnerved by the use of Finnick's nickname for me, but I am unable to say anything before he graces my lips with his own. While I appreciate the sentiment, this is not the time. I smile and place my lips to his nose, a way to break our kiss without coming off as rude. He points to the mountains.

“We may be able to find a rock sharp enough for the vines over there.” He says before taking my arm and trying to drag me towards the bridge. “Wait.” Breaking away from him I turn towards the ladder and lower myself down. My body naturally tenses as I near the water, but only my arm gets close as I dip a finger in and then place it between my lips.

Salt water, of course. 

So that is why the gamemakers were laughing a little too hard at my sea salt comment during the interviews.

“Salt water, and we have no way of purifying it.” I inform Emery as I make my way up the ladder. We then step foot on the sturdy, yet still exponentially distressing, metal rope bridge. 

“Once we are able to cut vines we may be able to find water inside of-” I am cut off from my sentence when I hear the consecutive cannons, Emery and I pause and stiffen as we count. Ten dead total, twelve left to go.

“You counted ten, right?” Emery speaks first, and I nod.

“Inside of the vines.” I finally finished my prior sentence.

“Good idea.” He says as he takes his steps onto the next terrain and starts scavenging.

After about five minutes I find a sharp, heavy rock about the size of both my hands together. I bring it up to show Emery, but before he says anything I hear a sound akin to footsteps on gravel. I grab Emery and duck behind a bigger boulder in anticipation of the nearing person.

Then a familiar voice calls my name, and Emery’s as well.

“I don’t want to fight. I saw you while I was further away and I have a deal for you.” Says Thalia, unaware of where we have hidden. I am unsure if she is being truthful, and clutching the sharp rock in my fist as a makeshift weapon. As to not risk giving away our location, I do not try to poke my head out in search of hers. Yet it is only a few seconds when I see her peering down at us from behind the top of the boulder. My hands are raised up in the air to fight, and hers to surrender. She backs away a few meters before speaking.

“Please, I have a deal. From what I have seen, the only food source is the fish in water, and I don’t know how to hunt for them. I managed to grab a bag from the Cornucopia before running here. I have knives, matches, a reflective blanket, rope, and a water bottle with a desalinating device. If you join me, I’ll share everything but the weapons, in exchange for you catching the fish.”

“And why shouldn’t we just kill you and take your supplies?” I aggressively lash back. A question more-so to determine why she wasn’t scared of that possibility; rather than me actually considering it.

“Again, I have the weapons. And I can run really fast, which is how I got this bag in the first place.”

I give Emery a reserved look before slowly raising myself from my knees and nodding. As Thalia passes me the desalinating water bottle I very quickly become aware of the dusty pain in the back of my throat. However, as parched as I am I still immediately pass the bottle on to Emery, he finishes the remainder of it. We walk towards the bridge and as Emery refills the bottle on the lower platform I carefully observe our new found friend. Eventually, I decide to speak up.

“We should stick to this area, the jungle provides good coverage and so does the mountains and rocks.”

“You’re right. We should also stay along the edge of the platforms, there's three of us and only one water bottle; so we’ll have to refill constantly.”

Em passes me the bottle, and I finish the entire litre. We then all take turns drinking the entirety of the bottle one more time before refilling it once and heading over to the jungle area. Luckily the device is expensive and advanced, taking less than a minute to pump out the salt. Still, when we cross the bridge I can see a golden shimmer reflecting on the jungle trees. Emery and I weave nets while Thalia collects vines. We didn’t want to show her how we did it, that knowledge was one of the main things that kept us useful. As Thalia brings in vines we weave those into nets as well, while she climbs a particularly large tree and surveys the area. Some of the vines had water inside of them, I figured as much. It would be boring to see the tributes who didn’t grab a desalinator die of dehydration. I also saw a bird earlier; so there is some source of food other than below. Still, fishing is the most effective method to eat, especially for us. Emery and I lay out the net made of vines into the water, the fish will swim into it overnight for us to eat tomorrow. Digging Thalia's knives into the previously mentioned tree we climb our way up, and tie the rope net between high branches for us to sleep on. It's stronger than the vines, extremely strong in general, but Thalia still seems reluctant as she lays herself down on the ropes.

The netted canvas jumps in synchrony with Thalia as she flinches from the anthem. I quickly climb my way up to the top of the branches, the other two following behind me, and luckily I reach the top just before they play the death recaps. The faces of ten children encapsulate the sky of the arena. The girl from district three, both from five and six, the boy from seven, both from eight, the girl from nine, the boy from eleven.

My stylist team swarms around me like foraging fish to their bait. It is only late in the afternoon that I am free from their clutches. When I finally see myself in the mirror, I momentarily doubt the notion that I am looking at myself. In district four we have an abundance of folklore surrounding the idea of a creature who is almost human, but has a tail in place of legs. My presentation is clearly an homage to this myth, the periwinkle dress is fitted to my body, but flares out out the knees in resemblance to a tail. The fabric shimmers like scales, and curtaining this slim fitting skirt is a sheer flowy fabric that resembles waves, just like my last dress. The stylists had used an extremely hot device to make my hair into a matching wavy state. Finally my face is done with a simple shiny lip gloss, silver-blue patterns around the eyes, lots of glitter, and a heavy blush. Dara hugs me, very lightly as if my dress would crumble to pieces at her touch, before guiding me to the elevator. 

“Do not worry my dear, my work is so amazing that even if you fail to say anything at all, the Capitol will still adore you.” I chuckle at her light hearted self praise before replying. “You seem very confident in yourself.”

“Only because I'm confident in you. A siren mesmerises everyone with their voice, that's why I chose to dress you up as one. Just speak from your soul and you’ll mesmerise everyone in the crowd.”

Even though what she said was somewhat cheesy, and very juvenile, I can’t help but smile. With no navigation my mind creeps back to Finnick, and his innate ability to mesmerise the masses. Was he born with this gift? I’ve seen him without this facade, and although in those moments he isn’t intending to be charming, I find him in those times to be even more captivating. So maybe he is just naturally alluring to everyone. Even so, his usual persona seems so rehearsed, maybe I can try to muster up something similar? A facade of my own.

Andras, from Emery’s style team, drops his jaw in exaggeration to compliment my looks, Emery smiles at me, Sona scrunches up her face as if cooing at a cute baby, and Finnick simply stares at me. As someone who unwillingly does this routine every year, he must be bored of the complimenting and fawning that occurs before the interviews. Hadely definitely is, but she languidly gives me a thumbs up when I make eye contact with her. “Beautiful, I know, I’m amazing.” Says Dara as the rest of my prep team squeals behind me.

We all enter the elevator, luckily the elevator is big enough to hold all of us without it feeling crowded. Sona compliments Em and I the entire time, I keep my gaze on her out of courtesy, but I’m sure I feel a set of eyes on me as I do. Likely it’s Dara admiring her work, her beaming complexion had been radiating through the elevator, if she could physically exude light (though I am almost certain her atmosphere is in fact brighter) she would be blinding all of us. Exiting the elevator Emery and I join the line, he holds my hand as we walk to take our seats. 

The girl from one, Seraphina, struts to Caesar as if she was Snow himself, waving at the Capitol viewers like they were her loyal, dedicated citizens. Confidence is clearly her strategy, she dominates the interview as if she were the one with almost forty years of experience. Caesar rolls along with it though, even though I absolutely hate him, right now I find myself appreciating the fact that he can adapt to whatever interview in such a way to make us seem absolutely amazing. This is proven when he manages to get the quiet boy from three to actually seem mysterious as opposed to awkward. Watching the boy from three - Waylon - I suddenly realise that my interview is imminent. I was so focused on the other tributes I nearly forgot that I was a tribute myself. I take a deep breath, and force myself towards the center stage.

‘Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall’

I shake Caesar's hand, and pretend he is Emery when I muster up my smile. 

‘Be mesmerising, like a siren, like Finnick.’

He says my name in a fond tone before continuing, “What’s it like being away from the ocean?”

Unfortunately, being mesmerizing requires the ability to form coherent thoughts, as opposed to just blurting out the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to fill the silence. “I miss the smell of the sea-salt, but it’s nice that my eyes don’t burn when taking a bath.” That is true though, while we do have filters for the sea water, we don’t bother wasting the electricity for them when bathing.

Caesar laughs, and in the corner of my eye I notice Finnick laughing as well, “Unfortunately I cannot say the same, with the amount of shampoo that I use makes sure of that, but come on, doesn’t my hair look absolutely gorgeous because of it?” The audience gawks and coos, affirming Caesar's remarks as he smiles.

“Speaking of appearances, what a lovely dress! Of course, I would expect no less after the one you wore at the opening ceremony. That one was waves wasn’t it? Tell me, what is your current dress based on, a beautiful fish?”

I feign a giggle before speaking, “No, a mermaid.”

“Interesting! What is that? Tell me more.”

“Well a mermaid is a mythical creature in district four, she has the upper body of a human but her lower half is a tail, and when she sings she can hypnotise others.”

“What a magnificent creature, how intriguing, your designer really did their research.”

“Yes, my stylist Dara is really amazing.”

“I can see! And in the arena, do you plan on hypnotising to win?” the audience laughs and he warmly smiles at me.

“No, but I can’t tell you my true plan of course.” 

“Ahh no no of course not, we’ll just have to wait till the games in anticipation for it. So how about you tell me instead what led you here. Am I correct that you volunteered for our other district tribute, Emery Jones?”

“Yes” 

“How sweet, is he your friend?”

I pause before replying, remembering Finnick's plan about the intriguing romance. “No, he’s my boyfriend, when his name was called I couldn’t bear the thought of my Love going into the games all alone.”

Gasps and whispers from the audience, and then complete silence. I physically felt the atmosphere shift as everyone suddenly focused all attention onto what I’ve just said. But in just seconds the surprised hush turns to audible swooning as they digest my romantic confession, waiting for more.

Caesar creates a face of shock, looks at the audience, and then back at myself. “Wow, fated lovers, how romantic. But you are aware of the rules of the game, how do you expect this to end?”

I know exactly how I expect this to end, but I suppose I should be more ambiguous, and maybe a bit more sappy for the audience's sake.

“With us going into this, together. Surviving together. And if one of us dies, we won’t be alone, we’ll die in the arms of who we love most.”

I look at Emery, and know that what I said is true, that when I die, I’ll die with the person I love most. For all the hardships of these games, it is worth it, for him. I don’t take in the cheers and swoons of the audience, I don’t take in Caesar cooing, or the glares of the other tributes. It’s just Em, he’s the only one that holds my focus.

“And trust me, I’ll fight hard, harder than any other tribute here, because I’m fighting for the man I love. I’ll do whatever it takes for him.”

With that final declaration my three minutes are up, even though a large portion of it was just gasps and murmurs from the crowd. Caesar dismisses me with encouraging comments and hopeful wishes for my relationship. I don’t really process it though, I keep my eyes on Emery when returning to my seat. In Emery’s interview he came off as sweet and loveable, and played into the romance factor enough to make it believable, and of course entertaining. Once he’s back in his seat my shoulders ease up, and I look around, finally able to relax. My eyes end up landing on Finnick. He smiles at me briefly, but for the longest time we just stare at each other, blank faces, but with a mutual understanding that there is no hostility in either of our looks. For most people, if you make simple eye contact for this long across a room, it would inspire a feeling of discomfort and awkwardness. But with Finnick, I can just stare at him, and he can just stare at me, and although neither of us gain anything from this exchange in sight, we can find rest in this moment. Simply pausing, and reposing, in the idle gaze we give one another. The concept is strange, it’s even stranger that I can find such tranquility with Finnick of all people, but I enjoy the refuge anyways.

My vision moves from Finnick’s face onto Emery’s as he squeezes my hand. I decide to continue looking at Em for the duration of the interviews, giving more evidence to the audience of our undying romance.

After the interviews I am met with the typical gush from my team about how well I did, and how they found themselves believing the romance even though they knew it was fake. For dinner, our main dish was fish, salmon. One of the most common meals at four, due to its high nutritional value and population density. I don’t want to eat it, I know the result would be the feeling of homesickness, but the games are tomorrow and I need all the food I can get.

After dinner, and the replay of the interviews, I reside in my room. Final goodbyes were made earlier, and when I wake up tomorrow morning Sona, Hadley, Finnick, and everyone else will have left for the Game Headquarters. My predictions of missing home were correct, and I find myself searching for the only piece of home I brought with me. As I mull over the interviews on the way to his room, I find myself wanting to say what I said to the entirety of Panem, but to Emery only. Knocking on his door I am quickly met with his face. 

“Hey Yin” He says softly, and a simple response would be greeting him in return, but that would lead to him asking why I’m here and honestly, I don’t know.

“Come inside” He says after a brief moment of shared silence. Entering his room I immediately settle myself down on his bed, a natural habit from years of friendship.

“Crazy, this whole dating scheme, right?” Finally I manage to muster up something to say.

“I don’t think so.” I raise my brow at his words, and he continues, “while we’re not dating, us loving each other, even in a romantic sense, it’s not such a strange story.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I love you, Yin, and I know you love me too.”

I am not given much time to think about his words as he swiftly kisses me. A moment I have been imagining for the past several years. Fireworks fly, we instantly lean into each other's touch, and the notion of my feelings that I’ve held for so long are finally reassured. That’s how it was supposed to happen. But instead of melting into his kiss and being whisked away into clouds of whimsy and romance, I am unusually aware of my surroundings, aware of the creaky bed, the chilling wind, and the awkward way he has his hands on my arms as he leans into me. It doesn’t feel romantic, more-so stagnant and enervated. But that would get better with time, right? Right. It must be because I’ve had feelings for him for so long that I'm so painfully attached to reality. I’m just not processing it, and once I do our next kiss will be perfect.

Emery moves back and opens his eyes, I can tell by his expression he clearly felt the whole romance and whisking away thing. 

“You love me too, right?”

I lightly nod and smile at him. 

“Of course.”

Of course.

“Tomorrow, when we go into the games, neither of us will run towards the cornucopia, instead we run to each other and then get out as fast as we can, together, yeah?” he says softly, clearly coming back down to the reality I’ve been stuck in this whole time.

“Yes, and we do the games together.”

We share moments of encouragement and wishes for good luck before I return to my room. It's only quarter past eight, but Emery has already started getting ready for bed in anticipation for tomorrow. I should do the same, but I find myself heading towards the roof balcony instead. Once there, I see another person at the railing. Another tribute, perhaps? The balcony can be accessed by anyone, but I didn’t think any other tribute knew about it. As a walk closer I realise it instead another current tribute, but instead a past tribute looking into the city landscape.

“Hey, Finnick.”

He quickly turns around, his posture remains soft, not surprised or anxious from my sudden appearance.

“Hey Bugs.” I walk towards the railing and stand adjacent to him on his left, my eyes not diverging from his as I do so. It’s strange, the idea that this will be the last time I ever see him.

“You should probably be getting ready for bed, Angel, you’ll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.”

“You really love this ‘Angel’ nickname, you’ve been using more than any of the others.”

His eyes darken, and he takes a breath before continuing. “Do you know why? The reason I call you Angel?”

My eyebrows furrow as I shake my head, bewildered by his sudden question.

“It's because you’re an Angel in the making, today you’re here, and tomorrow, you’re dead.”

“Well I hope I won't die tomorrow, I want to make it to at least the last few standing before my inevitable demise.” I chuckle, dryly. Attempting to lighten up the conversation is futile in these circumstances.

He sighs, clearly not seeing the humour in my words. “What does it matter, tomorrow, the next day, a couple weeks from now; either way you’re dead.”

I don’t understand why he’s so upset at the thought. While he did promise my sister to look after me, surely in the four years that he’s mentored tributes he's become desensitized to their deaths. Is it really just an unrealistic ask that is distressing him so greatly? Am I just a broken promise to him?

“Bugs, I keep trying to find a way to ask you this that will actually get you to listen. I’ve been wondering if I beg enough times it will finally get through to you, or if I use the right words it’ll inspire you to care, but I know that quality nor quantity matters because either way, you will just ignore it. Which is why I am just going to ask you plainly, right now, it is all I can do, and all I want in return is for you to listen; please don’t die, Bugs. Please try to make it. If not for me, then for your sister.”

So I am just a broken promise to him. However I see the look of distress on his face, his perfect features wrinkling into crinkled art as he awaits my response. So I must appease him. I must lie to him, for him, even though both of us know it is unlikely to be true.

“Okay, I will try to live for my sister.” That last part stung, almost as if me entangling her into my lie was using her name in vain. But what does it matter what she wants, she’s dead. She’s dead and soon I will be as well. 

He doesn’t say anything in response, and I am uncertain he truly believes the deception I created. But his face still softens, and he comes towards me and encapsulates me in an all consuming embrace. The warmth of his being runs through my skin and into my psyche. 

For a moment I am no longer tied to this horrid reality, instead I am tied to Finnick, and it is only him that I am aware of. As his figure removes itself from mine I am brought down from this state of tranquility and become grounded again in my surroundings. Finnick kisses me on the forehead and whispers a continuation of his previous plea.

“And if not for your sister, then stay alive for yourself. You are worth so much more than you could ever seem to conceive. You deserve the freedom to fight for yourself, Bugs.” 

Words choke me as they crawl up my throat, but none are able to escape. Instead tears fall down my eyes as I say one last goodbye, to the man who I was always supposed to hate.

“Goodbye, Finnick, I’m glad I got to know you before I leave you.”

“Goodbye Angel, and you’ll never leave me, even once you’ve left everything on this soil you still won’t have left me.”

I suppose we all are very heartfelt when lives are on the line, but one idea rings through my head as I return to my bedroom. The idea that I should fight for myself, not Emery. It’s a selfish notion. After all he’s done for me, fighting for him is what I should do in return, what I want to do in return. But still, a small part of me doesn’t want this to be the end. A part of me wants to try my very hardest, for me, so that I can continue on, and live my life, and grow old, and die in district four, surrounded by love and not the hatred of the games. It’s a selfish notion, one that I should dismiss.

---

As we enter the sitting room I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me. The stares belonging to the stylists were apprehensive, yet non-threatening. I didn’t have much to say about my performance with the gamemakers over dinner, and I can sense the suspense in all of those my style team. They want me to get a good score, they want me to do well. It's comforting, in a way. Even though I understand they obviously support all of the tributes in their care, it's nice to know there’s people out there rooting for me.  Hadley's gaze is sympathetic. Her barely sober eyes are an indicator of the horrors I am soon to face, still it is not her look of pity that is the most unnerving. No. The surveillance of the two men closest to me is the most disconcerting. Although neither of their looks hold any malice, their careful watches are still a delineation of everything I have to lose, and of the confusing and incongruous influx of emotions that occurred subsequently to my volunteering.

Because of our district's low number, it wasn’t a long wait for us to learn our scores. The primed tributes range between eight and ten, the girl from three scored a five and the boy a six. Emery manages a score of seven; and while I knew he was proficient at the trident I am still joyously surprised. In the prior days anxiety had risen within me that they would overlook him for his frail physique.

I was even more surprised when I managed to pull a nine. Not an uncommon score, especially not from a district four tribute, but still extremely good. 

With a fleeting moment of joy in my veins from both of our good scores, I immediately lurch for Emery as he instinctively pulls me into a tight hug of celebration. Both of our style teams gleefully congratulate the two of us with elated claps and pats on the back as we continue watching.

As the tribute scores are consecutively listed I make a mental note of everyone who scored at my level or higher; being the girl from one with a nine, and both the boy and girl from two with a ten. Another score in my notation, mainly due to its unexpectedness, was Thalia from twelve. She managed to score an eight. Again not unheard of, but for twelve a score that high is distinctively scarce. I wonder how she did it, I didn’t notice her do anything significantly impressive during training.

-

-

-

“Impressive, Angel.”

I groan at Finnick's new flirtatious nickname for me. In the past few days I resolved to progressively let go of the contempt I felt for him for years. Some moments I am better at it than others, it’s still hard to cut a feeling so habitually ingrained into me. Though, even with my newfound acceptance of his lingering existence, I still find his incessant need to flirt tedious. Especially with the widening rift it always seems to create between Em and I.

“Angel? Not princess, nor sweetheart?” I say sarcastically as I open the door to my room, he follows me inside lacking invitation.

Finnick gives me an amorous grin and I regret slightly entertaining his teasing demeanor. “Why? Would you prefer I call you one of the two?” He walks closer to me, smiling ear to ear. “If so, I’d be happy to oblige."

“Bugs is pushing it,” I say as I quickly create more distance between the two of us. I wasn’t inherently opposed to close proximity, but the manner in which he neared me felt indecent. “And back up would you? I’m not-” ‘One of your capital girls’ is what I would have said, but I quickly hold my tongue. Breaking habits is hard.

“Not what?” His smile remaining wide, fortunately not realising where I was going with it.

“Nevermind.”

“So you don’t want me to back away?” Finnick’s grin and tone become even more sinful.

“No! What I meant was- ugh stop twisting my words!” I groan but my frustration is only met with laughter. I don’t understand why Finnick flirts with me, maybe it's out of habit, or he finds humour in watching me get irritated and flustered. Probably the latter, he seems to be entertained right now.

“I’m sorry, really.” he says as his chuckle dies down.

“No, you’re not.” I grumble with an eye roll as I grab my pajamas preparing for bed.

“You know me so well,” he sighs gleefully before heading towards the door, his voice settles down from teasing to warmth, “But seriously, Bugs, good job on your score. It may not seem substantial for someone who is planning death, but it's impressive.”

“Thank you.” A soft smile graces my lips, matching with the sudden softness of my tone.

“Good night, Angel.”

“Good night, Finnick.”

As the morning sun peers through my blinds I shut my eyes in desperation. Each morning seems to come quicker than the last, and there are only two days left until the games. Today Finnick and Hadley will coach us for tomorrow's interviews. Emery and I are supposed to feign being a lovey-dovey couple. It does make sense, we already plan on spending the entirety of the games together, and this gives the Capitol something new, exciting, enticing to root for. While my skills are more advanced than those from the higher numbered districts, that's typical for the games, nothing unusual or special. Intrigue wins. If the capital wants to see more of us, then the Capitol will do what they can to make sure they can see more of us. It would be anticlimactic, and frankly plain boring, for the jeopardized couple to die early on.

“Although you two won’t be interacting during the interviews, it’s imperative that your body language in the games is romantic enough to persuade the Capitol of your undying love.” Emery and I have moved on to coaching with Finnick and Hadley, but in my head I can still hear Sona screaming ‘Heel to toe! Keep that back straight’ from my prior four hours of presentation work with her. My arches still pang with pain from the high heels.

“You two need to be touchy, in sync with one another, have chemistry. Make the viewers fawn over you and wish their own relationship was akin to yours”. I internally groan at the idea of it, Hadley externally groans. Finnick is at her side and Emery my own, and she receives looks from both of them before closing her mouth and apologizing. I don’t mind her commentless commentary on the situation; I feel the same. Furthermore I'm relieved to see she’s significantly reduced her drinking.

We go over what to say in the interview and how to say it. Apparently body language counts; I can see this is true—because while neither Hadley nor Finnick say it out loud—I can tell from their body language that I'm completely and utterly screwed. 

“Now, smile like this.” Finnick says as he beams at me his Capitol winning, girl seducing, utterly charming manner. I try to replicate it, but it ends with both of us having a downturned lipped expression.

“Less teeth… and don’t scrunch your face up as much, you're smiling not smelling something putrid…” he sighs “You know how to smile, I've seen you smile, why are you so awful at it now?” Moans Finnick.

“Well its harder when I’m not actually happy. I shouldn’t be made to smile like a prized pig.”

“So think of something that makes you happy. It doesn’t have to be real, just convincing.” 

I sigh and look at Emery, who is on the other side of the sitting room with Hadley. They are going over responses to questions Ceasar is likely to ask. Although no one is saying it, it's easy to tell that his weak point is strategic answers and mine is a charming demeanor. ‘I’m doing this for Em’ I repeat internally before begrudgingly following Finnick’s instructions. 

“There, was that so torturous?” remarked Finnick.

“...I suppose not.”

“So what were you thinking of, perhaps me?” he jested with a grin returning to his face.

“Yeah, you choking on tonight's dinner and briefly losing the ability to speak.” Bye bye grin and hello pout. “Oh the peace and quiet” I continued in a gleeful tone.

“Yeah you may be complaining now but when you’re in the games you’re going to miss this pretty face and voice, Angel.” he coos. He said it as a joke, but I consider the possibility.  I look into his sea green eyes, carrying a hint of blue in them, a hint of danger. Would I miss him? With my death wish I would never see him again, that's for sure. A week ago I would have rejoiced at that thought. Now, not so much. But miss him? 

Nah, probably not.

Before dinner, and after an agonising eight hours total, I choose to reside on the main couch. Hadley, whom I’ve grown to be fond of after our coaching, sits next to me. She holds a clear glass with a dark substance inside.

“Before you judge, it's my first drink of the day.”

In four I've met my fair share of alcoholics, typically only those who are rich enough to drink consistently. I understand the psychological need they feel, especially after so many years of depending on it. Hadley is twenty-five, so she's had that dependency for eight years. In her games - the 61st - she had to bludgeon the other tributes with a spiked mace, the only available weapon. A justifiable reason to lose oneself to alcohol in my opinion. I wonder why after so many years it is only now that she has chosen to refrain from drinking until the evening, an ‘acceptable hour’. As if she read my mind, she answered my question before I could even find the appropriate words to voice it.

“Finnick gave me a talking to, told me to sober up cause it’s unfair to you. Don’t understand why he even cares, you seem to be acting more careless for your life then I am.”

Oh, so it's apparently known among my team why I chose to volunteer. Or maybe Finnick only told Hadley, to try and make her sympathise with me in an attempt to convince her to stop drinking. I know in the past Hadley tried to kill herself once, because my mother is sort of medic, she was the one who stitched up her wrists. I was only nine at the time, it was a year after she won. I asked my mother why Hadley would purposefully try to hurt herself and my mother simply replied ‘she no longer found joy in life’. My mom always backed away when it came to explaining the hard topics, a practical woman who didn’t seem to do well with emotions. Maybe that's why I sometimes have issues figuring out my own emotions, instead usually opting to ignore anything negative when it bubbles in my chest.

“I’m not careless for my life, i’ve just decided somethings are more important than it. Like Emery, that whole thing with the ‘in sync chemistry’ that Finnick said we must have, I don’t have to fake it, I already feel it with Em.

“Really?” Hadley inquired “There seems to be such a distance between you two, from my eyes, the one you’re in sync with isn’t Emery, it’s Finnick.”

What? Surely she must be joking. Either way the notion is so preposterous that I can’t help but laugh.

“Oh come on,” Hadley continues, “The playful banter, the charged looks. I mean there's tension between you two.”

“Tension isn’t always good”

“But chemistry is, and you two have lots of it.” 

“He annoys me.”

“If he truly annoyed you then you wouldn’t let him in your room, or visit his, or sit with him on the couch or at the table.”

So Hadley noticed? Well her room is next to Finnick, so I suppose she might have heard us when we were tying knots, took note of us sitting next to each other at dinner not long before, or saw us in the hallway when Finnick came into my room to talk strategy that one time and pester me after the score reveal the others. We sat next to each on the couch a few times but if that's considered romantic then I should be questioning Hadley on why she’s seated next to me right now. Either way, while those times did occur, she doesn’t understand the circumstances they were under, and she's clearly made absurd assumptions based on situations that were sweet, but meant nothing really. 

“Those are just small, minor, moments that you’ve taken out of context.”

“Maybe, but it’s those small, minor moments that matter. The moments that naturally happen, that have no thought behind them, those are the ones that are telling.”

I sigh and choose not to argue back, not because I agree with her, but because the man we just so happened to be speaking of entered the room. It is that moment I opt to get up and leave, and Finnick takes my seat next to Hadley on the couch. ‘Oh my goodness, those two must dating’, I sarcastically think to myself in response to Hadley's ridiculous train of thought. Leaving the room, I catch sea green eyes boring into mine. A smile graces his lips, and I give a passive one in return as I exit the room.

---

The second day of training is again, quite uneventful, and the same can be said for the morning of the third. Although through the windows of the room the sun peers through, imploring us to come outside and join it. I think back to home, and wonder if the yellow of the sun is just as radiant there as it is here. Though as we live right next to the sea we rarely get cloudless days like these, instead the heat would only cause our waters to evaporate, leaving the skies with copious amounts of miscellaneous grey and white shapes. I never really minded it though, it was a common occurrence for Emery and I to climb the roof of my house and watch the clouds hang high, naming the different shapes we can make out of them.

Though I’m not sure if he will be able to remember it, considering I just hit him on the head with a trident for the ninth time in the last three days.

“Ow!” He rubs his head and I grimace, the only way I could take someone out in the arena with this oversized fork is by continuously bludgeoning their head with the heavy end. 

“Okay, remember, you don’t want to wave it around with no reserves, you want to have control.”

I try throwing the three pronged spear at a target and miserably fail, somehow managing to make it go over the human cutout and into the wall behind. Emery and I look at the wall, then look at each other, then look at the wall again. We can only be silent for a few seconds before erupting into a fit of hysterical laughter. The other tributes give us weird looks, I pay them no mind.

“There is no way! How did you- why did you-”

He can’t talk, and neither can I as I bring my arms to my stomach and do all I can to refrain from rolling around on the floor. 

It shouldn’t be funny, really. I mean my poor skills may very well be the reason I die later in the games, but all I can do is laugh.

After Emery and I calm down, I find my gaze resting on his face. The freckles that once adorned his cheeks are starting to fade, a consequence of not being in the sun much these past few days. But the bones under his skin are starting to have meat on them, and his face is fuller. While I’ve always found him very attractive either way, it still looks good. It's nice to see him healthy, and I hope we’re able to make enough snares for him to at least partly stay like this in the games. At eleven o'clock we’re called out of the training rooms, before having a short early lunch and then waiting for our names to be called for our private sessions with the game makers. The tributes from the first two districts eye me down, they had tried to talk to me whilst training, obviously wanting me to join their pack, but every question they asked me had a monosyllable reply before they finally got the message. 

Anxiety courses through my veins and I shake my leg, though Emery notices this and rests his hand on my thigh, before taking my hand and giving it a familiar, comforting squeeze. But it is all too quickly that a redheaded woman calls his name into the room, and he leaves me. 

When the redheaded woman comes back, my name is the one to leave her lips. Trying my best to stand tall, I walk into the training room. 

Firstly, I grab throwing knives before turning on the hologram machine, multiple yellow ‘people’ start to form, and I throw knives at all of them as they move around. While my aim isn’t always exact, I luckily don’t miss a single shot. My targets gradually start to move closer, and my skills go from long distance throwing to close combat. The last hologram I faced ended with me slitting its ‘neck’. The game makers looked impressed, yet I could barely notice, because it was no longer a fictitious yellow figure in front of me imitating the final moments of human life; but instead my sister, and I was nothing more than the scared twelve year old girl weeping in the arms of a friend.

Finally, I am dismissed, and I smile before making my way out of the training room, finding Emery outside, waiting for me. Running up to him, I jump and give him a high five. My voice rings through the elevator as he presses ‘4’.

“How’d you do?”

“I think I threw around enough tridents to not get a bad score, but it was nothing impressive. What about you?”

“Similar”

I choose not to mention my brief severance with reality. I don’t know what to do. Is there anything I can do? It wasn’t a fully-fledged hallucination but it still felt real. I still haven’t been able to make any contact with water. Furthermore I’m going to be dead in a few weeks time. I’m going insane. I’m going completely insane. 

No. I feel insane when I acknowledge the insanity. So I just have to ignore it. Ignore it, ignore it. I’ll be dead in a few weeks time, so just ignore it. Focus on my goal, protect Emery, and everything else is irrelevant. Just stare at the buildings, the doors of the elevator. Ignore it.

—

—

—

The announcement of scores is in two hours, and again I try to take a shower.

I simply can’t do it. Why can’t I do it?

Resorting to the same method as the past two days, I gather a wash cloth and submerge it in soapy water. As for my hair, I hold it over the sink, but only the ends. I can’t even let the tap water touch my head. My chest feels all too heavy as I bend over the sink, heat trickles down my spine and weaves its way through my entire body. As I raise my head, from the sink I catch myself in the mirror. This shouldn’t be me, I wish that it wasn’t me; a pitiful sight of a coward who can’t even touch water.

As I dry my hair I hold a hand to my face. Water droplets decorate my cheek. Confusing. I was sure I managed to keep my head dry. It is only when I look at the mirror one more time and my eyes lock with puffy red ones in return, that I realise I have been crying.

Three simple, consecutive, knocks pull me away from my worries and incur an entire set of new ones. As I throw on some clothes I blink and rub my eyes, a futile attempt of erasing my tears, only resulting in the opposite of the intended effect.  The sporadic knocks only seem to increase. I bite the bullet, resolving to blame a miscalculated use of shampoo for the red irritation. 

“Emery… hey” Out of everyone in this building, it just so happened to be the walking lie detector programmed to be used against myself, and myself only. I make eye contact, avoiding his gaze will only make him think I have a reason to avoid his gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I mean my eyes hurt cause I got shampoo in them, and we're getting our scores soon so that's kinda scary - but besides from that - nothing is wrong.” Not convincing. Not convincing at all. I’ve just started rambling at this point. Maybe I should throw in another poor excuse about why my voice has raised two octaves higher while I’m at it.

“Yin.” Emery’s face is concerned, but his tone is solid and flat, creating a centerfront blockage in my immediate-head-to-mouth-no-consideration-in-between pipeline. 

I shut up. He sighs before continuing again. 

“What’s wrong?”

I have to tell him.

“I can’t shower. Or bathe, or touch water in any capacity really. It used to be fine. I mean it wasn’t good, but it was manageable, it was fine. I don’t know why it’s not fine anymore. Not only do I hyperventilate every time I come close to water, but I saw it. I saw my sister’s death. Not in a psycho hallucination way- but I saw it. Emery, when we go into the games; I’m either going to become her, or the person who killed her. I’m so scared.” 

Little droplets on my cheek highlight the light touch of air I feel as he heavily exhales. 

“I’m sorry, Yin.”

“That’s it? You can’t just say that Emery. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t change anything.” My voice trembles with desperation. Desperation for any relief from this all-consuming, all-powerful fear I feel. “You’re supposed to make everything okay! You always make everything okay” droplets turn to a storm

“But I can’t make everything okay. This is not a situation where anything is okay. And honestly, I think things haven’t been okay for a while. Yin, you have been pushing down all this trauma and all this pain for years, labelling it as ‘not good, but good enough’, and now, in this shitty moment, everything is coming out. I can’t make everything okay for you Yin, but I will promise you that in this completely fucked up, un-okay situation, I will be with you the entire time. I will be here for you. We’re in this together.”

---

Today is the first day of training. During breakfast, Finnick questions us about what we’re good at. While I already told him this earlier, I repeat myself again. I don’t feel the need to indicate to Emery that we’ve been talking in private, things are really hard for him right now.

“Both of us can tie knots and make nets, though I’m better with knives since I fillet the fish, and I’m pretty good at throwing them as well. My father taught me for self defense after my sister's game. Emery on the other hand is far better with a trident than I am, since he actually does the fishing.”

I didn’t tell Finnick the part about my father last time, but I made a resolution last night to be kinder with him. Thinking back to those moments of learning with my dad, it was in the second week of Cornelia being in the arena. She had managed to get her hands on a knife but was far less skilled with it than she would have been with a trident. I think that pushed him to teach me as much as he could, waking me up at six am and forcing me to throw knives at makeshift targets. While the practice was grueling, I loved the time we spent together.

Finnick nods,  and Emery stays silent. He can tell there's something different between Finnick and I then there was before, I no longer lace my words with venom or my gaze with hate. If Emery questions me on it though, I’ll just say I’m being nice because he’s our mentor. I have no energy for another argument and I’m not planning on talking about our time on the roof last night, that moment will forever just stay with Finnick and I only. Sure the game makers probably saw us up there; but it was especially windy yesterday and I doubt they were able to hear what we were saying.

Finnick tells us to focus on learning survival skills, snares, different plants and their effect, knowledge that could be the difference between life or death. Listening intently I stuff my mouth, while the food is much better here than at district four, my appetite is not the reason for my two massive portions of breakfast. Carbo loading is a necessity considering the fact that I don’t know when the next time I will eat after the beginning of next week.

“Knives are the most common weapon found in the arena; so it's always beneficial to train with them. Emery, I want you to practice with knives more, at least until you have some basic foundation of the skill. Besides from that, learn survival competence that you may have not picked up in district four. While our district is at an advantage by being better fed and therefore stronger, districts like eleven and twelve know how to starve. Consequently, they know how to survive. This knowledge will be imperative in the games.”

He asks me to help Emery in knife skills, and vice versa in Emery teaching me how to wield a trident. We go down to the training level, and I finally have the time to take in the other tributes. Most of them are either older or younger than us. I notice one girl in particular, probably only fourteen years old at most, with the number twelve pinned on her back. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and is quite skinny as well. I feel bad for her, but try not to, while I am prone to caring about those who are weaker than me, it is not a good habit for the games. Both of the tributes from one are eighteen, and admittedly quite scary looking. From district two there is a seventeen year old boy and an eighteen year old girl. I don’t pay as much attention to the other tributes, it is quite apparent these four will be our biggest threat. While it is not uncommon for tributes from four to ally with the primed - a name we have for tributes in the first two districts who train and volunteer - Emery is quite frail and undaunting so I doubt they’d want him, and I don’t plan on allying with the volunteers, it's too risky. The primed want to win, and they know that to win you have to be the only one alive. In these games you can’t be the second person to betray your group.

After being dismissed by Atala, Emery and I alternate between stations until we find ourselves sitting next to the girl from twelve while learning about plants. The trainer tells us about leaves that can help wounds, and what to look out for while picking berries to eat. The small girl sitting adjacent to me answers the trainers' questions with ease, and it is clear she already has quite a bit of knowledge in this area. I doubt district twelve would see many plants in the mines, but maybe there’s some flora around the town. Due to my mom being a healer, I almost know as much as her. 

“Hey, I’m Thalia.” I turn around to see the girl from the twelfth district hold out her hand, obviously expecting me to shake it. I only look and stare but Emery gladly takes my place and gives her a handshake. Of course he does, why wouldn’t he want to shake the hand of someone that will be trying to kill us in under a week? This is why I volunteered, he's too kind for these games.

“My name's Emery.” Emery tells her my name as well when her eyes fall on me. From my glare she can tell I’m not too fond of her though.

“No need to be suspicious, I was just curious as to why you volunteered, you don’t look like a career.” Career? That must be what they call the primed in the lower districts. 

“I volunteered to join Emery.” Is all I say, purposefully not using the word ‘protect’, all that will do is highlight him as an easy target. But I tell she is able to read between the lines of my words, I mean he doesn’t exactly look like the next victor of the hunger games.

“That’s really selfless of you.” She gives me a smile, one that reminds me of my sister. Cornelia was about the same age entering the games, and I wonder if Thalia has any siblings at home hoping that against all odds, she’ll make it.

“Good luck, I mean it. I’d much rather one of you two win than the careers.”

Thalia says before walking off. 

“Shame, she’s not even hoping to win.” Emery quietly speaks.

“Yeah, I just hope whoever kills her makes it quick.”

The rest of the training for the first day is, admittedly, quite uneventful. I try to teach Emery some knife skills, and while he starts to pick it up eventually I doubt he’ll be able to hit a moving target, not to mention in the games he’ll be shaky, scared, and disoriented.

Though I can’t say much, because at least Emery was doing better with the knives than I am with a trident. It’s too heavy and in the way, and I can barely move with it without hitting someone - usually Emery. After accidentally striking him on the head for possibly the third time, we decide to call it quits for the day, dinner is in half an hour, and most people have already left.

During dinner Finnick isn’t his usual, easy going self. We eat in silence but even after I finished my third helping (still trying to carbo load as much as possible) he still doesn’t leave the table. What little food he has left on his plate has gone cold and it’s almost as if he was trying to prolong the evening, almost as if he were trying to stop the night from coming. 

It is only when everyone else leaves the table that I realise the likely reason why. I rise from my seat and move to where Sona was sitting, next to him. His eyes don’t diverge from his plate though, and it seemed like he was trying his best not to look at me. Not knowing what to say, my hand almost moves to touch him, but I realise he might not want to be touched. While he seemed fine with me hugging him yesterday, it’s probably best not to assume. 

After a few moments of silence between the two of us coinciding with internal conflict, I finally decide to ask him, though only pushing the boundaries to hand holding.

“Can I hold your hand?”

He looks up from his plate and into my eyes for a moment before nodding. I take his hand into mine and squeeze it, just as Emery does when I feel nervous. We sit for a moment, hand in hand, while I try to come up with a better solution to comfort him. Whenever I feel sad or upset, people always comfort me through physical touch. That's how my sister and dad aided my pain, and since Emery was always around he quickly picked up on that and did the same. Though because it was always affection that made me feel better, I never learnt what to do when the person might not want to be overly touched. Thinking back to last night, hoping it will shine a light on what to do, I remember him tying knots in the lounge, it seemed to help him calm down.

“Could you teach me how to tie knots? I know the basic ones but it's been a while since I’ve been on net duty.”

That wasn’t actually true, making nets and tying knots on the boat before it leaves is one of the few things I can actually do without touching water, so I am given net duty a lot. He pauses for a second, and I almost think he realises I’m bluffing, but then a small smile touches his face.

“Sure.”

Grabbing a knife, he takes me to his room and pulls out a long piece of rope before cutting it in two. 

We spend the next few hours in his room, at first I have to feign my lack of knowledge, at some point he starts to teach me more advanced ones and I actually find myself learning.

“Here let me show you,” He laughs and takes one that I was particularly struggling with, but then looks at it confused.

“How did you… I didn’t even think it was possible for someone to mess this up so badly! This looks like a wasp's nest!”

I can’t stop myself from going into a hysteric fit of laughter before snatching the rope from him the moment he untangles it.

“Let me try again!” I say and start focusing on doing exactly what he told me to do, but I’m distracted when I hear him laugh again. 

“What!” 

“That face you make when you’re concentrated,” he says in between laughs, “How do you not swallow a fly when you stick your tongue out like that?”

My mouth opens widely and I exaggerate my offense to his comment.

“I'm out!” I throw the rope across the room.

“No! don't leave, it's cute!” He laughs and all I can do is laugh in return while picking up my rope from the floor.

We continue laughing and tying knots. At some point I consider asking him about himself, but I know he’ll probably have to bring up home and I don’t want to talk about that right now. Suddenly he checks the clock and his face becomes dimmer, but he recomposes himself so quickly I consider that I might have imagined it.

“You should probably go back to your room, it's getting late.”

I check the time, 11:23 pm. I suppose he’s right, though he didn’t seem to have any reservations about me being up late last night. I choose to not question it though and smile at him before getting up.

“Goodnight Finnick.” I say while trying to muster up the most comforting tone I can, but while that was something my mom and sister excelled at it wasn't exactly my area of expertise. Still, he rewards my efforts with a smile.

“Goodnight, Bugs.”

Just like that, I leave. Walking into my room, the sweat - reminiscent of the training prior - still sticks to my skin and I naturally find myself migrating towards the connected bathroom. Stripping off my clothes I turn on the shower and continuously press various buttons until finally I have mapped out how to access shampoo, conditioner, and soap. My hand runs under the hot stream, the absence of sea salt is more noticeable in the water now than it was back when my stylists were washing me down. As I remind myself I need to step forward, a strange yet familiar uneasiness runs over my body. The one that halted me from standing less than six feet near the sea, the one that controlled every unnecessarily long detour I made in the district with an unavoidable abundance of water. 

But it never affected my showers, the separated miniature drops were always just trivial enough to keep up necessary personal hygiene. Suddenly I am all too aware of where I am, what is awaiting for me, and how long I have left. I was trying to be brave. Trying to keep strong. For Emery. So he has a chance. But in this moment all I think about is my sister and my dad and how much I miss them and the blue that is still constantly surrounding me and the water right in front of me and that I only have a few weeks left and I take a step into the water.

No.

Few droplets have hit my skin before I throw myself out from the captivity of the shower walls.

I’ll try again tomorrow. 

Finnicks POV

As the tributes ride the chariots I am driven to the training centre. Inside the car is a screen showing the parade.

“Our tributes look so good this year, don’t you think? Dara is so much better than who we used to have, you know the man whose only idea of style is being naked?” Sona says to me, and I nod in reply. Cornelia’s sister, who is known to me as Bugs due to Cornelia’s constant use of the nickname, smiles and waves with one hand and holds Emery with the other. As beautiful as she looks, the moment was tainted by her hand in Emery’s. I try not to think about it, instead focusing on her face, her smile, which suddenly falters. Turning her head she finds comfort in Emery. I frown, admittedly, I was jealous. After hearing Cornelia talk about her so much, it was hard for me to not think highly of her. When I returned she was no longer just another face in the masses - I stuck to my promise of looking out for her. In the process I couldn’t help but start to notice things about her, things I never bothered to notice about anyone. The way she always stood her ground, and didn’t let anyone sway her. How she always stood up for the weak in school, even getting into a few fights with bullies. I chuckle as I remember her throwing a rock at Kim Lain. He was a dick - he deserved it. I noticed how strong she was, but also how caring, when she was thirteen she gave her lunch to a frail, younger girl who obviously hadn’t eaten in days, and started packing extra food for her everyday after that.  I remember even the small things about Bugs, I have studied her profusely as much as one can from a distance, I couldn’t help it, everything I learnt just made me want to learn more. 

I could have talked to her earlier. Maybe if I had told her it was me who saved her life when she was fourteen we would have gotten closer, and she wouldn’t have been so eager to risk her life when Emery’s name was called. I definitely thought about it. But I didn’t, and even now I am grateful for it. It was only a month later - maybe two - that my only living relative, my mom, died of 'natural causes’ when I had refused Snow's proposition. The last thing I needed was another person for Snow to threaten every time I dared to diverge out of line. So I bit my tongue, watched her from afar, did my best to protect her just as promised, and look where that got us. For fuck sakes I even slept with a worker to keep her name out of the bowl, and she still managed to end up being a tribute.

I briefly consider trying to convince the game makers to kill off Emery, that way she’ll have to at least try to win, but I know I could never do that to her. I groan and Sona gives me a confused look, but I pay her no mind. She puts a hand up to my shoulder, though I immediately recoil. Sona says no words as she moves her hand away, knowing the cause for my discomfort. She may have been very illusioned by her upbringing in the Capitol, but even she has the heart to know rape is wrong. Sona has a kind soul, and I can imagine in a world where there were no games, no propaganda, she and I could really be close friends. But right now, we don’t exactly see eye to eye on the whole ‘radical take’ that killing children is wrong. But I know that someday she’ll see it. Every year her excitement for the games gets more and more dull, every year her voice gets dimmer reading the names of the children that are to die. One day she will completely learn to hate the games; but I don't know if I want that for her. She’s already in too deep to leave. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

We get out of the car and enter the training centre, there aren’t any screens in the room we’re in, and I can’t help but be nervous with her out of my sight. I know it’s irrational; being a tribute is probably the safest position to be in up until you’re actually put in the arena, god forbid anything happens to the capital's precious props. But still, my nerves immediately calm down once I see her enter through the grand doors. Sona helps Bugs from the chariot before instantly pulling her into a hug, and I can’t help but laugh at the face she makes. After being released from Sona’s death grip, she turns to look at Emery, and I almost hate myself for the anger that begins to burn. A part of me wishes the roles were reversed, that I was the one she looked at with love and Emery was the one she looked at with spite. I knew she didn’t like me, and while it didn’t take a genius to figure out why, it still hurt. I really tried to make her at least warm up to me, I flirted with her and smiled at her in a way that made other girls melt. But alas, all it seemed to do was irritate her further, out of all the people to be resistant to my charm… Why her? 

Her gaze on Emery doesn’t waver, and I can’t stop myself from standing in between them, forcing her to look at me and not him. Realising I need a reason for walking up, I simply congratulate her.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

I know I should probably comment on Emery as well, but I can’t find it in me to care about anyone else. Not when she is standing right here.

We enter the crystal elevator and I can tell that Bugs is star-struck by the view. While I have gotten used to the ride, I think back to the first time I was here, and chuckle as I realise that her sister did the exact same thing. Of course, her sister never even came close to captivating my attention as much as she does. Sona makes some stupid comment on pearls, one that seems awfully familiar, and Bugs laughs when I tell her the connection.

She laughed.

I told her something, and not only did it not aggravate her, but it actually made her laugh.

Before, the best expression she would give me was a glare, or an eye roll, and even then I was still hooked. But now, I know what it’s like to bring her joy. It's addicting.

Entering our floor, Bugs quickly goes to her room but Emery hangs around. He shoots me a look, and, as little as I am in the mood for it, I put on my fake face; feigning a calm, unaffected composure. 

“Yes, Em?” I purposefully use the nickname Bugs calls him. Apparently that was the wrong move.

“She doesn’t need you, you know. She has me.” Insecure much? Although I couldn’t really blame him, it was only moments ago that I felt the euphoria of her joy being directed towards me. If I had constant access to it, I wouldn’t be so quick to let it go either. 

“Quite the contrary actually, you need her. She knows it as well considering that was the whole reason she volunteered. Now if I were you, I would consider not picking a fight with me, since we both know that I am the only source of help either of you are going to get in these games.” I walk off, but couldn’t help adding one last comment as I do so. “And by the way, she does need me. That’s how mentoring in these games works.”

I added almost gleefully on the end, the notion of her needing me brought me far greater joy than it should have. Though, in any other circumstances maybe I’d be able to appreciate it more without the sinking feeling of guilt, and more so, the dread of what's to come in these next few weeks. 

Emery huffs past me and I retreat to my room. Quite a familiar one at that, when I am brought to the capital throughout the year this tends to be where I stay. Though in all my time staying here, I have never found myself leaving and slowly drifting towards the quarters for the female tribute. But when I hear screaming, you wouldn’t exactly call the way I moved slow. I run so fast I knock over a decorative plant right outside, though as I am about to barge through the door I stop when I hear what they’re yelling about. Me.

Suddenly feeling the sinful urge to eavesdrop, I hope that Bugs didn’t hear the vase fall.  Though it appears she doesn’t, as she continues what she’s saying without faltering.

“I understand how you feel, how isolating this entire situation is. But, Finnick… he means nothing to me. More than nothing, you know how much I resent him. I am with you. Forever and always.”

Nothing? Ouch. That one hurt - much more than it should have. There is a whisper I can’t make out before Emery starts speaking.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that… I just can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

There is a pause before he continues.

“Remember when Finnick won the 65th? How you went on an endless spiral about how it should have been him that was killed and not your sister. I agree with what you said, that your sister should have won. Finnick only lived because enough sponsors wanted to fuck him.””

“Do you think so?” 

“Yes. Finnick should have died. I wish he did”

.

.

.

I don’t know why it hurts so bad… it shouldn’t hurt this bad. Many people have wanted me dead, it was only four years ago when I was put in an arena with twenty-three of them. But hearing this come from her… the girl I care about far too much, the only girl whom I can find it in me to care about… It's far too much to bear. The room has gone quiet, nothing but the creak of a bed can be heard. I know I should go back to my room, but I just want to sit down right now. It's easier. 

I always knew she didn’t like me, at some point in my life, in some masochistic way, I almost took refuge in it. After winning the hunger games technically I didn’t have to return to school, but my mother thought it was best considering I was fourteen years old. While all the other girls in that campus looked at me with lust, there was relief in her loathing. It was always easier to watch her from afar, to build a meaningful relationship in the distance between us, a sanctity from all my meaningless relationships formed with a suffocating, invading proximity. I always knew she didn’t like me, but I foolishly entertained my ‘crush’ on her until it evolved into a principle of life that could never be ignored.

Replaying all the memories I have of her over the four years, I try to find something - anything - that might make me like her less. That could take away this unbearable pain caused by something so small as her words.

Nothing.

There is not one single thing that I do not simply adore about her.

I am only pulled out of my thoughts when Emery opens the door. I quickly try to come up with an explanation as to what the hell I am on doing on the floor against the outside wall of Bugs room, when I look up to his face and realise;

He’s not surprised… he knew I was out there this whole time. Bugs may not have heard me knock over that vase, but he did. The fucker knew. Emery walks past me saying nothing, but with his smug expression he didn’t need to. That’s why he reminded her of why she hates me… to make sure she doesn’t stop. That’s why he asked her if she still wishes I were dead; to make sure I know that her heart will always belong to him, and never me.

I’ve got to admit, what Emery lacks in physical strength he sure makes up for in manipulative skills. Wasn’t he supposed to be nice? Kind hearted? I suppose the games do affect all of us in the worst ways, especially when someone you love is on the line.

Though whatever the reason for making her say what she did, didn’t change how much her words hurt. Emery was right. He will always be the boy she needs, and I will always be the boy she hates. It killed me to know this, and it killed me to know that even with this knowledge, my feelings for her will still never leave. Slowly, I force myself to rise from my pitiful position of grief. In my room I am almost grateful to hear the phone ring, its shrill noise drowning out my thoughts. Though I quickly realise there is only one person who could be calling this time of night.

“Hello, Snow.” I whisper into the landline, trying my best to not show any pain in my voice. Although I am only half paying attention to him as he speaks, my stomach still drops at his words. Tomorrow night I am to meet with a frequenter. He almost makes it out as him doing me a favour. That because it would be so late that none of my mentees would see me leave, and because this particular customer is a valuable sponsor, I should be grateful for him setting this nightmare. I can barely hide the venom on my tongue as I respond to him before hanging up. He is… somewhat right though, this specific guest is in fact a very rich and very generous sponsor. The fact that this arrangement will benefit Bugs provides no more than marginal relief though. 

Grabbing a rope I head into the lounge area where I pour myself a glass of whiskey. I alternate between drinking the neat drink and creating knots in the rope. Though while this usually efficient routine of tying knots helped me forget about what was coming tomorrow, it barely distracted me from my thoughts about Bugs. After about an hour of this, whatever cruel deity that controlled our reality decided to take it further by presenting me with all that I want, but can’t have, in the flesh. Hearing a step I turn around to see her staring at me, my beautiful curse as perfect as ever.

“Hey princess.” I try to sound lighthearted, but fail miserably. Bugs doesn’t move, but needing her closer, I motion her to sit next to me.

“I don’t bite.” She obviously is still put off by my presence, I try to come up with a way to calm her, and think back to her excitement of the city view in the clear elevator.

“Actually, I know a better place to go to.” I get up and offer her my hand, and when she gives me hers a fire rushes through me that cannot be extinguished. Now I understand why girls get almost delirious when I am close to them, I think I could pass out at any moment. 

I take her to the elevator, and up the stairs, not letting her go for even a second, as if the moment my hand leaves hers it will never find its way back. It pains me to know this is probably true. But when Bug's hand finally escapes my firm grasp, she makes up for it with the expression on her face. As I stare at her face, which is dazed by the scenery, I can’t help but think back to her sister doing the exact same thing years ago. Though in all honesty I appreciate the look of joy far more on Bugs face.

The wind starts to pick up, and she shivers. I take in her satin pajamas, they are quite flimsy, surely not able to give her any resistance against the cool of the night. Holding out my sweater, I offer it to her.

“Here.”

“Aren’t you going to be cold?”

I smile and slightly shake my head. Being cold can not even be considered a price to pay for her being comfortable, and besides, her shirt is extremely low cut and I feel guilty for looking, the sweater will at least provide some coverage.

“Just take it”

Okay… so maybe I misjudged the idea of more clothing preventing my sinful thoughts. Because as she wears my sweater, I find myself only more turned on. I try to keep my expression neutral as she thanks me - however I'm honestly lucky to not be quite literally drooling at the mouth right now. Though I try my best to push those thoughts away, to be thinking this way of her when she so clearly does not like me… how could I ever consider myself better than my capital admirers? 

Bugs stares at the city lights, and they radiate back onto her perfect face. God I could spend the rest of my life like this, just staring at her, but the voice that’s been taunting me since the moment she was reaped speaks up even louder. ‘This will be one of the last times you get to look at her, before she dies, before she voluntarily kills herself.’ 

I feel my head start to spin again, my hands shake as well. I quickly regret leaving my rope in the lounge area. I can’t let her die, I would rather enter the games again myself than let her go. There's got to be some way to change her mind? I won’t stop trying to save her, I can’t. I could imagine that even when her heart stops beating I’ll still be fighting for her life. The possibility of her dying, it just seems so unreal to me, it’s a thought so horrid I cannot even process it. 

“Are you really planning on just killing yourself?” But once that question leaves my mouth I quickly talk again because even though I know the answer, I don’t think I can handle it.

“You shouldn’t have volunteered.” 

“Thank you for the great suggestion, Sherlock, do you also have a time machine on you by any chance? Or just your insightful words?” 

I laugh and shake my head, the spite in her voice is one I’m used to now, and I’m almost unphased by it. But then I remember why she hates me so much. Her sister. If I could bring Cornelia up, explain to Bugs the reason why I first fought for her in the first place, before I fell for her, maybe she’d change her mind? If not for me then for her sister.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean she told me to protect you, and you sure are making it a hard job.” 

“Who did?”

“Your sister, of course.”

Her confusion is evident, so I continue. Thinking back to this night four years ago as I do.

“Four years ago, her and I were on this exact same roof. All she did was speak of you - I think it must have hurt too much to talk about anything else - anyways she made me promise that if I got out and not her, I would protect you.” I still remember Cornelia’s voice as if it were yesterday.

“I know you’ll win, Finnick, and I am okay with that. Just please promise me one thing, when you get back, protect Bugs. She is so brave, so strong, so kind, and I know that when you meet her you’ll feel the same. My sister is my everything, so promise, just promise me, you’ll make sure she’s safe.”

“Of course I tried my best, when you somehow managed to almost kill yourself, I pulled you out of the water. When you were too scared of swimming to even touch a fishing boat, I… convinced Julia to allow you to only work on land.”

Of course I refuse to mention the point of which I stopped protecting Bugs for Cornelia, and instead protected her for my own sake.  I still don’t remember exactly when it happened, probably far before I even realised it. About a year and a few months after my games was when the possibility of dating her entered my mind, at the time it was only a crush. A simple, silly crush. I could look at her, take interest in what she did, investigate the depths of her personality through gossip with unknowing friends, but nothing more, because it was just a “small crush”. Still, I can picture the moment she jumped off that cliff. Although there was a storm and I could have very likely died pulling her out, I didn’t think twice about jumping in after her, though by the time I grabbed her she had already managed to knock herself out. I was so scared that she managed to successfully kill herself. I pinched her cheek on shore, and went into a hysteric fit of laughter after she groaned in response, probably due to relief rather than there being any actual humour of it all.

When recounting my list of things I have done for her, I purposefully leave out the part where I slept with a worker to get her name out of the reaping bowl. She probably already thinks I’m a whore, and I don’t want to confirm her suspicions. “Tomorrow night, 12 am.” Snow’s voice rings in my mind, and I so desperately want to get it off my chest. Part of me is so ashamed, so scared of what she’ll think of me. But another part of me just wants for someone to know, for her to know, that I’m not the slut she thinks I am, at least not willingly. That I don’t want to sleep with the capital girls, or boys for that matter. I know what other people in my district say about me, and I need to show her that they’re wrong. That I’m not the person they think I am. The person that she thinks I am.

“I know you hate me, Bugs, and you probably think I’m a whore. I can’t do anything about the hating part but I’m not… a whore. At least not a willing one.”

The words start to spill out before I can stop myself.

“Snow forced me, when a victor is considered desirable, he sells them for their bodies. I don’t get money for my time, I don’t need it, but I do get secrets, sponsorships, favors.”

Bugs stares at me for a second, the shock speaks for itself. Fuck she must think I’m some weak loser. That I won the hunger games with my face and now I open my legs for anybo-

She’s hugging me.

She’s hugging me.

That familiar fire burns through and only brightens when I hug her back. Suddenly, just by holding her, everything is okay. I know nothing has actually gotten better, but just being here, with her, she makes it better. I hold onto her as though if I cling on tight enough, she won’t have to leave, she won’t have to go into the games, I won’t have to lose her. I don’t think of what's to come, I can’t think of it. I can’t lose her. I won’t. I may be selfish, but I won’t let it happen. Bugs is staying alive.

“I’m sorry, Finnick” I can barely hear her murmur in my chest, and it all starts pouring out.

Comfort washes through me like never before. Finnick. This must have been the first time I’ve ever heard her say my name, to my face at least. I look back on earlier, when I called her my curse. She may very well be a curse, giving me the most joy I’ve ever felt all while planning on ripping it away in just a couple of weeks. But I don’t care anymore, whatever pain has been caused by her, her wanting me dead, trying to drown herself, loving another man, planning to die in the arena. It all hurts so bad, but it is nothing compared to how much I care about her, how much her simple presence lights up my life and turns my world upside down in all the right ways. I must be a masochist for this, but I wouldn’t trade her, or any emotions that caused by her, for the world. And as Bugs whispers my name, I almost automatically say hers in return, her real name.

When I wake up, I’m all alone. It is sometime at night and in the dark I barely catch myself after tripping over a fallen flower vase in the hallway. Huh. Emery must have knocked it over on his way back to his own quarters. I go to the lounge area expecting to be the only one there, but am surprised to see Finnick sitting on the couch, a glass of brown liquid in his hand looking almost identical to Hadley's.

Finnick’s expression is solemn, the city lights shine through the window scarcely illuminating his face. It was obvious he hasn’t noticed me yet, taking a sip of the drink before putting it down, tying and untying knots in a short piece of rope. That playful expression that once adorned his face is gone, and replacing it, appears to be both equal parts worry and sorrow. In all honesty, as much as I thought I hated his arrogant grin I much prefer it to his expression now. I take another step forward, and his face shoots in my direction, his shoulders loosen when he realises it's just me.

“Hey princess.” Finnick remarks, but his tone is dry, pained even. He motions for me to sit next to him and when I simply stare at him awkwardly Finnick lets out a humourless laugh. “I don’t bite.” He pauses for a second, clearly in thought. “Actually, I know a better place to go to.” He gets up and offers me his hand, and  hesitantly I take it. 

He smiles and takes us to the elevator, it leads him to the floor just above twelve where we then climb up a small flight of stairs. From there is a dome shaped room and when he opens it I realise we’re on the roof. He is still holding my hand, but I let go and walk to the edge of the building. As we look over the railing I can’t help but admire the beauty of the city, the kaleidoscopic lights shine bright even though it’s past midnight. In four, most people would be in bed by now.

Finnick and I say no words for what feels like an endless amount of time, but while my eyes are trained on the breathtaking sight, I feel his unwavering gaze on me. I guess I’m getting better at sensing when someone's watching me, that will be useful less than a week from now. 

The wind brushes past me, and I shiver, my satin pajamas providing little warmth. Finnick takes off his sweater and holds it out to me. Underneath is a short sleeve white shirt, one that cannot offer much warmth.

“Here.”

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” He smiles and slightly shakes his head.

“Just take it.”

I put it on, and suddenly I’m engulfed by his scent. The familiar smell of seasalt from home, its calming, as well as a slightly spicy cologne. Undoubtedly costing more than a month's worth of food.

“Thanks”

His expression is unreadable, and we go back to staring, I at the city lights, him at me.

“Are you really planning on just killing yourself?” His voice finally broke the silence. I thought he knew this by now?

“You shouldn’t have volunteered.” He says quickly afterwards. So I’ve been told. 

“Thank you for the great suggestion, Sherlock, do you also have a time machine on you by any chance? Or just your insightful words?” Spite laces my voice, but all he does is laugh and shake his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean she told me to protect you, and you sure are making it a hard job.” 

“Who did?” Could it have been my mother? Emery's mom? Neither of those options make sense.

“Your sister, of course.” 

.

.

.

What?

My confusion must have been evident on my face, because he continues.

“Four years ago, her and I were on this exact same roof. All she did was speak of you - I think it must have hurt too much to talk about anything else - anyways she made me promise that if I got out and not her, I would protect you.” He pauses, but I don’t say anything, partly from shock, partly because I don’t know what to say. He sighs.

“Of course I tried my best, when you somehow managed to almost kill yourself, I pulled you out of the water. When you were too scared of swimming to even touch a fishing boat, I convinced Julia to allow you to only work on land.”

I don’t even know how to process what he was saying. And in any case Julia, the head of fishing work, is a mean old witch. How was he even able to convince her?

“I know you hate me, Bugs, and you probably think I’m a whore. I can’t do anything about the hating part but I’m not… a whore. At least not a willing one.”

Bugs… a nickname Cornelia used for me when she was alive, he must have picked it up from her considering they apparently talked about me. But the part about being a whore… what? He takes a deep breath. 

“Snow forced me, when a victor is considered desirable, he sells them for their bodies. I don’t get money for my time, I don’t need it, but I do get secrets, sponsorships, favors.”

Sells them? I could barely believe what he was saying, I might have not if I didn’t know that Snow was in fact that cruel. My stomach drops as I take it all in, and drops even further when I realise how he was most likely able to convince Julia. This whole time, people have been making remarks behind his back, saying he abandoned his district for capital girls, that he was a slut… and I was one of them, not one of the worse ones, but still. I don’t know what to say, there probably isn’t anything to say to make this better. So my legs move, and before I realise it, I am hugging Finnick Odair.

He wraps his arms around me, and holds me as if he would die if left his embrace.

“I’m sorry, Finnick” I murmur into his chest, but I’m not sure if can hear me. I know it doesn’t provide much comfort anyways, I never found comfort in others saying sorry when my sister died, or my dad. But still, it is all I know to say at this moment.

---

The morning sun wakes me all too early, I really should have closed my curtains last night. The time reads six o clock, and as I walk into the dining car of the train I realise that I am the first one up. Or so I thought. As I face the counter trying to figure out how to work the coffee machine, I feel a tall figure press himself behind me.

“Morning, sweetheart.” I push him off me, he laughs and apologies insincerely. He grabs two biscuits from the shelf above the coffee machine. The box he takes it from has an image of coffee on it, so I assume they’re supposed to be eaten together. He has one himself, swallowing  before speaking again.

“Want one? They’re just divine” His playful, flirtatious tone is accompanied by an equally aggravating smile. He holds out the other biscuit to my face, as if he expects me to take a bite of it straight from his hands. 

I roll my eyes and walk away. My wish for coffee is long forgotten. Though as I sit on the couch, I am surprised to see Finnick bringing me a cup. I thank him and stare at the TV, watching reruns of yesterday's reaping. I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should be, this coffee is better than any quick dissolve packet you ever buy in Four. Though what I found odd is that during our clip, as we made our way to and onto the train, Finnick's gaze never diverged from me, not once. I chalk it down to him being surprised at the spectacle I made while volunteering earlier. Though I wish that I had sensed him staring in the moment, not being able to tell when someone's watching you won’t fare well in the arena.

After the clock strikes seven, slowly people start entering the room. Avoxes set up breakfast, all while Finnick and I sit on the couch, not saying a word to each other. Around seven-thirty Emery and Sona enter the room, Hadley following shortly afterwards. Emery eyes the sight of Finnick and I sitting on the couch together, but I quickly get up and make my way to the dining table. Finnick following suit. Breakfast, which is a selection of bacon, eggs, toast, and hash browns, is over rather quickly. I don’t think any of us had much of an appetite.

“Exciting day!” Sona remarks as our train passes capital citizens, all of whom are waving at us and trying to get a glimpse of Finnick. He winks as one, and if possible she would have melted into a puddle on the spot. I raise a brow at him.

“Hey, I’m just helping you get sponsors.” He raises his hands into the air and walks away.

Getting off the train, I wear a green floral dress. Emery takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze as we walk into the giant building. 

—

—

“Ow!” I grunt as one of my stylists rips another section of hair off my legs. In four it's not like we refuse to shave, but I never saw the point in it. Another stylist - in all honesty I didn't bother to remember any of their names - starts trimming my hair, “evening it out” as she said. I don't particularly care though, I just want to get my clothes back on. 

My main stylist, Dara, enters. Her skin is slightly tinted pink and her pin straight hair is a more vivid shade. I recognise her from previous years, but I don’t remember her being our district's stylist last year. According to Dara, she used to work for seven, but got promoted. I think back to sevens costume last year, and sigh from relief as I remember the girl wasn’t stark naked. We talk as she dresses me, Dara is nice, but very obviously illusioned by the capitol.

Dara dresses me in a big poofy blue gown, though I don’t get to see myself until we’re about to leave. When I do get to look in the mirror, I’m taken aback. My eyes are decorated with blue and silver patterns all around, and the rest of my make up is simple, but stunning. 

My dress however is the complete opposite of simple. The blue material shines along my torso and as it poofs out it cascades down into the shape of waves, white tinting the end resembling foam. Wow. I hate myself for being stunned by my dress at an event where I am put on display like a show pony, but I never realised just how intricate the costumes are when you’re not watching it through a TV. As Dara and I enter the bottom level of the Remake Center, I know the others feel the same. 

Sona squeals and hugs me, and I surprisingly don’t reel back in disgust. Finnick also stares, but I do my best not to pay him any mind. The only one who isn’t staring is Hadley, but in all fairness I don’t think that she even knows she exists right now. I think back to the train ride, did she ever actually say even one word during the duration of the whole journey? I mentally thank Finnick again for volunteering to be my mentor. 

“Wow.” I turn around to see Emery, but am only given a few seconds to take him in before he pulls me into a warm embrace. From what I did see, his eye makeup had the same patterns, and his shirt and slacks, while less luxurious, followed the same colour pattern. The district one chariot leaves, and we quickly get ourselves into position. Just as three takes off Finnick comes up to us, standing on my side of the chariot.

“You look beautiful.” Is all he says before our ride starts to move, and I have no time to ponder over his abnormal sincerity in his tone when the doors open and I am suddenly in the view of thousands.

We glide through the path, and people are actually cheering for us. I understand why, my dress was nothing short of marvelous. I’d have to thank Dara later. I look into the giant TV screen and realise, as the wind brushes past us, it actually looks like the waves on my gown are moving, rising and crashing just like the ones at home. As beautiful as it is I quickly feel homesick, and  even sicker when I realise I never will see home again. I squeeze Emery’s hand even tighter, and he gives me a small smile, one he always uses to comfort me.

As I see his smile I am transported back, back to when I saw my sister cut to death on screen. We were watching together, and he very quickly held me in his arms. He never let go. Even hours later when I had no tears left to cry, and his shirt was wet from my sorrow, he still held onto me. And I held onto him as if he were my life line, because in that moment, he was. As frail as he was, he still managed to pick me up and carry me to my bed. Holding me and comforting me as I cried myself to sleep. And when the sun woke me up the next morning, he was still there, giving me that exact same smile, telling me how strong I am, how brave I am. And that was the day I fell in love with Emery Jones. 

 He is going home, he is going home for me.

All too quickly, we are whisked away into the training centre. I am again embraced by Sona, and then gushed at by our prep teams. I turn to look at Emery, finally taking the time to take him in. Even though he is skinny, he has always looked good. And not in a ‘you’re my best friend and probably the love-of-my-life so I have to think you look good’ type of way but in a he is objectively attractive way. His dark hair is silky and his green eyes are neither too big nor too small. He has a sharp jawline and symmetrical face, and his nose is naturally the shape that people get plastic surgery for. My view of him is suddenly obstructed when Finnick steps in front of me. 

“Good job, princess.” That is all he says, but I can’t help but wonder, he is technically Emery’s mentor, so why isn’t Finnick paying as much attention to him as he is to me? Whatever the case, I hope it doesn’t affect sponsorships in the arena. 

As we enter the elevator that takes us to our floor, I can’t help but gawk as I look through the crystal windows, shiny and tall buildings scape over as far as my eyes can see. Finnick chuckles, but I pay him no mind. Sona tells us about how she was talking to potential sponsors about us, apparently what she said was that ‘We come from the ocean, just like pearls. And just like pearls we shine.’ Finnick whispers to me saying that she stole that line from her cousin Effie, who uses it every year for the tributes in district 12. I laugh slightly - and I berate myself for showing Finnick an ounce of comradery - but still, how the hell did Effie get pearls from a coal mining district?

My laugh is short lived when I see Emery glaring at us, a hostility in his eyes that is rare to see. Sona pushes her white curls from her face as she leads us around our floor. I enter my quarters, and after getting changed and removing my makeup, I lie down to get some peace, and again I am disturbed by a knock. Do people have nowhere else to be? Reluctantly getting up, I open the door, curious to see the intruder.  Not even a day ago I would have automatically assumed it to be Emery, but recently we haven’t been talking much. Though I open the door, and there he stands, barging in. The hell?

But before I can say anything, Emery, for the first time in our lives, talks to me with venom in his voice. 

“What’s your deal? I thought you hated him? So why are you guys so chummy now?”

Huh? Finnick and I are chummy? From context I can tell that’s who he’s talking about, but God only knows what he’s talking about. My confused expression only seemed to aggravate him more.

“You’re supposed to be by my side! Not his!”

And just like that I snap.

“By your side? The only reason I’m here is because I’m by your side! If I wasn’t ‘by your side’ I would be at home right now safe and with my mother. I willingly signed up to my own slaughter to stay by your side! But no! I laughed with Finnick once and oh my lord, I sat next to him on the couch! So I must have abandoned you completely for him!” Emery's eyes widen, and his angry demeanor calms down. I sigh. Fighting is going to get us nowhere, and I understand why he attacked me. We’re about to get sent off to our deaths, and the last thing either of us want is to be alone. 

“I’m sorry Em.” My hands cover my face. “I understand how you feel, how isolating this entire situation is. But, Finnick… he means nothing to me. More than nothing, you know how much I resent him. I am with you. Forever and always.”

Emery looks at the door for a second, but quickly looks back at me. He apologises to me too, whispering my name as he steps closer to me.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that… I just can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Any anger that I had left dissipates. He smiles and looks at me.

“Remember when Finnick won the 65th? How you went on an endless spiral about how it should have been him that was killed and not your sister.”

I don’t know why he chose to bring this up, but I nod.

“I agree with what you said, that your sister should have won. Finnick only lived because enough sponsors wanted to fuck him.”

I close my eyes, he is right. Finnick lived and my sister died. She made it to the top three, but Finnick was gifted a copiously expensive trident from sponsors, rope as well, which he wove into nets, using it to trap the other tributes. She found herself in one of those nets, and while Finnick wasn’t the one to kill her, it was his nets that left her like a sitting duck for that district one boy to come along and slit her throat. Finnick killed him shortly after (and by doing so won the games) but the damage was already done. Finnick Odair is the reason why my sister is dead. I may have momentarily forgotten it, but it is still true. 

“Do you think so?” Emery says.

“Yes. Finnick should have died. I wish he did”

---

It takes about two seconds after I step foot on the train for Finnick to get on my nerves.

“Hello Sweetheart, pretty dress.” He says while eyeing me up and down, no doubt wearing the same face he uses to charm his customers. I never understood why he seemed so content on going back to the Capital every other month. Was he a whore? Or just a slut? Did he sleep with his admirers for fun? Or for money? Considering how much wealth he has just by winning the games, it's most likely the former. One could argue he may do it to distract from all the lives he took in the games. I wonder if my sister won, would she have done the same? No. I don’t think so.

I muster up as much hatred in my stare as I possibly can before turning away from him to examine the train. From what I know my district is one of the wealthier districts, but this train was still nicer than anywhere I’ve ever been. My stomach churns as I realise this was most likely the very same train that took my sister to her death. I try not to think about it too much.

Hadley Deadwood, victor of the 61st hunger games, and my mentor, lays on the couch with one hand over her eyes and the other hand holding onto a glass containing a brown substance. Undoubtedly alcoholic. It wasn’t uncommon for victors to drink after they win, the worst drinker is from district twelve. His name is Haymitch, I think. I don’t blame them though, having to fight to the death and then send off children to live through exactly what they did - if they live - it's not exactly a fun way to spend your life. I swallow; if Emery wins, would the same happen to him? I could never imagine him turning to liquor to face his problems, but what other choice would he have? 

Looking at Hadley, I realize that there is no way she will be able to mentor me, she can’t even stay sober for more than ten minutes. Mags, a much older victor, probably would have been better for me, but currently she is in hospital due to a stroke. Oh well, my goal is for Emery to win, not me. And as annoying as I find Finnick I must admit he will definitely help him. Sona leads me to my eccentrically lavish room, apparently I’m free to do what I want until supper in the next hour. I lay on top of my bed sheets, gold and blue and as soft as the clouds. I close my eyes, and realise for the first time in my life, the air isn’t tainted with the smell of fish and sea salt. It’s unsettling, I don’t like it. But I am only given a few moments of thought before I hear a knock on my door. 

Emery enters. He does nothing but stare at me and vice versa. His overgrown dark hair falls over his face, his stylists will probably cut it later. I move my attention away from his face and into his eyes. I feel myself getting lost in their green. Reality only regains my attention when I hear his voice speak my name.

“Why did you… why did you volunteer Yin?” Yin… a nickname given to me by his mother, who once remarked that Emery and I were “as close as yin and yang!”. 

“You know why,” I pause for a moment before continuing, “You wouldn’t survive a day in those games without me. You’re too good for it.”

“You shouldn’t have volunteered.”

“Well I did, I volunteered to save your life. So make sure I didn’t do it in vain.”

I know that's not fair to him, to tell him that if he were to die I would have died for nothing, but it’s true. And in any case, I need him to do the best he can to survive, I need him to learn to kill.

For the next few moments Emery and I say little words. For the first time in my five years of knowing Em, I feel a sense of animosity between us, almost as if he were mad at me for trying to save his life. He leaves and I get changed, choosing to wear a simple yellow sundress. I decide to head to supper a few minutes late, not wanting to leave my room. When I do I then have to face the reality of my situation. I have to face the woman that took my sister, the man that lived instead of her, the drunk whom my life depends on, and the boy whose life depends on me.

When I finally find myself seated at the table, I look around for Hadley. She’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hadley’s taking a nap.” Sona says, sensing the reason for my wandering gaze. 

“Of course she is, how am I ever supposed to survive if my mentor can’t even stay conscious half the time?” I mumble quietly under my breath, not quiet enough apparently, because Finnick quickly replies to me.

“I have offered to mentor you instead.”

“Why?”  

That came out more malicious than intended… I wonder why he would do that, it makes no sense. All it does is give him double the work, and what benefit is there to helping me? Still, it is probably in my best interest to at least try to be cordial at this moment.

“...thank you.” It is the best I can do in this moment, my tone isn’t friendly, but at least it’s ambiguous enough to hide how I really feel.

“No problem, Sweetheart.” He winks at me and gives that Capital winning grin. I hear Sona sigh next to me, and I feel like punching him. He’s not helping me just to sleep with me, is he? Even for him that seems a bit low. I push the thought away, deciding that if he does try anything I’ll simply kick him where the sun don’t shine. The Capital has rules against hurting other tributes, but they don’t say anything about mentors.

“Don’t call her that, she’s not your sweetheart.” Emery says with a surprisingly firm tone in his voice.

“Ah I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Finnick replies, but the smile on his face says otherwise. “I’m guessing she’s your… girlfriend?”

Emery blushes a bit, before looking back down at the table, his meek demeanor quickly returning. “No, she’s just my friend. We’re going to do this together, as friends.”

“Well how lovely is that? I can already see it now! You two holding hands and making friendship bracelets in the arena.” He laughs.

“Enough of that! What can we do to stay alive?” I finally interject. 

“Pulverise your enemies with the magic of friendship.”

I groan and as he brings a glass up to his lips I knock it out of his hands, it shatters on the floor. “That is swarovski!” Sona finally speaks up. We all ignore her.

“Fine, princess, you really want to know how to survive in the arena? Never trust your friends.”

I can’t reply, because I know what Finnick is saying is true. Instead, we collectively eat in silence. On my plate is a sort of meat stew with broccoli and a side of mashed potatoes. Emery has shoveled a far bigger serving than I have, and although I know it’s due to his past lack of nutrients, I decide it's good to do the same. You never know how much food you’ll get when you enter the arena. One year the arena was completely ice, and no food was available. But chances are the game makers wouldn’t make that mistake again, it was completely anticlimactic apart from the boy that thought it would be a fun idea to eat people. He was quickly killed by an avalanche.

“It’s called Lamb, good right?” Finnick chuckles seeing my face as I stuff myself. Though I glare at him, I have to admit, the food does taste good. It’s nice to eat something other than seafood for a change. My mother and I were decently well off, but still there was never any point in wasting money on luxurious food when fish and homegrown vegetables were nutrient enough. I get a second helping, and I want to get a third, but I decide it’s probably not the best idea to vomit onto my plate. I wonder if Finnick would stop flirting with me if I aim for his white shirt instead? Probably, but I would probably also lose my only competent mentor, so I decide to put down my fork. Sona tells us we are expected to arrive at the Capital at nine am tomorrow. Most tributes will arrive sometime in the afternoon, district twelve being last. From what I’ve heard it can be up to a twenty four hour trip from twelve to the Capital. We, on the other hand, are substantially closer. Though I can’t tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

After supper I choose to take a shower, and when I get out I see the light outside my windows getting dimmer. Again, I choose to stay in my room, I don’t even want to see Emery at this moment. But alas, I hear a knock on my door. “Just a minute, Em!” I say as I take off my towel and quickly throw on the first set of pajamas I find. 

Rushing to open the door, I am surprised to be greeted by someone far taller than Emery, I look up and see Finnick staring back down at me. Somehow up into this moment I have never realised how tall he is. In all honesty I don’t like it, Emery being barely taller than me makes me feel safer, whereas Finnick staggering over me is just unsettling. Another point to add to the list of things I don’t like about him. I muse to myself. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” He says in his calm, flirtatious, obnoxious, tone of voice. Matched with an equally arrogant smile. He probably heard me call him Em, nonetheless, I am still curious as to why he is standing at my door.

“Why are you here?” His grin grows wider.

“Well good to see you too.” He enters the room as if it were his. “I came to ask you about your strategy for the games, how you present yourself can be the key between winning or starving somewhere in a ditch.” He talks to me as if I’m a little kid that needs calming down, as if he wasn’t only two years older than me. But I should probably trust him, I mean he did win his games seemingly with ease and quite frankly, he’s all I got.

“Winning is not my goal, my goal is surviving long enough until Emery and I are the last ones standing, then I’ll simply kill myself and let him go home.”

And for a split second, though I may have been imagining it, his perfect facade drops. Though his face contorts itself back into that annoyingly calm composure just as quickly.

“Nonetheless, to last that long you still need a good strategy, are you any good with a trident?”

I shake my head, not too long after my dad drowned they moved me from fishing to preparing the fish. At the time I wasn’t sure why, sure I developed a fear of the water but that never stopped them from forcing other children into the harbor. Not that I had any complaints.

I think back to a moment, a week after his death and a week before my role was changed.

There was a storm, so there was no one out fishing. I found myself on the edge of a cliff, it wasn’t high enough to kill me, but the beach and the water were all below me. My mom is a very superstitious person, she believed that the place of your death is the area where your soul will be resting for eternity. And there, right below me, was where my dads soul was resting. And I thought maybe, just maybe, that if I drowned in the same ocean as him, I could be with him again. So before I even realised it I was falling. Falling then crashing then sinking then dying. 

I must have hit my head on a rock at some point, because the next thing I remember was waking up on the coastline. And then I ran, ran to Emery’s house. At first I assumed someone must have pulled me out and onto the shore, but when no one spoke up I figured it must have been some sweetly cruel act of God. Taking away everything I have and then pushing me away when I wanted it back. 

But in any case, no one knew about my failed attempt, so when they changed my role I figured it must have been a coincidence, but after that day, I never swam again.

“No, my job is preparing the fish, but I am good with a knife because of it.” I finally let out after snapping back to reality.

“Good, knives are cheaper and more common. During training I want you to focus on knife combat and especially knife throwing. It's better than trying to learn a whole new skill in just a week and it will allow you to do well in both hand to hand combat and distance fighting.” Finnick says, and for once he actually sounds serious. I simply nod in return.

“Anyways, about your image,” he continues, “Your volunteering to be with Emery has already put you in the spotlight. I suggest you focus on that, but not to the point where they know you plan to kill yourself in the end. People are not going to sponsor a tribute that has no plans on winning. Talk about how lucky you are to be here, and how you can’t wait to go on this adventure with your boyfriend.”

I cringe, lucky to be here? Boyfriend?

“But were not-”

“It doesn’t matter if you two aren’t actually dating. The capital wants someone to root for, and they are suckers for romance. Trust me I know.” As he says that last sentence, I almost hear pain laced in his voice. But brush off that idea quickly, it makes no sense.

---

Everything is always blue, too blue. No matter how far I run, blue always follows me, a gentle taunting that never gives up. In 4th grade art class they taught us the colour theory behind blue. That it was supposed to be a colour of calm, symbolising serenity and freedom. Ironic, really, when all it ever seems to do is remind me of how really trapped I am.

Blue is the colour of the clothes they wore, when they took her.

Blue is the colour of the endless horizon, the one that took him.

I won’t let blue take me. I refuse it.

“You alright?” My eyes turn to meet the source of that voice, and I am met with green in return. Green is good, green is safe.

Emery blinks and I break eye contact, instead opting to face my shoes instead. 

“How could I be?” I respond, a dry sense of humour lacing my voice. 

“Fair.” Is all he could say. But it's normal, no one is alright. Not today at least. Because today is the day of the reaping.

I have already gotten ready, my mother put me in a white flowy dress. It used to belong to my sister, Cornelia. It hurts to wear, the soft fabric burns against my skin as I try my best not to think about it. 

Unwrapping an afternoon tea, I give the majority to Emery, he needs it more than me. Emery’s siblings are too young to work, and his mother is restricted to a wheelchair, making Emery the sole provider of his family. The result of which is evident, where on most people there is muscle from fishing, on him there is only bone. I don’t have a swimmers body either, while I technically know how to swim I haven’t touched the water since my fathers death. A fishing incident, not even his aquatic skills could save him.

“Thank you, really” Emery says my name, and I know his gratitude is genuine. But really, I should be the one thanking him. When my sister died in the games, he was there, by my side. When my father was taken by the ocean, he was there, listening to my cries. Emery saved my life, and for that, I owe him everything.

“Don’t worry about it,” I put on a smile to the best of my abilities. “We’ll have more after the reaping.” 

“Mhm,” he nods while stuffing his face. It would be amusing if it weren’t so sad. “We’ll be alright. And in two years time we’ll be safe.”

I nod, but I know it isn’t true. My dad’s reaping days were far behind him, yet he wasn’t safe.

Emery and I make our way from the beach side to the town square, the giant clock adorning the Justice Building reads quarter to four. ‘May the odds ever be in your favour’ is what Emery whispers as he squeezes my hand, before walking off to the boys section. I am ushered to the area for girls aged sixteen.

Dahlia Lain - if I can remember her name correctly - is on my right. I don’t know much about her, but I know her brother used to shove Emery into lockers at school before I threw a rock at him, hard. I look to the girl to my left. Her brunette curls and brown eyes are unfamiliar to me, but she looks scared. Her dark skin barely hides her bones, I’m guessing she had to take out tesserae, the most likely cause for the fear on her face. I hope her name isn’t called. It doesn’t look like she would last long.

Sona, our escort, welcomes us to the 69th hunger games, wishing the odds to ever be in our favour. I hate her, now more than ever. She is wearing a different dress than the one she wore to the 65th, but the shade of blue is still the same. The same blue she wore when she called my sister's name. Pain washes over my body as I think back to that moment. I was twelve, I was eligible. I should have volunteered when Cornelia’s name was called. Sure, a twelve year old girl stands far less of a chance of surviving than a fifteen year old. But what did age get my sister? The man she lost to was fourteen anyways. I look up to stare at his face, he sits on the stage so casually, as if he had not a care in the world. The pain in my skin turns to anger and I feel my breath shorten. It should have been my sister that won, not him. She stood a chance, a real chance. She too was from district four, she had his same skill set, but it was his face - his annoyingly perfect face - that was the cause of his victory. 

I hate him. He didn’t directly kill my sister, but that didn't matter.

I hate Finnick Odair.

Before I even realise Sona has the paper in her hands. I wonder if there are going to be volunteers, in district one and two, volunteering almost always occurs. In district four however, volunteering is a bit more scarce, but still not uncommon. I don’t realise how scared I am until she opens the paper.

 ‘what if it's me?’ 

“Nala Wenlock”

Relief floods over my body, and I barely register the girl on my left slowly walking to the front. Her trembling physique was upsetting, yes, but better her than me. Though my repose was short lived, because the next name called out makes my knees buckle and my hands shake.

“Emery Jones”

‘What?’ This wasn't supposed to happen, he didn’t have to take out tesserae, I made sure of it, I fed him as much as possible.

Dahlia catches me and as I see her face I think back to her brother, and how vulnerable Emery is. He is kind, it was that very kindness that saved my life, but I know that in the end it will be his kindness that will kill him. Even if he manages to hold a weapon to another tribute, with his skinny physique there would be no chance of Emery overpowering him. 

No, I can’t let him go in alone.

He needs me.

I need him.

I didn’t volunteer for my sister, but I won’t make that same mistake again. 

“I volunteer!” I scream running towards the stage. 

“I volunteer in place of Nala Wenlock!” Sona looks in shock, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a female tribute volunteer after the male name was called.

‘It can’t be too late, please don’t let it be too late.’

She looks to the mayor, who gives a subtle nod.

“Okay then,” she smiles, “How joyful, what is your name?” she says as she helps me onto the stage, and as I tell her my name, I see the look of relief, and gratitude as Nala steps down from the stage. 

“Are you perhaps a friend of Nala?” She says happily. 

“Emery, I’m a friend of Emery.” friends. That's technically what you would call it. As much as I wish for something more, we are just friends. But I still can’t seem to regret my decision as I stand on this stage. Not as a myriad of solemn clapping fills my ear, not as I make eye contact with my mother. Standing in the crowd, face of terror tainting her beauty. She will be alright, she is one of the best healers in the district, she doesn’t need me to take care of her. She will be just fine. Emery on the other hand, Emery needs me. He saved me, and it is my turn to save him. 

Not being able to look at her anymore, I turn my head, and my eyes land on Finnick, and for the first time since his games, I see his perfect features not in a state of calm, but instead one of shock, and maybe even… sadness? No, he doesn’t know me. He has no reason to pity me. I dismiss the idea quickly and turn to shake Emery’s hand. He gives it a light squeeze, and I can see in his eyes he is scared. I am too, but I am ready. Ready to do whatever it takes to save him. 

We are quickly led inside the Justice Building, but I don’t register any of it. I am only pulled back into reality when I see my mother standing in front of me.

“Please tell me you’ll try to win”

“Mom… I…”

“Please. I’ve already lost your father, I’ve already lost your sister to these rancid games, I can’t lose you too.”

I rise from the soft, horridly blue, couch. Arms enveloping her before I even realise it. “You are strong, mom, you will be okay.” Her trembling arms wrap around me. 

“But you will try to win?”

“Yes.” It's a lie, a horrid lie, but at this moment it's all I can say. All I can do to comfort her as she cries into my shoulder.

“You are so brave, so kind, my beautiful girl.” Is all she can whisper before the peacekeepers tell her time is up. Her sobs echo down the hallway and echo in my mind, even after she is well gone. I expect her to be my only visit, but Cynthia, Emery’s mother, comes through my door. As she rolls closer to me I get onto my knees to be the same height as her. 

“I won’t let him die. I’ll do everything I can.” We have never talked much, but she has the same kindness in her heart as her son, and as her frigid hand takes mine, I can’t help the tears that form in my eyes. “Thank you,” she says as her own eyes flood with tears, “Even if he doesn’t survive, it is a blessing to know he won’t die alone. Thank you.”

I can’t say anything at risk of everything coming out, all at once. I can’t cry, they will film as I board the train and even if I manage to stop by then my eyes would be red and puffy. So instead, I hug her, and I hope it is enough. 

Finally, and least expected of all, Nala enters the room. She must know I didn't volunteer for her, right?

“You saved my life, I know it wasn’t for me, but still you saved my life.” She whispers, before continuing. 

“I do not know you, but I will forever be grateful.”

I can’t say anything, but apparently I don’t need to. Instead she takes my hand, and in it, she places a necklace. 

I look at it, and I feel my stomach drop. Based on her slender frame and old dress, I can tell she probably does not have a lot of nice things. So why is she giving me this? This sapphire necklace? It couldn’t have been cheap. 

Suddenly, even though I don’t know her, I care for her. That has always been my weakness, Emery’s is kindness and mine is caring. It doesn’t matter anyways, and at this moment I can’t find myself to hate the blue of this pendant. 

“I hope you wear this, into the arena. You’re allowed one token from home.”

I thank her, and allow her to put it around my neck before hugging her. I find myself to be happy almost, happy that I am the one being sent to my death and not her.