somniath estuary

It all feels awfully vague as you watch the screen, eyes caught on the writhing mass that encircles Lucy Gray. The rainbow of snakes blends with the rainbow tulle of her dress. You can hardly look away. 

Her voice floats through the mics, surprisingly smooth considering the relatively poor audio quality. The entire room is hushed listening to Lucy Gray sing. Except Clemmie, she looks on edge. Even you’re captivated. Distantly, belatedly, you realize that she is perfectly fine. The snakes are not attacking her. You can’t even begin to imagine why, but it clicks that this won’t kill Snow’s songbird. 

It’s irritating. 

Death by mystery snakes likely isn’t the nicest way to go, it certainly doesn’t look pretty on the cameras, but that hardly matters in the grand scheme of things. Does it? As long as it’s not Treech on the end of the fangs, you don’t think you particularly care. 

You take a moment to look over at Snow, to see how he’s reacting to this. His eyes are wide, and he looks pleasantly surprised yet incredibly smug. Like he knew this was always going to happen. Lucy Gray continues to sing. She had that snake back in district twelve she dropped down another girl's dress, so maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Her singing..it must be calming them down,” Snow says as a few cameras swivel to catch his reaction to his tribute. He glances around them like he’s nervous. Maybe he’s worried that the snakes will suddenly turn on Lucy Gray. Wouldn’t that be a sight; she misses a note and her snakes suddenly begin to restrict her. 

“She can’t sing forever,” Festus clicks his tongue. He’s standing. You don’t know when he had stood up. He’s right, if she stops singing, will she die? Festus obviously wants that. If he can’t win, then no one should. That has always been his sentiment, and in a way, you suppose you can’t blame him. 

Snow’s jaw tightens like he is keenly aware of that fact. No doubt that he is, desperately hoping that Lucy Gray’s voice will last as long as she needs it to. As her song seems to settle thickly around everyone in the room, you realize that people are crying. You catch sight of Persephone dabbing at her eyes. 

The cameras are focused entirely on Lucy Gray and her shifting skirt of snakes. You can’t tell what expression is on her face. Anger, maybe. Her voice shakes with it. Dr. Gaul must be displeased. 

Dr. Gaul. 

You turn your head suddenly to search for her in the crowd of spectators. You find Dr. Gaul watching the screen with a harsh expression, lips pressed into a thin line as she tries to persuade the snakes to attack Lucy Gray with only her mind. It wouldn’t exactly be surprising if Dr. Gaul was able to speak to her snakes telepathically. Or implemented some weird form of mind control. 

You watch as her gaze slides from the screen and Lucy Gray to Snow. There’s something shifty in her eyes, as if her mind is running a mile a minute while completely stagnating with anger. To have her creation that was meant to end the games being used by some district girl? It must be a crushing ego blow. All of the snakes in the arena seem to flock around Lucy Gray.

Snow has the misfortune of catching her ire, all because of how his tribute acts. It crosses your mind briefly, that he may have had something to do with the snakes listening to Lucy Gray, but you write it off almost immediately. What could he have done? Personally gone to the snakes and politely asked them to leave the girl in a rainbow skirt alone? Yeah, right. 

You leave Snow to face Dr. Gaul’s considering glare and look back at the screen. Lucy Gray’s song appears to be coming to an end, and she stares up at the camera with an expression you can only call righteous anger. Fascinating. 

It bothers you a bit that you can’t see Treech. He isn’t the focus, and if anything had happened, the camera likely would have at least zoomed out to capture it, but it bothers you all the same. Festus says something you don’t catch, murmured and sharp. For being Snow’s best friend, he’s praying awfully hard for Snow's downfall. It’s funny. 

There’s a somber hush as Lucy Gray’s song finishes with a reaching crescendo. 

“Right here in the old therebefore, when nothing is left anymore.” 

It’s moving. You have to admit that as the snakes stir gently around her. She hums at them like one would coo at a baby, and the snakes seem to relax further. The mentors and spectators alike seem to relax with the snakes, realizing that for the moment, Lucy Gray is going to be okay. 

Her last note rings through the auditorium. You glance back at Dr. Gaul. She stares at the back of Snow’s head for a long moment. Her eye twitches. You wonder distantly if Snow has just managed to become her new experiment. You don’t like him by any means of the word, but you aren’t sure anyone particularly deserves Dr. Gaul. 

Whatever. 

Flickerman looks spellbound too, eyes a bit glazed over as the cameras swivel to record him. He startles upon seeing his own face on one of the screens, snapping back with a cough. He blinks one more time before he assumes a wide smile and gestures to Dr. Gaul.

“Well, Head Gamemaker, take…a…bow!” 

Dr. Gaul’s face is stern as everyone looks back at her. “Thank you,” she allows with a nod of her head. “But the focus today should be not on me, but on Felix Ravinstill and Gaius Breen. Perhaps his classmates might share some remembrances with us.” That is all she says before she turns on her heel and marches out. 

You stifle a groan. You had hoped that you were finished offering eulogies for your dead classmates. Perhaps your luck is particularly bad because a camera and mic is pressed to you first, not giving you a moment to think about what you want to say. 

Smiling for the camera, but making sure to maintain a sad look, you decide on the spot to tell a short story of when Felix and Gaius were both running late to class and then tripped over each other in the doorway, sending Highbottom to the floor with them. That has to be enough, right? It humanizes and sympathizes with them to the audience, highlighting the tragedy that their lives have been cut short. 

The cameras take it and bound off to pester Festus, who takes it with considerably less grace, clearly disgruntled. You watch as the camera pans back out as Teslee carefully scrambles down the pole and lands on the ground with a quiet puff of dirt. She’s gone in seconds, running back behind the barricade. Your boy, Mizzen, and Reaper watch Lucy Gray as she hums to her new pets.

 By the time the cameras reach Snow, he’s the last one to speak. With your eyes on the screen, you listen to Snow weaving some story of heroics and retribution, no doubt trying to one up everyone else. Prick. 

“We could never let the death of such a stellar youth of the Capitol go without repercussions. When hit, we hit back twice as hard, just as Dr. Gaul has mentioned in the past,” Snow says. You want to throw something at him. The cameraman tries to turn the conversation to Lucy Gray, but Snow only waves him off. “She’s remarkable. But Dr. Gaul is right. This moment belongs to Gaius. Let’s save Lucy Gray for tomorrow.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Snow’s little speech concludes the thirty minutes of remembrance for Felix and Gaius, and with a mild pang, you listen as Flickerman bids adieu to Festus and Io. Urban looks elated to see him go. 

Festus slaps his desk with a good natured sigh, one you doubt is authentic but appearances are everything. You offer him a high five as he goes to leave. “See you later,” you say as he hits your hand with more force than is probably necessary. 

“Yeah, good luck,” Festus glances at Persephone almost hopefully. She only smiles at him before she turns her back. He sighs. “We should all get dinner after this is over.” There’s an edge to his voice, and you think that perhaps you would rather not, but you agree all the same. 

Snow captures Festus in a hug before he can leave, and you must say it is a bit surprising. Snow looks surprised himself. You decide to leave them to it and focus back on the screen. Treech sits on the scoreboard, legs swinging as he stares at the snakes surrounding Lucy Gray. Lucy Gray continues to hum at the mass of snakes. It makes your skin crawl a bit at the idea of their scales sliding over your skin. 

By the time steak dinners are rolled out for the final five mentors and the rest of the student body and spectators have gone home, you can see a storm rolling in above the arena. Flickerman confirms this, being the weatherman. It’s supposed to bring a quick nightfall, dark clouds already in the sky. 

Snow, Persephone, and Urban pair off to eat, so you approach Clemmie. You would rather not have to converse with the others right now either. Clemmie stares at you for a long moment before she gestures for you to sit down. A question gnaws at the back of your mind. 

“The snakes were a surprise, weren’t they?” You ask as you pick up your knife. Clemmie makes an irritated noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. 

“I hated it. The snakes.” 

You refrain from telling her you could tell, with her shout and all. She hardly moved a muscle as Lucy Gray had sung, and it wasn’t out of the same captivation that had everyone else. Frankly, you had never realized that Clemmie was afraid of snakes. Wary, sure, but most people with a bone of self-preservation in their body were cautious around the things. You’re not sure how you had ever missed it. 

“I can’t wait for this to be over.” Clemmie stabs her steak, and that is that. 

Back in your seat, you’re a bit bored watching the dark clouds roll over the arena. It’s far quieter without Festus, the buzzing static of the screens and cameras filling the room. Lucy Gray looks up at the sky as thunder crackles distantly. Vaguely, you hope that the later lightning won’t strike inside the arena. It’s bad enough that Treech is high off the ground on a thin beam that’s about to be drenched, he doesn’t need to have lightning strike him. 

You watch as Treech gets comfy on the scoreboard, Mizzen having hauled himself up to a better position and strapped himself to the beam. As dark as it is, you can hardly see his expression. Some traitorous part of your mind wishes that you could hold his face in your hands and just stare at him, a proof that he’s alive and okay. With any luck, he will be okay. There are five tributes left. 

There are five tributes left and he is one of the strongest remaining in the arena. Strength isn’t always everything. You feel slight nausea building in your stomach as you think about it. Lucy Gray disappears into the tunnels, taking the snakes with her. Reaper sits atop the press box and stares at the bodies on the ground. Your limbs feel heavy. 

Hands slam on your desk, startling you awake. An undignified yelp leaves your lips as you begin to process what has happened. You blink up into the face of Festus. Maybe this is a nightmare. Festus grins, and you frown. “Good morning,” he teases, dropping an egg sandwich and an apple in front of you. You sigh. Not a nightmare, apparently. This must be how Urban felt. 

“What are you doing here?” You stretch your arms above your head, looking around Festus to peer at the screens. The arena looks damp, and you can’t believe you fell asleep. There’s no new bodies though. Well, besides the snakes floating dead in puddles of water. Drowned, or perhaps not engineered to survive the night. 

You look back at Festus. Is he just here to make a nuisance of himself?

“What, no ‘thank you, Festus my savior?’” He leans back, pointedly looking down at the breakfast he brought. You glance around, noting the other mentors and their gifts from Festus.

“I’ll thank your mother next time I see her,” you reply flatly, tiredly. Festus flaps his hand. 

“It was my idea.”

You give in. “Fine. Thank you,” you roll your eyes as you reach for the egg sandwich. He can decide whether or not it’s good natured. Evidently, he decides it is, laughing and moseying back off to Snow. You watch him leave, not missing how Snow and Clemmie are back to their usual selves. No longer dancing around each other, that is.

You frown as you unwrap the paper. What had you missed?

Pausing as you set your sandwich on the paper and finish blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you reach for your communipad. Overnight, more donations had appeared in Treech’s support. You look at him again through the screen. He’s soggy. It would be cute if it wasn’t for the circumstances. 

As students begin to file in to watch another day of this game dragged out, drones fly into the arena carrying food for Treech. Clemmie’s for Reaper appear moments later. The drones heading toward Treech manage to shakily land on the scoreboard. Clemmie clicks her tongue as Reaper once again brushes off what he has been sent. You can’t even begin to guess at why. 

Treech brushes his hair back before he eats, pulling the soaked curls off his forehead and away from his face. Your breath feels caught in your throat. 

You watch with mild fascination as Reaper climbs down from his perch, completely ignoring Treech and Mizzen as he kneels to scoop water from one of the puddles without a dead snake in it. He drinks hungrily, as if there are no clean bottles of water waiting for him. After a moment, he stands up with his back to the two boys above him, and begins to collect bodies. 

His dedication is admirable as he collects Coral and Circ, laying them down under the torn flag of Panem. The cameras don’t hesitate to show a close up shot of either of the dead tributes, showing off their bloating skin and dizzying rainbow wounds. You don’t think you’d be able to touch them, let alone with the same care that Reaper gives them as he tucks the flag around them. 

Neither Treech nor Mizzen engage him, wary and either put off by his eccentric behavior or by the possibility of stray snakes. You wonder about the snakes too. Their bodies litter the arena, twisted up multicolors, but there are less floating dead than there were snakes that had been dropped into the arena. 

Reaper finished adding to and cleaning up his morgue uninterrupted. He climbs back up to the press box and settles down among the rubble. Treech continues to swing his feet idly. Mizzen alternates between staring up at the sky and at Reaper’s morgue. After a while, he mimes eating. Persephone obliges him immediately, fingers tapping on the communipad.

You’ve finished eating by the time there’s any change on the screen. Treech shifts slightly first, watching past the barricade, alerting you to a new arrival seconds before the cameras switch to reveal Teslee. Her face is pinched in concentration as she drags a drone with her, setting up just beneath Mizzen. You can’t tell what exactly is different about the drone, but it looks altered in some way. 

“Does she think that will fly?” You ask dubiously. “Even if it does, how can she control it?” Urban, previously frowning at the screen, sits forward suddenly as if something just clicked for him. 

“She wouldn’t have to. She wouldn’t need to if — But how did she . . .” He trails off, trying to puzzle something out. You frown and look back at the screen, trying to catch his train of thought. You blink as Teslee flips a switch and raises her arms to launch the drone into the air. The wires she was messing with earlier. 

As it ascends, it reveals a cable that tethers it to her wrist. Clever. The drone flies in a circle below Mizzen, and Mizzen watches it in unbridled confusion. A new drone appears, flying low towards him, distracting Mizzen as his food from Persephone arrives. It drops something, bread, you think, before flying off and suddenly swiveling around a few yards from Mizzen. 

He reflexively swats at it as it comes back to deliver a non-existent parcel. The drone repeats this again. You blink curiously. How did Teslee manage to do that? Teslee stares up at Mizzen with a grim determination. 

“What’s wrong with that drone?” Persephone asks after a moment. Her fingers are pressed to her lips. Urban shakes his head, and she sighs in frustration. Two more drones appear, depositing their gifts but attempting repeat deliveries. They begin to bump into each other and Mizzen, and slowly, you realize what Teslee is attempting to do. 

“Is there any way for me to contact the Gamemakers? I mean, I sent three more!” Persephone says as the tail of one of the drones lashes Mizzen across the eye. She wrings her hands nervously, not taking her eyes off the screens. 

“There’s nothing they can do,” Urban shakes his head in amusement, clearly having figured out Teslee’s angle. “She found a way to hack them. She’s blocked their homing direction, so his face is their only destination.” It’s clever, what she has done.

Persephone’s expression tightens. 

As the other three drones arrive, they malfunction in the same fashion. While it was funny at first, a second utilization of the drones as a weapon, it quickly takes a deadly turn as the drones bump against Mizzen. While not programmed to attack him, they bounce off each other and ricochet against him, swarming him like flies.   With his trident left on the ground, Mizzen grips his knife and attempts to push them back. Futile, bouncing off his blade and sending them right back at his face. It must feel unpleasant. Treech is just barely visible in the background as the cameras focus on Mizzen and Teslee. His gaze is unreadable, but he’s frowning slightly. 

You wonder if he was hoping that Mizzen would be killed in a place he couldn’t see it. 

Mizzen’s motions begin to get frantic as he unbelts himself and tries to get down, groping his way to the pole he left Teslee to earlier. His knee, injured as it is, isn’t cooperating though. The tension in the room is palpable. Or maybe it’s excitement. Mizzen wobbles, and then he falls. 

Persephone gasps, hand over her mouth.

The sickening crack of his neck on impact is picked up in full quality by the microphones. Flickerman makes a face as the cameras zoom in on his crumpled form. “Ouch.” 

“Oh!” Persephone exclaims as he hits the ground. “Oh, she killed him!” There’s a look of nauseous horror on her face. You squint at the screen, at Teslee. 

“She’s smarter than she looks,” you say slowly. Able to change the drones with access to so little is quite the feat. Or maybe it’s not, you’re not a mechanic. 

“Do not judge a book by its cover.” Urban chuckles as he taps some gifts into his communipad. “Especially if it belongs to me.” You sigh at his glee, considering who Treech has to go up against now. 

The camera pans out again, and you almost gasp at the realization that Treech is no longer at the press box. It takes you a moment to locate him as he drops to the ground as if he appeared out of thin air and makes a leap into the air, his ax in hand. Teslee has barely taken a step when the blade connects with her skull, splitting her open. It’s gruesome as she drops to the ground and your boy follows after, leaning his hands on his knees as he huffs with exertion. 

You think it’s exertion, anyway. Maybe it’s anger. You can’t tell. 

He sits down on the ground next to her, watching the blood ooze into the dirt. Parts of her brain float out with it. Persephone gags. Treech watches Teslee’s corpse for a moment longer as the drones that Urban sent for her begin to arrive. Urban just stares.

He leans forward, yanking his ax out of her head and splattering the ground with viscera. Blood drips down his hands and his shirt as he methodically collects the dropped food meant for Teslee. With one last look at the blood in the dirt, Mizzen, and a stare at Reaper, Treech tucks his ax into his belt and disappears behind the barricade. You make the mental note that his hands look much better; nearly completely healed. 

You almost laugh in delight, despite the morbidity. Three tributes are left, and Treech just killed one of them. He even has more food. You wonder if he killed her as revenge or if she was just an easy target. In the end, it doesn’t matter. You’re thrilled. Despite the blood and the two actively cooling bodies, you’re thrilled. 

You try not to think about what Treech winning means; he’ll be gone. 

Urban covers his moment of disbelief with disgust and rises to go. He shoots you a glare as if you personally instructed Treech to kill Teslee. Urban is not able to escape an eager microphone, though, and barely manages not to snarl as he speaks into it. “That’s it for me. Laugh a minute, wasn’t it?” Then he walks off, leaving Persephone to expand on her regrets and her gratitude for the opportunity to be a mentor. You bite back a smile as dread pools in your stomach. 

“You made the top five!” One of Flickerman’s camera crew beams at Persephone. “No one can ever take that away from you.”

“No,” she says somewhat dubiously. “No, that’s the kind of thing that sticks.” She walks off after that, seeming a little dazed. Festus pats her shoulder as she makes her way to the spectator seating. 

You look at Clemmie and Snow. 

“Just us, I guess,” Snow smiles. On a whim, he decides it’s a good idea to have you three arrange your chairs in a row. You can almost stomach it as others clear away the seats of the defeated until Snow sits down in the middle, and you have to resign yourself to the rest of the games next to him instead of Clemmie.    Sitting down, you look back at the screens. Teslee and Mizzen have red crosses through their icons, leaving only Lucy Gray, Reaper, and Treech on the scoreboard. All three of them have received an influx more of donations as people begin to hedge their last bets on the remaining three tributes.

Perhaps this is the final day. You hope it is; you have had enough. At this rate, you just want to leave. Snow looks antsy too, but that could be for any number of reasons. You look around, realizing the absence of Flickerman. 

“Where is the weatherman?” You whisper, leaning slightly to Snow so he can hear you. “Do you think he’s bringing another bird?” Snow exhales a quiet laugh, glancing up at the pet bird of Flickerman’s that is still bobbing around in the rafters. 

“Maybe he is bringing us a congratulatory cake, it’s not every day someone makes it to the top three,” he says. You’re sure Snow would like it if he’s brought cake. He won’t eat the whole slice he’s given though, he never does. 

“If it’s a boring vanilla, I’m shoving his face in it,” Clemmie says primly and with all the intent to do so. That could be interesting live entertainment, at least. You crane your head to look for Festus. If that is the case, he won’t want to miss it. You find him in the sea of red uniforms leaning a little too close to Persephone. Nevermind, you hope he misses it. 

A moment later, Flickerman reappears with an awful hat, five sparkles stuck inside of it. He’s going to light himself on fire while broadcasting to the entirety of Panem. “Hello, Panem!” Flickerman waves, pointing up at his hat like anyone could miss it. “Had this hat done especially for the final five, but they’ve been sending off their own sparks!” He pulls two sparklers out of the hat and hurls them over his shoulder blindly. One of the camera crew just barely steps out of the way of it, avoiding a burn across the face. “Final three, anybody?”

One of the sparklers fizzles out on the floor, but the second sets a curtain to smoke, eliciting a high-pitched yipping sound and panicked footwork from Flickerman. Honestly, who lets him do this? A crew member runs on-screen with a fire extinguisher to handle the crisis, allowing Flickerman to regain his composure. As his three remaining hat sparklers die, the number for sponsors and gamblers begin flashing at the bottom of the screen. Flickerman turns to look at it with an imitation of surprised delight. “Whoowee! The betting’s getting hot and heavy! Do not miss out on the fun!”

“I’d rather the cake,” Clemmie shakes her head before looking back at her pinging communipad. “Lot of good this does me, he doesn’t trust me enough to eat anything I send him.” She sighs, pressing a button to send something else into the arena for Reaper. Snow’s fingers twitch like he wants to do the same, but Lucy Gray is down in the tunnels somewhere with her snakes. 

The screen focuses on the above ground portion of the arena as Reaper climbs down once again. At the same time, the cameras approach Snow once again for his thoughts on Lucy Gray and her performance. Graciously, he moves to stand a bit off to the side so he doesn’t keep the cameras and mics pressed right against you and Clemmie. 

You hear Snow speak, and his voice grates on you. “I feel a great injustice may have occurred by her being not just in the reaping, but in District Twelve at all. People will need to judge for themselves. If you agree with me, or even suspect I might be right, you know what to do.” His communipad pings with his speech, donations pouring in for his songbird. You make the decision to tune him out. 

Reaper looks gaunt, the evidence of not accepting what Clemmie has sent him clear in the pallor of his skin and the unsteadiness of his feet as he makes his way over to Teslee and Mizzen. As the camera zooms in again, you can see the sheen of sweat on Reaper’s brow. Is something wrong with him? Refusing even water at this stage seems foolhardy–as if he has some sort of death wish. Maybe he does. Either way, it certainly seems like he’s going to starve to death.

Methodically, he picks Mizzen up, hooking an arm underneath his knees and walking across the arena to deposit his body under the flag of Panem. The angle of his neck has you closing your eyes briefly.

Teslee’s body is handled with a bit more carefulness, Reaper no doubt trying to avoid splattering his clothes in blood. It doesn’t work out the way he wants, hands coated red. He wipes them off on the flag, and no one can seem to decide if it was an act of sacrilege or something to be excused as he stares up at the camera. You hardly know, yourself. 

Blood stains the dirt where Teslee had been slain, a large pool with bits of bone and brain. 

Reaper climbs back up to the press box, skin covered in dust, and turns his back to the cameras. The sun is high in the sky, and vultures rest on the beams high up above the arena. There is one long sweeping shot of the upper arena, Reaper and his morgue, and the dead snakes. 

At the sight of the snakes, you realize Dr. Gaul has yet to return. 

“Where is Dr. Gaul?” You find yourself asking, more out of want to say something than a desire to truly know where she has squirreled herself off to. Panem would probably be better if she decided to leave the continent, whatever lies outside of it. 

Snow shakes his head wordlessly. There is an undercurrent of unease on his face, and you’re not sure why. You’d like to dig it out of him, but that would be impolite. You are in public and on camera, after all. Perhaps the mere mention of Dr. Gaul makes him uncomfortable. It would make sense, she makes everyone tense, but lately he’s been spending more time around her than anyone else. By choice, at that. 

“Hell, hopefully,” Clemmie says flatly. Her tone reminds you of Arachne. You silently agree.

Snow smiles faintly. “What if the microphones catch that?” 

Clemmie makes a face, pure distaste visible. There is a rebuttal on the tip of her tongue, one that she swallows as if it’s bitter. Instead, she shakes her head and the whole subject drops. You drum your fingers on your desk, grateful that the wounds have healed almost entirely over. 

The cameras linger on the morgue for a long moment, and you think you can almost make out Teslee’s blood seeping through the flag. The scene cuts to the tunnels, and a delighted type of nerves wash over you as the camera focuses on Treech. 

He has blood on his face, smeared as if he’s tried to wipe it off with the back of his hand. It’s a terrible feeling to watch him and know that there is absolutely nothing you can do. You can send him food, but at a certain point, what good does that do him when he’s trapped with two others who want to get out just as much as he does. 

You don’t know for sure if Clemmie is actively hoping Treech dies, she had gone into this whole thing under the impression that Snow was going to win. He still might. Snow, you know, is praying to whatever will listen to him that everyone and everything in that arena except Lucy Gray suddenly drops dead. 

You go back to picking at your sleeve, taking care to not bounce your leg. 

There’s dried blood on your boy’s hands and clothes, his ax bloody and staining his shirt where it rests against his belt. You can’t look away. Also tucked into his belt are the food parcels he had taken when they arrived for Teslee. In the brief glimpses you can catch before the camera rotates itself, you can see the markings on the tunnel walls that he is following. 

It is clearly a map, everyone has figured that out by this point, but no one has been able to figure it out exactly. In a few years, there is going to be someone who sat down to watch this recording over and over to figure out the exact configuration of symbols and what they mean. It will probably be superimposed over a map of the underground tunnels of the arena before the war, too. 

He’s bloody, but he’s alive. It isn’t his blood, which is a bonus. You don’t react for the cameras, only pointing them back to the screens. They remind you of vultures. Flickerman bounces on the balls of his feet as he watches the live feed. You continue to pick at your sleeve. 

You’re not sure where he is going, not sure if anyone is or if he even knows himself, seeming to be walking deeper into the tunnels beneath the arena. You recognize a few of the tunnels, recalling the pack moving through them. After a few minutes of this and ignoring the way Snow discreetly side-eyes you, two of the gamemakers who sit at the front say something to Flickerman. 

The camera shifts, and you bite back a frustrated groan. You don’t particularly care what anyone else is up to at the moment unless it is confirmation that Reaper or Lucy Gray is dead. It is not confirmation, unfortunately, and Snow shifts in his seat as Lucy Gray sneaks back onto the scene. Reaper pays her no mind, having turned back around at some point, but he’s asleep. He looks asleep, anyway. 

It sets you a bit on edge, not being able to see Treech, but you reason that everything must be fine. The only opponents left are both above ground. Well, minus the snakes, but since Lucy Gray is lacking her living dress, you hope that means that the snakes are dead. Dead, or vanished off somewhere upon being recalled by Dr. Gaul. 

The hem of Lucy Gray’s dress is caked in mud as she makes her way into the light of the arena. Snow doesn’t hesitate as he leans forward and orders what has to be a dozen drones. You glance at him, watching the firm press of his lips. He’s desperate. 

In the arena, Lucy Gray crosses to the puddle Reaper has been drinking from, kneeling down to scoop water into her hands. She drinks before splashing water on her face and combing out her hair with her fingers. The drones Snow ordered begin their descent into the arena, but Lucy Gray does not look up as she takes a water bottle out of her skirt and fills it up with water from the puddle. 

There is a quiet murmur as she shakes the water around in the bottle. The reason she does so you do not know, it just seems like extra unnecessary work. As the first drone lands in front of her, Lucy Gray smiles. She pours the water back out into the puddle and discards the old bottle, reaching for the new one with eager hands. 

Snow, for reasons that are beyond you, looks almost pained. You could ask him if he is alright, but you would rather continue to watch Lucy Gray. Lucy Gray gathers the gifts in her skirt, looking up at Reaper in the stands. She rises to her feet and hurries over to his morgue, lifting the edge of the flag. 

“What is she doing?” Clemmie leans forward slightly. Lucy Gray’s lips move. 

“She’s trying to figure out who’s left in the Games,” Snow says. A microphone is shoved into his face. He does not manage to cover his slight grimace in time as the end of it hits his cheek. 

“Maybe we should put it up on the scoreboard,” the man holding the microphone says. He laughs at the idea. It’s not a bad idea, actually. 

“I’m sure the tributes would find that helpful,” Snow nods. “Seriously, that’s a good idea.” The cameraman shrugs. The microphone is pulled away. Clemmie pushes her hair back over her shoulder.

Lucy Gray whips her head to the side, eyes widening at something unseen. She drops the flag, what has been collected in her skirt falling to the dirt as she turns on her heel and bolts. There can only be one reason–Treech. Out of consideration for Snow, you don’t smile. Really, you have been very magnanimous lately. Clemmie drops back into her seat. 

The camera turns to reveal what Lucy Gray had heard that the audience could not. Sure enough, Treech swings out from behind the barricade. Just a bit ago he had been deep under the arena, how had he made it to the surface so quickly? You’re not complaining, it’s just a little surprising. The tunnels must be more interconnected than you had thought. 

Treech catches Lucy Gray’s wrist as she passes under a beam. Lucy Gray twists around, dropping to her knees and trying to pull away as Treech lifts his ax covered in blood. You can feel your heart pounding. Snow must be about to throw up. 

“No!” Coriolanus jumps to his feet, pushing the cameras aside. “Lucy Gray!” 

Clemmie stands up with him, reaching for his arm. He must be utterly distraught if he’s not using his camera face. You’re captivated by the scene in front of you, all but ignoring Snow and pressing your fingers to your lips. If Treech kills Lucy Gray, there are only two left. Reaper seems out of it, so he shouldn’t be difficult to kill. Morbid, but honest. 

As the ax begins to fall, Lucy Gray manages to struggle out of his grip just enough to get out of the way of the swinging blade. There was too much force behind it to redirect it accurately, but Treech tries anyway, adjusting his hold with two hands and slamming the ax between Lucy Gray’s feet. 

There’s pure terror in her eyes as Treech lifts his ax again, a sharp look on his face made worse by the blood. Lucy Gray scrambled back, getting to her feet and twisting just in time for Treech to bring his ax down again. He just barely misses her chest. 

You clasp your hands together, the image of Reaper descending from the stands to do to Treech what Treech had done to Teslee flashing in your mind. Snow’s jaw is clenched tightly. You almost wonder why he doesn’t try and send more drones again, but you won’t jinx it. Your fingers hurt with the force you’re squeezing them together, heart caught in your throat and loud enough you’re sure that Snow can hear it.

Lucy Gray runs. She’s gone into the tunnels in a flash of rainbow frills and brown hair, Treech right behind her. The cameras follow them down, Lucy Gray stumbling over the rubble in her haste to get away. Treech doesn’t hesitate as he swings his ax again. Lucy Gray ducks, and the metal clangs off the tunnel walls loud enough to be picked up by the poor audio. 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you watch as Clemmie guides Snow back down to his seat. His fists are white knuckled under the desk. You almost find it in you to feel a bit bad for him. Almost. It doesn’t matter, if you win he’s still going to be getting the money, you’ll just be able to gloat about it. 

You watch on the edge of your seat as Lucy Gray runs through the tunnels, heels reverberating in the abandoned halls. She manages to lose Treech for a moment, ducking behind a tunnel before Treech has her running again. The spectators around you cheer or groan with every escape of Lucy Gray. Vaguely, you wonder if the path he’s trying to corral her down leads back up to the surface. He’s cut off a few of her exits, but of course, he is trying to kill her. 

The camera splits into two for the first time, showing the upper arena and the tunnels. Have they just been able to do that the whole time? Figures. 

Your attention is caught in half as you register the scene in the main part of the arena. Reaper, staggering from his puddle of water. He clutches at his throat, dropping to his knees. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Clemmie’s perfectly manicured nails dig into the wood of her desk. 

There is no explanation as Reaper crawls to his morgue. 

“Is he trying to bury himself?” Flickerman’s voice resounds as he bounds around in the front of the room. He smooths back his hair and stares up at the screens. Juxtaposed with Treech’s attempts on Lucy Gray, it feels like a prewar slasher movie. The end credits are clearly about to roll. The room buzzes. 

Reaper manages to lay down next to his makeshift morgue, flag of Panem in his shaking hands before he goes limp. You squint as cheering erupts at his apparent death. Reaper does not twitch. His death doesn’t seem in line with starvation, but you also missed the first half. Exhaustion and hunger may have simply caught up with him. 

Cameras swivel on Clemmie, and she does not try and argue like Hilarius had that her tribute is still alive. You leave her to it; she isn’t going to leave the hall just yet. She probably isn’t even going to leave Snow’s side yet. Not until either Lucy Gray or Treech die–and that will be soon. 

The camera flips back to one screen as Lucy Gray is forced back into the sunlight. She looks like a cornered animal as Treech bears down on her again. She doesn’t notice Reaper as she looks around, hair whipping against her face in her panic. There is nowhere left to run. 

Your eyes catch on Dr. Gaul striding to the front of the room, a wide smile on her face. That is disconcerting, but you let it pass as you look back to Treech. Lucy Gray and Treech huff with exertion, but neither of them stop. Treech swings his ax towards Lucy Gray’s head, and by some unfortunate miracle, she ducks. 

Nails dig into your skin from the tightness of your hands. 

Lucy Gray reaches into her skirt hastily, and you almost gasp in horror as she pulls out a writhing snake. There is no way. Distantly, you register that Flickerman pulls the cameras towards him, Dr. Gaul at his side. 

“We have our victors!” Flickerman announces with unfettered glee in his voice. Probably because it is over. Your ears ring at his proclamation, Dr. Gaul standing next to him with her arms crossed behind her back and a sharp smile stuck on her face. She stares directly at you and Snow, and it sets your nerves alight while allowing dread to pool in your stomach. 

In the arena, Flickerman’s voice booms all the same. “Stop, stop!” 

Treech redirects his ax again, this time aiming away from Lucy Gray. There is unfettered confusion on his face as the blade buries into the dirt. His eyes widen at the snake. Lucy Gray drops to her knees, the snake falling from her fingers as she stares up at Treech. There is a distant look in both of their eyes as they look towards the speakers. 

You sigh in relief, despite the confusion you feel. Two victors, so soon after Dr. Gaul had said no victors? What is she playing? A glance at Snow shows the same confusion on his face, though he runs a hand through his hair as he melts into his seat. You slowly loosen your fingers, the chatter around you rising as people lobby questions into the air. 

Clemmie presses her fingers into Snow’s shoulder as Dr. Gaul stares at the three of you unblinkingly. 

How are they going to do the Plinth Prize? It’s no fun if they cut it in half, that means Snow will have half instead of nothing. Unless they still go by best performance? Unlikely, but Dean HIghbottom doesn’t like Snow so perhaps he will fight to not let him have a dime. 

It doesn’t matter at the moment. You’re more concerned about Treech and what Dr. Gaul intends. Lucy Gray and Treech separated themselves in your confusion, breathing heavily and eyes locked as if worried the other will decide what Flickerman said means nothing and they should go back to trying to kill each other. Lucy Gray looks the most afraid of this, but Treech keeps looking at the snake curling around her wrist. 

Dr. Gaul raises her hand in the front of the room, and the silence is immediate. Highbottom is visible off to the side. You swallow. “Due to the uniqueness of this year's Hunger Games, there will be two victors,” Dr. Gaul says with a smile of all teeth. “A tenth annual should be unique, no? There were many surprises this year,” she looks right at Snow as she says that. 

You glance at him, curious what that could possibly mean. Snow, for his part, looks like he might faint. 

“Congratulations to our winners, y/n and Coriolanus Snow!” Flickerman announces to applause. 

The screens cut out, and you are caught in a wave of cheering red uniforms that suddenly swarm.

It is a bit like a sea of blood, the shifting crimson uniforms that rise and thrum all around you. You clasp so many hands, so many smiles, and so many cameras directed your way. Overwhelming isn’t the right word for it. The main screen has gone black, camera in the arena cut. 

Snow was swept away in the elation. Distantly, you think you will have to check in on him. A morbid curiosity on why he appeared so terrified. There is also the blanket of unease that rests over you alone as Dr. Gaul’s expression sticks in your mind.

Clemmie grasps your hands, eyes on yours. She is grinning, but it doesn’t feel quite real. Like she is annoyed you won. She knew she was never going to win in the first place, not after her absence during the showing period. The explanation was never satisfactory. 

Festus appears suddenly, a careless hand on your shoulder as he pats you a little too hard. “Congratulations, what is it like to be the winner so high above us all?” 

You smile as you look at him. His gaze isn’t on you, scanning the crowd instead. No doubt looking for Snow. “It feels fantastic.” The words aren’t quite the truth, but what else can you say? 

“Hah. I’m sure. Have you seen Coryo?” Festus doesn’t spend much longer aiding in your gloating. You’re almost glad, mind caught on your boy and the arena. And the blood. Clemmie shakes her head so you don’t have to answer.

“No idea, I had thought he was with you.” 

Festus frowns slightly. “I thought he was celebrating with the other victor,” he nudges you as he says it. You shake your head. 

“I haven’t seen him.” 

Clicking his tongue, Festus drops his hand. “He’s always running off. I’m going to look for him.” 

“Good luck,” you say, because it is polite. You don’t really care. Festus is gone a moment later, sinking back into the red waves. You look back at Clemmie, and wish Lyssie were here. Clemmie shakes her head as she watches Festus leave. 

“They’re attached, and I don’t think Coryo even realizes it.” 

Her words are the only thing you can really hear in the constant rising buzz. Hands brush against you, people vying for your attention. You won, after all. You want to get out of here, but you know you can’t leave just yet.

You laugh at her statement. “No, I don’t think he has. He runs like a dog.” 

“And Festus chases like he means to leash him.” Clemmie’s words are fond, but with an edge of bitter distaste. You don’t think anything of it. Everyone’s words here are always a bit bitter. A simple byproduct of the war. Clemmie changes the topic, eyes scanning the bustling bodies. She looks like she might be searching for an exit as well. “He wants to have us all over for dinner. Tomorrow, he said.” 

“Yes, he did say that,” you agree. “Lyssie, Coryo, and us? Or did he say anything about anyone else?” 

“That should be it,” Clemmie begins to pull on you, half dragging towards an exit. Your gaze lingers on the black screens that reflect the throng of bodies. Unsurprisingly, the red doesn’t reflect properly. 

All you really want to do is find someone who knows where Treech is. You saved him, and you know that is likely the best you are going to get, but still. Still. You want to see him. Proof of life outside of the screens. 

“Should we look for Festus and Coryo?” You ask as she expertly weaves through the crowd. Clemmie shakes her head. 

“No, they will survive. I am going to Lyssie’s, you’re coming.” Her words leave no room for argument. Before you can say anything, not that you quite know what you want to respond–whether you want to stay or go–Highbottom is in front of the both of you. Clemmie does not bother to hide her irritation. 

“I am afraid that I will be stealing y/n from you, Ms. Dovecote,” Highbottom stares up at the both of you with piercing eyes, but he is narrowed in on you. “Victor business,” he smiles knowingly. It is vague and irritating and the way he says it makes you uneasy. On edge, more like. 

Clemmie drops your hand. “Be quick,” she crosses her arms. 

You promise to try, and as you’re led away and out of the main room, you can’t help but hope, a faint flickering feeling, that this may be an opportunity to see Treech again. Every step, on the flip side, does feel like a gavel echoing in the silent hall. It is an almost dizzying feeling to go from the crowded elation that drowns you to the dead quiet with Highbottom’s back to you. 

You go back to picking at your sleeve. The beginning of fraying threads roll between your fingers, the silence almost oppressive, questions bouncing around in your mind. Dr. Gaul, the Plinth Prize, Treech. The beating heart in your chest strums at a double time. 

Dean Highbottom leads you to his office, a box already waiting on his desk. Wouldn’t it be funny if it had snakes? The kind engineered by Dr. Gaul. Nothing is funny actually. Your mind goes back to what she had said about surprises while looking at Snow. He must have done something, that is the only conclusion to make, but what? A good thing, or a bad thing? Those two things could be reversed, this is Dr. Gaul. 

Highbottom clearing his throat snaps you out of it. You drop your sleeve. Beady eyes are trained on yours. “Sit,” he insists, pointing at the chair. It looks like it just barely survived the war. You’re resistant to the idea, but this is an opportunity to ask about Treech. 

With reluctance, you sit down. The chair creaks. Highbottom sits down at his desk, simply staring. You resist the urge to snap at him. He steeples his fingers, chin resting on them in silence. There is a distant worry that he may be able to hear the way your heart pounds unceremoniously in your chest. 

“Congratulations on your win, it was quite a unique game, was it not?” He asks eventually, voice soft, like he’s digging. You smile. 

“Indeed, Dr. Gaul was very creative.” You are not sure what he is looking for, but you don’t intend to give him anything. You aren’t guilty of anything, not anything severe enough for what is clearly an interrogation, anyway. Everyone knows that Dr. Gaul and Highbottom are not exactly amicable. 

“Two winners is unheard of,” he continues, almost irritated. It feels like a small victory amidst the buzzing under your skin. “Do you know why this year is special?” 

Clearly, something is wrong. Under the table, you pick at your sleeve again. You wonder if this has anything to do with the pseudo-map Treech and the pack were making, but quickly discard it. If one of the higher ups found it to be a violation, not that there are many violations you can make in an essentially lawless death match, Dr. Gaul could have simply sent something to wipe either the map or the tributes out. 

“It’s the tenth anniversary,” you answer. That is the obvious answer. Dr. Gaul said the tenth was special. You want to get out of here. The final scene in the arena keeps playing back in your mind. 

A diverted ax swing and a glittering manufactured snake. 

Dean Highbottom just stares at you, a blank reaction. For some reason, you almost want to ask where Snow is. Surely if this is a victor conversation, then he should be present too. 

“It is funny that the snakes never attacked Lucy Gray, no?” He says, deceptively soft, and it dawns on you that this may be a divide and conquer strategy. That if anyone was going to survive the arena, it was not supposed to be Lucy Gray. That was why Dr. Gaul had looked at Snow like that; he is suspected. But how could he have cheated? 

As much as you might like to throw Snow to the lions, something stops you. You aren’t friends, but you hesitate in placing a blame on him that you yourself aren’t even sure what you are accusing him of. Being an incredibly irritating person and good liar? Absolutely, but that isn’t cheating. 

“I believe it surprised us all when his songbird started to sing,” you deflect slightly. “She mesmerized the Capitol, and she mesmerized Dr. Gaul’s creatures. Do you think she may be invited back next year? To sing, that is.” 

Highbottom does not respond for a long moment. “Was Coriolanus acting off this week?” 

Was he acting guilty, he means. Because Snow is always acting off. Because he is a freak. Snow is always acting a little off though, so there is a plausible deniability. You do consider selling him out for a moment, because would he do the same? In the end, you find out you may be a better person than you thought. You hope Snow dies for making you defend him. 

“No, I haven’t noticed anything off at all. He’s been as he always is.” 

It’s the truth as much as it isn’t. Highbottom doesn’t react, no indicator whether he knows that or not. 

“Has something happened?” You decide to bite the bullet and ask. Clemmie is still waiting out in the auditorium. You wonder if Festus ever found Snow, or if he was purposefully separated. You know you aren’t going to get a proper answer out of him. 

“You like that district seven boy,” Highbottom says. It isn’t quite an accusation, but it is discomfiting to hear aloud. From Highbottom of all people. The whiplash is also a slap in the face. 

You stare, stunned into silence for a moment. “I’m sorry?” 

“He is already on the train back to seven,” Highbottom continues on, as if this isn’t a confusing and wild jump of topics. His words land heavily. Treech is gone. Not dead, but certainly gone. You are careful to school your face as he watches you. “And your dear friend Coriolanus is taking a…much needed vacation.” 

Why is he telling you this? What happened to Snow? His wording does seem like a dig at you. You ignore it. 

“What do you mean?” You decide to ask. Vaguely, you don’t think Festus is going to find Snow. He probably hasn’t given up just yet. 

Highbottom shifts, unclasping his fingers and resting a hand on the box in front of him, finally acknowledging it. “He has gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble.” He shakes his head knowingly, almost smiling, almost displeased. “You’re clever, we all know that. Coriolanus knows that. And now you’re a loose end.”

His words are confusing, alluding to something that you have yet to fully grasp. Snow must have cheated. How is this a concern to you? You get all of the prize money? Big deal, you’re going to give it to him anyway. Not out of kindness, but it makes no difference. 

The ‘loose end’ comment is what gets you. Picking like the way your fingers unconsciously always pick at your sleeves. 

“I am afraid I don’t follow,” you reply carefully. It seems as if Highbottom means to imply that Snow will kill you. Will kill you for something you don’t yet know. His actions unknown to you have put you at risk? But what did he do? 

Highbottom does not respond immediately. He calmly opens up the little box, the smooth wood shining in the light. He procures five slips of paper, wordlessly sliding them across the table. He never does things conventionally, and in your confusion, you have it in you to be irritated by his lack of explanations and presumed knowledge. 

You glance down, recognizing the two train tickets, before looking back up in abstract confusion. Is this like…the ‘vacation’ is on? You hesitate a moment, not quite willing to see any more, but pick the papers up. They have that lingering heat, as if they just came off the printer no more than half an hour ago. 

The Capitol works fast, for sure. 

There are two train tickets. One to district four, and one to district seven. They feel very small compared to the death certificate. In fact, you would go so far to say they don’t matter as you look at your own name neatly printed on the dotted line for the deceased. Pronounced dead at the scene. 

It is all very surreal, the schooled expression on your face slipping as you look back at Highbottom. This is a very odd way to receive an execution order. Is that what this is? Proof of documents while you get killed for something Snow did? How cruelly ironic. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Your voice is bordering the edge of lost, heart strumming and blood felt as it rushes just beneath the skin. Highbottom is impassive. 

“Keep reading.” 

There isn’t really another choice, so you do. 

You died in a rail accident one day from now on the train to district four. At 10:21 in the morning, you were pronounced dead at the scene. The train ticket to district four departed at 9:00, hardly an hour and half before. 

It is disquieting. 

There are two more papers clipped together, and the ticket to seven. 

If the first paper didn’t take your breath away, this one certainly does. A birth certificate for someone who is not you, yet matches every attribute. Except your birthday, of course. It has been changed to an innocuous 23rd of May, at 7:03 in the morning. You can’t miss the place of birth either; district ten.

The second, the one just behind it, is a hospital staff transfer. All of your credits are listed, and it informs you of a transfer from the Capitol medical bay to district seven

You almost laugh in disbelief. Are you meant to disappear? You set the documents down in front of you calmly despite the pounding of your heart. Was this the sort of vacation Highbottom meant for Snow? “What is the meaning of this?”

Highbottom smiles. If you don’t know any better, you would almost call it pitying. 

“I have seen your first aid work,” Highbottom says like nothing is wrong and your death certificate isn’t mocking you from the table. “District seven is full of accidents, and always short on medics.”

There aren’t nearly enough words to say what you want to him.

You can’t quite bring up your parents as an argument, because you know you wouldn’t miss them. You hardly see them anyway. You hardly have it in you to have any real excitement that you’re going to your boy’s district.

“What is the meaning of this?” You demand. You, going to the districts to live? Not funny. Highbottom shakes his head again. 

“The less you know, the better.”

He says it like an apology and an assurance. Something gentle and heavy handed. It only makes you angry.

“You think Coryo is going to kill me? For what?” The words slip out before you have the chance to filter them into a better question. Highbottom only watches you. He steeples his fingers again. 

“You know Coriolanus. He can’t stand to leave something to chance.” 

His words are spoken softly, the way Highbottom always speaks, but it feels like he’s yelling as he states the obvious. Anyone who watches Snow for very long knows that about him. He’s paranoid in the way he acts, always scheming. 

“What about Lyssie?” You ask without thinking. You’re doing an awful lot of not thinking through your words. If you’re being sent away, will the others close to Snow be as well? Close used loosely, at least. 

“Lysistrata,” Highbottom says, letting her name hover for a moment. “I presume you also want to include Clemensia and Festus in your concerns?” You don’t respond to that, not immediately, but Highbottom is already moving on. “You are the other victor, how does Coriolanus think?” 

You do not appreciate what he is implying. You do not appreciate that you agree with the unsaid sentiment. There is a part of you that disagrees as well. Snow is not a killer. Terrible, sure, but he isn’t really a killer. He probably could, but would he? You frown. 

“This is ridiculous,” you go to stand up. To leave Dean Highbottom in his office alone with your forged death certificate.  

“Sit down,” Highbottom says almost immediately. It’s a sharp tone, one he so rarely uses, said before you were even really standing. You sink back down, worrying the edge of your sleeve. Stressed and confused and irritated. It is a dizzying feeling, lost in a mix of emotions that swirl violently. 

And, of course, the uncanny feeling of your own death laid out in front of you for a person that isn’t really you. Being removed from the Capitol so suddenly is another thing you can’t quite fathom. Your entire life is here. To move to the districts is…it is something. Something unpleasant. Everything dies in your throat.

“You will receive the Plinth Prize in full,” Highbottom informs you calmly. “You are taking a short vacation on the beach before you go to university,” Highbottom continues, and there is no room for argument. There is a vague sense of rising hysteria that you ignore. “Someone will meet you at the station. Start saying your goodbyes.” 

It is clearly a dismissal. The ticket to district seven reads a boarding time of 9:00 a.m. You stare at him for a long moment, left with more questions than answers. Highbottom raises a brow, daring you to argue. There is much to say, and you leave it all unsaid. 

“You’ll be taken care of, you are a Capitol child,” Highbottom says as the door thuds shut behind you. Reassuring, in a way. His words sounded almost bitter. You want to kick his door in.

In the hall, Clemmie is waiting for you with her arms crossed. Festus is nowhere to be found. 

“That took forever, what did he even want?” 

You smile automatically. “I’m not sure actually, I think he’s wasted. It was supposed to be a congratulations, I think.” 

Clemmie clicks her tongue. “Always high as a kite. Come on, Lyssie is waiting.” 

You swallow. There is an odd sense of comfort yet a crushing melancholy in knowing that this is literally the last time you’re going to see any of them. “And Festus?” 

“Left a while ago. Still looking for Snow.” 

He isn’t going to find him. Instead, you nod your head with a hum of acknowledgement. The colors and hum of Clemmie’s voice on the walk to Lyssie’s place fades into a sort of background blur. 

The rest of the night doesn’t feel quite real. You can’t get Snow’s face as Dr. Gaul looked at him out of your head, and it is gnawing at you, what he might have done. Treech’s face doesn’t leave your mind either, covered in blood and grim determination. You don’t care very much about what happened to Lucy Gray. 

Lyssie greets you with a hug and a congratulations. Out of her and Clemmie, Lyssie means it more. The three of you sit on the floor of Lyssie’s room, talking idly. The topic of the games are avoided. Her fluffy cat weaves into your lap, and a voice that isn’t yours calmly informs them that you intend to head to the beach for a few days. You wave off the suddenness of it. 

It’s all a blur, really. It is paired with the horrors of dissatisfaction. 

You call Festus before you go to bed. He hasn’t been able to find Snow, and his cousin apparently had not seen him either. You do not like Snow, but it is just bordering the edge of unsettling to know that the last thing you will see of him is the look on his face when two victors were announced. Festus scorns your decision to go to the beach so soon, not even inviting any of them along. And when the phone line goes dead, it is with a quiet sort of finality. 

Begrudgingly, you pack a suitcase. You presume something is set up in district seven, but Highbottom was frustratingly vague and you’ve been thrown in the deep end with your arms cut off. The only nice thing is that you are going to be able to see Treech again, hopefully alive. 

Twisting rainbow snakes and a winding melody haunt your dreams, floating about your consciousness like a ghost. You wake in a cold sweat, the beginnings of sunrise peeking through the glass panes of your window, the blinds forgotten half open.

Fuzzy, yet incredibly dull and distant. That is how you feel. You spent all this time working on your image and now you’re being sent off to the districts. A part of you also doesn’t seem to care. It’s weird. 

Most of all, you’re just angry. At Highbottom and Snow. Highbottom for never explaining anything and just expecting you to go along with this–and on a level, you do hope he is waiting at the station to tell you it is all just a silly joke–and at Snow for getting you into a mess that isn’t even your fault. 

Yeah, that is the most frustrating part. Fuck Snow and his constant bullshit. 

The late July breeze is warm on your face, carding through your hair. The day is early, the Capitol barely awake yet. The quiet is calm, and as you look up at the sky, you think it might turn out alright. Or maybe not, every step towards the station sends a new wave of thrilling dread through your body.

There is the excitement, and there is also the feeling of preparing for one's own grave as you reach the platforms. You consider just turning around, but before you can, there is a hand on your shoulder and a train ticket being thrust into your palm, along with the paper you know instinctively to be the transfer certificate. 

You hardly have a moment to look at your chiron before you’re being pushed towards one of the trains, ceaseless like you have been caught up in the riptide. You should have asked Highbottom more questions, demanded answers rather than allowing a quietly detached departure. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but you watch through the window as someone who looks almost like you boards the train opposite the tracks–the one heading to district four. 

You huff, because maybe it hasn’t quite settled in yet. There is a gnawing feeling in your stomach. The train car is empty. You sit down and stare at these three new documents, the hospital transfer, the birth certificate, and the train ticket. It only makes you feel angry again, the countryside beginning to sweep past the windows. 

Vaguely, you wonder what the Capitol would say if this train derailed and killed you. Would you be buried in a district cemetery? Would your body be the one they put in the grave with your actual name on it? You suppose it doesn’t really matter. 

You thunk your head back on the window, and time passes with the news broadcast flickering on the small TV propped up at the end of the car. When you zone back in, it is to Lucretius Flickerman’s voice over a live feed of a derailed train. It is 10:30. Death was declared at 10:21. And then nothing matters much after that, because there is no backtrack. 

There is a small part of you that is delighted. Elated to get out and start somewhere new. The constant humming that works its way up your spine. The idea that you will be able to physically touch Treech and prove to yourself that he is alive outside of the arena. 

He does still have your handkerchief. 

Nothing matters at all until the train stops at district seven. You could smell the pine and heavy scent of bark before the doors even opened. Someone faceless, a Peacekeeper, helps you off the train after checking your papers. You think he has dark hair, the ink black kind. When they’re handed back, there is an extra envelope. 

Alone on the platform, your eyes flicker over the people. All district, clearly. You can see it in the way they hold themselves. A shocking amount of denim and plaids in one place. It really is like the stereotypical lumberjack picture. Some men load logs onto a cargo train. 

There is a calm sense of bone deep anxiety that worms its way into you, like beetles through rotting bark. You step off to the side to flip open the envelope. You’re unwilling to rummage through it just standing at the station, but you tip it slightly to peer inside. 

The visible documents appear to be a proof of residency, a bank account deed, and a list of addresses. Despite yourself, you laugh. Highbottom was efficient, you will give him that. You read the address on the proof of residency twice before you re-seal the envelope and drop it into your bag. 

Once you have somewhere a bit more private, you’ll spread the whole thing out. With any luck, Highbottom included his phone number so you can call him at odd hours and curse him out. That mental image is enough to ride the high of as you leave the station and begin to search out the street signs. 

District seven is both alike and vastly different to the Capitol. You can’t quite put it into words, but it all smells like wood. Not a single person looks your way with eyes that linger, and it is a bit strange to think about fitting in with district. 

You find the city square with little difficulty. The air feels better away from the trains. It isn’t Capitol air, it’s something else. It’s still fresh, almost sweet. In an odd way, you see Treech in it all. 

When you locate the address, a woman greets you. The residency document is exchanged for a key, something heavy and bronze, and you’re being ushered off. The lock sticks a little, and a quiet apartment style flat greets you. It’s furnished, clearly expecting.

Only when the door shuts behind you, does it all really start to sink in. You decide you can freak out after you figure out what else in this envelope. You dump it unceremoniously on the table, papers fluttering out. 

Birth certificate. Marked ticket. Hospital transfer. Bank deed. Paper of addresses written in Highbottoms scrawling handwriting. A diploma from some highschool you have never heard of. A certificate from the Capitol hospital. District seven hospital schedule, informing you that you’re supposed to start one week from today at 11:00 a.m. A smaller yellow envelope full of cash. 

You close your eyes for a moment. The speed Highbottom (and who else?) did this was impressive. Likely the fastest he’s ever done anything in his miserable life. Writing you into a new place to tie you off instead of keeping you in the Capitol. Like faking your death was the logical conclusion. How had everyone reacted to the news, anyway? It would be almost funny if you were sent the obituary. 

The next hour is spent pacing and rereading documents before you decide you should figure the area out. And figure out where Treech is. It can’t be that hard, right? Hunger Games victor that got back yesterday. 

You hope he was treated well on the train back. 

Putting the documents back in their envelope and dropping it all in a random drawer, you tuck the key into your pocket, along with some cash. The street bustles around you, and you’re immediately enveloped in the throng of it. It is shameless as you dip into the first storefront you see, the city square closer to the Capitol in literally everything compared to the rest of the district building off of it like a spiraling labyrinth.

Well, it is the same minus the public gallows. But maybe not, the dead tributes were paraded through the Capitol. 

You buy the first pastry your eyes fall on, something flaky and buttery. You chat with the owner in a hushed whisper-shout, informing him that you’ve just come from the Capitol, a traveling medic from ten, and wonder where you can see the new victor in person.

The conversation doesn’t reveal enough. The man is only tired as he tells you that the boy lives on the north side of the district. 

After a bit more asking around, bobbing through groups and people with a smile like you usually do, you narrow down a vague supposed schedule and the general area he lives. With literally nothing better to do, you decide to go explore the north side of the district. 

It smells more like pine. 

The time passes like dripping sap. You aren’t quite sure where the time goes. Your way of processing things; by not doing that. It’s whatever. As always. You get a decent grasp on the area, after walking the same path over and over. You must look mad, and it dawns in an instant that you have to start your reputation back from the scratch. 

You hate Snow and you hate Highbottom. You also hate Dr. Gaul, because you know that she is somehow involved in this, her slimy fingers running all over all of the good things in the world. Hate, loathing, extreme distaste, et cetera. Despise. 

On your umpteenth loop around the collection of neighborhoods, something funny happens, like the type of spark the universe gives you as an apology for making you miserable. The quiet sky shifts clouds around, and there is a calm breeze, cooler here than it is in the Capitol, and you almost don’t believe what you see. As if you hadn’t been wandering aimlessly with the hopes of seeing this exactly. 

You see the familiar hat first, still dusted in arena rubble, but firmly on top of a head of dark curls. He looks exactly the same as he did on the screens, if only a little less desperate. In person, up close, there is something different about his eyes. Like a wild prey animal. 

“Y/n,” he says, a little breathless, as if he is just as surprised to see you as you are to see him. There is an ax looped through his belt. Your heart pounds with a renewed vigor, a smile stretching your face before you can catch it. “I…what are you doing here?” 

“A terribly long and boring story,” you downplay it. “I’ll explain later, but I am here to stay, it seems.” You cross the last bit of distance to stand right in front of him, appraising. He doesn’t appear to have any new injuries. All of your previous irritations melt away by the simple fact that you can see him right in front of you, not worrying about who will try and spill his blood all over the dust of the arena. 

Point blank confusion passes through your boy’s expression, and you can’t blame him for it. You’re still confused. Dark eyes settle on yours, disbelieving. “You’re Capitol.” 

“Unfortunate, isn’t it?” You agree. “But not quite anymore. Let me explain in a bit,” you reach for his face in the same shameless way you did while acting as his mentor. You think it’s just the stunned surprise that keeps him still as you decide what exactly you should tell him when you aren’t standing in the street. 

“Did they treat you alright? On the train,” you tilt his head slightly, eyeing the arena injuries. You flick his hat up slightly, shifting the brim. He just stares in that same slightly blank expression that you have come to find endearing. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if he kills you? He is district, and now no one is stopping him. It’s just something that teeths on your spinal cord. 

“...I guess,” he says after a long moment. “No worse than they did on the way in.” 

You let go of his face, the answer unsatisfactory because of how much it leaves unsaid. 

“Heard someone was asking around about me,” he says after another pause. You smile, almost embarrassed, but you don’t care very much at all. He reaches into his jacket pocket, other hand pulling the brim of his hat back down because he’s annoying. A moment later, he’s holding a square of fabric that you recognize instantly. The handkerchief he was supposed to return once he got out of the arena. 

“This is yours,” he holds it out. “Not even bloody.” 

Surprisingly, apart from some dirt, it is missing the distinctive red-brown that dyed the arena and his hands. You take it back carefully, faintly amused. “My good luck token worked miracles.” Treech doesn’t respond to that, only watching you. A constant reappearance of the staring problem. You feel giddy as you fold it back up, the soft fabric brushing your fingers as you drop it back in your pocket like a stone. 

Looking into his eyes, again, there is the hunted animal expression. The type of wariness the last animals of the Capitol had during the war. The type of wariness that didn’t quite protect them more than it made them skittish. 

Congratulations don’t seem like the right thing to say, not for winning, so instead, you press your fingers into his cheek. He’s warm, alive and breathing. “Thank you for keeping it safe for me.”  Treech almost smiles. There’s a pause, a downbeat, before one of his hands loops around the back of your head, and you’re being pulled in for a kiss. 

You smile against his lips. It’s not as rough as the one pressed to your mouth between bars, but it’s just as firm. He tastes like how the current soft breeze smells. When you pull away, your heart is in your throat. You push his hat up again, and he, as always, just lets you. He doesn’t move to pull it back down over his eyes just yet. 

“You know,” you say, almost subdued. “I know you at your worst, scared and about to die, but I literally don’t even know your favorite color.” 

Treech blinks, and then he smiles. A real one. He shakes his head slightly, pulling you in again. This time his lips are softer, almost fond. The sky is pretty and everything feels nice, the sweet scent of pine and sap dancing in the wind, and just for a moment, you let yourself believe that everything will turn out fine. 

Things feel like they truly matter as you wrap an arm around his neck, uncaring of where you stand in the street. It has all ended, but you will be okay.

Your hand aches from where you just banged it on the desk. You’re not sure when you had fallen asleep, cheek cradled in the palm of your hand. Hand stinging from the sudden collision and having just barely caught your face from hitting the table, you glance around. It’s half to see who saw that, and half to see what time it is. 

The only person who looks to be awake is Urban, and he hasn’t so much as glanced in your direction. His attention is stuck on the screen, eyes glazed over. You squint. On second thought, he might be asleep. Who would have guessed Urban Canville slept with his eyes open. Whatever. 

The camera crew doesn’t appear to be awake either, slumped with their headsets on. Flickerman’s eye mask stares back at you, large and brightly colored eyes painted on the front of the fabric. 

It’s eerily silent, minus the hum of monitors. There’s not anything to distract you, either on screen or idle chatter around you. Apparently, it is 4:27 in the morning. There is nothing notable on the screens, only a wide view of the upper arena. Lamina can be seen asleep on her beam. Both around you and in the arena itself, nothing moves. Everything is still. 

Discomfiting, that’s the word for it. 

You re-adjust in your seat, blanket pooling in your lap. You know that if anything important happened on screen, the room would have woken up. There is the doubt though, an aura of uncertainty at the thought. Would you have woken up? Would anyone? You’re not sure which is worse, dying unseen or dying while everyone watches. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter; in the end it isn’t going to be you in the arena. What matters is if anything happened overnight. There will be a recap in a few hours, detailing anything important and other news for Panem before the focus will shift back to the games until the afternoon news. Again, courtesy of Lucretius Flickerman. 

In the silence, alone yet surrounded on all sides, there is a reckoning. You’ve been ignoring it for the most part, moving it to the side, but you can’t run forever. It would be nice if you could. In the back of your mind has been the constant buzz of nerves and Treech’s eyes. It’s cliche and embarrassing. More embarrassing that he’s district, but at least he’s pretty. Not a savage beast like the posters always said. 

(That is another thing, you weren’t fond of these games by any means, even if the district people were backwards and dirty. Now, sure some of them are mangy, but they don’t seem all bad. It isn’t like you can prove they aren’t violent, but what goes on in the arena is borne from necessity.)

Interesting, that’s what your boy is. He’s interesting and pretty and makes your heart pound. And you want him. You can’t keep him as a pet– you don’t think you can, anyway– and it isn’t like you could feasibly be together. You think you like him anyway. 

You need something to do with your feelings, somewhere to put them at least. It doesn’t seem like there is anything to do other than swallow them. You want to tell Lyssie at least, but you don’t think you can begin to form the words. They settle solid in your stomach and feel thick on your tongue. It might be the nerves. 

Of course, anyone would be nervous in your position. You think so, at least. Snow might not though, so you amend that reasonable people would be nervous. Nervous doesn’t seem like the right word though. It could be broad enough. 

No matter what the word is, the novelty of these games has worn off. It wore off around four years ago in the Capitol. What fun is it to see dirty kids beating each other to death? That is why the betting was brought in, adding a bit of flair by making a production out of it with students as mentors. 

You might have been curious at the beginning, to see how this would go. The tunnels and betting and blood. And the money. You do still want the money, but it feels much more like a secondary concern than it did at the beginning. You don’t want to see how this goes anymore, but you don’t have any choice but to sit and see it through to the end. 

With any luck, it won’t end in Treech’s blood. But what good does that do you, anyway? You’re either going to lose him to the arena or to his own district. Those don’t leave much room for you to join the picture. You don’t even know if he wants you in the picture, you know very well that fear and possible last night's make people desperate. 

Either way, it ends without you, doesn’t it? It’s not a pleasant thought, but you have to stay anyway. You are his mentor, afterall. A better one than who some of the other tributes have found themselves stuck with, if you do say so yourself. Even if Treech wants nothing to do with you, you want to get him out of the arena. 

You sigh, disrupting the relative silence. Nothing else moves around you. Festus is folded over his desk, face down on the wood. If only you had a camera. 

Still, you worry if something happened while you were asleep. Something not caught between the camera blind spots or in a pocket without audio. You want to ask how they will figure out who the last tribute standing is if something happens out of view. Lucy Gray and Jessup, for example. Are they even still alive? How far under the city could they have gotten? Could they get out into the Capitol? How is Jessup’s condition? That question is likely worrying Lyssie more than it is worrying you. It might be worrying Snow too. 

It was good for him. To be worried, that is. In all fairness, you aren’t sure there has been a time when he isn’t worried about something or another, so it’s just a mean bit of pleasure you get out of it. You’d give him the prize money in the end anyway, so that has to count for something. 

You consider the large screen in front of you. It is still dark out, and you can make out the outlines of vultures on the ground as they pick at the bodies. The smell must be terrible, having been left in the hot sun. Lamina hasn’t appeared to react to it at all. She’s still asleep on the beam. Just barely visible and glinting in the moonlight is her ax tucked into her belt. You think you can see the dry rust-color blood flaking off of it. 

You close your eyes. Hopefully this ends quicker. It’s cruel, but you hope everyone else suddenly drops dead in the arena and Treech can leave. The monitors continue to buzz and you get lost in the sound, thinking about an awful lot yet also nothing at all. You don’t open your eyes again until you hear the beginnings of a quiet shuffling movement some time later. Movements, more like–the mentors are starting to rise far earlier than the rest of the Capitol. 

It is almost seven in the morning when you open your eyes again, watching mildly as your peers begin to rouse themselves. The sun rises in the foreground, bathing the arena in pretty hues of yellow. It certainly contrasts the bodies on the ground.

Lucretius Flickerman takes a drink of something as he pushes back his eye mask, taking the stem of the glass from a server without looking. He downs the entire thing at once and rolls his shoulders, immediately ushered over to part of the tech crew to discuss something. 

“Y/n,” Festus says suddenly, as if he’s in awe. It’s almost the quietest you’ve heard him speak in weeks. He’s half turned around in his seat to look at you, finger outstretched. You follow his line of sight. “Look at Urban,” Festus shakes his head. “Isn’t that horrifying?” 

Urban is still asleep, you think he is anyway, and evidently the object of Festus’ fascination. You nod, because it is a little unsettling. He looks freshly dead with his eyes glazed over like that. He’s not, clearly, his chest is rising and falling slowly, and you’ve all seen enough bodies of people who suddenly dropped dead to be able to recognize that Urban is not one of them.

“He was like that a few hours ago,” you comment. Festus has that look in his eyes like he’s considering pulling something mean. You never really stop him though. It’s no wonder he has a reputation as being a bit of a menace. It’s usually amusing though. 

“You were awake?” 

“Only briefly.” It’s a lie, but it doesn’t really mean anything either way.

Festus hums in acknowledgement at that. He raps a knuckle on your desk. “I’ll be right back,” he says as he stands up, and you know he has cemented something in his mind to do to poor Urban Canville who has no idea what’s coming. “Canville won’t want to miss breakfast,” is all Festus says before he is gone, weaving his way between tables. 

You take the brief moment to glance over at Lyssie. She’s awake, engaged in a conversation with Snow and Clemmie. Clemmie doesn’t appear very thrilled, but that might just be because of how early it is. You’d like to be back in your own bed, as it is. You hate these stupid chairs. The Academy could have afforded something a bit more comfortable. 

Focusing back on Festus, you don’t want to miss whatever mean spirited thing he’s planning. Just in time too. As your eyes fall back on your friend, you catch sight of his grin right before he slams his hands down on Urban’s desk. The sound is loud, loud enough to make you wince in sympathy as Urban startles awake. 

Urban yelps, almost falling out of his chair and looking around in confusion. His eyes dart around before they land on Festus, gone from all previous haze of sleep. “Asshole,” Urban frowns deeply, rubbing his eyes. “What the hell?” 

“Good morning, Canville,” Festus ignores him and plows on, looking very pleased with himself. You once again question the values of and the people you have chosen to surround yourself with. You suppose you aren’t much better and have little room to talk. 

Festus is back by his seat a moment later, leaving a very disgruntled Urban and a quiet cacophony of snickers behind him. 

“Have fun?” You ask, examining your cuticles with disinterest for effect. 

“Immensely,” Festus isn’t put out by it. “Nothing happened overnight, it appears,” he changes the topic. He nods towards the screens, the strange floating virtual heads of the tributes have no new blank spaces indicating their death. You’re relieved. 

“So it seems,” you hear yourself saying. You’re spared from having to say anything further when the rattle of metal carts distracts Festus. 

“Oh good, breakfast.” 

He’s gone before you can blink. You shake your head and look back up at the screen. Lamina has thrown an arm over her face to block out the sun, and the vultures have disappeared. You wait a moment, hoping the cameras will change. They do not. 

You get up as Clemmie calls your name, standing by the carts. You wish Treech would surface so you could send him something. You fill a plate with fruit, knowing you’re only going to pick at it. Clemmie holds a plate laden with seafood. 

“This is all boring,” she rolls her eyes as she spears a fried baby crab. You’re not sure if it has a more specific sort of name. “They all need to start killing each other so I can leave.” Her bluntness startles a laugh out of you. 

“Are the desks not treating you well?” You take a bite of a strawberry. It makes you feel a little nauseous. Clemmie stares at you, unimpressed. You do not waver, popping the rest of the fruit in your mouth. “This should all end in the next day or so,” you glance at the clock as you speak. It is almost eight. 

“It better,” is all Clemmie says, distaste coloring her voice. You aren’t sure what her distaste is aimed towards. You decide not to ask. 

“Cameras on in five!” Flickerman shouts above the rising chatter, more Academy students filing in and finding their seats among the stands. He certainly seems more awake than he had a little while ago. You wonder if that drink had something to do with it. You drop your half-eaten plate with the other dishes that need to be sent back for washing. 

Festus is in his seat before you, which is a miracle in and of itself, but he’s even quiet as he scrolls through his communipad. You don’t find yourself bothered as much as you should be about the fact that he’s wishing the exact same thing you are; that your own tribute betrays their group first. 

You drop into your seat as the cameras begin to roll on the weatherman. Flickerman does his stupid coin trick before he gets into the part that you actually care about. Footage from last night rolls in the corner of the screen, juxtaposed with the live feed. 

“A very uneventful night,” Flickerman says as he twirls his mustache. “Getting their beauty sleep to kick us back into gear.” The live feed zooms in on Lamina as he says this, now having pulled her arm from over her face and rubbing her eyes. Flickerman rattles off a bit more of little importance as he switches over to a pulldown screen to do his job and talk about the weather. 

That’s all that happens for a while. Flickerman does an in depth of the weather sweeping the country, and the main screen only leaves Lamina long enough to show Reaper stalking the tunnels. Everyone else has found someplace to hide out of sight. You don’t like it. 

By ten, the pack had begun to move, continuing their mapping project. It isn’t necessarily interesting to watch, but you do want to figure out their system. You could watch Treech forever too, but that’s beside the point. 

You’re not the only one interested in their system either. Even Flickerman has commented on it but has declined to put forth anything serious. The cameras always seem to pan away too quickly from their writing to be able to understand it as a whole picture rather than fractured snippets. You wonder if they’ll have it washed away before the next Hunger Games.

The cameras switch away as Tanner scratches something on the wall, moving back to Reaper breaking the surface of the arena. He squints at the sunlight, looking around the arena with a hand over his eyes. He spots Lamina, sitting straight up and her fingers hovering over her ax. Reaper cuts a straight line to her, and there’s a collective murmur as the possibility of Reaper killing her arises. 

You will feel bad for Treech if Reaper does, but beyond that, you think you almost want Reaper to get this entire thing over with. 

Reaper stands at the base of Lamina’s beam. He’s saying something, but you can’t hear what. Poor audio. She is eyeing him warily, hand still on her ax. Reaper gestures at something, and it doesn’t seem like he’s threatening her. You blink. Are they negotiating? 

Lamina follows his gesture and drums her fingers against the hilt of her ax, clearly considering whatever he’s offering. Lamina and Reaper as a proper team could be very bad. Lamina nods. You’re curious to what she just agreed to, everyone is, but you’re also a bit on edge about it. 

Flickerman is practically bouncing on his heels, eager for anything to happen. He tosses about theories on an alliance, playing up their angle. Pup is watching the screen intently, and Clemmie doesn’t seem to care much about Reaper being on screen at all.

Reaper nods at Lamina and walks away with purpose. The camera pans out to get the full view of Reaper as he approaches the flag of Panem hanging on the side of the arena. He stares straight into the camera for a long moment before he’s reaching out to the flag. 

He’s going to tear it down, you realize as Reaper buries his fists in the red fabric that matches your uniform. He pulls once, hard, and it comes fluttering to the ground. The audio picks up the sound the fabric makes as it is torn from the stone. 

“He tore down the flag,” Flickerman sounds just as astounded as everyone looks. Shouting begins at once, surprise wrapping the room. You don’t say anything at all, not sure what to say. You can’t quite sort out how it makes you feel. You can’t look away. 

Someone says they need to punish him for treason. You can’t help but think a death match is punishment enough. The Hunger Games are already based on treason, why punish a dead man? If he lives, fine, you don’t care, but it’s a bit extreme to do something while the game is actively going on. 

On the screen, Reaper cuts a square away from the flag, leaving the rest of it crumpled in the dirt next to the bodies of the tributes. He takes the cut piece of flag back to the base of Lamina’s beam. Lamina says something to him, and after another minute of back and forth, she gathers a bundle of her own supplies and hovers them over the edge. 

At the same time she drops them, Reaper tosses the flag up to her. With the cameras this close, you can see the sunburn on her skin. Probably what the cut flag is for. Reaper catches his reward, Lamina does not. The fabric flutters back down before she can grasp the edge of it. She frowns. 

There’s another negotiation before Lamina drops some cheese down and Reaper throws the fabric back up again. This time, she snags it between her fingers and pulls it up over herself. Reaper collects his things and sits down at the base of the beam. He makes no attempt to climb it, and leaves himself out in the open. What was the extent of their deal? Maybe he’s using some sort of intimidation tactic. 

“Aren’t you going to send him something?” You hear Snow ask Clemmie. You were wondering the same thing.  

“Why? He hasn’t done anything,” Clemmie says derisively, and that is that. It isn’t like her, but you’re not about to get up. If she wants to starve her tribute and stay out of the running for the Plinth Prize, that’s nobody's business but her own. 

Wovey is shown a few more times in the span of the next hour, somewhere under the arena. She’s dirty and hasn’t appeared to run into anyone yet. She doesn’t seem to have anything with her either, just walking the tunnels with no destination. Wovey must somehow be managing to stay far away from Reaper. If their paths were to cross, you would think the cameras would show it in anticipation for a fight. Reaper has been itching for one. 

Circ and Teslee appear for a few minutes before they duck back into a blind spot. Whoever was in charge of setting up these cameras did a shitty job. Lucy Gray and Jessup are still missing, and the pack has disappeared from view once again. Your boy still seems fine, other than a few scrapes and the dirt.

Flickerman, on his part, has brought in a parrot. His pet, apparently. It did a few tricks before flying up to rest up in one of the ceiling beams, squawking and repeating everything the weatherman says. You think he calls it Jubilee. You are relatively certain it is taunting him. Flickerman seems aware of this, but is taking it in stride.

You’ve taken to picking at your sleeve. You made the executive decision that you were entirely done with the gauze and bandages around your hand around thirty minutes ago, tossing it all in the trash. The burns are completely faded like you had expected, stitching now visible across your palm but the stitches are dissolving. It’s healing fine. They still pull though.

You hope Treech’s hands are still fine. He said that he would be, but swinging an ax was still going to irritate them. From what you have managed to gather from the cameras, he’s doing fine. But still. 

It’s mostly quiet, students in the stands dozing or whispering with their friends, mentors half asleep. You’re considering closing your eyes until lunch. You’re just about to too when the cameras suddenly switch to the tunnels, the familiar flash of rainbow tulle catching your eye. 

“It’s Lucy Gray!” Flickerman announces in surprise. Close on her heels is Jessup, staggering but following. Had they just left the room they had holed themselves into, or is there another exit? You sit up. “And Jessup, district twelve” Flickerman continues, bobbing around the front of the room. Jessup reaches for Lucy Gray again, and Lucy Gray only runs faster. 

“What is he doing?” You hear Snow demand. Lyssie shakes her head helplessly as you glance sideways at them. 

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t attack her. Something’s wrong.” Lyssie bites her lip, eyes not leaving the screen. You’re inclined to agree. As it stands though, Jessup is going after Lucy Gray. At this rate, he’s going to catch her. 

The camera cuts to follow the two from district twelve as Lucy Gray breaches the surface, hoisting herself up quickly and continuing to run. You’re surprised she’s doing so well in heels. Jessup stumbles after her, tripping on the rubble. Lyssie was right, something is wrong with him. 

Jessup staggers and sways as he chases Lucy Gray, a sheen of sweat on his face and eyes wildly unfocused. There’s foam around his mouth. You recognize this. Your half joking morbid speculation from days prior had been right. Jessup has rabies. 

Lucy Gray has made it to the top of some rubble, almost to the stadium seats. Reaper is gone, and Lamina has pulled her makeshift blanket down from her face to watch. Jessup isn’t far behind, beginning to climb after her. 

“What did you do to me?” The audio cuts in. Jessup’s voice is harsh, garbled. Lucy Gray shakes her head and scrambles back. 

“Nothing! Nothing,” she says frantically. It looks like Jessup is going to kill her, and then probably die in the next day or so if someone doesn’t kill him. The infection on his neck must have been where he had been bitten. It has gone straight to his brain.

Lyssie is saying something to Snow that you don’t catch. “Poor Jessup,” Lyssie presses her fingers to her mouth. “Even his death has to be horrible.” Everyone is on edge as the scene unfolds. Had he spread the disease to anyone in the Capitol. Your heart skips a beat. Did Treech have rabies? 

Snow does something on his communipad, looking back up at the screen with a frown. He’s about to be out. A drone with water is sent in, flying over Jessup’s head and triggering more erraticism. 

That’s right. Rabies fears water. The same thought appears to dawn on Snow. 

“I’ll do it, he’s my tribute,” Lyssie says without emotion. Lucy Gray puts her hands up placatingly, having worked herself into a difficult spot and forced back up against the press box. Jessup stops momentarily, confused, but he’s quickly back to climbing.

“Lyssie…” Snow says, and you can’t help but feel a bit bad for him. Lyssie only shakes her head as dozens of drones appear, headed straight towards Jessup. It might be the lighting, but you think a tear slides down Lyssie’s cheek. She cares much more than you had thought. It makes you feel guilty for wanting Jessup out of the picture. 

When the glass begins to shatter as the drones slam into him, he panics. It isn’t a pretty sight as he falls backward, tumbling down and shouting something intelligible. It’s over when he hits the ground with a nasty crack, right next to a microphone. 

Lucy Gray is breathing heavily, eyes wide as she stares down at her district partner. Jessup was motionless, chest heaving. Lucy Gray slides down the rubble, calling Jessup’s name. It’s almost admirable how she runs to him. The auditorium is all very quiet.

She kneels in front of him with a watery smile. Jessup does not move. It doesn’t seem like he can. Lucy Gray reaches for him unhesitatingly, smoothing his bangs down. She’s saying something, but you don’t catch it. You’re more focused on Lyssie. 

Lyssie and her big heart. You didn’t want her to win in the first place, but you feel bad for her. She just killed her tribute. Her face is carefully blank as she watches the screen for a moment longer before she messes with her communipad again. She’s sending something to Lucy Gray. That, or she’s sending something to the near dead Jessup.

She catches your eyes. Lyssie looks incredibly sad. After all this is over, you’ll visit her. You tear your gaze away, frowning at the live feed of the arena. You try not to think about it too hard. 

Lucy Gray uncaps a water, drinking the entire bottle. She takes a few sips of a second before she pours it on Jessup’s face. There’s a few murmurs of surprise. Most of it morphs into understanding as she wipes his face with a handkerchief she pulls from her pocket and begins to dab at Jessup’s face. She uses it to close his eyes. Very gingerly she lays it over his face. 

The drones Lyssie ordered drop some food to Lucy Gray. She scoops the parcels up and stuffs them into her pockets, standing up slowly. You don’t care, turning back to look at Lyssie. There’s a camera in her face, asking her about the rabies and if she has any thoughts before she goes. 

Lyssie takes a deep breath. “What I’d like people to know about Jessup is that he was a good person. He threw his body over mine to protect me when the bombs started going off in the arena. It wasn’t even conscious. He did it reflexively. That’s who he was at heart. A protector. I don’t think he would’ve ever won the Games, because he’d have died trying to protect Lucy Gray.”

The reporter blinks. “Like a dog or something,” he nods. “A really good one.” 

Lyssie shakes her head. “No, not like a dog. Like a human being.”

The reporter stares for a moment, unsure, before gesturing the cameras swivel towards Flickerman. “Lucky, any thoughts from headquarters?” 

You look in the weatherman’s direction. He’s gnawing on a hangnail. You try not to make a face. “Oh, What? Hey! Nothing upstairs at present. Let’s peek back at that arena, shall we?”

“Don’t go yet. Stay for dinner with us,” Snow tries to coax Lyssie into staying. You half hope she’ll listen to him. Instead she just shakes her head and collects her things. 

“Oh, no. I just want to go home. But thanks for being there, Coryo. You’re a good ally,” she says. Since you’re a good friend, you refrain from rolling your eyes. It’s a little harder when Snow hugs her, but you persevere. “At least I’m out of it,” Lyssie says heavily. She looks over at you properly now as she disentangles herself. 

She waves away the other mentors' good jobs and whatnot. You’re at a loss for words when she reaches you. Lyssie says nothing as she leans in to hug you, and you’re stunned into holding still for her. “I’ll call you later,” you say into her shoulder, half suffocated. Lyssie nods and pulls away. 

“Okay. Good luck, your boy’s chances just increased.” 

“Get some sleep,” you tilt your head towards the door. She looks like she needs it. Treech’s odds just got a lot better. You have to remember to call Lyssie later.

“Bye, Festus,” Lyssie redirects to Festus. He’s watching her with a frown. You’re not sure which frown of his it is. You don’t think you’ve seen it before. 

“See you,” he says. It’s subdued. Subdued for him, anyway. He’s trying not to gloat, at least.

Lyssie smiles again and turns her back. She’s gone instantly, disappearing into the sea of red uniforms and on her way home. You sigh and turn back to the screens. Ten tributes left, and the tension in the room is rising with every tribute that dies.

On screen, Lucy Gray is slowly sipping her way through another bottle of water. Lamina sits on her beam, watching Lucy Gray. Lucy Gray hardly pays her any mind, eyes wandering back to Jessup repeatedly. She locks eyes with the camera briefly, unreadable. 

A few moments later, Lucy Gray is hoisting herself to her feet. She looks back at Jessup once before she begins to walk away from Lamina. Her dress is dirtier from sitting on the ground and climbing. The rainbow looks faded and limp. She brushes her hands off on her shirt as she walks back towards the tunnels. 

There is a crunch of dirt under a heel, and Lucy Gray freezes, eyes going wide again. The camera does not pan out yet. She whirls around and takes a step back.  “Lucy Gray,” a familiar voice calls, and you feel yourself grin. You know that voice. 

The camera changes angles, revealing a surrounded Lucy Gray, the pack forming a half circle around her. She’s trapped. Snow must be having a heart attack. You don’t turn to look at him. You can feel his glare at your back, directed at you and probably Festus. 

“Stay right there,” Treech points at Lucy Gray with his ax. In the light, you can see the blood flaking off of it. Lucy Gray can see it too. Mizzen hits the ground with his net. She tries to take a step back, about to turn and run. Tanner catches her ankle with his whip– you think it’s a whip, more of a chain– and sends Lucy Gray tumbling to the ground. Coral laughs.

“Coral, can I have her?” Treech gestures with his ax again. He’s enjoying this, or is at least pretending to. Everyone in the arena seems to have it out for Lucy Gray. You recall Treech’s words about Coral being focused on her. You wonder if he has something personal against her as well. 

In the end, you don’t really care. As long as he gets out, you think you’ll excuse anything. It’s not really his fault he’s killing people. He does have a nice smile though. 

“Not a chance,” Coral lunges towards Lucy Gray. She just barely misses, Lucy Gray rolling out of the way at the last second. Festus has his fist clenched. You almost want to tip his chair over. Instead, you keep your eyes on the fight. It isn’t really a fair fight, but it is still a fight. One Lucy Gray hopefully loses. This should be over quickly. She’s unarmed.

The sudden arrival of drones on the scene surprises you. What good are they going to do? It doesn’t hit you what they are for until the first one slams into Tanner. You snap your head to Snow. Of course it’s Snow. He’s the one who has a tribute in active danger. 

“You can’t attack the tributes!” You can’t believe him. Well, you can, but this feels like a new low.

“I’m just sending water,” Snow counters, hardly looking away from the drones he’s sent. You can’t even challenge it. He is sending water.

If you aren’t so annoyed, you may have found that funny and ingenious. As it is, you shoot him a glare and focus back on Treech. He deflects a drone, sending it straight into Coral. A moment later, one hits Treech in the side and sends him down too. In the commotion, Lucy Gray has escaped. 

You hope whatever injuries he has sustained in the past two minutes aren’t serious. Your heart feels like it’s caught in your throat again. You hate Coriolanus Snow and everything bad that happens is always his fault. 

Coral is the first one to stand up, seething and bleeding from her jaw. “You idiots, how could you possibly let her get away?” 

“I couldn’t see a thing,” your boy snaps at her. Tanner nods, coughing as he stands up. Mizzen looks around the arena as if he’ll find Lucy Gray just from it. 

Coral marches over to Treech. “Get up,” she snarls, grabbing him by the collar. He was already halfway up. Festus seems thrilled. You admire your self restraint when you don’t kick his chair. Treech’s face is half hidden by both the angle and his hair, but it’s clear he’s unhappy. He doesn’t look her in the eyes. 

You admire his self restraint too. “Get this water into a pile, Lumberjack,” Coral says. Treech glares, but doesn’t say a word. She drops his collar. “And when you’re done, you two can watch the beam while we get your little friend from back home.” Coral points up at Lamina who has watched this entire scene play out. She must know what is coming. It is too bad for her, but you are glad that you’ll be rid of Pup soon. 

Treech follows Coral’s finger with a blank expression. And you had thought the hat was bad. You wish you could get a proper glimpse of his face. This is going to be horrible. Maybe not for you, but for Treech. You clasp your hands together in your lap. You had been hoping that someone else would kill Lamina, preferably when Treech wasn’t watching. 

Evidently, it isn’t going to play out that way. This could be the tipping point, you muse to yourself. If he was waiting for a reason to kill them in their sleep, he is certainly about to get one. You can only hope he doesn’t act impulsively, or do something stupid enough to get him killed. 

Tanner and Treech pile the remaining water and food parcels Lucy Gray left behind in silence, watched over by Coral. Mizzen too, to a lesser extent. Coral smooths down his hair and whispers to him. Mizzen frowns at whatever she says, looking back over at Treech and Tanner. He nods, and Coral pats him on the shoulder. 

Whatever that was, it isn’t going to be good.

You can’t bring yourself to look away, hardly willing to blink as Coral and Mizzen approach the beam. District four climbs ship rigging. Lamina stands up, ax in hand as she looks between the pair from district four as they each get a handhold on the rubble to climb up. There’s a vague look of horrified determination on her face.

Tanner gives them the go-ahead, and they begin to climb. Treech hangs back. Not the focus of the upcoming fight, he’s hardly in sight, cropped out with the zoom. You can feel how everyone in the auditorium is eager to watch an interesting fight. If Treech wasn’t watching, you would feel more entertained. 

Pup is on the edge of his seat. “They’re trying to reach her at the same time,” he mutters as Tanner motions for Coral to pause. Mizzen has fallen behind in his climbing. 

“Forcing her to pick who to fight,” Persephone doesn’t look at him. “Clever.”

Lamina makes her choice as she approaches the side Coral will come up on. Pup groans with frustration. “She should have taken the boy.”

“Really? I wouldn’t want to fight the girl on the beam,” you say mildly. 

Pup considers this. “Maybe.”

As Coral reaches the top, Lamina swings. It’s a good swing at that, powerful with practiced use. Coral has to inch back down as Lamina aims for her face. This is all the time Mizzen needs to climb onto the beam, boxing Lamina in. She’s forced to turn around and try and fend him off and back.

She swings, just barely missing his eyes, and then redirects to hit his knee with the blunt side. He yelps and swipes his knife towards her. She swings her ax again, and you exhale slowly. It’s caught in Mizzen’s net. Panic flashes over Lamina’s face as she registers this. She pulls to no avail. Coral has climbed over top now too, trident in her hand. 

Lamina gets her ax free as Coral raises her trident, stumbling with the momentum. Festus pumps his fist as Coral slams her trident down into Lamina’s back. Lamina shouts, turning around to swing her ax at Coral again. Pup has his face in his hands.

Lamina misses, and that seals her fate. Coral spears her through the stomach, and she collapses to her knees. Lamina looks at the blood on her hands, her blood, and down towards where Tanner and Treech stand. You know she’s looking at Treech. Her head lolls. 

The camera pans out again as Coral uses her trident to lift Lamina up and toss her from the beam. If she wasn’t dead before, she is now. Treech’s gaze follows her all the way down, taking a step back as the dust rises on impact. She’s in roughly the same spot that Sejanus’ tribute had fallen when she cut him down. At least she didn’t want to win, but what an unpleasant way to go.

You can see Treech’s expression now. Horrified, that is one word for it. Utterly horrified. Which is ironic, considering he’s been killing people. He shakes his head once, taking another step back, not breaking his gaze at Lamina’s body. It’s cruel, but you will him to get it together. In the background, you catch sight of Lucy Gray dumping the water the pack had collected into the dirt. You don’t have time to think about it beyond a flash of irritation, because Treech is running. 

Not towards Lucy Gray, but to a different opening in the ground. Lucy Gray is gone as soon as she sees him. You stand up without thinking. He broke away from the alliance. Not only that, he didn’t even kill any of them. You can feel your heart in your throat. The cameras do not follow him down, as something much more interesting to Capitol eyes is occurring. 

Mizzen and Coral have climbed down from the beam, and Tanner has Coral’s spear sticking out of his back. Perhaps it is a good thing that Treech had bolted. You can only hope he hasn’t completely lost it. Tanner looks down at the spear sticking out of his stomach. Ouch.

He stumbles back into Mizzen, who shoves him away, yanking the trident out of Tanner. Tanner collapses to the ground, looking more wounded than shocked. You can’t tell if this was planned from the beginning or if it’s retribution for Treech getting away. Either way, Mizzen grabs Tanner by his hair and slits his throat.

Coral points at the now empty bottles of water, anger evident. Mizzen makes a face and kicks Tanner’s body. The two don’t linger, dipping down into the tunnels of the arena to continue their hunt. No doubt for Treech. Festus is about to become insufferable. 

“Well!” Flickerman says into his microphone. “Eight tributes remain, how harrowing! Say goodbye to Pup Harrington and Domitia Whimsiwick!” The cameras turn to Pup and Domitia. Domitia waves good naturedly, Pup storms out. The arena live feed cuts to a rotating cycle of Mizzen and Coral stalking the tunnels and Reaper doing the same. Both Lucy Gray and Treech have vanished. 

“I’m starved,” Festus leans back. “This all makes me very hungry.” You nod absently. You don’t have much of an appetite at all. The doors push open anyway, bringing a promised lunch time feast.    You look at the clock as the metal carts laden with food roll out. It’s hardly past noon.

You’re too nervous to eat anything, frankly. You end up picking at some vegetables and lamb, but it makes you nauseous. All you can do is try and distract yourself so you don’t end up just staring at the screens with a creeping sense of horror. Perhaps it all feels much more real now. 

Treech has only been caught on the cameras once, sitting in one of the tunnels with a hand over his face, the other tightly gripping his ax. He had gotten up soon after, slipping entirely out of sight. You realized that part of the mapping the pack has been doing includes the camera blind spots. It’s clever, and you’re sure someone is going to get fired over it. 

Leg bouncing under your desk, you hope someone is fired for it. Not being able to see him makes this whole thing worse. If Coral and Mizzen know the blindspots that Treech does, who is to say that they won’t just kill him out of sight of the cameras and leave you wondering? Although, it seemed like it was Treech and Tanner who did most of the mapping. It’s a very small sliver of hope, but there might be a spot that Coral and Mizzen are unaware of. Tanner is dead, after all, and that leaves Treech with whatever information he hasn’t told them. 

You last saw Highbottom right before you had stood up to retrieve your lunch, downing a flask and stepping out into the hall. He hasn’t stepped back in. Probably knocked out drunk somewhere. 

Clemmie taps her nails against her desk, hair loose around her shoulders, somehow looking worse than she has since showing up to play mentor. Her eyes are sharp as they stare blankly at the screen, hardly having said a word since Reaper left the center of the arena hours ago. 

Festus is leaning his head on his palm, idly swiping back and forth on his communipad. He’s just doing it to have something to do, the repetitive motion steeped in boredom. The high spirits from earlier has worn down as he waits for his own tribute to do something else. He has been insufferable about Coral, but at least he has the good graces to not go on for too long in front of your face. You know he’s eager for his girl to kill your boy. It’s irritating. 

You know you aren’t any better though. You want Treech to kill Coral. As it stands, you are certain that Treech wants to kill Coral too. Which is good, it’s a decent motivator, but revenge doesn’t always get you very far. You decide to look over at Snow. 

He has been on the edge of his seat since Lucy Gray was cornered in the arena earlier, eating even less than you did when lunch was served. The concern he must be feeling. Snow must feel you staring at him, because he glances in your direction, half a question on his face and already pulling into a bemused smile. 

You smile back, waving your fingers. He copies the gesture. You look away and back towards the screen. Nothing happens. The camera is centered on the upper arena, the star of the show being the vultures picking at Lamina and Tanner’s bodies while dust floats in the air. The camera picks up a wet ripping sound. Flickerman frowns as he glances behind himself to the main screen. Someone, an Academy student in the stands behind you, gags. 

For some reason unbeknownst to you, the cameraman decides to zoom in. The close up of the bird with a strip of bloody meat held tightly in its beak is unpleasant at best, and unnecessary as a whole. Just below the vulture, you can see where that flesh belonged in the first place. Lamina’s face. 

You grimace. The Capitol vultures must be eating very well this year. 

Flickerman gestures at one of the camera crew, and the shot pulls back. It lingers on the arena for a moment before flicking away to catch Wovey turning around a corner in the tunnels. It is a change of pace and scenery as little Wovey is tracked, wandering the tunnels. She passes a door with a rusted handle, and you realize you’ve seen that door before. Wovey is close to the surface. 

When Flickerman bounces on his heels and presses something on his earpiece, you know the center of attention is about to change. Change it does, back to the main arena. Back to Reaper, more specifically. Clemmie doesn’t even blink. Flickerman babbles something you tune out in favor of watching Clemmie’s boy walk across the arena to the bodies of Lamina and Tanner. The vultures hesitate, but flee up into the stands at his approach. 

There is murmuring around you, a reminder that this is the boy that had torn down the flag. The banner itself is discarded into the dust, the section he had cut out to protect Lamina from the sun hangs limply on the beam. 

Reaper walks around the bodies like he can’t quite believe it. He tucks his sword into his belt, tying the blade down. The dried blood has not yet flaked all the way off. You can’t recall who he killed. It doesn’t matter. His next actions surprise who is left in the room as he carefully picks Tanner up. Reaper seems to be full of surprises. Jubilee, Flickerman’s bird, squawks from the rafters. 

Curious, you glance again at Clemmie. She only frowns at the screen. You don’t have time to dwell on it as Reaper lays Tanner down next to Lamina, crossing his hands over his chest, and repeating the process on Lamina. You blink. He’s creating a morgue. 

“Huh,” Flickerman says into the mic. “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.” 

Reaper picks Juno’s boy with the same carefulness, the one who died overnight from an unknown tribute. You want to say it was Coral, but Coral has been impaling people, and the boy’s injuries look blunt. It doesn’t do well to dwell too hard on it, in the end. He’s dead. 

Sejanus’ tribute is placed next to Lamina, head adjusted so the gaping slit in his neck is not as visible. Reaper brushes Dill’s hair back as he lays her down. The tributes from the initial fighting are next, and Reaper disappears into the tunnels just long enough to retrieve the bodies of Hy and Sol. He does not touch Jessup yet, crouching as he examines his face, the foam dried to Jessup’s mouth and chin. You have to look away. 

He paces for a few minutes, considering Jessup. You can’t blame Reaper for being unsure on whether or not he should touch him or not. Whatever compassion Reaper is running off of wins out, and he picks Jessup up too. You hope Coral kills him before he faces off with Treech. 

Reaper crosses Jessup’s arms, and without breaking his stride, retrieves the discarded flag of Panem. You don’t realize what he’s doing until he has laid the flag over the bodies of the dead tributes, and has turned to glare up at the camera. The whole display has you questioning Dr. Gaul. You know that the games are supposed to reveal the true nature of the games, your personal opinion notwithstanding, so this goes against the entire purpose. This isn’t the point of this, to show any humanity and respect for the dead. Dr. Gaul must be aware of this. 

You turn to look for her and her reaction. You are not the only one. She stands with her arms crossed, practically vibrating with anger. Without a word, she turns on her heel and leaves. The room is silent, even Flickerman at a seeming loss for words as he watches Dr. Gaul disappear. Back on the screen, Reaper has scaled the broken walls to sit in the ruins of the stands. 

“Aren’t you going to send him something?” You hear Snow ask Clemmie. You want to ask her the same thing. Clemmie’s nails stop tapping. 

“For what? He hasn’t done anything.” 

With those words, you know that Clemmie isn’t going for the Plinth Prize anymore. You also know something is wrong. Wrong with her, at least, whatever normalcy from earlier has faded. 

There is hardly a lull before Wovey comes out. Hilarius’ sigh is audible. Reaper’s eyes are on her, but Wovey hasn’t seemed to notice him. You can’t help but wonder if he is going to kill her. She’d be an easy kill too, for someone like Reaper. Reaper does not move, blinking down at Wovey. 

Wovey looks around with wide eyes, but she does not look up. She looks at the flag draped over the bodies and reaches for it with hands covered in dirt. Fingers millimeters from the red fabric, Wovey pulls away, looking towards the pile of water bottles Lucy Gray had dumped out, leaving only one left. You had all but forgotten about them. 

She abandons the morgue in favor of the water. When it does not immediately seem like Reaper is going to lunge for Wovey, you watch from the corner of your eye as Hilarius begins to send in food on his communipad. He must know she isn’t going to last much longer, even if Reaper decides not to kill her. He does it anyway. 

Water bottle clutched tightly in her hands, Wovey moves to the wall to sit down. The drones fly in after her, gifting her food. Her eyes light up as she unwraps the paper. You can’t help but feel a little bad for her. Before eating, she uncaps the lid of the water. Snow bumps his knee on the desk with a dull thud. You glance back at him, but his eyes are locked on Wovey. 

Wovey drinks almost all of the bottle in one go, and half her food is devoured just as quickly. When she leans to rest her head on the wall, satiated and like a sitting duck, her face twitches. She coughs, and then there is still silence.

Lucretius Flickerman taps his microphone. “I believe Wovey is down for the count,” he announces. It’s so sudden that you’re not quite sure what has happened. Festus half turns to you. 

“Did she choke or something from eating too fast?” 

You shake your head, dumbfounded. “Her body must have just given out.” Dehydration catching up with her. 

“There is no way,” Hilarius stands up. “She’s just resting.” 

Flickerman looks unsure, but he allows it. 

Five minutes go by. And then ten. Wovey has not so much as blinked. Her death had not appeared to be from choking, it was fast and she hardly moved, but perhaps she was just too tired. It was most likely that exhaustion caught up to her. It has only been a few days though, and people were living on far less for far longer during the war. 

Flickerman hums into the microphone. “No, I’m afraid she’s dead. Not much of a fight, was it?” Wovey’s floating picture is crossed out with his words. Hilarius’ sigh of defeat is audible. 

“Well, she lasted longer than I thought,” Hilarius tells the camera that gets shoved in his face. “Good luck to everyone,” he says magnanimously. You know he doesn’t mean it. Festus high-fives him as he walks past. The tributes are dwindling rapidly. 

You try not to think about the fact that Treech is most likely going to have to fight either Reaper or Coral, if not both of them. It does not make you feel too good. You wonder if Lyssie is watching any of this, or if she turned the whole thing off once she got home. 

Reaper waits a few more minutes before he slides down the wall, dust kicking up where he lands. He steps over something, and you realize that it’s a hat. Treech’s hat, lost in the rubble. It’s covered in dust and dirt. You had been half wondering where it was, apparently blending into the concrete wreckage. Does Treech know where it is? 

Just the reminder of him makes your nerves alight again, uncertainty rising up your chest. With the easiest of the targets dwindling, Treech is going to have to fight Reaper or Coral; Circ and Teslee certainly aren’t taking out Reaper. It doesn’t help that Treech is having a breakdown somewhere in the tunnels. It also doesn’t help that there is absolutely nothing you can do at the moment. 

That is all if Treech is still alive, but you’re choosing to be optimistic. If you’re not optimistic about it, you might cry, and that simply won’t do. Crying in front of these people? That’s basically a death sentence. You can say with utmost certainty that nearly all of the mentors would latch onto it like horrible leeches. Besides, this whole thing is being broadcast. 

It still doesn’t wrap up neatly, clogging up your throat. Hopeless, that might be the right word for this feeling. The noise of the room shifts up and down, but the mentor section remains silent. 

Reaper stops in front of Wovey, crouching down to shake her shoulder. She moves limply with the motion. He pulls away from her, casting a dubious look at the food she left behind. He must be hungry. 

“You’re really not going to feed him?” Festus asks, turning to Clemmie incredulously. 

“You’ll be out of the running,” you point out, thankful for Festus. What a thought. You’re thankful for Festus. 

Clemmie scoffs and points at the screen. You look back to watch as Reaper dumps out the rest of the water and abandons the food. “There’s something wrong with him.” You can’t possibly think why he would have done that. As terribly confused as you, Festus watches as Reaper picks Wovey up and kicks dirt over the food. Clemmie’s lips are pursed. 

Next to her, Snow pulls on the cuffs of his sleeves. 

“Huh,” Festus says eloquently. “You’re right.” 

You opt not to say a word as Reaper lifts the corner of the flag and lays Wovey down with the rest of the dead. He pulls the flag back over her and turns his back to scale up the stands again. The whole sequence of events has been confusing. Some of the Academy students are booing. You can’t help but feel like you’re missing something.

You swallow. It doesn’t matter what you’re missing as long as it doesn’t affect Treech. Hopefully Reaper will die the same way Wovery had–without any outside intervention. You expect there to be a lull, the rest of the day to drag as Coral and Mizzen hunt down the pair from district 3 and Treech. 

Instead, the screen flashes, the symbol of Panem large on the broadcast. It is accompanied by a loud beep, drawing immediate attention and silence. A live message from the Capitol. Flickerman turns around in surprise. Perhaps some annoyance of having his show interrupted. 

The screen flashes one more time, buzzing noise piercing the air. Festus goes as far as covering his ears. Flickerman says something inaudible, and then Dr. Gaul appears on the screen. She looks far angrier than she had when she stormed out earlier. You wonder vaguely if she was planning her revenge to enact in the arena because Reaper undermined her.  

“Due to the injuries sustained in the rebel bombing of the arena, Academy student Gaius Breen, and Felix Ravinstill, son of our beloved president, have died.” The room gasps. There are shouts. Flickerman covers his mouth. Dr. Gaul speaks with a righteous anger, so full of deadly emotion that her voice seems to shake. “This can not go unpunished. Will not go unpunished.” Her words are punctuated by the lifeless eyes of your classmates flashing across the screen, irrevocably dead. 

You never liked either of them very much, but you don’t want to see…this. You’re angry on their behalf. Angry for a few different reasons. 

Dr. Gaul isn’t done speaking. “Actions speak louder than words, and our rebel enemies seem somewhat hard of hearing. In response, we’ve planned something special for their children in the arena. These games will be over by the end of the night in a rainbow of destruction, with or without a victor.” 

The screen goes black, and then the cameras for the arena are rolling again. 

“-a drink,” you catch Flickerman saying, covering the microphone with his hand. You know what, maybe Highbottom has the right idea. 

“No victor?” Festus mumbles to himself. “What’s the point?”  

“Poor Gaius…” 

“Felix never lent me back my book.” 

Noise surrounds you as people begin to process what Dr. Gaul has revealed. Snow stands up almost immediately, out the doors in a rush. His world must be crashing down. Yours is too. What does Dr.Gaul's promise mean? Nothing good, that is for sure. Your blood is roaring in your ears. 

“Y/n,” there’s a tap on your shoulder and a camera in your face. The red link blinks at you. “Do you have any words for your fallen classmates?” 

Your mind is painfully blank, but you nod anyway. You can do this. You’re a little distracted by the idea of Treech dying in one of Dr. Gaul’s special fucked up ways. “Gaius hadn’t made a single enemy,” you pull for the right words as they stumble off your tongue. You’re not entirely sure what you said after that. It’s a blur as the cameras move on to pester Festus. You are jealous he had a minute longer to prepare himself for questions. 

The room buzzes with tense excitement, curiosity brimming. Just last year, you very likely would have been curious too. You still are, in a sense, but you don’t want to see your curiosity answered. Nothing with Dr. Gaul’s hands on it could be any good. 

“If there is no victor, are we still going to get the Plinth Prize?” Festus frowns as he turns around again. That’s a good question, one that has entirely slipped your mind. “I mean, Highbottom said best performer, but we all know he meant winner.” 

“He really will mean best performer now,” you say. “The last one standing? Last to die, anyway.” It’s ashy on your tongue. 

“What do you think she’s implementing?” He does not clarify, and he does not need to. There is a subtle lacing of anxiety to his words. 

“Something horrible,” is the vague and best answer you can give. “I heard she was last working on genetic mutation.” 

“Really? Why am I not surprised…” Festus’ distaste is evident. “Did you see where Coryo went?” 

“No, he ran off after the announcement.” A pause. “The bathroom maybe?” 

“I’m going to go look for him,” Festus stands up. He is gone before you can say a word. Snow is very lucky to have friends like Festus. 

Clemmie sits cross armed, glaring at nothing in particular. You do not get up to talk to her. She doesn’t look in the mood, anyway. Lyssie must have gotten the announcement. You wonder how she feels about it. Perhaps she doesn’t care, her tribute is already dead. 

Treech has no idea what is coming. You have no idea what is coming. 

Ten minutes pass. And then fifteen. It is twenty minutes before Festus comes back without Snow. “I can’t find him anywhere,” Festus clicks his tongue. “He has to stop running off.” 

“You should leash him like a dog,” you suggest. It’s only half a joke. Snow really does have a bad habit of just running. Festus makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s almost a laugh. 

“I’ve considered it,” he says as he drops into his seat. He glances at Persephone for a moment, and you have to remember not to sigh. “He’ll be back though, he won’t want to miss whatever happens to his songbird.” 

Come back he does. Nearly an hour had elapsed when Snow came back in, anticipation in the room only growing for Dr. Gaul’s ‘rainbow of destruction,’ whatever that meant. ‘Rainbow’ is a unique choice of words. Snow walks stiffly, an arm pressed to his side as if walking hurt. Honestly, what has he done? 

Festus looks back at him. Snow stares straight ahead. 

You end up picking at the cuffs of your uniform again as you wait. There is absolutely nothing you can do. It’s a terrible thing. Io has taken to pacing. He only stops once Circ and Teslee creep back onto the scene. 

They pick the wreckage of the drones again. Circ stuffs a few parts into his pockets. What have they been doing, down in the tunnels? The drone fascination can’t just be for nothing. Well, it could be. District 3. Reaper pays no mind to the pair of them from his perch, making no move to go after them, so they pay him little attention in return. You entertain the idea that he might be too tired. 

Teslee’s head snaps up, and even at the angle, you can see her eyes blown wide. Circ drops the wires he was holding, turning on his heel. Someone else has arrived on the scene. The camera zooms out to reveal who it is.

You can’t help the sharp intake of breath at the familiar face. It’s Treech, bearing down on the two tributes from district 3. Circ and Teslee have hardly made it two meters when the sound of a helicopter cuts through the feed. A large black container begins to get lowered in by drones, and what elation you had upon seeing Treech has been thoroughly crushed. 

Circ and Teslee stop mid stride, looking up at it in bewilderment. Even Treech takes a moment to stare at it in confused interest. Even Reaper pays attention. You, on the other hand, just feel nauseous. Festus’ knuckles are white. 

There is a hushed moment in the auditorium before the glass begins to break. As it shatters, thousands of wriggling colors spill out. It takes you a moment to recognize them for what they are. Snakes. 

Clemmie screams as the first snakes rush out in all directions on the screen. It is so loud and unexpected that you flinch hard. Festus almost falls out of his chair. If you had more time to think, you would have laughed at him. Torn between whipping around to Clemmie and not taking your eyes off the screen, your heart races. 

You can hear Snow talking to Clemmie, so you do not turn around. Maybe you should have. 

The snakes flow forwards and out of the container, scales a pattern of shimmering multicolor. So this was what Dr. Gaul meant by her rainbow. It’s a clever play on words, but you wish she wouldn’t. 

Treech recognizes the snakes–not the species, these have to be one of Dr. Gaul’s creations–before you do, already turning for the stands. Circ and Teslee aren’t as quick, a moment of confusion overtaking them before they remember to run. Treech scales the stands quickly, reminding you of a mountain goat as he gets footholds on a seemingly flat wall. 

His climbing to the stands strategy ended up working after all. It’s a half hysterical thought, and you have to keep it together. 

Circ stumbles, tripping over his own feet, and is immediately swarmed and buried under a writhing mass. Io watches agape, out of the games so suddenly. What an unpleasant way to die. Reaper takes a moment, but he too begins to climb higher in the stands. Teslee desperately shimmies up a pole, just out of reach of the snakes that cluster underneath her. 

Hardly a moment goes by before shrieking pierces the arena. Teslee’s eyes snap in the direction of the tunnels. Circ is still covered in snakes. You take the moment to look back at Clemmie, concerned. She has her face buried in Snow’s shirt, and Snow is actually hugging her. You have never known Clemmie to be afraid of snakes. Snow gives you a tight lipped smile. 

Back in the arena, Coral and Mizzen burst out of the tunnels, a mass of snakes launching themselves at them as they run. When Coral trips, ankle catching on a piece of rubble, you can hear the gasps. She shouts, but is overrun by a wave of snakes. Coral kicks for a moment, waving her trident uselessly, before she falls limp.

Festus drops his head down onto his desk with a thunk. 

Mizzen makes his way up the pole adjacent to Teslee’s. There is a distinct look of horror on his face as he stares down at Coral’s body. His grip is white around the pole, even with the distance you can see his hands shaking. 

Treech has made it to the top of the scoreboard, sitting on the narrow ledge with an expression you can’t read. He watches the snakes and Mizzen equally. You wonder if he’s hoping the snakes kill him. They got Coral out of the way for him. But where is Lucy Gray? 

Teslee pleads with Mizzen as she begins to slip. The snakes below her wriggle, stretching their serpentine bodies up as high as they will go. They hiss at poor Teslee’s ankles. Mizzen only shakes his head. It is not out of malice, eyes too wide and face too pale. 

Flickerman’s voice is distant. You’re relieved that Treech made it out of harm's way. At some point, he looped his ax back into his belt. He somehow has more dirt on his face, and if you squint, his eyes look like they’re ringed in red. The snakes ignore Reaper’s morgue. 

“What’s that?” Flickerman says, gesturing for quiet. Faintly, very faintly, you think you can hear it. Festus shifts slightly to look up at the screen rather than listen face down. The microphones catch a quiet melody as Lucy Gray reveals herself from the tunnels. Her clothes shift, colors dripping off her arms and swirling her waist. Her skirt. It registers distantly in your mind as you try to comprehend the scene before you.

Lucy Gray has a skirt made of snakes, and she is singing to them. 

There’s a sense of excitement buzzing in the air of the Capitol, every screen preparing to broadcast the 10th annual Hunger Games; this time with more spectacle and a betting system. There is a bustle of the student body as you approach the Academy, a shifting sea of red uniforms crowded on the steps. You aren’t a part of that excitement, stomach in knots as you bypass the camera crews with a smile and a wave. 

A series of whispered and shouted ‘good luck’ reaches your ears, friendly shoulders bumping yours as you walk. You laugh and thank them, ever eager to get inside the Academy and into the auditorium. 

Your heart doesn’t pound and there are no tremors of your hands, but there is a heavy feeling in your gut and a lack of air in your lungs. Something you don’t know the name of pools at the base of your spine. Anticipation, perhaps. 

The Plinth Prize is close and can fall out of your hands in an instant. The moment Treech dies, you’re out of the running. And he’ll be dead, as in gone permanently. A pre-emptive feeling of loss nips at your heels as you make it into the air conditioning. Will you still know Treech if he wins, or will he come out different? You opt not to think too hard about it for now, searching the sea of faces for familiar ones. 

Dean Highbottom stands by the door, not saying a word as people filter past him. Domitia, Tanner’s mentor, stands with her arms crossed next to Gaius. You spot Festus sitting in one of the Mentor seats, scrolling through the screen in front of him and taking stock of his inventory. No Lyssie or Snow, and of course, no Clemmie. Hilarius stands talking to Juno, the other mentor for district 8. 

Festus looks up after a moment, waving you over. With nothing better to do and with no better options, you oblige him. As you approach, you realize the tops of the screens are labeled with names–the mentors' names. You spot yours directly behind Festus. Convenient. 

“Assigned seating,” Festus wrinkles his nose. “You’re back there,” he gestures flippantly. “I think I saw Coryo’s on the other side.” That’s nice, you didn’t particularly want to sit near him. You’re not sure you want to sit near anybody, to be frank. It’s a bit of a mood killer to sit next to people who are rooting for your tribute to die while you do the exact same thing to the other mentors. 

If it isn’t kind of horrible, it might be funny. 

Lucretius Flickerman flicks around the screens, talking rapidly with the various camera crews and operators, smoothing his hair back every few minutes. There’s not a strand out of place, and you think nerves of his own are getting to him. 

“There he is,” you point towards the doors as Snow stops long enough for Highbottom to say something to him. Snow frowns for a moment, but it’s smoothed away quickly and he too enters the fray of red uniforms. 

“Think his songbird has a chance? I mean, she has sponsors, but,” Festus tilts his head, and you know exactly what he’s implying. There are stronger tributes, and Lucy Gray is just a girl from the coal mining district, not yet old enough to have gone down into the mines and learn how to use any of the tools. She looks weak, simply put. A performer and not a fighter. She may be a hider though. 

You can’t forget that she dropped a snake down the back of that girl's dress at the reaping. Resourceful, maybe. Quick. At least she won’t have any of her snakes with her in the arena. Can she bring a snake in, or would that be confiscated? If she had been hiding one in the folds of her dress, it would have been eating well in the zoo. What, with the rats and all. 

Why was she holding a snake in the first place? It was almost as if she knew she was going to be reaped. That, or she had a personal grudge. Or maybe it was her pet. Whatever. 

“She might,” you say, watching as Snow is quickly joined by Sejanus. “Lucy Gray may just be resourceful enough to outlast the other tributes.” 

“Or maybe she will get taken out right after the buzzer,” Festus says hopefully. 

“Or maybe she will get taken out right after the buzzer,” you agree. You aren’t sure how many enemies she has besides Reaper. You doubt he was bluffing about hunting down the other tributes. You still don’t know what that will mean for Treech. Does Festus know what Reaper said? Does Lyssie? You don’t want to breach the topic. It doesn’t matter either way, not anymore. There is not anything you or anyone else can do. 

“Do you think Clemmie will make her appearance?” You change the topic, scanning the room again. It is unfortunate to be Reaper. 

“It would be like her to finally show her face around now,” Festus looks around too. “She hasn’t been this sick since the war.” If she’s sick at all, that is. Festus shrugs. “Well, her tribute is probably going to die if she doesn’t show up. Punishment for the war and all.”

You nod along absently. There are five minutes left on the clock. How is Treech feeling? Not well, you’re sure. You so badly wish you could see him again before the games started. What use would it do though? Tell him to win so he can get you something to hold over your peers? That he’ll be alright? Ask him what he meant by that kiss? Right. 

Lyssie spots you before you spot her, approaching you from behind and grabbing you by the shoulder. “Y/n!” If cameras weren’t practically shoved in your face, you would have sworn at her in surprise. As it is, you smile. “Festus,” Lyssie waves at him, releasing your shoulders. 

“Excited?” Festus asks. He certainly looks it. 

“Nervous, more like,” Lyssie corrects. “I don’t want to lose.” You know there’s more to it than that, but you don’t pry. Not in front of Festus, at least. 

Festus laughs, and he opens his mouth as if he wants to say something else but falls short as he looks at the clock. “Three minutes. I need some water.” The clock ticks ominously on the wall. “I’ll be right back.” 

And with that, he’s gone. “Graceful exit,” you comment. 

“How are you?” Lyssie asks. She twirls one of her braids. 

“A bit antsy,” you glance back towards the screens. You want to tell Lyssie about last night, spill your guts a little. Her input would be nice. Treech sits on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you keep him like a secret. “How was Jessup yesterday?” You don’t ask her how she is, nerves painted clear across her face. 

Lyssie bites her lip. “Bad, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” There’s one minute left on the screen, ticking down. You can feel your heart finally starting to pound. “Good luck,” Lyssie offers you a helpless smile. 

“You too,” you smile back. You both know Jessup is going to need luck to make it through the games. You feel a bit bad about hoping he dies. At least you hope he dies quickly. You watch Lyssie retreat to sit near Snow. Festus rejoins as she leaves, a glass in his hand. 

“Sit down, sit down,” Flickerman tells everyone. “Sit down Festus,” he makes a point to look at Festus in particular. Festus frowns. 

“What did you do to the weatherman?” You ask, still standing despite Flickerman’s orders. 

Festus makes a face. “Breathed, I don’t know.” 

There’s a flash of shiny black hair, and you stop. Your mind goes blank, save for a bubbling feeling in your chest and one name. “Clemmie,” you say to no one in particular. 

“What?” Festus furrows his brows, his back to her. You grab him by the arm, ignoring his annoyed hiss, and spin him around to look at Clemmie. “Clemmie,” Festus repeats, a dumbfounded expression on his face. 

You don’t have a moment to reach her, not even a moment to think, before Lucretious Flickerman is bustling to the front with a microphone in hand. “Sit down people! Smile, that’s why you have teeth.” Your eyes are on Clemmie as you take your seat. She looks paler than usual, a frown stuck on her face. You catch a glimpse of Dr. Gaul as you sit down, and her smile sets you on edge. Something about it.

“Cameras are on in five, four, three…” Flickerman begins his countdown, and you force your gaze away. Flickerman begins his announcements, and not for the first time, you wonder how exactly he does his coin trick. His prediction of who the winner will be is held in the envelope he waves. He stops halfway through his sentence, touching his earpiece. “Oh, we’re about to start!” He gestures at the camera crew. “Happy Hunger Games, Happy Hunger Games,” Flickerman says as he hurries down the aisle. Your eyes are locked to the screens, still blank. 

You smooth your hair down and take a breath. You’re not as excited to see the betting system and spectacle implemented anymore. You wonder if district cruelty is any different outside the arena. The point of the games is to show how horrible the districts are, according to Dr. Gaul. 

The blue of the large screen changes with an electronic buzz, and you’re sucked into it. The cameras are only focused on one entrance, Lucy Gray and Wovey at the front, Peacekeepers behind them and moving them through the gates. The audio is muffled, but you can hear the electronic “enjoy the show” with every rotation of the turnstill. 

You dig your nails into the fabric of your skirt. The camera angle cuts to a wide shot view of the arena as tributes are taken to their spots, forming a circle around the center. They’re surrounded by rubble, weapons glinting in the center and stacked on and around the largest fallen piece of ceiling and debris. The sight of it all almost takes your breath away, so reminiscent of the war. You don’t seem to be the only one with that sort of thought, either. 

Treech. Where’s Treech? You scan the screen, eyes darting from one tribute to the next in search of his familiar hat. One of the Peacekeepers ends up dragging one girl to her dot. Teslee, you think her name is.

As soon as you spot Treech, face blurry and hat firmly atop his head, the camera zooms up and in towards a beam hanging high off the ground. It takes you a moment to realize what you’re looking at. The position of it had thrown you off. 

“Looks like they found Sejanus’ tribute,” Festus says amid the gasps that have begun to bounce around the room. You can only nod. Maybe this was what Dr. Gaul seemed so pleased about. Sejanus’ tribute isn’t going to be a problem. 

His tribute is hung up on the beam as if he is being crucified, congealed blood on the side of his head, bruises and scrapes along the rest of him. It looks like you won’t have to worry about him on the street anymore. Your stomach turns. 

There’s a crash on the other side of the room, and you turn your head involuntarily. You know exactly who it is, and why. “Monsters! Monsters, all of you!” Sejanus shouts, red in the face and in front of the screens. Snow looks vaguely pained at his outburst. 

You don’t know how you would react if that had been Treech crucified. Sejanus’ tribute is a friend from back home, isn’t he? Sejanus has been Capitol so long that you’re a little surprised he still considers himself district at all. The room is silent as Sejanus storms out, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind him. 

Flickerman begins his countdown without acknowledging Sejanus, his tribute the center of focus on the screen. Your skin feels tight. This display certainly makes a point, reminiscent of Arachne’s funeral. You hope Treech doesn’t get distracted by the view. 

“Five, four,” Flickerman’s voice resounds across the auditorium, and the cameras flip back to their wide view of the arena. Half the roof is literally missing, its metal skeleton visible and bent. The tunnels under the arena are visible in sections of the collapsed ground, holes to fit down into and hide. It’s too bad that Treech is in an alliance. Teslee is still on the ground. 

The buzzer sounds. Some of the tributes stand as if in a daze, while the remaining tributes either run for the underground or to the center. Your stitching pulls and your skin stings from the force of your grip as you hold onto the fabric of your uniform, eyes glued to the large screen in front of you. 

Treech is one of the first in the middle, scaling the rubble. You can’t tell what exactly he’s going for, but he must see something he wants. An ax, most likely. The cameras move in, flicking between the fighting. You’re practically on the edge of your seat, anxious for the cameras to go back to Treech. You don’t like not being able to see him, not like this. 

Coral gets her hands on a trident, points flashing sharply in the sun. Reaper has some type of sword in his hands, and even through the screen, the look in his eyes makes you uncomfortable. Lamina disappeared at some point. You can’t really name any of the bodies on the ground. 

Lucy Gray runs across the center, headed straight for Jessup, who wanders near his spot in some sort of stupor. Snow must be tearing out his hair at her brazzen choice to run into the fray to find Jessup, but you don’t risk looking away from the screen to see Snow’s reaction. 

Treech slides down an angled piece of concrete, bringing his ax down on Lucy Gray. She rolls out of the way at the last second, eyes wide like a rabbit. There’s blood glinting on the blade, and some on his sleeves. The cameras did not show you who he slaughtered, but you almost smile anyway. He swings again but is forced to retreat when another tribute throws a knife. He can kill, and he’s still alive. It’s too bad he missed Lucy Gray. 

You realize belatedly that’s almost a terrible thing to think. It probably would be terrible under different circumstances. As it is, it really is too bad that Treech didn’t land his ax on Snow’s songbird. Will she sing again in the arena? Probably not, but it would certainly be interesting. It would also get her more sponsors, which isn’t ideal for anyone but Snow. 

Lucy Gray is off and running towards Jessup, and you watch as Coral, Mizzen, Treech, and Tanner take off after her. In front of you, Festus has a fist on the desk. You can’t bring yourself to look to the side and see how Lyssie or Clemmie are reacting. 

Grabbing onto Jessup’s arm, Lucy Gray all but drags them into the tunnels. “They’ve gone underground very quickly, but we’re prepared for this,” Flickerman announces as the camera switches to a feed below ground, Lucy Gray the star of the show as she runs with Jessup. ‘With’ is a strong word, it is more like he stumbles after her. 

You realize you’re holding your breath as the pair from district twelve run down the hallway. You release it slowly as Lucy Gray shakes the first door they find. It’s locked tight, unwilling to budge and making an awful lot of noise. She’s going to get killed right outside it. 

At the other end of the tunnel are two other tributes, and you recognize the girl as the one who had thrown the knives earlier. Treech and his group are on camera for just a moment, revealing them in the tunnels hunting down Lucy Gray. 

“Hy and Sol on the other side, pincering in on Lucy Gray,” Flickerman says as Lucy Gray shakes the door harder. She kicks open a flap you had missed at the bottom, dropping to her knees and beginning to crawl through. Jessup follows a moment after, presumably Hy and Sol on their heels. 

Sol goes to follow them through the opening, leaving Hy as a look out. It doesn’t seem as if cameras were ever put on the other side of the door. You wonder how many places in the revealed underground tunnels were skipped over when the crews went through installing and repairing the cameras the day of the bombings. In that case, how will anyone know if tributes in those blindspots are alive or dead by the time it’s only two or three tributes left? 

“Here comes the pack, surprising Hy and Sol,” Flickerman says somewhere to your right. Coral is the first one you see, trident dripping blood. Treech is the one to grab hold of Hy, and Mizzen slits his throat. At the same time, Coral jams her trident into Sol’s back. Even through the poor audio quality, her scream is blood curdling. Treech’s hat is gone.

Tanner drags Sol out, blood smearing the ground. You move your gaze back towards Treech. He’s wiping blood off his face with the back of his hand, watching Coral and Tanner. Mizzen stands next to him, the hand holding his knife bloody, a frown on his face. Just because Treech doesn’t think he’ll be able to kill Mizzen does not mean Mizzen will hold those same qualms. At least Mizzen isn’t very big. 

Have Lucy Gray and Jessup run further under the arena, or is that room a dead end? Is the pack going to try and go after them? Your second question answers itself when Coral turns to Treech, gesturing with her spear. 

“Lumberjack, get in there and get her out.” 

It’s such an absurd request you almost visibly react before you recall that you are on camera. Lucy Gray and Jessup may not be armed, but it’s still two against one; one of which still has to crawl through that opening without getting either kicked in the face or stabbed in the back. 

Treech does react despite being on camera, shaking his head as if that was one of the most idiotic things someone could say. “I’m not sticking my head in there, she could be waiting with a brick,” he refuses. Coral frowns, glaring at the door. Had she thought of that, or was that something she was counting on? 

“I knew we should have recruited that Reaper kid,” she says eventually, stepping over Sol. “Come on.” 

You’re glad she didn’t end up recruiting Reaper. It’s unfortunate that she’s still alive at all. Treech seems fine though, so you can begrudgingly settle. How long that fine will last is anyone's guess. 

The screen briefly cuts to Wovey, the little one from eight and the other kid Treech said he might not be able to kill, before the cameras show the upper arena again. The only tribute alive on screen is Sejanus’, and alive may be too strong of a word. You take the seeming pause in fighting to steal a glance at Clemmie. 

She has her arms crossed, a frown etched deeply onto her features. Her skin looks clammy, hair lacking its usual shine. It looks as if she really did just get sick with something. Clemmie catches your eye, and she does not smile. If anything, she becomes more irritated with something, crossing her legs as well. 

You swallow your disappointment and look back at the screen. You will be magnanimous and not take her reaction personally. Flickerman says something you miss, wiping his eyes with a multicolor handkerchief. You doubt it was anything important.  You’re itching to get another flash of your boy on the cameras, but the fighting must have come to a temporary break if no action is being broadcast. Treech is fine. 

You want to lean forward and talk to Festus, or any of the other tributes around you, but you hold your tongue. You don’t want to say a word. No one says a word in the mentors' area, as if you’re all at the theater. There is a quiet murmur of voices that dance around you from the sides where other Academy students and spectators are watching. 

The cameras continue to roll on the inactive arena. You flip on the screen in front of you, now as good a time as any to run an inventory check. A few of the other mentors have the same idea, the quiet tapping on screens a new noise added to the background. 

You can’t let any worries get the best of you right now, not when you have a job to do. His sponsors have supplied him with plenty of food, water, and extra cash for you to spend on gifts sent into the arena. It makes you feel better, knowing that all of this is just at your fingertips. Supposedly the gifts sent into the arena are done with drones programmed with facial recognition so that it goes straight to the tribute it’s meant for. 

There isn’t much else for you to do beyond scroll through the screen in front of you or watch the larger screen broadcasting the games. No one seems horribly inclined to chat. You are all competing, varying levels of friendship disregarded. 

It’s uneventful, the next two hours. Nothing happens in the arena. Nothing that you can see, anyway. The cameras flicker about every once in a while, showing absolutely nothing worth watching going on beneath the arena.

Reaper has a sword and appears to be staying true to his word and actively searching for the other tributes. He has yet to cross paths with one. The girl with tuberculosis is behind some debris in a tunnel, and it’s a miracle she made it there at all. Wovey is still wandering, and her district partner is down in the tunnels somewhere sitting on the ground. Teslee and her district partner have stuck together and managed to find an old railway line. 

The pack are working their way through the tunnels, searching rooms and just generally scoping the place out. Treech was right about Coral being bossy, ordering him and Tanner around. Tanner’s endearing nickname is ‘slaughterhouse.’ He doesn’t appear to like it very much, and you aren’t surprised. Coral doesn’t have Mizzen do very much, and he is sticking to her in nearly every moment you see them. 

Everyone else is unaccounted for, having found some spot away from the cameras or hiding so well that the cameras have completely missed them. Well, Sejanus’ tribute has had his own fair share of screentime, bloody wrists and just general sad state zoomed in on more than enough. Sejanus has yet to come back. You don’t really miss him.    Around the three hour mark, there’s a low murmur among the mentors. Most of it is just wanting to go home and praying this ends faster. Flickerman started reporting on the weather at some point, doing his actual job, beginning with the Capitol and working his way out. 

“And finally, in district twelve,” Flickerman’s voice registers distantly. You aren’t listening though, the cameras zooming in as a shifting of rubble catches your–and everyone else's–attention. From the center of the arena and cornucopia, Lamina is pulling herself out from under the rubble that she had tucked herself into. 

Clever of her to hide in the weapons. There’s dirt on her face again, your hard work down the drain. 

There’s a small ax at her waist, looped through her belt. She raises herself up, looking around warily before she crosses to the beam that Sejanus’ tribute is attached to. You never learned his name, and it’s probably a little too late. Too late for it to matter, anyway. 

She surveys the beams for a moment before she reaches up and begins to climb. She climbs quickly, finding footholds without a problem. In no time at all, she has made it to the top. Everyone’s eyes are on her, eager to learn what she does next. You’re on the edge of your seat yourself. 

Lamina walks across the top of the beam with the confidence of someone who has been far off the ground before. You recall Treech saying she works on the forestry team during the weekends. She kneels down once she reaches Sejanus’ tribute, fingers gripping the edge of the beam as she leans forward to softly whisper something to him that the microphones cannot catch. 

The boy nods imperceptibly, and Lamina leans back. Her hands go to her belt, pulling the ax free. There are murmurs in the stands and among the mentors. She’s going to kill him. The crying girl is going to kill him.

Lamina brushes his hair with her fingers as she tilts his head, gripping the ax tightly in her hand. Her lips move and she swings. In one fluid motion, she cuts through his neck. Pup Harrington is grinning out of the corner of your eye. Lamina moves to his wrists, cutting the rope with a firm determination. The boy’s body hits the ground with a sickening crack and a cloud of dust. 

Lamina stares down at the body for a long moment before she sits down on the beam and makes no indication of moving. She’s in a good spot, high up and able to see everyone that enters the upper section of the arena. You wouldn’t move either. 

“Was it mercy, or was it murder?” Flickerman asks as he makes his way to Pup. Pup sits up properly, going for his communipad. “Either way, that’s what happens when you do things!” He cheerfully informs the audience that they can donate money to the tribute of their choice as Pup sends something in for Lamina, brushing Flickerman off. 

A minute later, a drone appears from the sky, a bottle of water attached to it. Lamina stands up as she sees it, reaching out as it approaches. The drone is jerky and flying too fast though. Lamina ducks as it slams into a raised portion of the beam behind her, sending shards of glass flying. She does not look disappointed, as if she expected nothing better. She sits back down. 

“That’s not fair, someone paid for that!” Pup protests. You hate to admit that he’s right. Minutes later, a second drone is sent in as a replacement. This time, Lamina is able to catch the water before the drone violently sends itself to the ground. It wasn’t as twitchy as the other drone though, so perhaps there will be more improvement with future drones sent in. 

Lamina’s kill was a mercy, you think. It also means that she is seriously back in the running as a competitor. It is always possible she has had a change of heart and does want to get out of the arena. She’s already killed one person, after that it has to get easier. 

There is nothing else worth watching for the rest of the day. Flickerman, however, does end up having to cancel his dinner reservation. The Hunger Games will be going on longer than he thought. 

The pack seems to have found some place outside of the cameras; they haven’t been featured in hours. It’s getting hard to see the arena as night begins to fall, and you’re getting more than antsy. The memory of Treech’s lips against yours isn’t a welcome distraction. 

In the meantime, Pup has taken it upon himself to talk anyone and everyone's ear off about Lamina, reciting everything he knows about her. Some of it sounds like he made it up though. You don’t care either way, you just wish he would stop talking. 

Slowly, the mentors begin to leave. It’s late, and nothing else looks as if it’s going to happen tonight. Flickerman advises you all to bring a pillow tomorrow. You don’t want to leave the screens at all, a what if incessant in the back of your mind. 

It’s late when Lyssie approaches you, the only sounds being the buzz of the monitor and the tapping of Flickerman’s shoes. “I’m going home,” she whispers. Her brows are pinched, and you realize you don’t know when Clemmie left. “You don’t look like you plan to leave.” 

She got you there. You shrug, shifting in your chair. It’s not the most comfortable thing. “No, probably not.” You don’t elaborate, and you don’t need to. Lyssie nods, worrying her lip. 

“I wish this had been over faster,” she says. “I’ll bring you a pillow tomorrow, please don’t stay up all night.” 

“You’re the best,” you smile at her and make no promises. Last night rests at the back of your throat, eager to spill but just as easily swallowed. “Sleep well?” You do not mention Clemmie, and Lyssie does not bring her up. You want to though. Lyssie had been sitting closer to her, maybe she had been successful when speaking to her. Clemmie hadn’t seemed in the mood to talk though.

“Goodnight,” Lyssie smiles back at you. You can see the worry in it, and you wonder if she ever cared about the Plinth Prize at all. She’s more worried about her boy now, it doesn’t take a mind reader to see it. Lyssie leaves you feeling slightly guilty, her braids swaying as you watch her back. 

Jessup is sick with something, and you hope he dies of it. You shouldn’t wish that on something your friend clearly cares about. You can’t help but wish for it anyway. It is just you, Snow, and Persephone left in the auditorium. Persephone had enough foresight to bring a pillow and blanket. Snow, like you, doesn’t seem to have any inclination to leave. 

You shift in your chair again, leaning your chin on your palm. It is going to be a long night. 

The rest of the night is spent fitfully, slipping in and out of sleep. Nothing has occurred on the screens. At one point during the night, Snow had disappeared only to come back maybe an hour later looking as if he had just been dragged through hell. You pretended to be asleep. Sometime later, maybe another thirty minutes, the screens flicked to the door where Lucy Gray and Jessup are hiding behind. When they flipped back to the upside of the arena, the district eight boy lay dead. 

By the time the sun has begun to rise over Panem, most of the mentors with living tributes have made their way back. Your back hurts, cracking uncomfortably as you stand up once you spot Clemmie. She is frowning, something wary and upset etched into her features, arms crossed and hair loose around her shoulders. You hit your hip on the desk in front of you, and you try not to wince.

“Clemmie,” you wave to her, trying to play off your mishap. She looks over at you, her expression unchanging. You aren’t deterred. Your hip aches as you approach her, and you hope she doesn’t notice your slightly awkward gait. 

“Y/n,” she allows after a moment. A hundred questions rest at the tip of your tongue. Namely, where were you and what happened? You don’t bring up the district eight boy yet. 

“I heard you were in the hospital,” you test the waters with your statement. Clemmie frowns harder, and you can’t help but feel as if you have made a mistake. Because clearly you did. 

“And you couldn’t be bothered to visit,” she snaps. You see what this is about, and instantly feel guilty. 

“They wouldn’t let anyone visit, let alone tell us what happened,” you tell her with a shake of your head. “Even your parents didn’t seem to know.” 

It was true, at least. 

“That’s what Coryo said too,” she taps her fingers against her sleeve. “Except he–” Clemmie cuts herself off with a click of her tongue, skipping over the details you have been ever eager for. She has implied that Snow said something, and maybe you were right in thinking that Snow had something to do with whatever happened. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking and you’re trying to incriminate Snow for something he didn’t even do. Is that really so bad? 

“What happened?” You ask, and there’s real concern behind it. You won’t say it out loud, but you’ve been almost worried sick about her. She seems to understand, and it’s almost unfortunate that she can peel back your skin to peer at some of your emotions. 

“I was…” Clemmie trails off for a second, mulling over what she is going to tell you. “I was sick,” she settles on. It doesn’t sound like the whole truth, not even a mention of what she was sick with, but she stares at you as if she’s daring you to argue otherwise. You keep your questions behind your tongue. 

“You’re not contagious, are you?” You poke at her shoulder, and you’re only half serious. 

“I could cough on you and we can find out,” she threatens, and she might be serious. 

“No, you can keep it,” you take your fingers back. “Are we okay?” 

Clemmie frowns again. You see Snow standing up out of the corner of your eye. “Yes,” she says. You smile, and do not say a word. Snow joins you not long after, bags under his eyes. There is a smug vindication with that. You look around, trying to find the familiar dark braids of Lyssie. 

You spot her pushing through the crowd with Festus. The chatter about the dead boy from eight has begun to rise. Lyssie breaks away from Festus, stopping to speak with one of the camera crew. She holds two bags in her hands. One of them is hers, and the other is yours. One you distinctly recall hanging in your closet just yesterday. 

Festus raises a plastic container upon seeing your group with a grin. Snow is laser focused on the contents. You squint, making out the shape of muffins. Good, you’re hungry. The Academy is supposed to provide breakfast, but anything Festus’ mother makes is bound to be much better than whatever the Academy gives you. 

“Look how compassionate I am,” Festus announces as he pops the lid of the container, offering the muffins out to your group. “Giving you food.” 

“How generous your mother is, you mean,” Clemmie corrects. She goes for a muffin anyway. You follow her example, snagging a chocolate muffin. Festus shrugs as if the distinction doesn’t matter, and it really doesn’t, before shaking the box at Snow. Snow takes the smallest muffin, ignoring Festus’ annoyed sigh. 

Lyssie appears beside you, all but shoving your bag into your hands. She’s frowning. Why is everybody frowning this morning? “Your parents let me in,” she says in lieu of an explanation. You aren’t surprised. You don’t ask after them. 

“Thanks,” you shift it into the crook of your elbow. Festus offers the muffins to Lyssie.

“They’re not telling us what happened to that little boy,” Lyssie says as she picks out a cranberry muffin. She looks back at the screen, thinly concealed indignation and concern plain on her face. 

“Probably another one of Coral’s,” is Festus' reply. He doesn’t bother to look up at the screen. You can’t blame him. You are not sure how much you care yourself. 

“They said the footage glitched,” Snow glances at the screen. You distantly wonder where he got that information. Festus nods like he has heard the same thing. Lyssie does not look satisfied, and Snow has an air of mild discomfort. You can’t imagine why. The food handouts, maybe. In the end, you decide you don’t care, and turn to look up at the screens. The district eight boy’s face is gone from the list of competitors. Treech’s is not, and that’s all that matters. 

For now, Treech is alive. You try not to think about the technicality. 

Flickerman bustles past, microphone in his hand. “Festus, sit down,” he snaps his fingers at Festus. He only snaps at Festus, completely ignoring the fact that all five of you are also standing up. “We air in three.” You’re beginning to doubt that Festus was lying when he had said he had done nothing to the weatherman. Considering his reputation, you don’t doubt that whatever he did was enough to deserve how Flickerman has been acting and more. 

Festus makes a face at his back and does not catch the way Clemmie laughs at him. “Come on,” you grab his arm and smile goodbye at the others. “I don’t want the weatherman to form a vendetta against me too.” And you want to sit down.

“Airing in two,” Flickerman shouts above the din. 

You take your seat, the nerves that you’ve been pressing down threatening to boil over. The muffins Festus brought sit on the floor in their container, two left. Under his chair is a duffel bag. You tuck your own bag under your chair. You fix your eyes to the screens and cross your ankles. The blinking lights of the cameras stare back at you, preparing to roll the auditorium onto the televisions of Panem. 

A hush falls as Flickerman begins his countdown, as if the entire room is holding its breath. The cameras are rolling, and you can feel one of them trained directly on you. You smile and give a vaguely directionless wave. 

The main screen continues to roll the upside of the arena, zooming in briefly on the boy from district eight as Flickerman points him out. Was he one of Coral’s victims, or someone else's? It eats at you, not knowing what happened. You don’t think you care that he’s dead if it means Treech is one step closer to getting out of the arena, but not knowing who killed that boy–or how–bothers you. 

His death has become meaningless and a killer may have slipped under the radar. You’re more concerned about who killed him, and you think Lyssie cares more about his death. She can afford pity for the other tributes, considering hers is literally dying from some infection. That’s a mean thing to think though. Is Jessup still alive? Is Lucy Gray? You glance at Snow. You hope not. 

Now that Clemmie is back, Reaper can be sent things in the arena. You wonder how badly she wants the Plinth Prize. Maybe you’re actually being a terrible friend. You bite your cheek and bring your focus back to the screen. 

The cameras cut around the arena as Flickerman offers his commentary. Wovey is still wandering in the tunnels, Lamina is on the beam, the pack is roaming the tunnels, the district eleven girl is in the same spot she was overnight by the crates, and everyone else is unaccounted for. You wonder if Lamina would have risked her spot to kill the district eight boy but think better of it. He died so far from the beam it didn’t look like he was trying to kill her, so why would she get down from her safe spot? 

Your hands sting as you worry them. They don’t ache as much anymore, but the stitching still pulls. It’s almost grounding. It does ground you for the next few hours where absolutely nothing happens. Hilarius is asleep, face pressed against the desk. 

Breakfast comes around, fluffy pancakes and fruit, but you decline. The idea of eating right now makes you feel a little nauseous. It’s worse that the source of all of this is literally just a boy. A district boy. You can’t tell anyone, either. You hardly want to conceptualize it yourself. 

It is the afternoon when anything happens in the arena. You can’t immediately place the two tributes that emerge from one of the collapsed tunnels to the surface, and Flickerman does the work for you by announcing one Circ and Teslee, of district three. Io and Urban’s tributes, you think.

The pair slowly approach the center of the arena, Circ pointing up at Lamina to say something the audio does not catch. Lamina has one eye open as she looks at them appraisingly from where she almost lounges on the beam. 

“Don’t worry my sweet Lamina, those two couldn’t climb a stepladder,” Pup reassures the empty air. You’re inclined to agree. Lamina seems to as well, closing her eyes again and shifting into a more comfortable position. 

District three stops once they reach the center, crouching down to inspect something. There is nothing to look at but the drones and the bodies. Ah. 

“And look at that! District three has gotten ahold of our tech,” Flickerman bobs around as the pair shuffles around the broken drones and pokes at wires. Teslee’s hair is frizzy. She holds up a cluster of wires with a triumphant grin, effectively gutting the drone. Clearly, she could brutally kill a computer. Not that it helps in the arena. 

Circ holds up the most intact looking of all the drones, turning it over in his hands. The audio doesn’t pick up a word they say, much to everyone’s disappointment. They crouch there for another few minutes, scavenging the Capitol technology as if they have found a gold mine. They very well might have. If you weren’t personally invested in the stakes of this, you would be more curious to see what they have planned. As it stands, you hope they both keel over dead right that instant. 

Urban says something to Io, too quiet for you to catch, but they both reach for their communipad's. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that they’re sending in food. Before they can hit send on the drones–more for their talents to meddle with as well, extra wires and drones would have to be their holy grail–Teslee’s smile drops and Circ’s head snaps up to stare behind Teslee. 

Circ scoops up the intact drone and Teslee the wires, and they’re off running back down into the hole they had come out of. Whatever they heard was enough to spook them away. Lamina opens her eyes again, looking down in the same direction Circ had been. Io clicks his tongue at the lost opportunity. Urban drops his hand into his lap with an exasperated expression. 

The camera takes the moment to do a wide shot of the arena and then a zoom in to Sejanus’ tribute. You’re pretty sure that wasn’t where his body was the day before, but the gaping gash in his neck distracts you enough that you don’t bother to think about the logistics. It’s disgusting, quite frankly.

His face has been picked at and torn apart by vultures and his head is barely attached to the rest of his body. Lamina’s swing was strong, ending his life in one strike. You’re not sure if it would be better or worse if she succeeded in cutting his head clean off. It would be a spectacle, if nothing else. You wonder how Sejanus’ is taking the news that his tribute is dead. So far, he’s had the worst death in the arena. 

The camera pans to the direction of where the presumed noise had come from, but nothing can be seen. It’s just darkness, unnerving and hiding something. A tribute most likely, unless one of the vultures has snuck underground. It’s silent for a long moment, and you are starting to think that maybe it’s nothing after all, when Reaper appears. 

There’s a few excited whispers that bounce around the room, whispers that only rise when the camera zooms in to show that he’s carrying his district partner. “Reaper! And Ill Dill,” Flickerman announces. He gets a handful of laughs out of the crowd. The joke flies over your head before it clicks that her name must be Dill. The screen does not show Lamina as Reaper crosses the arena and lays Dill down on the ground. He does not linger.

Nothing happens for a bit, aside from the coughing that the audio manages to pick up. She sounds far worse than she did just days ago. It was a little cruel of Reaper to leave her out in the open, though the other tributes may pass over her in favor of eliminating stronger ones first. She’s clearly going to die without anyone's intervention. 

When Dill begins to cough violently, blood on her lips and eyelids fluttering, you know as well as anyone that she’s out of the running entirely. It’s not pretty, and it’s a wonder she lasted this long at all. Flickerman waits a minute as if he’s counting down before he announces her death. There is no Felix Ravinstill to kick out of the mentor area. You’ve hardly thought about him since the arena bombing. To your knowledge, he’s still in the hospital. 

You lean back in your chair, and time goes on.

It’s boring, and you almost feel bad to admit it, but it really is. Sitting in these uncomfortable chairs and watching a screen with very little, well, entertainment is getting to you. It seems to be getting to everyone. Even Flickerman is spinning half circles in his chair between his segments. 

The only points you actually care what is going on in that arena is when the cameras focus in on Treech and his pack, and even then, he’s not always the focus. He’s on the screen now, so of course you’re watching, but he isn’t getting frequent cameos. The upside of the arena is, and so is Reaper as he stalks the tunnels. He has yet to find anyone. 

Your boy is currently in the tunnels, ax loose in his hand as he walks with Tanner. You don’t think they have said a word to each other since Coral sent them out to map what they could. As it is, they’re just walking around, occasionally writing numbers on the wall in chalk. You don’t see the pattern, they aren’t labeling in a traditional one, two, three type of thing, but it must be working for however they’re doing it. The camera changes too often for you to begin deciphering how their system works. 

Change the camera does, flipping back to the upside of the arena just as Tanner goes to mark the walls again. You repress a groan. Vultures pick at the bodies littering the ground, a pocket with decent audio picking up the tearing of flesh as one of the bird's rips Dill’s arms apart. 

“Food is on the way, my sweet Lamina,” Pup taps on his communipad. You’ve gotten rather sick of him in the past 24 hours. You’re not the only one. Clemmie rolls her eyes. If he calls the cameras over one more time to say something, something he undoubtedly made up about Lamina, you might actually flip a table. 

Two drones deposit something to Lamina before they make a crash landing against the wall. You’d rather the camera goes back to Treech. You can’t do anything, but it does make you feel better to see him alive and moving. 

You wonder if Lamina is a gamemaker favorite when the camera stays focused on her sorting through her new gifts. It only zooms out when she folds in on herself and watches the vultures. The camera stays on the upside of the arena for what feels like hours. There’s nothing to do but watch the screens. 

There are still no sightings of Lucy Gray or Jessup. If they die out of view of the cameras, how will anyone know when the game is over? It would be unfortunate if the real victor ends up succumbing to death because no one knows if the tributes from district twelve are even still in the running. It would most likely be the end of the Hunger Games, you can’t see the President sanctioning another if there isn’t even a guaranteed victor. 

You want to get up and stretch your legs and go talk to someone, Lyssie preferably, but you stay seated. You are an Academy student and you do have a certain image to uphold. When evening falls and they bring around dinner, you realize you’ve hardly said a word all day. Grateful for an opportunity to move around and do things, you take your plate straight over to Lyssie. 

She meets you halfway. “Do you think this will be over soon?” Is the first thing she asks without a preamble. You wish you could tell her yes, but you don’t believe that yourself. 

“They might pick up overnight,” you pick at the mashed potatoes on your plate and try not to betray how nervous the idea makes you. “But I don’t think this will go on too much longer.” The pack doesn’t seem to be cracking apart just yet, but it’s not like you have been able to get a very good look at what has been going on with them. 

It must be worse for Lyssie, sitting not knowing what has happened to Jessup since the first fifteen minutes after the buzzer went off. You don’t ask how likely she thinks it is that he’s already dead. It’s impolite. 

“The boy from eight,” she starts, cutting herself off just as fast. “I don’t know. Something about it feels wrong.” You refrain from pointing out that he was in a death match, the ethics of which are already under question. You don’t think that’s what she means. 

“I know,” is all you can say. The conversation lulls. 

You feel a little trapped in the sea of red uniforms. If you could take a breather without the fear of something happening on screen that you will miss, you would. You don’t know if you want anything to happen though, not as the already small pool of tributes continues to dwindle. It only takes Treech closer to a possibly imminent death that you’re going to have to watch on live broadcast and not freak out over. With his death goes the Plinth Prize too. So, no pressure. 

The conversation drifts aimlessly, and it’s familiar. 

“Did you see? There’s extra clothes in your bag,” Lyssie says. You blink, not having bothered to check. 

“No, I haven’t. An extra uniform, I hope?” 

“Academy rouge,” Lyssie nods along. “Do you think they should change the color?” 

“At least to a muted red,” you spare your cuffs a look. The color really is a little garish. You go back and forth, and ultimately, the conversation goes nowhere and breaks off into dozens of scattered thoughts and pieces. It’s nice. It also ends too early, ushered back to designated seats so the cameras could begin rolling on them again.

You watch the screens with half an eye as you rifle through the bag Lyssie had brought you. She was certainly thorough. A pillow she took right off your bed gets dropped on the desk in front of you, and you kick a blanket you had forgotten about over your legs. 

On the screen, the arena is dark and all of the tributes seem to have settled down for the night. Lamina has been dozing in and out for hours, Treech has his hat over his face with Coral on guard duty, and even Reaper has found somewhere to rest before continuing his hunt. Many Academy students have gone home for the night, either to go to bed themselves or because they’ve tired of Flickerman’s one man tricks and shows. You almost envy their ability to just get up and leave. 

It is the end of day two, and eleven tributes remain. With more luck for you than the tributes in the arena, they will start dropping faster.

It’s too early. It’s too early for any of this; the sun is hardly even out and you’re already melting. The Academy uniform is not doing you any favors. You can’t believe it’s required. You miss the air conditioning. Your bag presses uncomfortably into your side, irritating your stitching while it’s at it. Really, the whole situation is nothing short of dreadful. 

Festus had called you last night as you were getting ready for bed. A bit about Snow, making fun of Highbottom, jabs at Sejanus, the usual. Eventually the conversation turned to the Games, as you knew it would. He sounds excited, and you can’t even judge him for it, because you are a little bit too. The line between excitement and nerves has been blurring lately. Maybe excited isn’t the right word. 

He plans to have Coral show off her trident skills with an old broom. You revealed you have a similar idea for Treech. Both of you want to play up the pack angle, and it’s funny, knowing how you both hope your own tributes betray the group first. Maybe not on the first day, but as the numbers in the arena dwindle. 

You can’t get the thought of Coral spearing him through the throat out of your head as you walk. It’s miserably hot and your boy has a very real chance of not making it out of the arena. It is not a pleasant combination. The red of your uniform would match his blood though. Or the blood of whoever he kills. He could kill so many people in that arena only for it to be futile in the end. Blood for blood, maybe? You suppose that’s the same logic of the Hunger Games in the first place. 

You trudge along. 

There’s still no news on Clemmie. 

The gates of the zoo can’t show up fast enough. You wish they had fans in there. You’ll propose it for next year, if there is a game next year. The games will get longer if they don’t repair the arena, and based on the Capitol track record, you highly doubt anything will be so much as painted over. The cleaners get the bloodstains and bodies out, and then they’re done until next year. 

The cameras the Capitol put in the collapsed and revealed tunnels of the arena is probably the most intervention in the arena since the games started in the first place. They had to set up the initial cameras, but after that, no one really goes in or out. 

Some of the tributes are rousing themselves up with the morning light, but plenty more are still asleep. They look younger like this. Okay, where is Treech… 

You spot him still at his rock, hat pulled down over his face, arms crossed. Lamina is next to him asleep. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that she’s tucked against his shoulder, arms also crossed against herself. You wonder, for the first time, if she even remotely likes Pup Harrington. You wouldn’t blame her if that answer is a resounding no.

There’s dirt on her face, streaked through from her tears. You’re surprised that someone can cry so much, but you have the sense not to say that. Lamina opens an eye as you approach, staring at you for a moment. 

After a moment, she nudges Treech, saying something you can’t hear. You feel a bit bad about waking him, but you said you would come in the morning. Treech shifts, tipping his hat up just enough for you to make out the glint of his eyes in the light. He looks at you for a moment, you think he’s looking at you at least, before he sits up and drops his hat on top of his head. 

Lamina moves as he does, pulling herself off of him and resettling against the boulder. She says something else, and Treech taps his fingers against his knee as she does. You wish you were privy to the exchange. You lower yourself to the ground, in the exact same spot you’ve chosen since day one. 

As Treech stands up, you make a split second decision. You aren’t entirely sure what possesses you as you point at Lamina, and gesture for them both to come over. She’s not your tribute, and you want her to die in the arena so Treech can get out. You decide not to dwell on it, irrationality cannot be rationed away and all that.  

Your boy helps Lamina to her feet, offering his hand which she takes with a watery smile. Maybe it was a horrible idea to invite her over, you’re not sure what you’re going to do if she starts crying. You can’t just stare at her. 

Moments later, Treech is in front of you, something like curiosity on his face. Guarded, but curious. Lamina takes a hesitant seat in front of you. Treech follows suit a moment later. 

“Good morning,” you wave. It’s too hot, but you smile anyway. 

“...Morning,” Treech says. There’s sleep in his eyes, and his voice is rough. You want to hear more of it. 

Lamina just stares. Perhaps Treech is not unique in his staring problem, and it is just a district thing. 

“I know I’m early,” you acknowledge, glancing at the shadows still stretching on the ground. “But I come bearing gifts!” You rifle in your bag, pulling out two biscuits wrapped in paper and a small jar of strawberry jam. “Here,” you hand them over to Treech, who gives one to Lamina, as you expected. 

“And a knife,” you pull the knife out of your bag with a flourish. You did consider, as you put everything together this morning, that Treech might at least attempt to stab you with it. He’s had many opportunities to slam your face into the bars though, so you assume it’s probably fine. You’re not sure Lamina has it in her to kill anyone, so you’re not too concerned with her. 

It does remind you of Arachne though. You’re still not sure if she deserved what she got. 

You wet your handkerchief after the knife leaves your possession, careful to avoid spilling any water on the gauze of your hands. You’re not sure why you’re doing this. “Lamina,” you wave her closer. She looks up at you and then to Treech, eyes wide. Treech is looking at you too now. 

Lamina hesitates, but she inches closer. This close, you wonder if she has even attempted to get the dirt off her face. “Hold still, it’s cold,” you warn before you reach through the bars to begin to wipe her face clean. Lamina makes a face at the sudden contact, but doesn’t pull away. You can feel Treech’s eyes on you. 

“Did the rat repellent work?” You ask, scrubbing a spot on Lamina’s cheek. Your handkerchief is streaked in dirt, but Lamina looks much better. Like a girl rather than some sort of dirt creature. Lamina nods. There’s bags under her eyes. 

“Yes,” Treech uncaps the jam. He looks more rested than he has been. He does not elaborate, but you’ll take the one word answer. 

“That’s good,” you say as you fold the handkerchief over, pouring more water over the fabric. You wipe it over Lamina’s face one last time, her skin now damp and shiny. She’s definitely younger than Treech by a few years, sixteen at most. 

“There, we can’t have you going out before the cameras like that,” you offer her a smile as you lean away. She smiles back, and it’s slightly less watery than what you’ve seen before. She still looks like she’s about to cry, though. “Do you know what you’re doing for the interviews?” You ask. You’re curious. 

She frowns, tearing her biscuit in half. “No, my mentor hasn’t said.” Classic Pup Harrington. It’s a bit cruel to send her up on the stage without preparing her at all. If it goes well, he’ll claim that was his plan from the beginning. If not, he’ll bemoan having the girl that just won’t stop crying. 

“You'll be fine,” you tell her. “The host will help you out.” The weatherman, despite being mildly irritating at times, does know how to make anyone look good. Lamina doesn’t look convinced, but there isn’t much you can do about it. You’re not about to play up Lucky Flickerman. 

Treech watches you talk from under the brim of his hat. You don’t bother to warn him as you shift to push his hat back up. He only blinks at you, but this time you can see him properly. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t rubbed more dirt on his face overnight. With any luck, when you leave to head to the park where the interviews will be conducted, he won’t manage to get anything on his face. You’ll have a minute to talk with him before the interviews start if he does, at least. 

The bruise on his face has healed quickly, still a little green, but Capitol medicine works wonders. You want to press your fingers into it, and he just might have let you. 

In the following silence, you can feel your nerves begin to pick back up. This is the last morning that you’re going to see your boy before the games start. He could die tomorrow. He will, if he’s not careful. You hope he doesn’t end up watching the death of Lamina. Perhaps it’s callous to think about and hope for the death of the girl you just wiped the dirt off of. 

It’s an odd feeling, to recognize that every person in front of you but one is going to die tomorrow or very soon after. If someone does kill Treech, you wonder who it will be. Coral or Tanner, most likely. An alliance isn’t going to last long, especially not if the tributes are taken out in rapid succession. 

You want to see the look on Snow’s face when Lucy Gray dies. You’re not cruel enough to hope her death is drawn out, she seems nice and her voice is even better, but she has to die at some point in the arena. 

“How are your hands?” You direct at Treech, nodding towards the gauze. His fingers flex. 

“Fine,” he says. He doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate, which is kind of annoying because you are genuinely just trying to help him out. Partially for your own gain, but the end result matters more than intent, doesn’t it? 

“‘Fine?’” You prompt. 

Treech looks at you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “They healed fast, nothing like the medicine in Seven.”   “Finish eating and then let me see them again,” you tell him. You want to make sure they actually are healing quickly; he may have said he could fight with injuries, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to minimize it. 

Treech listens, spreading more jam on his biscuit. You look over at Lamina in time to see her stuff the last of her food in her mouth. She offers an awkward smile, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel. 

Most of the other tributes have roused themselves by now, the sun climbing higher in the sky and cooking you in your uniform. Soon, people should be arriving to take some of their last looks at the tributes before they head into the arena. You doubt it will be too many though, the interviews are in the early afternoon, and not many want to wake up too much earlier on a Sunday. The most people will likely be after the interviews in the late afternoon. 

There’s a round of wet coughing, harsh and painful sounding. The district eleven girl must be awake. You’re surprised she’s still alive, like at all. Lamina’s expression mirrors yours. 

“Thank you,” Lamina wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “For the food, and the towel,” she folds her hands in her lap. “You’re kind.”

“You’re welcome,” you say. You’re not entirely sure what to add after that. You don’t think you did any of this out of kindness, but you’re not about to refute it. Lamina solves the problem for you, because apparently, she isn’t done speaking. 

“I’m going to try and sleep some more,” she shifts. You don’t stop her as she stands up. Treech takes the napkin from her, folding it up and dropping it into his coat pocket. You watch as she turns her back, walking back over to her rock and tucking her knees up to her chest. You can’t tell if she’s crying or not as she crosses her arms over her knees and drops her head. 

You think she’s fine, her shoulders aren’t shaking. She did look tired, after all. If the rats were keeping her up, she’d want to try and catch up on her sleep before the games start. 

“Why did you do that?” Treech asks after Lamina is gone. Dark brown eyes stare into your own, maybe with a bit of scrutiny. 

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. It wasn’t quite kindness, not for her anyway. You don’t gain very much from it. “You like her.” 

You want her dead, his eyes seem to say. There’s nothing you can do to refute it. You do. At the end of the day, you want Lamina dead so Treech is one step closer to getting out. You don’t want her death to be drawn out, at least. Hopefully it isn’t anyone in Treech’s alliance that kills her. 

“Here,” Treech changes the topic by holding out one of his hands. The gauze isn’t pristine white anymore, dotted with dirt. You take his hand in yours, rolling back his sleeve so you can have access to the wrapping around his wrists as well. 

He’s silent as you begin to peel back the gauze around his hand, and you can feel his gaze on you. Your heart feels caught in your throat, not pounding but certainly not beating at a comfortable pace. The old gauze falls in a pile between the two of you, soiling further now on the ground. 

You turn his hand over in your own, appraising what damage is left. It is minimal, some parts of his skin still a little blistered or pinkish. Better than they were yesterday, but still not completely healed. You move onto his wrist, carefully removing your handiwork and discarding it with the other gauze. 

The skin is still pink and raw, but like his hands, much better than it was yesterday. You should probably let his skin breathe a bit before you put anything else on it again. “Give me your other hand, don’t touch the ground with this one,” you warn him, tapping his knuckles for emphasis. 

Treech’s other hand is in similar condition to the first, if not mildly better. His wrists look the same. You wish he was healing faster, but at least he’s not getting worse. It could always be worse because it could get infected. You’ll take slower healing over infection. 

“I want to get some air on those before I rewrap them,” you gesture at his hands. His palm is balanced on your fingertips. You have the suddenest urge to press your palm against his. You doubt he would appreciate it, and it would hurt your own hand, so you guide his hand back to him.

“When do they feed you?” Sometime in the morning? You look at Treech’s face. You still kind of want to touch your boy’s bruise. 

“Depends,” Treech pulls his gaze from you, moving his eyes down. 

It depends? You frown. You’re surprised the Capitol isn’t consistent. In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t be. They didn’t feed the tributes after they were reaped in the first place, meals days later. How many times a day do they feed the tributes, anyway? You should have considered this earlier, actually. 

“I see,” you say instead of voicing your thoughts. 

Treech shifts like he has something to say, but he’s silent. You sit in silence for a moment, taking the lull to just look at him. Too bad he’s not Capitol, he’s really nice to look at. Something about just sitting here makes your stomach flutter. Not necessarily in a bad way. It must be the nerves. 

“...You’re staring,” Treech points out as if he doesn’t have a staring problem of his own. 

“I am,” you agree with ease. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, looking up to meet your eyes. You’re glad you pushed his hat back. Treech stares back at you for a moment with an unreadable expression. His fingers twitch like he means to tug his hat back down again. 

Silence envelopes the two of you, but it’s not the awkward kind. It’s almost like the kind you have when you’re sitting with Lyssie and you’re both doing your own separate things. You wonder if she’s going to show up this morning. 

Treech looks back to his lap. You would ask how he is feeling, but you know the answer isn’t going to be great, and you don’t think a sorry or you’ll be fine is going to cut it. You wonder if any of his friends or family truly believe he will be coming back home. Alive, that is. You don’t want him to leave at all. 

Your musing is interrupted by metallic clanking along the back wall, earlier than yesterday. “That must be breakfast,” you move your attention to the Peacekeepers and their rifles. The same styrofoam trays are in their hands. Treech shifts to look over his shoulder at them. Tributes are already getting up to warily receive them. 

“Go,” you tilt your head. “Give me those napkins, I’ll throw them away,” you reach for the napkin on the ground next to Treech. The napkin from his pocket presses into your palm. You fold the two in your hand, considering the knife sticking out of the jar of jam. While you don’t think Treech is going to do anything with it, you can’t say the same for the other tributes. 

Treech stands up, and you’re pleased to note that he doesn’t touch the ground with his hands as he does so. As he turns his back, you pull the jam back through the bars and sit it with your bag before you stand up to throw the napkins away. Unfolding yourself off the ground, you make your way over to a trash bin. It’s so hot. Your stitches pull uncomfortably.

A box of rat poison sits half tucked under it, devoid of any sign that it has worked in the slightest. You toss the wad of napkins in. Treech is waiting for you when you return, and you see Lamina picking her way through her food. 

You sit back down across from him, slipping your jacket off to fold in your lap. Technically you’re not supposed to be seen without any part of the uniform, but until cameras show up, you think you’ll be fine. You really don’t want to sit outside for who knows how long for the interviews. Would it be too much to do them in the air conditioning? 

You direct your focus to the contents of Treech’s tray. Bread, green beans, and what you want to call some sort of jerky. There’s a flimsy plastic fork, too. It’s sad, if you’re being honest. It also reminds you of the war, so you look away. 

Most of the tributes are eating in silence. Lucy Gray is trying to persuade Jessup to eat, but he looks, for lack of better words, twitchy like Treech had said. Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner sit together, but it doesn’t look like they’re saying anything. 

“Last night, Reaper apologized to each of us individually for having to kill us,” Treech says suddenly. You blink. 

“He did?” You knew he was already very real competition, but this is confirmation that he means to be. If it does come down to Treech and Reaper, you hope Reaper is already worn down. 

Treech nods, poking at his green beans. “Made a few of them cry.” Was Lamina included in ‘them?’ You don’t ask. 

“Just try and avoid him,” you say. Nervousness pricks your skin. The image of Reaper stabbing Treech flashes through your mind. What kind of weapon does Reaper prefer? He’s agriculture, so a scythe? “You’ll be okay, a four person alliance should dissuade him from outright attacking.”

Treech shrugs half-heartedly. “His district partner has tuberculosis, doesn’t she?” 

“I’d presume,” you cast a sidelong glance at the pair from district eleven. The girl looks worse. “Are they partnering up in the arena?” 

“Don’t know, probably,” Treech says. “Once she’s dead, he’ll probably start hunting us down.” 

What a pleasant picture. “Reaper may not make it that long either,” you remind him, but it sounds hollow even to you. Reaper isn’t going down easily, and he doesn’t plan to either. Treech clicks his tongue, refraining from comment. 

He eats, and you jump from idle topic to idle topic. You can’t stop picturing Treech’s death as you talk. You hope it doesn’t show on your face. Treech finishes, moving the tray out of his way. You lean over to your bag, pulling out gauze and the burn cream. His burns had time to air out, and you’re itching to cover them back up. 

The handkerchief you used on Lamina gets folded in half again, a bit more water poured onto the clean space. You hold your hand out, and Treech only looks at you for a moment before he places his hand in your own. You can’t stop the slight smile on your face. 

“These should be almost fully healed by tomorrow,” you squint at the pink skin on his palm. Even if they aren’t, your boy did say he could still use an ax with some injury. He doesn’t say anything as you run the cloth over his hand. His eyes are on your own hands, watching as you work. 

The burn cream is cold on your fingertips as you gently rub it into Treech’s skin. By the mild look in his eyes, you don’t think he minds the chill. You rewrap the gauze around his hand, repeating the same process on his other hand. You wrap his wrists back up while you’re at it, pausing to unfold the cuffs of his coat where you had rolled it up earlier. You smooth the end of his sleeves out. This is the last time you’re going to do this.

“There,” you say. “I have one more thing…” You rummage in your bag again, feeling for the handle. Your fingers wrap around the cool metal. Hairbrush in hand, you sit back up properly. You flip the brush around so the handle faces Treech. 

“That bad?” He asks, reaching up to touch his hair. You smile sympathetically. He still hesitates, but takes the handle quicker than he had days prior. Holding it with the delicacy one would expect of a mother holding her newborn, Treech tips his hat off his head. You can see him better without it. 

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a tangle. It’s too bad he has to brush out curls. His hair frizzes as he begins to pull the brush through his hair, but it’s better than the slowly knotting mess that it was. 

You watch him, an odd feeling in your chest. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, and the idea of this being one of the last times you see Treech in person rubs you the wrong way. You don’t want him to leave your sight, least of all go into the arena. The only consolation is that he doesn’t look half bad when he’s a little dirty. Dirty as in real dirt and blood. Preferably someone else's blood; if he’s bleeding, it’s not going to be a good sign. 

Treech looks past you for a moment. He goes to say something but is cut off by a shout behind you.

“Y/n!” 

You startle at the familiar voice, turning around to look at Lyssie. You didn’t think she’d be here this early. She holds the straps of her bag tightly, and you wonder what exactly she brought for Jessup.

“Good morning, Lyssie,” you wave. “You’re up early.” 

“So are you,” she says as she approaches. Looking at her uniform intact makes you feel warmer. “Is Jessup awake?” Lyssie moves her gaze from you, squinting at the tributes. 

“He should be,” you point to where he and Lucy Gray sit under the tree. Lucy Gray might be asleep. 

“Don’t leave before me,” Lyssie tells you, shifting her bag strap on her shoulder. “We’re walking down together.” You smile. There’s not much room for an argument. 

“Sure.”

You watch Lyssie leave to go talk to Jessup before you turn back to Treech. He holds the end of the brush out for you. His hat is back on his head, pulled down to where his eyes are completely in the shadow. You take the brush back, placing it in your bag, and make a split second decision.

“I’ll bring chocolate tonight,” you tell Treech, picking at your jacket as you talk. “Do you have a preference?” 

Treech’s eyes are on you, but he doesn’t respond right away. You have the distinct feeling you’re being judged. Heavily scrutinized, at least. “Surprise me,” he says eventually. It’s as much as a nonanswer as it is an answer. He’s getting milk chocolate. Maybe fruit dipped in it? 

“Alright,” you agree. “It’ll be a surprise. A congratulatory prize for finishing the interviews.” One last sweet thing before the arena. You remember what he said yesterday about Lamina likely being one of his group's targets. Perhaps Reaper will take her out. You’re still reeling from what Treech had told you about Reaper’s interactions with the other tributes. 

Knowing that they’ll have to kill one another is one thing, unspoken and stepped around until getting into the arena. Promising to do so is another, even if it was wrapped up in an apology. You wonder what he has waiting for him back at home. Who he has waiting for him, more like. A lover, maybe. Someone he promised to come back to. It’s too bad that, with any luck on your part, he won’t be fulfilling that promise. 

You want the Plinth Prize, and you want Treech to get out alive. Being the mentor of the victor has a night ring to it. Having something over Snow would also be nice. You’re still not entirely convinced he didn’t do something to Clemmie. 

Treech looks behind you again, so you follow his gaze, curious on who else has appeared. Early risers should be filtering in sooner or later. You repress a frown as you spot blond curls. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

“Morning, Coryo!” You wave at him, because it is the polite thing to do. 

“Y/n, good morning,” he greets you, looking past you to stare at Treech for a moment. There’s some sort of package under his arm, soft and wrapped in brown paper. You have no real idea on what it could be. 

“Where’s your shadow?” You ask, directing his attention back to you. You don’t particularly like how he’s looking at Treech. It’s not outright malicious, but it’s not the kindest thing either. You haven’t seen Sejanus at the zoo in awhile, and you figure there’s not much reason for him to. His tribute is still missing.

If he’s confined to the lower tunnels of the Capitol, you can’t believe that no one has caught him yet. Whether or not you want him to be caught is a different matter. You want him off the street, at least. 

Snow wrinkles his nose. “I don’t care enough to know.”

That’s fair enough. You wonder what Sejanus even sees in him. Sure, Snow doesn’t go out of his way to antagonize Sejanus, but that doesn’t mean he likes him in any sense of the word. It’s funny that Snow still doesn’t push him away, even after all these years. 

“We all know you like him,” you say just to prod at him. Good naturedly of course, if anyone asks. 

“I tolerate him,” Snow corrects quickly. You know that, but he’s still a little fun to bother. The idea that people think they might be friends gets to him. You smile, waving your hand. 

“I believe your girl is waiting for you,” you look in the direction of Lucy Gray, moving on. She’s sitting under her tree, eyes on Snow. Her rainbow dress is fringed in dirt. Snow nods and leaves you, greeting Lyssie as he approaches where she talks with Jessup. You look away. 

Treech is looking up at you when you turn back around, cheek pressed into his hand. “Are you friends?” He sounds mildly judgemental. You don’t know why he cares, but it’s not like he can do anything with however you answer. It’s not like he has much room to judge, either. He’s district and in a cage. 

You’re not entirely sure how to answer the question. You and Snow aren’t friends in the traditional sense, but you’ve been around each other since you were kids. You both run in the same circles. He’s not your favorite person–in fact, he’s one of your least favorite people– and you don’t trust him at all, but being together for so long makes you hesitate to say no. 

“Sometimes,” you say. That’s an easy answer, simple with different ways to take it and doesn’t require further elaboration. You aren’t sure an answer like you play being friends with him is something you should say out loud, anyway. 

Your boy doesn’t react, continuing to stare at you. It’s an odd feeling to watch as someone tries to dissect you layer by layer. You look at your watch again. It’s late morning. You feel antsy. There’s a slight buzz under your skin, prompting you on, but you don’t know for what. There’s nothing else for you to do. 

“Why?” You hear yourself ask. 

Treech shrugs with a shake of his head. “Curiosity.” 

There’s a slight commotion behind you, but this time you don’t turn around. You know exactly who has arrived; the spectators. Treech sighs. You want to as well. You’re also running out of things to say. You want to ask Treech more about himself, but you aren’t sure how receptive he’s going to be to that. 

There isn’t much left to talk about at all, really. You circle back to the interviews. “Later with the interviews,” you start. Treech frowns slightly. Wouldn’t it be funny if he just didn’t perform at all? Funny in a horrible way. “Flickerman, the weatherman, will talk with you and give you an opening to show off with an ax.” 

Treech just stares. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, beyond some level of disdain. 

“I know,” you tap your fingers on your knee, restless. Treech isn’t going to have fun, but it’s the only tangible way you can help him in the arena. He’ll probably get sponsors even if he does just sit and glare the whole time, the whole Capitol has an affinity to pretty things and is full of people looking to pour their money into something. If you could, you’d probably place your bets on Treech too. 

“Supporters mean I can send you things in the arena,” you remind him. “This year has potential to go on for a few days.” As if you haven’t said that already. Repeating it makes you feel a bit better, though. The longer game may be interesting, but may ultimately just stress you out more. 

You’re curious about what the others are doing for their interviews. Outside of Festus, no one has said a word. It’s not like you’ve been sharing either. Everyone wants the Plinth Prize. Clemmie must be mostly out of the running for it. 

“You said I’m already popular,” Treech says suddenly, reminding you of your words from the other day. You don’t know why he’s bringing that up now. “Why?” 

Why did you say it or why is he popular? 

“You’re strong and pretty,” you answer. You thought it was kind of obvious. “Out of all the tributes here, there’s not many who look like they have much of a chance.” Just a glance around the enclosure proves your point. Treech shakes his head slightly, but he does not elaborate. 

Now that you think about it, he’s been less hostile lately. Not thrilled, surely, but all the same. A win is a win and all that. You don’t know why you care. He goes into the arena tomorrow, he doesn’t need to like you, he just needs to listen. He’s been mostly co-operative so far, but you doubt the same courtesy extends to the rest of the Capitol. 

In fairness, you don’t like a lot of the people here either. Dr. Gaul flashes in your mind, irritating you immediately. The feeling is alongside a sense of general unease. Her recognition may be helpful, in the medical field at one point herself, but you much rather that recognition goes to Snow over you. She’s more than a little unsettling.

What did Dr. Gaul do before the war? Something with infants, childbirth maybe? It’s a horrifying thought that you’re eager to shake from your head. 

You focus back on Treech in front of you. He’s watching you quietly, almost as if he’s trying to absorb you. Or maybe he’s just judging you. Judging seems like the most likely option. It’s also easier to deal with. 

“In the alliance, we’re supposed to group up after the buzzer,” Treech says eventually. “Coral’s idea.” You’re not surprised, all cohesive action seems to be from that girl. Granted, you haven’t witnessed too much of said action. If anyone back stabs the alliance first, you know who it’s most likely going to be. She is in this to win. Festus was dealt a nice hand. You really don’t want him to win, listening to him gloat may be enough to make you move to the districts to get away. 

An idea has been pressing in the back of your mind though. Coral seems to be some sort of protective over her district partner, Mizzen constantly leaning on her. If he’s in the alliance, he either has something to offer, or Coral thinks he’s important. Considering Mizzen isn’t the most imposing of people, one of the youngest, it’s very likely the latter. Treech had said Mizzen and the faceless Wovey are the two he doesn’t think he can kill. 

“If someone takes out Mizzen,” you say slowly, “What is the likelihood Coral won’t be the first to betray the group?” 

Treech frowns, glancing to the side. “She might stay until numbers dwindle, but…” He trails off, looking back at you. “She’s protecting him, and if he’s dead then there’s nothing stopping her from trying to win.” 

You click your tongue. You’re unsure of Tanner’s willingness to be in the alliance; Treech can’t leave the betrayal up to chance. With the way he’s looking at you, he knows it too. Protecting Mizzen could be a strategy to keep Coral from turning too quickly, but will Treech be able to deal any final blows if Mizzen is still alive. Perhaps it will be better if he just keeps his head down. There’s no performance in just listening, though. 

You spot Hilarius out of the corner of your eyes, Iphigenia and Urban too. There’s Pup Harrington. 

Treech was old enough to remember the war, you think suddenly. Would it be impolite to ask what it was like in the districts? Secondary text is interesting and all, but a primary source isn’t available to you. You don’t necessarily like talking about the war, but someone else's experience is a different thing; and you have an undying sort of hunger. 

It’s probably rude to ask. A bit cruel maybe, considering you’re asking him to play nice for the cameras and then sending him into a death match. You don’t ask, and you’d like to think that you’re doing something kind. 

“Are they broadcasting the interviews to the districts?” Treech asks eventually. 

Are they? You’re not sure. Is there a point? The interviews are to gain sponsors, and the districts aren’t exactly a hub of wealth. “Possibly,” you say instead. Treech takes that as an answer. 

You’re not sure how much time passes between the two of you, part of it in silence, part of it filled with your voice. You know Festus arrived at some point because you saw Coral stand up and cross over to the bars.

Treech raises his eyes up, alerting you of the change in people behind you, before a hand claps you on the shoulder. “Y/n,” Festus says, and you try really hard not to sigh. “Come on, we’re leaving.” 

“We?” You shift to look up at him. You were planning on leaving with Lyssie. 

Festus waves his hand. “Coryo, Lyssie, Hilarius, me, you,” he punctuates by pointing at you. Hilarius Heavensbee? His tribute is the girl from eight, you think. You distinctly remember Festus laughing at him after the reaping for his poor luck. 

“Give me a second,” it’s your turn to wave at him. “Hovering is rude.” 

“Causing a group delay is rude,” Festus reminds you. You can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m throwing that away,” he’s suddenly much closer, stooping down to grab the jar of jam you had near forgotten about. 

“Not the knife,” you reach for the metal handle. Festus shakes his head but leaves you alone for the moment, walking away. You wrap the blade in the dirty handkerchief, hoping that the jam didn’t stain the inside of your bag as you drop it in an inside pocket.

Treech’s head is angled slightly down when you turn back to him to say your temporary goodbyes. Rehearsal for the real goodbyes this evening. You’d rather not think about it, even as the second phase of actually getting the Plinth Prize is to begin soon. Your boy hasn’t really expressed any worry, only seeing a fraction of it minutes before the arena went sky high. That doesn’t mean you can’t tell. 

 “Chin up, lumberjack,” you raise his chin with your finger. “I’ll meet you there.” Your stitching stings with the movement. Your boy looks down at you, brown eyes a little wide and staring straight at you. His skin is warm under the pad of your finger. He’s very still. You pull away, shifting your bag up onto your shoulder. 

“Y/n!” Lyssie calls. You offer Treech a smile, back turned from your friends, before you begin to walk away. Festus has his arms crossed as you reach the group, red uniforms sticking out between the people milling about. Many of them are leaving, no doubt eager to watch the interviews.

You feel a similar buzzing under your skin that urges you on. You resist the urge to look back over your shoulder. “Are we off?” You prompt with a smile. In Snow’s arm, folded up neatly, is Lucy Gray’s dress. You look at it questioningly, and Snow only smiles. You could turn back around, but instead you just shrug, and your group is off. 

“I, for one, am excited to see how the interviews play out,” Festus says as you walk. He bumps shoulders with Snow.

“That’s because your tribute has a chance,” Hilarius reminds him. You have no idea what his tribute's name is. 

“Luck of the draw,” Festus says flippantly. He changes course, looking at Snow. “What’s with the dress?” 

Snow shifts, a knowing smile on his face. “I thought she could use a costume for the stage.” 

He brought her a different dress, that was what was originally in the soft package he was holding. And Lucy Gray just changed for him? Is he giving the old dress back after the show? So many questions. 

“What’s it made of?” Hilarius wrinkles his nose. 

“Some sort of mesh,” Snow tucks it a bit out of view. Hilarius takes that as an answer, shrugging. 

“The new dress is gorgeous,” Lyssie whispers, leaning over to you. Yes, she would have been near Snow and his girl when she exchanged dresses. 

“Well, we’re all excited to see how your songbird looks in her natural element,” you tell Snow. You are, too. He really did get a natural performer. District twelve, though. 

“Is she going to sing?” Lyssie asks, looping her arm through yours. You don’t necessarily mind, but it’s so hot out. 

“Let me have my secrets,” Snow tells you all. As if he isn’t made up of secrets. Whatever, you have common courtesy. Festus clicks his tongue, but lets it drop. Hilarius says something that you don’t hear, but Lyssie laughs, so you smile along. 

The conversation shifts like water, never lingering on any one image for very long before someone brings something else up. Lyssie turns it to a conversation about medical practices on the tributes. 

Hilarius hums. “Y/n was the most concerned, the district seven boy has had the pleasure of being in the best healing hands of this generation.” 

“I’m good, aren’t I?” You nod. The recognition is nice, you have worked hard, after all. “Lyssie might steal the title from me if I’m not careful.” 

Festus opens his mouth, and you try not to let your smile tighten. You know that look. It’s the one where he says something and makes you consider why you ever spoke to him in the first place. 

Lyssie cuts him off. “Please, I’ve seen you wrapping Treech’s hands. It’s a wonder Dr. Gaul hasn’t carted you off.” And you count your blessings for that every day. Lyssie squeezes your arm, teasing. 

Hilarius makes a face, mirroring your own feelings. 

“You bandaged his hands?” Snow asks, casting you a glance. You don’t think you like his expression. You also don’t think you like Snow having that information. 

“With how much you care about that boy being alright, one would almost think you’re in love with him,” Festus snarks. It feels like a slap in the face, the idea that you could be in love with some district boy chosen for the Hunger Games. When you go to refute it, the idea of rejecting the statement outright feels wrong. 

Oh. 

Oh.

There is no way. 

You’re in love with the district boy. You’re in love with the district boy, and he goes into the arena in a literal day. Your chest feels tight. This might be the worst thing to ever happen to you. The war was pretty bad, but this seems comparable. 

“I’m not in love with district, that’s like being in love with Sejanus,” you frown. “I just want the prize.” 

Festus laughs. “That’s something, you and Sejanus.” 

“Shut up,” you pull a grimace. “I’d rather sit through another conversation with Dr. Gaul.” Your heart pounds. Lyssie pulls you along. You’re quiet the rest of the walk, reeling.

By the time the park comes into view, rows of seats set up on the freshly cut green lawn, you’ve come to and worked through a few conclusions. You are actually in love with Treech, the idea of which makes you a little nauseous and has you feeling light headed. Part of that may be the July heat. 

Second, Treech goes into the arena tomorrow. This is one of your last times to see him. It’s a bit nerve wracking. 

Third, if he doesn’t make it out, you’re going to have to watch him die on screen and stay composed. 

Fourth, if he does win, you’re likely not going to see him again. Previous victors have been sent back to the districts the moment they’re patched up enough to put on a train out of the Capitol. 

Fifth, he’s district. Better than Sejanus, but Sejanus’ irritating personality doesn’t stem entirely from being district. At least, you don’t think it does. Further analysis required, analysis that you don’t care enough to do. 

Finally, you hardly have a chance. Does he even like you? All of your actions make a bit more sense in hindsight, drawn in by his looks and caught by the rest of him. It feels far beyond a mere schoolyard crush, but you’re not sure what else it is. He saved you during the bombing. 

And, of course, you can’t let anyone know. That’s embarrassing, and you’d be the laughingstock of the Academy. It all makes you feel a bit hysterical. 

You spot Lucky Flickerman fussing over microphones and cameras, flitting around like a particular anxious parrot. It’s his big debut as the Hunger Games host. A handful of non Academy personnel stand around, a handful of Peacekeepers around the perimeters. The Academy Student Mentor chairs are red and at the front, marked with a reserved plaque on each seat. Are there assigned seats? A handful of other mentors are here already. 

Snow breaks away from your group, saying something about being back soon. You watch as he finds his cousin, Tigris you believe, and hands off the rainbow dress to her. She holds it out in her hands, looking at it with a smile. Is the dress for her? His cousin folds the dress back up and scurries off. Not staying for the interviews, apparently. You don’t really care. 

Hilarius spots Pup, and he’s gone before you can blink. 

“Are those hors d'oeuvres?” Festus points towards a long table in the back that you hadn’t seen coming in. “I’ll be back.” He leaves you and Lyssie alone as more people begin to file in and find seats or stand in clusters. 

“I’m worried about Jessup,” Lyssie fingers her necklace. “Nothing I’m giving him is working.” 

“Do you know what he has?” 

“I think the infection is spreading…It’s not blood poisoning, at least.” 

“He’s strong,” you remind her, for lack of better things to say. You can’t exactly tell her that you want Jessup to drop dead right now. Lyssie only nods.

You’re antsy waiting for the truck of tributes to arrive. You don’t feel like socializing, and evidently neither does Lyssie. Snow ends up rejoining Festus. You’re eager to see long black hair in an Academy uniform, a surprise appearance from Clemmie, but it seems doubtful in happening as the lawn continues to fill with bodies. 

Dean Highbottom is in attendance. You watch with a distant feeling of distaste as he downs some sort of flask. No sign of Dr. Gaul. This sort of event doesn’t seem like her thing. No opportunity to give a twenty-minute speech on rebellion and inherent cruelty and punishment and all that.

There’s a roar of an engine behind you, and you almost break your neck turning to look. You’re not the only one. Through barred windows, you can see tributes shifting. A moment later, the doors are swung open, Peacekeepers ordering them out. 

You spot Lucy Gray before Treech. Her new dress is beautiful, not as colorful, but pristine. You can say what you want about Snow, but he’s clever. His tribute has been drawing in sponsors since day one. 

Treech is one of the last ones out, clearly displeased to be there at all. His coat is askew. You feel your heart speed up upon seeing him, accompanied by a very specific bone deep sort of dread that you push down. You have a job to do as his mentor. 

“Good luck,” you hear Lyssie say before she pulls away from you. She’s gone before you can respond, weaving through the mentors to Jessup. She’s right, he doesn’t look good. Not much worse, but he’s not getting better. 

You follow her lead, stepping around people to reach your boy. When you reach him, his arms are crossed, jaw set and irritation burned into his features. To your relief, he has managed to not get dirt on his face. Lamina stands off to the side with Pup. Her face is wet again. 

“Ready?” You ask, moving your attention away from her. 

Treech blinks. “It’s not like I have a choice.” 

“No, but you’ll do great,” you try to reassure him. He doesn’t budge. You reach into your bag, grateful for its depth, and reveal the wooden rod you had promised. It’s sturdy in your hands. “What do you think?” You hope it works out. 

He takes it from you, balancing it in his hands. He wraps his fingers around the wood, holding it with the practiced ease one would expect of a lumberjack. Your gaze is caught on his hands as he spins it. You wonder if the motion hurts. 

“It’s fine,” he says after a moment. “Light.” 

You smile, relieved, and Treech hands it back to you to drop back into your bag. His coat is still a little crooked, lapel flipped at an odd angle. You don’t think as you reach out and flip it, the fabric soft under your skin. Smoothing down the front of his coat, you don’t look him in the eyes this time.  You can feel his heart pounding under your palm.

“There, you look nice,” you straighten his tie as you talk, facing the knot to the front. His eyes on you make your skin burn. “One more thing,” you say as you push his hat up. “If you can’t answer Flickerman, pretend you’re answering me.” A little bold, but he seems more prone to talk to you opposed to the guy making the Hunger Games a proper spectacle this year. 

“I’ll be at the front, a little hard to miss me in red,” you pinch your sleeve. 

“Promise?” His question takes you off guard a bit, tone neutral. You really wish you could read him better. 

“Of course,” you nod. “I won’t take my eyes off you.” 

Treech’s fingers twitch like he wants to pull down his hat. 

“Alright people, we start in five,” Flickerman’s voice reverberates through the park, loud enough to make you wince. He frowns. “Can someone turn this down?” 

“You’ll be fine,” you tell Treech, willing it to be true. He will be fine. Peacekeepers separate you before he can respond. “Get off, I’m going,” you snap. They’re all so brutish and rough. Treech will be fine. 

You find your seat next to Lyssie, already in the front row. Her leg is bouncing. 

“Ready?” You ask as you sit down. Lyssie makes a face. 

“The sooner this is over with, the better.” 

Festus drops into the seat next to you. Snow joins a moment later. The seats fill up, and Io Jasper stands just out of the spotlight with his tribute. The district three boy. Both tributes from one and two are dead. Or missing. Sejanus’ tribute has yet to be caught. He’ll probably be executed once he is. 

“I’m Lucretious ‘Lucky’ Flickerman,” Flickerman says flipping his coin, “weatherman, amateur magician, and this years’ host of the Hunger Games.” He gestures to the tributes, and the interviews kick off. He introduces one Io Jasper and Circ from district three. 

The district three girl is apparently named Teslee. 

Festus stands up as Mizzen’s interview concludes, waving someone over with the broken broom handle he had talked about. Coral shows a deadly efficiency with it, and it only makes you worry more about the alliance Treech found himself dragged into. 

There are no district six tributes to present, so you stand as Sol wraps up her interview. You meet Treech at the edge of the makeshift stage, handing him the wooden rod. His fingers brush yours as he takes it. You try not to dwell on it. “You’ll be fine,” you whisper, clocking the vague edge of panic in his eyes. That’s all you get to say before Flickerman is calling you up to the stage and into the spotlight. 

Rehearsed lines that you don’t have to think terribly hard about leave your lips, candy smiles and pleasantries with Flickerman as you introduce your boy to the crowd and the cameras. You say your part and are ushered back to your seat, stage adrenaline in your veins and a cocktail of different type of nerves sitting in your stomach. 

“You’re from the lumber district,” Flickerman crosses his legs and leans forward in his seat. “Care to show off who helps to power our Capitol?” When Treech swings the rod, you are both impressed and incredibly glad you’re not going into the arena with him. Flickerman’s expression is frozen, thinking the same thing. 

A glance at a few of the other tributes shows a similar sentiment, except they’re actually going into the arena with him. Flickerman makes Treech look good, not that he has to try very hard. Treech’s gaze flits around from somewhere off to the side, Flickerman, and you. He’s a little cagey, but not bad.

Lamina cries on stage, but at least she isn't covered in dirt like she was.

Hilarius goes soon after you, and you now have a face for Wovey. You don’t believe she is going to last very long. By the time Jessup’s interview rolls around, they’re all starting to blur together. Lyssie squeezes your arm as she stands up, and you try for a comforting smile. 

“Flickerman, there’s something I’d like to show you,” Lyssie says conspiratorially to Flickerman once she introduces Jessup. 

“I’m all ears,” Flickerman says eagerly. Lyssie sits primly in the second chair, and you gasp as Jessup lifts her and the chair over his head. 

Lucy Gray is last, and she seems to come to life under the stage lights. A guitar in hand, she sings what is probably her last song. Her voice is nice. Snow got lucky. Very lucky; the district twelve girl turned out to be a diamond rather than just another lump of coal. 

It’s late afternoon by the time it’s all over, and you want nothing more than to get out. The tributes are rounded back up, and the truck clunks off. You end up ditching Lyssie, making a half-hearted excuse about wanting a breather. She doesn’t take it personally, and you do actually need to step back for a moment.

You weave through Capitol streets, taking the longest route you know to a decent candy store, pushing your nerves down the list of priorities. There’s nothing you can do about them, and you don’t feel like acknowledging them. Treech did fine with the interviews; he has sponsors now. Quite a few. You feel better about his odds. 

You spend less than five minutes in that store, filling a small box with various chocolates and truffles. You’re thankful you can put it in your bag rather than have to carry it like you did with the box from the bakery. Deciding to give your thoughts a bit more time before you go and face the cause, you walk aimlessly around the city, ruminating and emptying your mind. 

The air is finally starting to cool down as you walk back to the zoo, shadows stretching as evening begins. The breeze on your face is a welcome distraction from the whole going to see Treech for probably the last time. The nice weather doesn’t distract from the mental images of Coral spearing him in the stomach. 

Tributes sit slumped in various positions once you reach the zoo, the crowd dispersed and virtually non-existent. You doubt many more people will be showing up. You don’t really want to interact with anyone else, so it works out. 

Treech meets you at the bars this time, his hat still pushed back to where you had sat it. You ignore the pulse in your throat. This is awful. You would have been perfectly fine if you never realized anything. Festus’ fault, as always. 

“Hi,” you smile, brandishing the ribbon tied box. “Share with me?” 

Your boy watches you with what might have been a smile. You might just be seeing things. You gesture for him to sit down.

“How’d I do?” Treech asks. You don’t answer until you’re sitting down. 

“You did great,” you pull the ribbon off the box. “I wouldn’t want to be in the arena with you tomorrow.” The lid comes off easily. “You’ve managed to become even more popular.” Treech picks at the cuffs of his coat in response. The chocolate aroma hits your nose, and you inhale deeply. You angle the box towards him. “You get first pick.” 

He squints. “Half of that doesn’t look like real chocolate.” 

“Come on, try it,” you give the box a slight rattle. Treech judges the box for a long moment before he plucks out a hazelnut truffle. You wait until he takes a bite before you toss a plain dark chocolate square in your mouth. 

“It’s good,” he says as if he’s surprised. Really, did he think you were trying to give him dirt? 

“Have as much as you’d like,” you set the box between you. “Well, don’t eat yourself sick,” you add as an afterthought. He doesn’t seem used to a lot of sugar. Treech inspects the chocolate, so you take the moment to look for Lucy Gray. She’s back in her rainbow dress. It’s clear of all signs of dirt. Snow must have had his cousin wash it. 

“This is a nice last meal,” Treech says drily to no one in particular. You ignore the twist in your stomach. 

“Get out of the arena, and you can have it again,” you tell him. You think of the handkerchief he’s supposed to give you back when he wins. Does he still have it? You don’t ask, not wanting to hear the answer. 

“The biggest competition will be Reaper and Coral,” Treech takes a bite of a chocolate shaped like a star. “And Tanner. Jessup if he makes a recovery.” You nod. There’s a lull as you decide what exactly to say. Reaper on the prowl is going to be dangerous, to say the least. He finishes another chocolate by the time you make up your mind.

“Listen, you’ll be okay in there. You have a strong alliance, even if you’re going to have to be careful. There is no shame in keeping your head down,” you find his eyes. Treech stares back at you, a handful of micro expressions you can’t name on his face that all morph into one unreadable stare. The shadows stretch over the ground, sun slowly sinking behind you. 

You’re worried about Coral and Tanner. Not for their safety, if they both had heart attacks before tomorrow morning you’d be overjoyed, but for how they are going to impact Treech’s safety. The slaughterhouse boy and the girl who knew how to use a spear with a drive to make it out. You want to ask him if he’s worried, but you refrain. Again, you hope Lamina dies out of his line of sight.

You watch as the sun fades, a bubbling sensation rising in your chest as you think about tomorrow morning. The Hunger Games will start, and the winner of the Plinth Prize will be determined soon after. You don’t want to get up tomorrow morning, not as early as you know you’re going to need to. 

There’s the nagging knowledge that you should get home. You have a big day tomorrow, you both do. At the same time, the idea of leaving makes your skin crawl. Unfortunately, you can’t be a good mentor if you sleep through the entire beginning of the games. Treech also won’t have a chance if you keep him up. You take a white truffle. 

“I should get going,” you shift. “I don’t want to keep you awake.” Treech taps his finger against his knee and does not respond. “Get an ax and get out of the center of the arena.” You pause, taking him in. You want to burn this image into your eyes. His curls poke out from under his hat. “My eyes will be on you the whole time.” 

The chocolate is almost gone. There wasn’t much to begin with. A last taste of the Capitol. You don’t go to take the box as you lean back on your heels, preparing to stand up. Your legs feel hollow as you do so, a leaden feeling in every part of your body. If he makes it out alive, you want to see him before they send him back to district seven. 

Treech shifts at the same time, eyes glittering in the dark. Hands reach through the bars, and he pulls on your lapels. Your heart catches in your throat, and you have the sudden premonition of getting slammed into the bars and becoming the new Arachne. You don't want your face to be part of Panem's martyrdom.

Then there’s lips on yours. Your brain short-circuits. 

Oh. 

He’s kissing you. 

You feel a little hysterical again. He tastes sweet, like the candy he was just eating, fingers tight in your jacket but gentle against your lips. Your hands are useless at your sides. It’s all too brief, Treech pulling away too quickly and leaving your head empty but running so fast you can hardly catch a thought to decipher it. 

“I had to do that once,” he says, a little breathless. “Keep an eye on the screens.” 

Treech liking you back feels worse than him not, twisting the knife already in your gut. Or maybe he’s just desperate, on the edge of life and death. Fear and last night desperation makes people act out; you saw your fair share of it during the war. 

You touch his face, indulging in what you’ve been wanting to do for days, pressing your thumbs into the bruise under his eye. He lets you, leaning into your hand just enough to feel the pressure against your stitching. 

You give him one last smile before you leave him to his fate. You’re so screwed. 

You mentally go through the list of things that you have to do this morning and afternoon as you finish the last of your morning routine. You can’t pull any real strings for Treech, you just said that to make him feel better, but you can still do something. You have to track down those plants that deter rats, and you have a favor to call in for that broken ax. Actually, there might be one somewhere in your family's possession from before the war. You’ll have to come back to that. 

Most of the war posters were disposed of, but the museum commemorating the war should have it. As much as you would like to go to a museum, you’re not in the mood to go and read about one of the worst experiences of your life. No thanks. 

Servants should know, right? Kitchen staff should, considering rats like to get into food. You’ll check with them first, and if you’re lucky, they can give you some of it. You know for sure that rosemary is one of the plants that rodents don’t like, though. You’ll ask about the ax while you’re in the kitchen, and if nothing comes from it, there’s a butcher in the poorer part of the Capitol. 

His work is technically illegal, and you think he’s a little dirty overall, but he’s fine enough company. Too bad he smells like raw meat. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen. With any luck, everything you need can be given to you from the comfort of your own home and you can head down to the zoo. Anti-bacterial cream rolls in your bag, and you feel it bump into gauze.

Your hands are starting to feel better, and when you replaced the gauze last night, the gauze hadn't bled through at all. They still hurt, though. The stitching pulls uncomfortably at your skin, and you don’t like to think about it too hard. 

The smell of fresh bread wafts from the kitchen, greeting you before you even make it to the doorway. It reminds you that you haven’t had breakfast yet. You should probably do that. You’re pretty sure your parents already left for the day, so there shouldn’t be anyone hanging around the dining room. 

Bustling servants greet you, and you’re a little surprised so many of them seem to be in the kitchen. You tap the one nearest to you, a man you’ve seen carrying dishes on more occasions than you can count. You’ve never actually learned his name, but he’s been around forever despite looking like he’s in his thirties. Considering that you don’t actually know how old he is, he might be. 

“How can I help?” He asks, pausing in whatever he’s doing. You think he just put plates down. 

“Yes, what plants keep rats away?” 

The servant looks baffled for a moment, before it fades into a mild sort of horror. “Is there a rat problem somewhere that needs to be taken care of?” Technically yes, but not in the house, which is what he’s asking. 

“Not that you need to worry about,” you shake your head. The servant stares for a moment and turns around to open up a cabinet. You balk, thinking you’re being ignored, when he suddenly turns back holding two sachets of something. 

“One of the things we use to keep rodents out, full of rosemary, mint, lavender, daffodil, and a few other things,” he lists, handing it over to you. This was so much easier than you thought. “Please let someone on staff know if you’re experiencing a rat problem,” he implores as you drop the satchels into your bag. 

“We don’t have rats,” you reiterate. You drum your fingers on the strap of your bag. “Do we own an ax? Broken, preferably.” 

You watch as a myriad of emotions seem to cross over the servants' face. You can only begin to guess at what he thinks you might be planning, and in his defense, it is an odd request. “There’s a rod,” he gestures with his hands to show something cylindrical and a little over a foot long. “If that suits you?” 

You consider it. It won’t be weighted the same, but it’s the same functionality, right? Like, if you put a blade on that, it’s basically an ax, isn’t it? Not what you promised Treech, but you were going a little above and beyond anyway. “That works, get it sent to my room for me.” 

“Of course,” the servant nods at you, still a little mystified, but he stops asking questions, so you make your way into the dining room where breakfast is laid out for you. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of fresh fruit, biscuits, jam, sausage, and pancakes. Not for the first time, you wonder what happens to the stuff that doesn’t get eaten by your family. 

You stuff a biscuit in your mouth, a little undignified but it isn’t like anyone is watching. While you chew, half regretting your action, you take a napkin off the table. Carefully, you wrap a biscuit in it. After half a moments consideration, you unfold a second napkin and wrap another biscuit. He will probably give the second one to Lamina, and you want him to eat one. You have to protect your interests and all. 

The logistics of wrapping meat or chopped fruit in your bag without causing a crime scene in your bag don’t seem possible, unfortunately. You hesitate though. You can be careful enough, right? You aren’t going to put meat in your bag, the smell would never come out, but you could probably wrap blueberries in a few layers and place them at the very top of your bag. 

Unfolding a napkin on top of another unfolded napkin, you carefully begin to place the berries onto the center. You toss a few in your mouth as you go, relishing the fruit. After a small but sizeable pile has formed, you pinch the napkin shut, and then a few more around it for good measure. With a silent prayer that it doesn’t explode and turn the inside of your bag a sticky purple, you set it on top of the biscuits. 

That should be everything. You wonder if Clemmie will show before the interviews. You’re starting to get seriously worried about her. She isn’t always your favorite person, but you like her enough anyway. You like her far more than you liked Arachne, for sure. 

The air outside is hot and heavy, sticking to your skin like a physical reminder of July. You still aren’t sure how Treech manages to wear his jacket after all this time sitting under the sun. Maybe he’s trying to die of heatstroke before the arena. You vaguely recall the weatherman saying something about how district seven is colder than the Capitol. It makes sense, it being one of the northern districts and all. 

Cars bustle in the street as you walk, the berries in your bag almost causing your blood pressure to reach record highs. You hardly think of anything but the fruit, having to stop multiple times to confirm that they have not painted the cloth of the inside a shade of purple. You’re never doing this again, prize money be damned. 

When the zoo finally comes into sight, various types of anxiety swirl around you. Mostly about the berries. Is Treech allergic to them? You want to stop and check your bag again. Instead, you continue past the guards and into the heart of the zoo. 

Of the tributes, only about half of them seem to be awake. You’re a bit surprised about the lack of crowd, it is one of the last days to see the tributes before most of them die in the Hunger Games. It is early enough in the day that much of the Capitol is probably still asleep, you reason as you approach. You’ll have a little bit of privacy. 

You see Treech sitting with Lamina again, and she spots you before your boy does. She nudges him, and he looks up in your direction. Or you think he’s looking at you. It’s a little hard to tell when his stupid hat is over his eyes again. He’s cute in the hat, sure, but it would be nice if you could actually look at him. 

You sit down in the same spot by the bars that you have been since day one, and Treech joins you a moment later. He looks tired, moreso than yesterday. With any luck, the herbs from the kitchen should do something for that issue. 

“Good morning,” you flash a smile as he sits down across from you. If the blueberries burst, you might actually cry. You sigh in relief as you take the many layered napkin wrap from your bag. It still looks fine. Hopefully the insides are as well. “Are you hungry?” 

Treech just stares at you. He’s got dirt on his face again, smudged on his cheek, and his hair is getting messier. 

“Here,” you hand over the napkin. “Be careful, I didn’t get it all this way for you to crush it.” Treech looks at you a moment longer, but curiosity seems to win over because he pulls back the first layer of napkin. By the fourth, he looks somewhat bemused, and glances at you quizzically. Perhaps you went a little overboard on the napkins. 

You busy yourself with revealing the two other napkin wrapped gifts, setting them in your lap and watching as Treech pulls back another napkin. “Is this just napkins?” He asks after a moment, incredulous. 

“I was worried it would explode,” you say defensively. Treech spends another few seconds on unwrapping the blueberries. When the fruit finally reveals itself, you are relieved to note that it appears to be completely intact. Your layering was important, and you’re very pleased with yourself and the result. 

Treech holds the fruit in his hands, and you have a creeping feeling that he may not like them. He shatters that feeling when he tosses one in his mouth. You can’t stop the smile on your face. “Here, I brought biscuits too,” you almost shove the bread into his hands. The second biscuit, you had no doubt would go straight to Lamina. 

Your palm hits the bar of the enclosure, and pain shoots through your hand and up your wrist. You try not to wince too hard, but Treech catches the flinch. He doesn’t say anything about it, but his eyebrows furrow for a split second. The bruising on his face has all but faded, and you offer up a silent thanks to the Capitol doctors who learned how to minimize bruising. Too bad they can’t do that yet for burns at the same speed. 

You don’t say anything as he eats, taking the moment to observe the state and condition of his hands. His sleeves ride up, revealing the silvery skin around his wrists. The burns on his hands look a bit better, but it’s a little hard to tell when half of his hands seem to be covered in poorly washed off dirt. 

You’re reminded of those hands pushing you down when the Peacekeepers started shooting as bombs still shook the arena. 

“I have something that should help with the rat problem,” you tell Treech as he finishes the biscuit you had given him. The other one remains untouched, and you are not surprised. You dig for the satchels, the herbs crinkling in your hands. Upon closer, inspection, some of the plants seem to be fresh. 

“Rodent repellent,” you say, “used in the Capitol.” Treech holds them in his hands as if he is weighing them. 

“We use something like this back home,” he lifts one up to squint at it. Noting what’s in it, maybe. You can smell the residue of it on your hands. You try not to think about how the inside of your bag has to smell like it now. Treech glances at you before he tucks both inside his coat somewhere. 

You want to promise you’ll get him back home, but it feels hollow, even to you. For some reason, the idea of him leaving makes you uncomfortable. You ignore it, riffling through your bag half for a distraction and half because you did come to see him with a purpose. “Give me your hands, I can put more medicine on it. Wrap them this time, too,” you say as you pour water onto a handkerchief. 

Treech gives you his hands without much of a fight. While he’s this close to you, you have an idea. You redirect your motion, pushing his hat back before he can react. He shifts back, but it’s too late; his hat is, once again, pushed to sit on top of his head rather than his eyes. Success. 

He stares at you in silence, and you wonder what he even thinks every time you end up moving his hat. He could always pull it back down, but perhaps he thinks it will end up as a futile endeavor. It would be, because as you have directly stated, you want to look at him. 

“Here,” you begin to wipe the dirt off his hands that seem to be the worst around the peeling burns. Are district people just predisposed to dirt? “I ended up tracking down something for your interview, not quite a broken ax, but close enough, I think.” 

“How exciting,” he says flatly and with so little enthusiasm that it makes you smile. “A monkey for the monkey cage.”

That isn’t as funny. In fact, your smile fades at the reminder. Right. 

“I know,” is all you can say, because there is not much else you can say. Attempting to comfort him would just be empty words that both of you won’t believe. “But you’ll be a popular one,” you acknowledge, moving onto his other hand. Treech’s hands are rough in yours, and you can’t help but pause for a moment to press the pads of your fingers into a rough spot on his palm. 

His hands are warm, and it makes you feel warm yourself. Warmer, anyway. The heat feels worse the longer you’re out. “What are you doing?” Your boy asks unsurely. You’re not really sure yourself.  

Not knowing how exactly to answer, you shrug. “Nothing,” you dab at the dirt on his knuckles. He lets it fall, and you lapse into silence as you finish cleaning his hands off. “Are they still painful?” You ask. You hope that his hands are mostly better by the time he gets into the arena. 

“I suppose,” he flexes his fingers. “I’ve used an ax with worse.” 

You don’t like that he knew exactly where your line of thought had gone. You also don’t like that statement. “Worse?” Treech looks at you for a moment like he can’t believe you’re asking that question. Is it a silly question? You wonder what thoughts go through his head whenever your questions relate to district life in some way or another. Capitol, probably. 

“Injury doesn’t exempt you from work, not if you want the money,” he says after another second of staring at you. 

Oh. That makes sense, but you don’t like his answer. “I see,” you frown. He had said that he started working because his mother couldn’t, which does imply that his family needs two people working. They won’t fare well if Treech dies. You don’t say that, because you presume he reached that conclusion far before you did. He makes you feel a little stupid. 

His sleeve shifts, and you remember his wrists. “Here, give me your arm.” You gesture to the coat that you don’t think he’s really taken off since arriving at the Capitol. “For your wrists,” you go to clarify, but he has already let you take his sleeve before you finished. 

Treech’s coat sleeves are a little annoying to roll up, but you will persevere. You think it classifies as a coat, but it doesn’t really matter. “Haven’t you been hot?” You slide your fingers under the fabric around his wrists, doing your best to not irritate the skin. 

“I’ve been melting,” Treech says as you roll up the fabric. Maybe he has been trying for heatstroke. “I don’t want sunburn though,” he continues after a pause. He’s wearing short sleeves? You roll up his other sleeve, and he watches you in silence. 

“Other than the heat, how are you?” You glance up at him as you wipe the dirt that collected on his wrists off. You have the urge to just sit and talk to him. 

Treech’s staring problem makes another appearance, and he looks at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes are pretty, though. “Fine,” he relents eventually. “Bored. Tired.” You don’t doubt it. What has he even been doing when you’re not there? Not talking with the other tributes outside of Lamina and his unwilling alliance. You want to ask more about it, but you’re not sure how well he’ll take to your line of questioning. 

“Hopefully what I gave you can help you sleep,” you say instead. The shadows under his eyes are cause of mild concern. You move on to smearing anti-bacterial cream over the painful looking skin on his wrists. Treech exhales at the cold sensation. He doesn’t say anything, so you take it as an opportunity to speak a bit more. 

You talk idly about things of very little importance, and you manage to learn that Treech’s scarf is a gift from Lamina while they were on the train to the Capitol. You’re a little appalled at the conditions of the train that he tells you, albeit haltingly. Dr. Gaul’s voice rings in the back of your head, her lectures about punishing the districts bleeding together in your memory. 

You feel a bit bad, a shameful twinge in your spine, about wanting to see how the betting in the arena is going to be implemented. You don’t like her or Snow, but they do know how to get people interested. 

As you round the gauze wrap off on his wrist, you can feel him watching you with an expression that you can’t fully place. You turn each of his hands over in your own, admiring your handiwork before you allow him to take control of them. With one task done, you’re reminded of the smudge on his face. 

“You’re dirty,” you inform him, folding the handkerchief you had used over on itself to reveal the clean side. Treech makes a face at you, irritation and an exhausted clearly shown in his eyes. “Come here,” you shift up onto your knees, leaning closer to the bars again and grabbing him by the lapel of his coat. 

This time, he does not jerk away from you, which you count as a success. His eyes are wide as you tug him forward. “Hold still,” you say, holding your boy in place while you scrub the smudge by his eye. 

“I can do it,” he bats at you, but you hold firm, unimpressed. 

“You can’t even see it,” you point out, continuing. Treech’s face scrunches, and after a few moments, you manage to wipe the dirt off his face. “You’re too pretty to keep rubbing your face in the dirt,” you tell him as you drop the handkerchief inside your bag again. 

He doesn’t respond to that, so you lean away again, settling back into your original position. You take the pause to observe the other tributes. None of them seem to have move very much from where you had seen them yesterday.

Coral and Mizzen sit together, and Coral is messing with something in her hands. Tanner moved to the back wall, hat pulled down over his face. Lucy Gray folds her fingers over and over in her lap, and Jessup is asleep against her shoulder. His face jumps, but he does not wake up. The district eleven girl is in sight, but you think she’s asleep. She hardly looks like she’s breathing. 

You look back at Treech. He’s picking at the fraying edge of his coat. 

“Did you end up talking anymore with your alliance? After Lamina,” you find yourself asking. 

“A bit, Coral wanted to know what we were talking about,” he says. “Looked like she wanted to eat me alive after I went back to Lamina.” You don’t doubt it. 

“She didn’t think you backed out, did she?” Anxiety pricks your neck. If she did, Treech is going to be one of her targets. 

Treech rests his cheek on his palm, and he stares down at you. You have the distinct feeling you’re being analyzed. “No,” he shakes his head eventually. “Lamina might be on her list of targets now,” Treech frowns, “and I think she knows it.” 

“Lamina can use an ax,” you remind him. You know that in the end, she’s going to have to die anyway. At least she doesn’t want to win, but it feels like a hollow thing to say. Mean, too. “Maybe she’ll take Coral out.” 

He sighs. “Maybe.” For his sake, you hope it doesn’t come down to the two of them. As much as you want to get him out, you don’t think he could kill her. 

“Does Coral still call you ‘lumberjack?’” You think back to when she called out to him in the arena. It’s an asinine and pointless question, but you want to know anyway. Changing the topic is also a plus. Treech presses his cheek further into his hand with a short huff of air. It must sting the burns you know are there, and your own throb in sympathy.

“She calls me lumberjack like it’s a slur,” he informs you with furrowed brows. “I’m not sure if she even knows my name.” The absurdity startles a laugh out of you. You feel a few pairs of eyes fall on you. In the arena, Coral did say ‘lumberjack’ with a certain level of vitriol, now that you consider it. 

You’re not even sure how to respond. “The only person she calls by name is Mizzen. It probably makes it easier to kill us,” he drums his fingers against his knee. That is also probably true. Keeping her opposition nameless makes them just another body when she spears them. It isn’t a bad strategy at all, but you decide not to mention it. 

Treech looks past you, expression shifting to something more guarded. You follow his line of sight, disappointed to see the beginnings of the Capitol visitors making their way into the zoo. Wet coughing drags your attention back. Treech doesn’t react. 

“She’s getting worse,” he says, glancing to the side. “I’m surprised she’s still alive.” 

Yeah, you are too. It’s a cruel thought, but you’re glad that his odds increase with every tribute that dies before the games. Five are already gone. Technically Sejanus’ tribute is still loose and not dead, but reports say he’s confined underground somewhere, so you’re not too worried. If they don’t catch him before the games, you wonder if they’re going to just execute him. You find yourself not really caring. 

“You seem awfully serious about getting me out of that arena,” Treech changes the topic. “How much even is the prize money?” 

His question sets you a bit off kilter. You’re not sure you want to admit you aren’t just doing any of this for the prize money, let alone actually keep the money. You just wanted it to show off and then give it to Snow so he’s indebted to you for probably ever. You don’t think that’s the right thing to say either. You also can’t see how saying that the Academy just sprung mentorship on you is a helpful thing to say.

“Enough to cover the university cost,” you answer. It’s vague, but the truth. Treech scrutinizes you. He looks like he wants to say something, but only clicks his tongue and settles back into the silence. This does not feel like your proudest moment. You consider how you will react when someone bashes his head in. You are starting to think you’re not going to react well, as in this isn’t just an assignment anymore. You aren’t sure what it is now. 

You sit in silence for a few minutes, and it’s awkward, even to you. Treech alternates between staring at you and the ground. You can feel the crowd growing at your back, phantom hands pushing at you. Under different circumstances, you wouldn’t mind just sitting and staring at him. The chatter rises, and out of the corner of your eyes, you watch as the zoo comes to life with people eager to visit and clearly having similar thoughts to you. 

The back wall of the enclosure clanks, and your attention shoots up. 

“They’re feeding them!” A little girl whisper-shouts excitedly. Sure enough, a group of Peacekeepers have made an appearance. They hold some sort of styrofoam tray that they begin to hand out. You can’t quite tell what is on it. Something about this feels simultaneously like the cafeteria at the Academy and like you’re reading an old picture book you had as a child that showed what every animal in the zoo was being fed. 

You suppose that this is your first time seeing something similar to an actual zoo. You’re curious, but perhaps you should leave. “I’ll come back this evening,” you promise, a little disappointed to be going. 

Treech blinks at you. “You will?” 

“I’ll bring dessert,” you decide on the spot with a smile. Your boy stares at you for a long moment before you almost think he gives you the ghost of a smile. It’s gone just as quickly as he stands up. One hand holds the extra biscuit, the other loosely gripping the wrapped blueberries. 

You stand up as well, fingers stinging as you adjust your bag onto your shoulder. This sucks and you can’t wait for your hands to be healed. Now that you think about it, you don’t believe they ever figured out who bombed the arena. 

Treech hesitates for a moment, and you suppress a sigh as he tugs his hat down again. Irritating, he’s irritating. “That first cookie you brought me was nice,” he says. You barely catch it before he’s walking away and towards Lamina. 

The chocolate chip cookie you snuck out of the Academy from your lunch. You almost laugh. You were going to bring him cake, but a half crumbled cookie was appreciated more. “Noted,” you say to his back. 

You feel yourself smiling as you leave. The heat hardly seems to bother you as you walk towards the bakeries. You could wait until later in the day to go, but everything will close too early. It’s the day before the interviews, and people are excited to get home. You’re a little excited too. 

You are starting to wonder if Clemmie is even going to show up, though. She hasn’t come to anything else, still ‘sick’ away somewhere. Her tribute is going to get sponsors with or without her, he has been, but you’re relatively certain that Clemmie would do anything to be there on television. 

The sidewalk begins to crowd as you approach the main source of trinkets and knick knacks that get sold. Such businesses have begun to work themselves back up since the end of the war. There’s a bakery gaining rising popularity nestled between two of these shops, and you’re happy to say that you liked it before it began to get popular. 

You’re all too glad to duck into the air conditioned climate of the bakery, the swarming of people outside making it hotter than it already is. Sweet vanilla and the smell of baking bread greets you, glass cases displaying decorated cakes and cookies, fresh bread, and a smaller section dedicated to brightly colored candy. 

It is still a bit crowded inside, the line long, and it’s only the start of the day. You approach the front, considering what to get. You’ll get your boy that cookie of course, but you also want to get him something else. Your eye is drawn to a square cake no bigger than your palm, yellow cake with chocolate frosting. There’s some sort of gold paper flower pressed onto the top. It’s rather cute. 

This is what you want to get, you decide. Is calling it a last taste of the Capitol too much? 

You step back, resigning yourself to waiting in line. It’s slow going, and a sense of boredom begins to creep over you, so you decide to people watch. Maybe do a little bit of judging while you’re at it. 

A man in a faded green suit squints at a list in his hand, confusion evident on his face. You wonder if he’s ever been to a bakery before. Perhaps the handwriting is simply atrocious. A little girl pulls on who you assume to be her mothers’ skirt, short fingers spreading over the glass to indicate something inside. And you continue like this, idle observations flipping through your head. By the time you reach the counter, you just want to get out. 

“A chocolate chip cookie and that square cake with the gold flower,” you gesture as you talk, taking a pause to pull the money out of your bag. You receive it a moment later, a crisp white box slid across the counter. 

As you lift the box, you have the belated realization that this is going to hurt your hands. You frown as the edge of the box presses directly into the stitches in your palm, sending a sharp sting through your hand. This is going to be so fun. 

It is not fun, and the box seems to dig into some injury or another on your hand all the way back to your house. You are beginning to question if this is worth it at all as you readjust to dig your keys out to open the door. 

Feeling a little haggard, you shut the door behind you with your foot, and speed walk across the house so you can finally deposit the awful box on your desk. You shake your hands out before discarding your bag on the floor. You do not want to carry it to the zoo later. The things you go through. 

As you told the servants earlier, someone has brought in the rod you asked for. It sits on your desk next to the box. You hold it in your hands for a moment, thinking. Yeah, this could basically be an ax handle. You drop it back next to the cardboard box. 

You promised to visit Treech in the evening, but that feels like such a long wait. There is no more strategy planning you can do, not without covering the same thing over and over and stressing yourself out. You already have the agreement with Festus. The Academy, after Snow’s stunt, has made it clear that they don’t want any more incidents. You aren’t too keen to find out just how broad of a brush that ‘incidents’ covers. 

There is no homework or assignments left for you to do, and the entire student body will be off from when the starting buzzer goes off to when the last tribute standing is escorted from the arena. This year, hopefully the tribute isn’t hardly clinging to life after literally being impaled. With any luck, that tribute is going to be Treech. 

You feel antsy just thinking about it. The mental image of Treech dying in the arena does not sit well with you. It is a bit unfortunate that everyone else in that arena is going to have to die for you to get him out. 

Kicking your shoes off, you try to decide what to do with yourself. There aren’t a lot of options, and you don’t want to head out again. You could call Lyssie, but you don’t know what you would say anyway. Calling Festus does cross your mind, he talks enough to keep the both of you entertained, but you aren’t really feeling up to him inevitably circling to Coral and her chances of winning. Snow is an immediate no, and Clemmie is still out. 

You unfold the blanket that you keep at the end of your bed, spreading out on top of your sheets so you can lay down. You could just change clothes, but that feels too tedious at the moment. It feels nice to flop down on top of your bed. Your fingers sting a bit at the action. 

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling immensely bored and incredibly jittery at the same time. It’s an odd combination that leaves you feeling strange. You think of both Treech’s blood on the ground while you watch from the auditorium and how his hands felt in yours. If he does die, you hope it’s fast. Something like a slit throat or broken neck rather than a stab to the stomach that leaves him bleeding out on the ground. 

His odds aren’t pretty, but he’s one of the stronger tributes going in. He isn’t the only strong one, though. There’s Clemmie’s boy, clearly physically strong; he’s going to be able to overpower with ease. Coral is district four, she will know how to wield a trident, and the fishermen of Panem have been promising in past games. Tanner, the slaughterhouse boy, is going to be potentially very lethal once the buzzer indicates the start of the games. 

Everyone else may be potential hidden daggers, too small to notice until the blade is embedded in your stomach. Mizzen might be one. You don’t feel too worried about Lamina, but the other tributes are still an unknown to you. Lucy Gray is popular, but that doesn’t mean she can survive. A singer is just as dead as a non-singer if their head is bashed in.

It’s a morbid thought, but you remind yourself that you’re just being realistic. In just a matter of days, you’re going to be seeing it on screen, and you’re wishing on lucky stars that your boy is the one killing others. You suppose it isn’t unreasonable to see why Dr. Gaul is desperate to get more people to watch the games through spectacle. 

No one likes them because it’s sick, in a way. If Sejanus didn’t act the way he does, or maybe if he wasn’t unfortunate enough to be district, you might be marginally more inclined to verbally agree with him. 

Your pulse beats steadily under your skin, but you can feel it in your throat. You can’t pull your mind away from the Hunger Games. Treech would look good while a little bloody, you think as you readjust again. He has the look of someone who could pull it off. Well, he already doesn’t look bad with the half-healed bruise under his eye. You almost want to press your fingers in it, half to feel his face under your skin. It’s odd. 

Your mind wanders to when you had left him earlier in the day. What is the Capitol even feeding them? Not enough, you don’t doubt it, but you wonder if it might be prying a little too hard if you ask. He doesn’t seem to mind the extra food. For the last night before the games starts, you’ll see if you can bring him something a little more substantial. You frown. Would giving him extra food make him a target of jealous tributes? 

There is not much you can do about that. He’ll have a bit more energy than them though, and as long as the alliance he made holds itself together, he should be more or less fine. Unless he gets himself killed in the first ten minutes. Now that you think about it, you’re not sure what they do with the bodies after the games are over. Send them back to their district, most likely. 

You’re not sure how much time passes as you stare up at your ceiling, feeling too paralyzed to do much else. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. You think about how Dr. Gaul smiled as she spoke the day tributes were assigned, and cringe. Snow can keep all of her attention. As interesting as some of her work is, you don’t think you want to spend any time with her, group setting or not. 

Treech’s expression at the reaping replays in your head. His jaw was set, and his gaze wasn’t there at all. What was he thinking? What did he think when he saw you for the first time? What does he think of you now? You think these questions are going to go unanswered. 

A knock at your door startles you, resounding through the solid wood. “Are you joining the Master for dinner?” you hear directed at you. You didn’t realize you had managed to waste almost the whole day, quite literally rotting in your bed. The recognition of this fact makes you feel as if you’re starving. You haven’t eaten since breakfast, and even that wasn’t very much. 

“In a moment,” you call back as you slide slippers on. You don’t plan on hanging around the table, but you’re in dire need of a meal. You decide that you’ll eat, and then head out. Stopping in front of the mirror for a moment to fix your hair, you’re out the door and shuffling down the hallway. The servant who came to fetch you is nowhere to be seen. 

You can smell what you think to be lamb and mushroom wafting from the dining room. It makes you feel a little dizzy, stomach urging you into the room. Your parents greet you, sitting primly at the ends of the table, already served. Platters lay arranged on the table, and you’re eager to get your fill. 

You find your seat, a plate made up for you. Pea's swimming in butter, lamb in a mushroom sauce, a fluffy roll of bread. A smaller plate with a leafy green salad and some sort of dressing. Placing your napkin in your lap, you’re a little disappointed to follow etiquette and at least eat some of your salad first. 

You’re thankful to be saved from real conversation, as your father launches into a breakdown of business that you tune out with the ease of years of practice. Your mother adds commentary from time to time, but other than that, she just listens. You’re not convinced she’s fully listening, but it also isn’t your concern. 

The salad is crunchy and overall not bad, but you leave it after finishing half in favor of getting to the actual main meal part of your dinner. You eat quickly, maybe a little too fast in your hunger and want to finish so you can leave. The bread is the best thing you’ve had in a week. The fork and knife do irritate your hands though. 

“I’m going out,” you say as you stand up. You fold your napkin next to your plate. 

Your mother looks up. “This late? That district boy is still on the prowl,” she says, looking a little scandalized. It’s only early evening, but you don’t point that out. She is right, Sejanus’ tribute has yet to be caught. You’d get a grand funeral if he did end up murdering you, perhaps even Snow will sing at it. 

Your father doesn’t seem as concerned, only waving his hand at you. “That beast is confined somewhere on the lower levels of the city.” You take this as express permission to leave. Grateful that they didn’t ask where exactly you were running off to, you hurry out of the dining room. They probably presumed you’re heading out with Lyssie and the rest of them. 

In your room, you kick off your slippers and lace up your shoes. Your skin feels like it’s bubbling again. You want to get out and into the street, one step closer to the zoo.

The white cardboard box seems to taunt you from where it sits on your desk, begging to be held so it can dig its awful edges into the mess of your hands. Perhaps the small cake was a bad idea, because now you can’t put the box vertically in a bag. You tuck an extra handkerchief into your pocket before you maneuver the box into your hands. It isn’t a pleasant feeling as it weighs on your burns, but you ignore it. 

You repeat the same fumbling dance outside the door to your house, balancing the box and locking the door behind you. The evening air is cool against your face, a pleasant difference from earlier in the day when the heat seemed to be melting into your bones. 

The walk down to the zoo is occupied with a heavy hand of internal cursing directed at the box you hold. Streetlights flicker and glow around you, and there’s a sense of trepidation as you pass by a slightly shifted manhole cover. Not many people are out, allowing you to not bump into anyone. 

The sky is beginning to streak with orange when you arrive at the zoo, and it’s pretty enough that you have to pause to look up at it once you get past the guards located at the entrance. It distracts you from the sharp feeling in your fingers. You wish you could capture the sky in this state, but your camera is in your room somewhere. You might have thrown it out, actually. 

You scan the enclosure for that distinctive hat and curls. After a moment, you spot Treech sitting with Lamina. You catch sight of something, a cloth, in his hands before he tucks it away upon seeing you. The handkerchief. You had almost forgotten about it. He’s supposed to return it to you once he gets out of the arena. 

You can’t help but smile, lifting the box in your hands. 

Treech reaches you by the time you settle on the ground in the same spot you have been sitting since day one. You’re glad to set the box down. “You’re back,” he states plainly. 

“Bearing gifts,” you pat the box. Treech blinks in silence. You flip the lid open, and you don’t miss the way Treech’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second under the brim of his hat. Pushing the box closer to him, you watch him look at it like it’s too good to be true. Translucent paper wraps the bottom of the cake and is folded around the cookie. Perhaps you’ve overwhelmed him. 

“It is for you, don’t just stare,” you tease, nudging the box again. You resist the urge to reach through the bars and push his hat back. It looks nice on him, but it would look nicer if he just stopped pulling it down. After another long moment, Treech picks up the square of cake as if it's diamond. He glances at you with something like a frown before he takes a bite. 

You feel something stir in your chest as his expression changes to pure delight before he forces a blank one. Your original hypothesis that the districts didn’t have sugar on high supply seems to be right. 

“Good, right?” You shift. “It’s from this popular bakery nearby, both of those are,” you tilt your head at the cookie still left in the box. “It was horribly busy today,” you continue, a little pointlessly. He can’t care all that much, but he is also still sitting in front of you. Treech doesn’t seem to mind as you talk, looking up at you every few minutes as he eats. 

“What is this?” He asks, poking the golden rose nestled in the icing. 

“Edible gold, gold paper, I believe?” 

Treech stares at you for a very long moment, completely unreadable. “Of course it is,” he says eventually. You’re not sure what exactly that means, and you don’t like not being able to tell what he means the way you often can with literally everyone else. He takes another bite, teeth sinking into the gold flower. 

His nose ends up with a bit of gold on it, a combination of gold flakes and glitter. Treech notices it immediately, going to wipe it off with the sleeve of his coat. “Here,” you pat your pocket for a moment before procuring that extra handkerchief. He doesn’t fight you at all this time when you lean forward to wipe his face. You consider it a win. A win for what, you’re not entirely sure. Your ego, maybe. 

Your boy stares at you while you get the gold dust off his nose. He’s so still that he might not be breathing. While you have the opportunity, you flick his hat up and back. “Much better,” you say as you fold the handkerchief back up. “Clean and pretty.” 

Treech’s fingers twitch up, but he does not pull his hat back down. It’s too bad you’re going to be viewing him on a screen later, potentially for the last time. The glow of the sky casts a particularly ethereal look over him, light catching in his hair. Half the cake rests in his hands. He’s covered in gold and eating gold. 

“Interviews are tomorrow,” you swallow. “We’ll get you cleaned up a bit.” It’s a shame the interviews are in the afternoon and not the evening.

“We?” 

“I will,” you correct. Get a brush through his hair, at least. Cover up the last of the bruise. You’re surprised it’s fading so fast. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine.” He will be, at least for the interview stage. Treech doesn’t look like he believes you, but he falls silent instead of saying anything else. 

You sit together in silence, and you realize that Treech’s staring problem may be rubbing off on you. You feel a bit jittery. Treech finishes the cake, folding the paper in his lap. “I’ll throw it away,” you say, “just leave it in the box.” 

There is nothing left to say, not really. You can go over and over general strategy, but there is always the possibility that it could completely fall apart in the arena leaving him to think on his feet. You can reiterate tomorrow. You won’t succeed in anything tonight. You don’t want to leave immediately, either. 

Treech isn’t in any hurry to get back to his boulder, he’s adjusted to once again lean on his hand and scrutinize you. You don’t say a word, looking back at him. The sun is beginning to fade, casting shadows. 

“You’ll be here before the interviews start?” Treech asks after a few minutes, looking for some confirmation. You nod. 

“I will.” With a hairbrush. His hair isn’t too bad, but doing something to it can’t hurt. 

Treech blinks, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Are the interviews across the districts as well? They didn’t say.” 

“They should be, hosted by the beloved weatherman,” you resist the urge to pick at your sleeve. Lucky Flickerman isn’t your favorite person. His exuberance is just too much sometimes. You’re still trying to figure out how he does that coin trick. Your boy almost smiles, exhaling through his nose. 

“Are you going to eat that?” Treech looks towards the cookie left in the box. 

“Take it, they’re both yours,” you shake your head. With a degree of hesitation, Treech does. As much as you would like to stay longer, it is getting late. “I’ll come in the morning,” you tell him. The morning almost can’t come fast enough. 

Treech nods, peeling back some of the paper on the cookie. For a moment, he looks as if he is going to eat it, but he folds it back instead. You frown. “Do you not like it?” 

He tilts his head back, slightly defensive. You can’t completely imagine why. “I’m splitting it with Lamina.” Right. She slipped your mind. Slipped in the sense that you forgot that Treech is sharing with her, anyway. It’s fine, and really, it is. There’s no point, and if he wants to be nice to the girl from back home that wants to die in the arena, you’re not going to stop him. 

You nod this time. “Alright, that’s fine. Go get some sleep,” you pick the box up with the tips of your fingers. Maybe you can sleep off the nerves that keep seeming to be getting to you. You shift to stand up, and Treech rises a moment after you. 

“Don’t be late,” he says, a half smile present on his face. A smirk, maybe? It doesn’t seem overtly malicious, in any case. A little nervous, if anything. Definitely nervous. He should smile more. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you offer a genuine smile. Your chest feels tight. You watch for a moment as he goes back to Lamina, her face lighting up as Treech presents the cookie. In the dark, she looks younger. How old is she in the first place? 15 or 16? You turn around. It doesn’t matter, and she’ll hopefully be dead in a matter of days. 

You toss the empty cardboard box in the trash as you leave. Hopefully that rodent repellent you gave him does something. 

Festus finds you in the library before classes. You weren’t necessarily hiding from him, you were just hoping he might not find you there. No such luck. “Y/n,” he says a little too loudly for a library. The librarian shushes him. “I was beginning to think you ditched me.” 

“I would never,” you shake your head. There’s a bruise on his jaw, but otherwise, he looks fine.

He doesn’t sit down at the table with you. Class starts in fifteen minutes. “Walk with me,” Festus says. You sweep your books into your bag and stand up, following him out the door. When the doors to the library swing shut behind you, Festus sends you a sidelong glance. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that the games this year have potential to continue past day one.” 

Right. “The tunnels,” you agree. “Sending tributes gifts might mean the difference between life and death.” 

“Exactly,” Festus snaps his fingers. You try to maneuver around a group of underclassmen standing still in the center of the hallway. Festus doesn’t have the same reservation, plowing through them without stopping, grabbing ahold of your wrist to pull you along with him. “Would it kill them to move?” He says under his breath. 

“I hope they’re late for class,” you agree. Festus laughs sharply as he drops your arm. The jostling stings.

“Maybe Highbottom will do something good with himself and give demerits for blocking the hallways.” 

“One can hope,” you frown. Dean Highbottom won’t do anything of the sort because that is simply not the type of person he is. A useless one, ineffective and old. 

“Anyway, we’ll talk at lunch,” Festus says as he pushes the door to the classroom open. How exciting. “Wait for me after class.” He scans the room, and you know he’s looking for Snow. 

“No promises,” you say. You don’t see Snow, and still no sign of Clemmie. Festus drifts off to his seat, and you move to your own next to Lyssie. Lyssie smiles as you sit down, and you’re relieved to note no visible injuries. She catches your hands though, expression morphing into a frown as she looks at the bandages. 

“Your hands,” Lyssie starts, but you shake your head. 

“I’m fine, really. Are you alright?” 

Lyssie nods. “Jessup, he protected me.” Really? Before you can ask her to elaborate, the instructor swings the door open and the room falls silent. You make a mental note to ask her about what happened later, and begin to pull your notebook from your bag. 

Your instructor starts the class by informing everyone that Didi and Pollo, the twins, had died in the bombing. There’s gasps, and you find yourself pressing your fingers to your mouth. You had liked them, upbeat and doting, even if they got a little too rowdy at times. 

The school day was to proceed as usual, and after the last class, there would be their funeral. You don’t really want to go, knowing there will be dead tributes paraded alongside them in some way. With a glance at Lyssie, you know she doesn’t want to go either. Resolving to skip the procession and just pay your respects to their graves, you try to get through the day. 

The morning classes seem to drag on, and you keep catching yourself getting distracted, mind wandering back to Treech. You wonder if the medicine you put on him is working. You’re sure he managed to get dirt on his face again. 

When you’re released for lunch, Festus corners you before you can even stand up. Did he teleport or something? He grins at you, like he knows he’s being annoying. “Lunch?” He phrases it like a question that you can refuse. 

“I’m coming,” you hoist yourself out of your seat. “Patience is a virtue.” Festus makes a face, rolling his hand to tell you to hurry up. 

“Can you come along faster, I don’t want to look at Sejanus any longer.” 

“What’s wrong with Sejanus today?” You ask as you catch the door behind Cardew. You can hear the annoyance in his voice

“He keeps whining, how immoral these games are this, how he hopes they don’t catch his tribute that.” Yeah, that sounds like Sejanus. 

“He’s district, after all,” you shrug. Festus clicks his tongue. 

“He looks it, I don’t understand why he’s exempt from the reapings.” 

You don’t either, not really. Something about his father funding half of the Capitol. “Maybe you can ask Dr. Gaul to include him in the reapings next year.” 

Festus shoots you a look. “And talk to that woman? I’d rather sit through another conversation with Sejanus.” He startles a laugh out of you. 

“I think almost anyone would,” you shake your head as you approach the cafeteria. 

Lunch ends up being cheesy pasta served with escargot, salad, and some sort of mystery meat. You’re pretty sure it’s beef. A slice of tiramisu sits on the edge of your tray. Festus snaps his napkin open, and it flutters into his lap. You’re pretty sure Snow does the same thing. 

“So, how good of a climber is Coral?” You start the conversation, poking at your lettuce. 

“Not sure, she said she climbs ship rigging. Why? Can your boy climb?” 

“He didn’t say,” you shake your head. Technically, he didn’t. Considering he works in the trees and didn’t say he couldn’t climb, you’re going to assume he can. You should double check on that, though. It is going to be funny in a horribly ironic way if Treech actually can’t climb. Coral’s preferred weapon is likely going to be a trident, they usually are for the district four tributes. You consider the odds of an ax versus a trident. 

Festus taps his fork against the air in thought. You take a bite of the mystery meat. Yeah, this is beef. “I think we should collaborate a little, make them match in the interviews a bit, until they inevitably turn on eachother.” You consider it. Even if this gets Coral support, it’s going to get Treech support as well. If it goes well, that is. 

“A truce to not intentionally sabotage each other?” Festus extends his hand. What do you have to lose? 

“They’ll do it to themselves,” you agree, taking his hand. You hope Treech sabotages the others first. You know Festus is thinking the exact same thing about Coral. His palm is painful against yours, and you’re not sure if he’s gripping yours tightly or if you are just unfortunate enough for him to be squeezing your stitches and burns. 

When Festus goes back to his lunch, talking about this and that, throwing in a few insults to the people around you, you slide your hands under the table briefly, checking the gauze. You don’t see any signs of blood leaking through. 

“It’s rude table manners to stare at your lap,” Festus tells you, because he’s annoying. You look back up at him, reaching for your escargot fork with a sharp smile. 

“It’s rude table manners to speak with your mouth full, let’s not cast stones right now.” 

Festus makes a face, but he refrains from tossing anything else horribly disparaging at you for the rest of the lunch period. You comment or hum when it seems appropriate and let him talk. He mentions Snow a few times, but you can ignore it. You might dislike Festus from time to time, but you wish he wouldn’t hang around Snow. 

“Have you seen Felix?” Festus asks ten minutes before lunch ends.

“Daddy has him up in the nicest hospital room in the country, unless he’s just skipping to make people ask questions,” you fold your napkin onto your tray. You aren’t particularly concerned about Felix Ravinstill, and you know that whatever happened to him, he has the actual president paying whatever bills arise from it. 

Festus follows your lead, piling the dishes on his tray. The conversation changes to the mundane as you drop your trays off and make your way back to the classroom. With four minutes to spare, you push the door open, and you hardly have a second to get your bearings and walk to your seat when Festus bumps past you. You open your mouth to snark him, but you look in the direction he’s going first. 

Coriolanus Snow, at his seat. “Coryo,” Festus joins the crowd of your peers who are surrounding Snow. You follow suit. 

“Coryo,” you elbow your way to the front. “It’s good to see you’re okay.” You half wish he wasn’t. 

“Just burned,” Snow smiles. “My tribute helped get me out.” 

“Lucy Gray?” Festus clarifies. Snow nods. You realize you haven’t seen Androcles and Gaius at all today. 

“Some of our classmates weren’t so lucky,” Snow shakes his head with a frown. “Gaius, Felix, and Androcles are still hospitalized,” he confirms your thoughts. More gasps. A few exclamations of disbelief. You were right, Felix is going to be up in the fanciest hospital in the Capitol.

“Sit down, sit down,” Dean Highbottom’s voice startles you and your classmates out of Snow’s personal bubble, sending everyone back to their seats. By the time the final class rolls around, your nerves are on fire, and you want nothing more than out of the building and away from the imminent funeral procession. You’d see it on the television later, anyway. 

Do the tributes see anything of the funerals? They can probably hear them, put on speakers and all. The last lesson drags on, and half of your attention is all Dean Highbottom is getting. The other half of your focus is on Treech, wondering what he’s doing and all. Will they be taking attendance at the funeral? They didn’t for Arachne’s…

Maybe Snow will sing again or whatever. Would it be too cruel to have him just released from the hospital to sing at a funeral? Knowing Snow, he’ll say something like ‘I just had to get released to commemorate my classmates, I couldn’t miss it.’ Ugh. 

Yeah, you’re going to skip the funeral. If anyone asks after the fact, you got sick. 

“Lyssie,” you whisper five minutes before class is dismissed when Highbottom’s back is turned. “I’m not going.” You don’t clarify what you mean, but she understands anyway. She nods, lips turning down. 

“I’ll come with,” Lyssie says quietly. You nod. Four minutes left. 

Highbottom looks at the clock on the wall, and sighs. “Get out, all of you.” With three minutes left of class, everyone scrambles out of their seats, seemingly just as desperate as you to get out of the Academy. Festus leaves with Snow. 

The halls are crowded as you and Lyssie make your way through the Academy. The other instructors must have had the same idea as Highbottom of letting you all out early for the funeral. You follow the bustle of the crowd, and Lyssie holds onto your sleeve as you weave through, trying not to slam into the shifting sea of red uniforms. 

You make it down the steps of the Academy when you see the camera crews around the corner of the street filming the Academy students walking out and spilling down the sidewalks. There aren’t any past the first set of cameras that will be pointed at you from the front. “We’ll walk past the cameras and then duck out there,” you point with your head towards an alley a few meters behind the cameras. Lyssie nods, and then you’re directly in the line of sight of the cameras. 

When the alley comes into view, you grab Lyssie’s wrist and begin to make your way across the crowd. Right before you pass it, you slip into the alley, taking Lyssie along with you. You pull her next to you, stopping behind the jut of the wall. You wait for a pause in the shuffle of bodies, and then you’re off, breaking into a run down the alley, taking Lyssie with you. 

“I forget how fast you are,” Lyssie leans on the wall out of breath as you round the corner. You’re a little out of breath too, and your hands are stinging again. You turn your palm over, wincing. “I think we can get something on that back at my house,” she says, brushing her hair out of her face. 

You consider it another debt you owe her, and nod along. “Lead the way.” 

“I want to see the tributes after this,” Lyssie says as she walks. “There won’t be cameras at the zoo, everything will be on the procession.” Good, you’re wanting to head down as well. She looks down at her uniform. “We should change though; you can borrow something of mine.” 

You pick at the cuff of your blazer. She’s right, you should change. You don’t exactly want to be caught in Academy rouge the same time the funeral is meant to be going on. It doesn’t reflect well on you, or the Academy. The Plinth Prize is in the back of your mind too, and if you end up catching yourself a demerit, you may be removed from mentorship, and with it goes the Plinth Prize. 

“Do you suppose they’ll have their funeral on the speakers throughout the city or just in the area?” You ask, stopping your attempt to pull apart the threads. It hurts your fingers. And, of course, you don’t want to have to get a new blazer. 

“I hope not, I won’t be able to stand it,” Lyssie lowers her voice. “You know as well as everyone else that those tributes that tried to escape and died for it are going to be strung up.” 

“It’s unnecessary,” you agree. The air is hot and humid. You can only imagine the smell of the bodies that will be dragged through the street. As it stands, Didi, Pollo, and Arachne are the temporary faces of Panem. If Felix ends up succumbing to whatever injuries he obtained, he’ll be the biggest face of martyrdom. You can’t help but be curious about how they’re going to show off the bodies of the district one tributes. You wonder if any of the other tributes died in the escape. Sejanus’ tribute is still at large, supposedly prowling the underground. You’re not sure if you want him to be caught or not.

“We gather here to commemorate a tragic loss of young life,” the sky seems to rattle. You frown. You don’t know if the range for the funeral is wider than Arachne’s, considering you were near the very center for hers. Lyssie sighs. 

“It’s starting.” 

You both walk in silence back to Lyssie’s. It’s too loud to have any sort of conversation, and you don’t really want to. You feel odd, and your steps are a bit too light. You feel like there’s a weight on your shoulders though. What’s that feeling called? Dread, maybe? For what? You catch that the district two girl is among the dead tributes at Didi and Pollo’s funeral.

Is Treech hearing the funeral as well? How does he feel about it? Maybe glad that his odds in the arena go up the more tributes drop dead before the games begin. You feel your lips twitch up at the thought of him. 

Lyssie shuts the door a little too hard behind herself after you make it back to her place. Her eyes are closed, brows pinched. The announcer's voice is silenced now that you’re inside. Lyssie exhales slowly before looking at you again while you’re in the middle of taking your shoes off. “Make yourself at home, you know where my room is. I’ll go get the ointment.” 

Right, you almost forgot what you came here for. You smile at her. “Will do.” 

Lyssie wanders off to her parents' bathroom where you know they keep the medical supplies. You make your way to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. Her bedroom door is cracked open, and with a bit of anticipation, you push the door open. Your eyes fall on her bed, a little hopeful. 

There’s her cat, sleeping right on the pillow Lyssie sets out just for the cat. 

“Princess,” you feel yourself breaking out into a smile. The cat, a white fluffy thing that Lyssie feeds more treats than it needs behind her parents back, meows and stretches out. She looks at you sleepily, yellow eyes half open. “Hey girl,” you reach your hand out for Princess to sniff. She leans into your hand after a moment, lifting her chin and extending her feet happily. 

“Here’s new gauze and I wasn’t really sure what ointment you needed so I just brought my best guesses,” Lyssie says with her arms full of ointment. “Hello Princess,” she directs at her cat. Princess begins to purr at the sight of her, and you can’t help but feel a little jealous. Then you realize how ridiculous that sounds, to be jealous over a cat purring, and turn your attention to Lyssie. You give Princess a pat on the head before sinking down to the floor. 

“Let me see your hands,” Lyssie sits down across from you, unceremoniously dumping everything into a pile next to her. You give her your right hand, palm up. She squints. “Did they tell you what’s wrong with it?” 

“Some burns, stitches. Nothing too bad,” you say. You’re actually not entirely sure if that’s right, but it’s what you remember, so it will have to do. This is a perfect opportunity to ask her what she meant earlier about Jessup. “I never got the chance to ask, did you end up getting injured in the bombing?” 

Lyssie looks up at you, fingers peeling the medical tape of the gauze back. “Jessup threw his body over me, I’m completely unscathed thanks to him. I still can’t believe it.” The gauze slides off your hand and into a pile on the ground. You almost can’t believe it either, but Lyssie has been so good to that boy of hers. 

“Apparently even Lucy Gray ended up saving Coryo, a burning beam fell on him,” Lyssie continues, and that is news to you. “I was talking to him before the others showed up,” she explains to your confused expression.

“District twelve seems to be full of good people,” you watch as Lyssie begins to unwrap your other hand. You wonder if Lucy Gray or Jessup had any underlying motivations for saving their mentors, or if they were just kind at heart. The same goes for your boy. You can feel the ghost of his hand pressing down on you as the bombs echo in your memory. You don’t mention him. Not yet, anyway. 

“I think so,” Lyssie says. You look properly at your hands. They’re pink and peeling, and stitches run across your left palm. Your right hand has a long stitch running up your middle finger. How did you not feel any of that? Well, you suppose you certainly felt it, you just had no idea that you ended up cutting open both of your hands. You had thought it had been just the finger. “Ouch,” Lyssie says sympathetically. 

The cold air stings. You realize the underside of the gauze is various shades of pink and brown. You should have changed it earlier. It’s a miracle that you managed to not bleed through the wraps. The bloody gauze reminds you of Clemmie, for some reason, and you once again wonder where she is. The flu, as implausible as it is, is your only real theory. Beyond Snow just killing her or something, that is. 

“These don’t look too bad, not great, but could be worse,” Lyssie informs you of what you already know, setting your hands down so she can rummage through her pile. She procures two small, sealed packages, and you recognize them as disinfecting wipes. She rips one open and begins to dab at your skin. It does not feel nice, but it is cold enough that you don’t mind too much. 

“How is Jessup doing?” You ask as she works. You’re not sure how much you care, but you ask anyway. Lyssie sighs. 

“I’m not sure, his bite looked worse yesterday, so I hope that ointment is doing something,” Lyssie holds up two different burn creams as she talks. You can’t see the labels. She ends up choosing the smaller one. “I want to see if he’s doing alright, I don’t know what happened after the bombs. I hope they were given some sort of medical attention. The tributes weren’t taken to the same doctors as us, I don’t think.” 

That’s because they were taken to a veterinarian, but you tactfully choose not to say that. You’re technically not supposed to know that, anyway. You did bribe the guards and all. Lyssie dabs the ointment on a cotton ball and then begins to smear it on your hands. It reminds you of last night, sitting under the July moon. 

“You want to check up on that boy of yours too, don’t you?” She looks up at you for a moment before her gaze falls back to your hands. You do, and the reminder makes you want to head out at that very instant, a sort of buzzing rekindled under your skin. You nod.

“I can’t help but wonder how he is,” you say. Lyssie smiles like she knows something you don’t. She cuts the gauze, wrapping it around your hands with a quick proficiency. 

“This stuff acts fast, you should be able to enjoy the usage of your hands in a few days at most,” she tapes the ends down. The power of Capitol medicine. She stands up, crossing over to her closet. “What do you think about wearing yellow?” Lyssie asks as she slides her closet doors open. Racks of clothes greet her. 

“I like it,” you say as you stand up. Yellow isn’t really your color, but it’s fine. Lyssie passes you a pale-yellow short sleeve button up shirt on the hanger. You hold it up, examining it. There’s a bit of lace at the collar. “Can I pair this with a skirt?” 

“Something long?” 

“Something long,” you confirm as Lyssie travels deeper into her closet. A moment later she comes back holding a deep brown large pleated skirt you’ve seen her wear a few times. You like how it looks when it spins. 

“It’s perfect,” you let her shove it into your arms. 

“It’ll look great on you,” she smiles and slips back into the recesses of her closet to presumably pick out an outfit for herself. You pull off your blazer and start on the buttons of your own shirt, fumbling a little with the wrapping on your hands. The yellow shirt goes on and your red pants-skirt gets replaced by the brown skirt. It brushes your ankles. As you’re tucking the shirt in, Lyssie re-emerges in a white shirt and pink trousers. 

“That’s cute,” you say, because you have to say something. Lyssie gives you a twirl, and it is cute. 

“Jewelry,” Lyssie snaps her fingers and is at her vanity in an instant, flipping open an old wooden box with twisting vines carved into it. She does not give you a chance to refuse as she takes your hand and presses golden hoops and a gold star necklace into it. She picks out small flower earrings and a silver necklace. 

The hoops go through your ears with ease, but you struggle with the necklace clasp. Your hands aren’t cooperating how you want them to, and it’s more than a little irritating as you drop the hook for the third time in a row. Lyssie laughs at you, but she bats your hands out of the way and clasps it herself. 

“Thanks,” you finger the clasp for a moment before you slide it to the back of your neck. Lyssie only smiles. 

“I want to bring Jessup something to eat. We can get something for Treech too,” Lyssie takes her school bag and dumps the contents on her table. “Give me a second to put this stuff back, and then I’ll meet you by the kitchen,” Lyssie gestures at her pile of ointments and other things. She’s gone in a flash, leaving you standing alone in her bedroom. 

You tip out the contents of your own bag, stacking your things next to your uniform. You toss a pen, small notebook, and both handkerchiefs back into your bag, slinging it over your shoulders.  You look at yourself in the mirror for a moment, taking in your appearance. You look nice. You leave your folded uniform on the ground, not particularly concerned about its state tomorrow. You won’t need it for the next few days anyway. 

Princess watches as you leave, and you end up doubling back to give her a pat on the head before you go to meet Lyssie by the kitchen like she said. She arrives seconds after you do, looking incredibly self satisfied. With what, you can’t even begin to imagine. 

“Let me get it, I don’t think the cook likes you,” Lyssie smiles at you apologetically. You frown. You didn’t even do anything to her cook and he’s had a personal grudge against you for years. “I think I can get some bread and fruit out of him.” Lyssie disappears into the kitchen, so you lean on the wall and stare at the owl vase by the stairs. It’s a little creepy to look at, and you almost want one for yourself. 

The minutes stretch on, and you find yourself thinking about your boy again. Specifically, his death. The image of Coral stabbing him with a trident appears, and you can’t shake it from your mind. The idea of his blood running down the prongs of her spear and dripping out into the dust leaves you feeling cold. 

“Success,” Lyssie appears behind you. You will yourself not to jump. She holds up her bag, and you can see bread wrapped in white paper, and two pears in a mesh bag. “Not the freshest, but it’s something.” She hands over one of the two hunks of bread, and then a pear. You are keenly aware of the fact that she is helping your tribute. You helped hers, you reason, snapping your bag shut.

“Alright, off we go,” you say, straightening out your clothes. You want nothing more than to get to the zoo and see your boy alive and breathing. You need Treech alive, he's your ticket to the Plinth Prize. That doesn't sound quite right in your head, but you don't know what about that sentence you dislike. 

“And we’re off,” Lyssie agrees. In clothes that aren’t yours and an odd feeling over your head, you follow Lyssie out the door. 

The funeral procession is over, or at least the part they’re broadcasting is. When you glance in an open window, you can see the television on still rolling the speakers for Didi and Pollo. Neither you nor Lyssie find much to talk about as you walk down to the zoo. Your mind feels blank, and before you realize it, you’re approaching the entrance to the zoo.

The guards let you pass without a word, and Lyssie offers you a weak smile. The rat traps you pass appear untouched, and you highly doubt they have caught many rats at all. There has to be a more effective way to go about ridding the zoo of the creatures. Outside of you and Lyssie, the zoo appears to be empty of people. 

You spot Lamina before Treech, sitting next to the boulder with her head in her knees. Jessup and Lucy Gray sit talking quietly, still under the same tree that they claimed the first night. “Good luck,” Lyssie nudges you before she breaks away and approaches the bars closest to the district twelve tributes. 

She leaves you standing dumbly for a moment as you try to figure out where Treech is. It’s not that big of an enclosure, so struggling to find him is a bit humbling. When you do spot him, it’s with Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner. Tanner looks displeased, arms crossed with a sharp frown. The side of his face with his shut eye is pinkish, clearly burned, but not too badly. 

Treech looks about as unhappy as Tanner, but he’s doing a mildly better job at hiding it. Coral and Mizzen have their backs to you, and Mizzen turns his head to look at Lyssie for a moment as she comes up to Jessup. Tanner sees you before Treech does, and you see his one eye roll as he elbows your boy, cocking his head in your direction. Treech glares at him, hand flying up to where Tanner hit him. 

Tanner says something, and four pairs of eyes fall on you. Only one of them isn’t clearly hostile. Well, Treech is, but not to the extent Coral and Tanner are. Mizzen just looks tired and angry. Your boy stands up after a moment of just staring flatly at you, and you wonder if he was considering ignoring you. He meets you at the bars, looking down at you as you sink down to sit across from him. 

“Come from the funeral?” He asks with a pinched brow. Right, he would have heard the funeral procession being blasted across the center of the Capitol. You suppose his expression answers your earlier question of how he was feeling about it–Incredibly unhappy, and you are one of the easiest targets to take it out on.

“I skipped,” you tell him. “It doesn’t need to be a spectacle,” and it really doesn’t need to be. You half want to know what they did to the tributes, but you also really don’t. The announcer never said, and if it was said, you completely missed it. You set your bag in your lap. 

Expression clearly full of distrust, Treech sits down across from you. His bruise is starting to look a little better, which is good. “How are your hands?” You ask. This close, you can see the bags under his eyes aren’t fading, and in fact, are looking worse. You are pleased to note that he hasn’t managed to get more dirt on his face since you had seen him last night. 

“Fine,” he holds them up, and they are looking like the medicine you put on it is doing its job. You can’t quite see his wrists, but if his hands are doing better, then his wrists have to be as well. 

“Are you not sleeping?” You squint at him, taking in the pallor of his skin and exhaustion evident on his face. You hope some of it is just the shadow from his hat. Treech rolls his eyes with an exhale.

“A little difficult to sleep with the rats developing an affinity for flesh,” he says after a moment. Oh, that’s horrifying. You’re not quite sure what to say to that. You don’t think that a sorry is going to cut it. You’re keenly aware that he can’t fight if he’s too tired. 

“I’ll see if I can pull any strings,” you frown. You aren’t entirely confident you will be able to do anything, but you can still try. What plants repel rodents? You remember reading posters about it during the Dark Days. Rosemary, mint, daffodil, and lavender? That sounds right, but you’ll have to double check. 

He doesn’t look convinced, but you don’t blame him. You flip your bag open, ignoring the sharp stinging in your palm. Now that you’re aware of the stitching in your hand, you can feel it. It does not feel too great. You pull out the bread and fruit, and Treech only hesitates for a second before taking it. 

A guttural round of coughing from somewhere further in the enclosure makes you cringe. Treech only glances to the side for a moment before he begins to unwrap the crisp paper on the bread. If you had to guess, that was just the girl from district eleven. You don’t see her, but you do see her district partner sitting protectively near the back, so she must be close by.

Treech rips off a chunk of the bread, and begins to eat in silence, but he does not leave. You consider it a win, and leave him be for a moment, snapping your bag shut. He looks up at you for a second, but doesn’t say anything. The pivotal question gnaws in the back of your mind. 

“Can you climb?” You ask abruptly, wincing to yourself at the lack of tact. Your boy pauses mid bite, looking back up at you mildly incredulous. Maybe it was a stupid question. 

“I work in the trees,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To be fair, it kind of is. You did want to confirm though, because otherwise, your ideas for strategy would be completely useless. Cutting down trees and climbing them are technically different skill sets, so it is nice to know that he does both. 

You hum, and Treech has nothing more to say about it because he goes back to his food. You glance at his new group, but none of them are paying him any mind. You think Mizzen might be asleep. 

“How are they?” You focus back on Treech. You don’t clarify who you mean, but he understands who you are referring to quickly enough. 

“Coral’s bossy,” he shrugs. “I don’t like her.” 

“And the others?” You prompt, feeling a little desperate to learn how he’s doing with them. 

“Are you asking if you think I can kill them?” He asks so suddenly that it surprises you a bit. The answer to that is both a resounding yes, and a hesitant no. 

“I’m just worried,” you press your hands together. It stings, so you loosen your fingers in your lap. And you are. You’re worried about his odds of getting out of that arena in one piece. 

Worried about the prize, Treech’s eyes seem to convey. You don’t know how to feel now that it isn’t completely true. You still want the money, of course you do, but you’re starting to realize that you also actually want him to stay alive. 

Treech picks at his sleeve the same way you’ve found yourself doing on occasion. It has to hurt the burnt edges of his fingers. You begin to think he’s just going to ignore you as the silence stretches on. For some reason, you decide to stay anyway. 

“Tanner has experience gutting things, as he’s enthusiastically told me,” Treech says eventually. You’re not surprised, but anxiety simmers in your chest at the confirmation. Of course the kid who looked as if he had just come out of the slaughterhouse knew how to be in the slaughterhouse. 

“Mizzen said he can climb rigging, and Coral knows how to use a trident,” he continues slowly. There are no surprises there either. “Coral sounds like she has something personal against Lucy Gray.” 

“That might keep her off of you,” you say thoughtfully. If Coral was preoccupied with hunting down Snow’s girl, she may be less inclined to stab Treech in the back first. It sounds like he doesn’t particularly care for any of them. Treech does not respond to that, but he does look you in the eye now. Mostly, his hat is still kind of angled down. 

He seems a little less hostile than he has been, but that’s also not saying too much. You consider if he would be inclined to grab you through the bars and try and pull what that girl did to Arachne, but there is also no weapon. Probably. And he does want to get out of this place, unless his opinion has changed overnight. 

You have been fine every other time you have gotten close to him, so you doubt he’ll do anything, you reason as you reach through the bars. You’re right, Treech doesn’t grab you, but he does jerk back in surprise. 

“Can you hold still a moment,” you ask as you try again. He does not move closer, a degree of distrust on his face. Which feels a bit ridiculous to you. If you had wanted to hurt him, you have had plenty of opportunities. There isn’t really a point in hitting him through the cage when he’s also supposed to fight to the death and possibly get you the Plinth Prize. Perhaps the Capitol children have been ill-behaved. 

This time, you succeed in pushing his hat up and back. You brush his curls to the side a bit for good measure. There, now you can see his face better. Treech just stares at you, and you’re pretty certain his expression is forced blank. 

“I want to see you when I’m talking,” you shrug. Pretty brown eyes don’t leave yours for a second, but he drops his gaze quickly enough. Maybe he’s embarrassed. His fingers twitch, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s in annoyance or towards his hat. 

“Anyway, I’m worried about Coral,” you drum your fingers on your knee. “She’s the biggest threat in your group.” Tanner was an active threat too, but he has shown less proclivity. “Her mentor and I have come to an agreement to not deliberately sabotage one another, so I don’t think I can be of much help regarding that girl.” 

Treech is silent once again, fiddling with the paper wrapping in his lap. “I don’t know if I could kill Mizzen or Wovey,” he admits. You have absolutely no idea who Wovey is. You don’t actually know all of the tribute's names. 

“Then hope someone gets them before it comes down to the wire,” you say firmly. It’s cold, but there aren’t a lot of other options. “Outlasting is a solid strategy too.” 

Treech frowns, and there is nothing you can do to make him feel better about what he is going to have to do. It’s a death match, and there is only one victor allowed out. You’re not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that this years’ game has potential to go past the first day. 

“The interviews are on Sunday,” you change the topic. You have to get to it eventually. “Do you have any idea of what you want to do?” 

“Not really.” 

You try not to sigh. You still have time. “Okay, we’ll work on that,” you flip through what you want to say during the interview. You have to humanize him to the audience, so talking about his family could be a good idea. “Weapon familiarity might garner you some more recognition than just your strength.” It might keep some of the tributes from trying to track him down if they’re wary enough.

You don’t mention that his looks will help, of course. You’ve heard enough of the idle chatter from your classmates, and you don’t really want to think about it. Getting him cleaned up for the interviews would be nice, at least wipe any dirt off his face and get a brush through his hair. 

“I can get you an ax handle,” you offer. “If that would feel less silly.” 

Your boy doesn’t look happy, but he nods. “Fine.” 

Success. You smile. You shift your focus up for a moment, searching for Lyssie. You find her sitting on the ground talking with Jessup with a small smile on her face. She catches your eye for a split second as if she could feel your gaze. She winks, and then her attention shifts back to Jessup. You follow her lead, looking back towards Treech. 

“Is she your friend?” Treech asks as he tears off a smaller piece of bread. 

“You could call her that,” you resist the urge to pick at the gauze on your hands. It’s starting to itch. He stares at you for a moment as if expecting you to say more, but he shrugs after a moment and lets it drop. Or so you thought. 

“She bribed the guards the other night, came in a while after you did,” he says, and you’re a little surprised. You didn’t think Lyssie had it in her. You wonder if any of the other mentors stopped in. Those Peacekeepers certainly got some pocket change. 

“She’s worried about that boy,” you allow. “Some sort of animal bite.” 

Treech folds the paper over what is left of the bread, pear still in his lap. He doesn’t make any move towards it, so perhaps he plans to save it. “He’s getting worse, I think your friend knows it.”  

You don’t doubt it. Lyssie is smart, and her parents are physicians. If something was wrong with her tribute, she’d very likely be able to tell. “He’s getting twitchy,” Treech shifts, resting his chin on his palm. “Don’t suppose you Capitol people know what he’s got?” 

Interesting question, you have absolutely no idea. Maybe the animal was really dirty and gave the district twelve boy some sort of infection. There’s the possibility that the bite means nothing, and he was already sick before he even got on the trains to the Capitol. The war posters depicting rabies swims in the back of your mind, but what are the odds Jessup has rabies from some Capitol animal? 

“I’m not sure,” you shake your head. “His mentor might have a better idea than I do, considering she talks to him and all.” Maybe you’ll ask Lyssie, but you’re not sure if she knows either. Treech shakes his head a little.

“As long as it’s not contagious.” 

Yes, you suppose that is correct. If Jessup dies of whatever it is he contracted, it’s one less person Treech may potentially have to fight. He seems to know this as well. For Lyssie’s sake, you hope whatever kills Jessup is quick. 

You’re silent for a moment, considering what to say. Treech continues to sit there quietly, and you’re mildly surprised he hasn’t gone back to his group yet. Stalling for time, maybe, not willing to go talk to Coral again. You once again wonder if Treech has a staring problem. 

“What did you think of the cookies?” You ask, for lack of anything substantial to say but still wanting to say something. Treech blinks at you bemused before he seems to remember the two cookies you had snuck him. He squints.

“Fine,” he says after a pause. “Very sweet.” 

“Do they have lots of sugar out in the districts?” You find yourself asking, thinking back to his reaction to the first one. “Readily available,” you clarify, just in case. Treech looks at you like he can’t quite decide if you’re mocking him or not, and whether or not he should respond. 

“What does it matter?” 

“It doesn’t,” you agree. He is only going to be getting out of that arena if he’s lucky, and you both know it. You’re curious anyway, life in the district isn’t really touched on in the Capitol. Sure, they’re dirty and work the industry that powers the country and lost the war, but you realize you don’t actually know anything about them beyond what the industry is, and that the district kids enter the workforce early. 

Bleak. 

“But I’m still curious,” you say, relaxing your hands in your lap. He reaches up to the brim of his hat, and you suppress a sigh as he tugs it back down again so you can’t fully see his expression.

“In the bakeries, I guess,” Treech says. You can’t tell what kind of expression he’s making. He sounds a tad confused though, as if he can’t possibly begin to guess where you’re going with this. You’re not sure where you’re going with it either. Well, it isn’t like you have a lot of opportunities to just ask questions to district people, and your boy very well might not end up making it out of the arena. You don’t like the reminder. 

“Do you go often?” You know you’re pushing a bit. Treech tilts his head at you with furrowed brows. 

“Once in a while. Is there a point to this?” 

“Not really, no,” you readjust on the ground. The only point was to satiate your curiosity and talk to Treech. You think you could be content to just stare at him if he didn’t feel like talking to you. That might put you under the same staring problem Treech has, though. “Why do you keep pulling your hat down?” 

You have a few ideas, namely that he either doesn’t want to look at you, or that he keeps getting some sort of embarrassed. It could be both, maybe he just thinks you’re really annoying and keep making fun of him. You can only refute the latter; you can’t exactly dictate if he likes you. He does talk to you though, so he probably doesn’t despise you. Probably. 

You’re not sure how to feel about that. 

Treech makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat at your question. His fingers twitch up again, and you half think he’s going to reach through the bars and attack you. Instead, his hands fold in his lap. “What do you care, anyway?” 

What do you care? He’s right, you don’t need to keep sitting here talking to him just to try and get him through the arena. 

“You’re pretty,” you say without thinking too terribly hard about it. You surprise yourself with the honesty. Treech just stares at you from under his hat, and your point is proven once again. You hope he makes it out of the arena. 

Treech doesn’t stop you as you once again push his hat back, fingertips brushing the brim to tilt it up. He just looks at you with wide eyes, a myriad of micro expressions flickering across his face. He ends up settling on something vaguely expressionless, but his eyes are still a little too wide to be truly without emotion. You wish you could tell what he is thinking. 

He’s silent. You smile at him anyway. “You shouldn’t hide, it makes you look scared.” You ignore that he likely is scared, imminent death match and all in just a few days. He’s scared of Coral, at least. “At least pretend you don’t mind being here, let yourself look formidable.” You pause, thinking over your next words, before deciding it doesn’t matter too much. “You can’t dislike me that much, right?” 

Your boy doesn’t respond right away. “It’s not you,” he mutters so softly that you almost miss it. You can feel yourself grinning stupidly. 

“Just the Capitol,” you fill in knowingly. District doesn’t like Capitol, and vice versa. You aren’t even sure how much you like the districts. Treech was fine, but Sejanus irked you. Maybe you don’t particularly care for the districts, but you know that you don’t like the Hunger Games either. Barbarity for barbarity, maybe? You suppose that the only interactions you have had with district has been onscreen or during the war. And Treech now, too. 

Treech doesn’t answer this time, so you move on. You scan the tributes, considering what you’ve seen so far of them. The district two boy, Sejanus’ boy, is still missing, and you would consider him one of the possible top opponents, based on size alone. The boy from district eleven, Clemmie’s Reaper, sits where you had seen him last. The only difference is that now you can see the hair of his district partner, sticking up in all directions and pillowing around her from where she lays on the ground. 

Tanner from district ten was going to be dangerous as well, district ten produced the children that at least know how to kill something living. Coral, district four, is who Treech seems the most worried about. Mizzen less so. He just has to outlast them, and in his alliance’s case, he has to be the one to turn on them first. 

You hear familiar laughter from somewhere behind you, and Treech’s eyes move up to look past you. You turn partially around to see the new arrivals. It seems like the funeral is over. You spot Hilarius and Festus, and Festus makes a questioning face at you that you make the executive decision to ignore. You don’t doubt that he didn’t notice that you were missing from the funeral and are very clearly not in the Academy uniform. Snow is probably close behind him somewhere. That, or he’s with Sejanus, also probably coming by soon. 

You don’t bother to repress your sigh, turning back around to look at Lyssie. She nods at you, ready to leave as more mentor's trickle in, along with Capitol citizens. Lyssie leans in to tell Jessup something, a goodbye, if you have to guess. You should do the same. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow, promise,” you say. You want to spend the whole day, if you’re being honest with yourself. Protecting your assets and checking out the state of things. “Try and rest.” 

Lyssie stands up at the same time as you, and your hands scream in protest at you. She doesn’t make her way over immediately, pausing at the bars. Treech looks in the direction of Hilarius in annoyance a moment longer, and you don’t blame him for it. His hands could use another layer of ointment. With the zoo now actually open, you can bring some sort of wrap without a demerit.

Treech gathers the remaining food you had given him in his hands, and you watch his retreating back as he stops by Lamina. She looks up at him, and you can see the red rings around her eyes. Your boy says something that you can’t hear, but Lamina gives him a watery smile. She moves over enough for Treech to sit down next to her. 

He offers her both the pear and the remaining bread. So that’s why he was saving it. You don’t even have it in you to be annoyed that Treech is sharing the food you gave him. You just hope he isn’t the one who has to kill his district partner. He looks back at you once, and you nod at him. You’re not going to disapprove of him being nice to that girl, there’s no point in it. He said she doesn’t want to get out of the arena, and she looks it as well. 

Lyssie takes your arm, appearing out of nowhere. “Come on, you look tired.” 

“Do I?” You smile as you turn around with her. She laughs at you. 

“Very.” 

You lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling with thoughts running a million miles a minute for what feels like hours before sleep finally overtakes you. 

You rub your eyes as the 6th Hunger Games roll on the screen. Your notes lay scrawled in front of you, and you’re not sure how much more of this you can watch. It’s a very disquieting feeling to start each tape and know that out of all the faces on screen, only one was still alive. 

But you have started to get a solid strategy going, or, at least the bare bones of one, given the physique of your tribute. He is from the lumber district, and when you shoved him down, you definitely felt solid muscle. So he could swing an ax. He is likely pretty fast too. You can work with this. 

You could almost feel the Plinth Prize in your hands, and how good it would feel to rub it in all of their faces. Snow of all people doesn’t need it for anything other than gloating rights. That’s what he wants you to think anyway, but you know better. If he manages to be amicable when he loses, you might even give him the money. You don’t really need it either. You just want to rub it in a few people’s faces that you’re better than them. 

Cruel, but such was life. 

The Academy isn’t letting anyone speak to the tributes, or letting anyone visit at all. You also haven’t seen Clemmie in two days, and no one seems to know where she is at. When you had asked Snow this morning, he gave you a tight lipped smile and said she “had a nasty case of flu.” It isn’t like you believe him, but there isn’t much you can do about it. 

Treech is on your mind too, the last you saw of him burned behind your eyelids as he was rounded up with his hands atop his head. 

Class is being let out early to watch Arachne’s funeral procession. Apparently, Snow is singing at it. Clemmie is still nowhere to be seen. There’s a rumor that she fell in love with her tribute and tried to run away with him, and is now being held in jail deep under the city. It’s laughable, because you know Clemmie, and you know exactly who and what she’s in love with. Snow and success. 

It’s funny, because she can do so much better than him, but it’s not your business. Maybe she just likes the Snow's reputation. Clemensia Snow has a nice ring to it. 

Whoever started it though is up in the air. You won’t be surprised if Festus is the starting point. 

You catch up with Lyssie after class, unwilling to have someone else find you. You don’t want to talk to Festus and console him about Arachne. You and Lyssie talk aimlessly as you walk to where the procession will be. 

“Jessup’s bite looks worse,” her face scrunches. “It’s awful that they won’t look at it.” 

“I can give you some cream to sneak him,” you surprise yourself by offering. Lyssie smiles gratefully. 

“Really?” 

“After Arachne’s funeral, I can get it if you want to come back with me?” You’re in too deep to just back out, and you owe Lyssie a few favors. 

“I’m indebted,” she nudges your shoulder with her own. You can’t help but smile back. Lyssie in your debt wouldn’t be too bad. You find seats in the stands, and you can see Snow if you squint. 

“I heard Snow is singing for this,” you tilt your head towards Snow. Lyssie leans forward, searching for him. “Do you think they offered him something?” 

“I didn’t know he could sing,” Lyssie finally spots him. “Let alone such close friends with Arachne.” 

“I didn’t think so either,” you shake your head. “It’s starting,” you point to the screen that flickers on. You aren’t entirely sure how you feel about Arachne’s death. You’re not going to miss her, but… 

You hope they aren’t treating the tributes too much worse than they already have been. 

Snow’s voice cuts through the silence as he begins to sing the national anthem. You’re a little annoyed that he isn’t even half bad. As the song reaches its conclusion, your eye catches on a crane that rolls down the street, projected on the screens as it begins to come into focus. There’s something dangling from it, but you can’t tell what. 

Lyssie gasps, hand over her mouth. “They didn’t,” she exhales, obviously puzzling out what the hanging thing is before you do. As if the universe can sense your confusion, the big screen zooms in, and your stomach drops. 

It’s the district ten girl, suspended on hooks as her body is paraded through the street. Gasps surround you, but they do not drown out the jeering at the sight of Arachne’s killer. She’s white as a sheet, all of her blood outside of her body. Literally. It’s revolting. 

You wish you could kill Arachne again for making you sit through this procession. 

What seems like hours is full of people crying and speaking about Arachne’s achievements, how wonderful of a person she was. It even made kind hearted Lyssie press a hand to her face to conceal the smile at the sheer absurdity it is to include so many flattering words in the same sentence and line of thought as Arachne. 

When the funeral ends and your hands have been touched by dozens giving their condolences and apologies for your loss, you grab Lyssie’s wrist and manage to sneak out the back, away from the camera’s. She wipes her eyes with her free hand, and you don’t mention it. 

You let her lay on your floor as you snap open your med kit, shifting through the contents for an anti-bacterial cream and a small tin. “It was unnecessary,” Lyssie says as you manage to find a small container to put the cream in. You hum in agreement. “I mean, it was garish.” 

“Excessive,” you agree, twisting open the metal tin. You’re sure Arachne’s spirit is looking up and is positively thrilled she has become the temporary face of Panem. A martyr for fear mongering about the districts. 

District may be…uncouth, but they still were people that the government was supposed to protect at the end of the day. 

“Have you heard from Clemmie?” Lyssie switches the topic suddenly. You glance behind yourself as you squeeze the large tube of cream into the pocket tin. Lyssie stares up at the ceiling with a frown on her face. “No one in class seems to have heard from her. It’s not like her to miss so much.” 

“Coryo said she has the flu,” you shut the lid onto the tin. You wipe the edge with a handkerchief. Does Treech need any sort of medical attention? If he does, he’s likely not getting it. What a nice thought. 

“That’s what he told me too, but he sounded like he was lying,” Lyssie sighs. “I’m worried about her.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, whatever it is she’s gotten herself into,” you nestle the anti-bacterial cream tube back into the kit. Lyssie isn’t convinced, and neither are you. You both seem to know this, because she somehow slumps further against the floor. You crouch down, metal tin in your hand. One debt to Lyssie has been knocked out. 

“You’re the best,” Lyssie pushes herself up off your floor, hair sticking up at an odd angle. She takes the cream with a tired smile, and drops it into her pocket. “Have you finished the strategy report yet?” 

Right. You’re supposed to be working on that. 

“If one existing page counts, then yes,” you say as Lyssie begins to stand up. 

“That makes me feel better, I don’t even want to touch a pen to finish it.” 

You walk Lyssie to the door in silence, a strange mood befalling the both of you. “Good luck on your essay,” you tell her as she laces her shoes up. She pats the tin in her pocket. 

“You too, y/n.” 

The front door thuds shut, leaving you feeling something you can’t quite describe. It wraps your lungs all the same. You think of Treech again, and something else snags inside your gut. You ignore it as well as you can, digging in your bag for the report you were discussing with Clemmie. 

You lay your notes and the beginnings of the actual essay itself out on your desk, and quickly come to the conclusion that this is futile. You drop your pen on the desk, reaching across your homework to drag your phone towards you. It’s not one of the newer models where it also projects a picture to you, that one in your living room, but it’s the one the Lovecotes have in their house. 

Clemmie has been trying to persuade her father to upgrade it, but to no avail. You don’t need to look as you enter her household number, cradling the receiver against your ear. The line rings one, twice, and then a third time before it is picked up by an out of breath sounding woman. 

“Lovecotte’s head maid speaking,” she says. You resist the urge to sigh. 

“Hello, this is y/n, from the Academy, I’m a friend of Clemensia’s. I was wondering if Mr. Dovecote is available?” There’s a pause on the other end, and you twirl the wires around your fingers. 

“Please hold,” the maid says, and before you can say anything, the line beeps. You sigh this time, and stare at your desk. The silver hairbrush Treech used sits within your line of sight. You frown. 

The line beeps again, preventing you from forming a coherent thought about it. “Dovecote speaking,” Clemmie’s father says. He sounds slightly strained. 

“Mr. Dovecote,” you twirl the wire again. 

“Y/n,” he says. The line crackles. You almost didn’t expect him to remember your voice, let alone your name. 

“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything,” you blanket your statement with a formality. You would like to keep him viewing you in a bare minimum neutral lighting. You can’t care less what he was doing. 

“I had a moment,” he answers, and you picture him rubbing his mustache. It’s a habit of his when he talks about himself. Clemmie used to do the same thing in elementary. 

“Forgive me for being blunt then, but what has Clemmie tied up? No one has seen her in days.” You spin the wire off your finger, it’s getting too tight. You miss the pressure almost immediately. The line is silent for a moment, and you wonder if Mr. Dovecote hung up. 

“She is in the hospital, a ‘flu,’ they say.” He sounds skeptical. “We do not know, the doctors won’t tell us anything else or let us see her, and Coriolanus says that she fainted.” That is far more information than you’ve gotten. 

Okay, so clearly Clemmie doesn’t have the flu. With the entire time you have known her, she has actually gotten sick like four times. Three of which were during the Dark Days. She was nothing if not vigilant about washing her hands. 

“I see,” you say, because there is nothing else to say. No one knows what has happened to Clemmie except Snow, and he isn’t talking. “I’ll keep an ear out for you. Sorry to keep you, sir,” you twirl the wire again. You have no idea how you’ll keep an ear out, but it sounded like the right thing to say. 

“Thank you,” Mr. Dovecote says, and after a few more useless pleasantries, he hangs up. You put the phone back in its receiver, and pick your pen back up. This report isn’t going to write itself, and you had the beginnings of a real strategy in the arena spinning in your mind. If you can’t see Treech, you might as well continue to do your part as his mentor and figure out what to do for him. 

You try to visit the zoo the next day, but are turned away. You’re turned away the next day too, and frustration boils in your gut. You feel useless, and worried. You end up finishing your strategy report, very little else to do. It felt heavy in your bag until you finally turned it in yesterday. You poke at your potatoes. 

Districts one, two, and four have an emerging pattern of producing strong tributes. Districts seven, ten, and eleven have tributes who can usually stay alive for longer than ten minutes. The other districts have outliers, and are not consistently strong or knowledgeable in weaponry. District twelve ranks low, unless the tribute is eighteen and has worked the mines. That has only happened once for district twelve, and the tribute ended up dying in the end anyway. 

Treech was right, frankly, because what good does sending in food or water if the games are usually over in mere hours? I know you’re on the edge of death and all fighting for your life, would you like some water so another kid can bash your skull in?

Your boy hardly left your mind, and inexplicably, him messing with you during the first interview. 

‘Married?’

‘Are you asking?’

Something about the way he said it. Under different circumstances, you don’t doubt you’d play with him. Not knowing how he is bothers you. 

Clemmie is still missing too, and the rumor mill is anything but inactive. Your current favorite is that she killed someone and got sent off to district four. There is also one where Snow killed her, and that’s why he seems to be the only one who knows anything about what happened. You don’t doubt it. 

A tray drops down across from you, and you flinch, neck jerking up to glare at the offender. Festus looks unapologetic as he sits down. “Highbottom is saying we’re touring the arena with our tributes today,” he drops his bag to the ground, making it clear he’s staying. Your fork hovers over your plate. You’re seeing Treech today. 

“I was going over strategy last night,” Festus keeps talking, “and I know we’re adding betting, so people watch and the stakes feel higher, but what’s the point?” He spears his steak. “There’s no place to hide in the arena, and the betting system does nothing. Dogfights, at least, you can win your money back.” 

You hum along. “Dr. Gaul won’t like to hear that.” 

“It’s beyond me why she doesn’t see the flaws in her games this year,” Festus rubs the bridge of his nose. “Anyway,” he squints at you. “Do you think they’ve been feeding the tributes?” 

“I’m not sure,” you shake your head. “We’ll find out later when our tickets to the Plinth Prize are all skin and bones.” 

“Funny,” Festus says around a mouthful of food. “Really funny. I, for one, think that the eleven girl is going to be dead before the games, if she’s not already.” You let Festus talk as you eat, and the time passes quickly. He does circle to Arachne at one point, but you’re feeling magnanimous and decide to not shush him. You wrap up your brownie when he’s not looking. 

He ends up being right as well, Dean Highbottom announcing after lunch that they will be paying their tributes a visit and showing them the arena. Your skin buzzes at the prospect of seeing Treech, and you can’t place your finger on why. 

It’s probably just nerves. Protecting your assets and all. 

That’s what you tell yourself anyway, as you’re loaded up into vans. Lyssie sits next to you in relative silence, thanking you again for the medicine. She taps her finger on the lid, and you hear the slight metallic clink of it through her pocket. 

Ushered into the same room your first round of interviews with the tributes were in, you look around for Treech. He’s in the same spot he was the last time, hat tipped down again. “Fifteen minutes,” Dean Highbottom warns you all as he turns his back. 

You sit down across from Treech, and the chains around his wrists are tied closer to the table than they had been. His wrists are raw and red, evidence of time in the cuffs running up his arms, and not just pulling on them. 

“Are you alright?” You ask, but it’s a silly question. You knew that the moment it fell past your lips. He looks sick, frankly. Absolutely exhausted. You wonder what they did to him. Wait, why is he squinting? You lean across the table, tilting Treech’s hat back enough to look him in the eyes. It irritates you when he pulls it down, you’d rather look at him. 

He flinches, but he can’t exactly go anywhere, so you manage to settle his hat back on his curls and take a good look at him. A bruise under his eye looks back at you, mottled purple and black. "Who did this?” You resist the urge to touch it. There’s more dirt on his face too. 

“Peacekeepers,” he says after a moment. “I was getting too rowdy, apparently.” 

That somehow annoys you more. You click your tongue in distaste, pulling your handkerchief from your pocket. You lean in again, and to his credit, Treech only grimaces as you touch him again. You rub the cloth against the dirt on his face, scrubbing his nose for good measure. Feeling self-satisfied, you pull away again. There, now he looks better. If only you could do something about his eye. 

“Have they fed you?” 

“After day three, guess they decided we weren’t worth much entertainment if we all died before they got it on screen. Why, have something for me? I still have room.” 

You’re pretty sure that’s the longest he’s ever talked to you in one breath. It’s almost cute. 

“I might,” you say. “You can have it once we get to the arena.” 

“How exciting.” 

“I’m sure. I want to see the arena in person before we talk about real strategy. I advise against an alliance, they can and will turn their back on you the moment the buzzer sounds.” Treech frowns, and you know he already has an alliance in mind. You’re sure you know who it is, too. “Who are you thinking?” 

“Lamina.” 

Of course, it’s Lamina. You’re disappointed, but not surprised. 

“Can she fight?” 

“She works in forestry on the weekends. I can’t just leave her.” 

He could, but you don’t say that. 

“Just keep an eye on your back, okay?” Treech clearly isn’t happy about it, but he nods. “This is cruel, but if you want to get out, take out the smaller ones first. If you write them off, they’ll be the one to kill you. Or they’ll wear you down so someone else can kill you.” 

He stares at you, expression once again unreadable, but vaguely hostile. You consider how it would feel to win and then rub the money in Snow’s face. You like his songbird and all, but she can’t survive. Not if you want Treech to. You make a mental note to grab something for his wrists, and maybe some bruise cream.

You wonder if Treech has a staring problem, now that you think about it. 

“You’ll be okay,” you tell him. “If it’s any consolation, you’re getting popular.” The words taste acidic on your tongue. You don’t really want to share him with the masses. You shake the thought from your head. 

“Easy for you to say,” he sighs, finally looking away. “Do they usually have axes in there?” He does not clarify where, and he doesn’t need to. You smile at his initiative, at least a real drive to get out of the arena. 

“There’s always an ax or two.” You recall the previous Hunger Games. “Swords, tridents, spears, knives.” 

Treech shuts his eyes. His eyelashes brush his cheeks. You reconsider your odds again. With Lamina, his odds of survival either go up, or she’ll be one of the first to aim their blade for him. If you want him to cooperate, it looks like Lamina is staying. Maybe you can play up a duo in the interviews…

“For the interviews,” you check the clock. Two minutes. “I was thinking you can show off your proficiency with an ax with a stick or something. Ridiculous, I know, don’t make that face. Or your strength.” 

“Time,” Dean Highbottom says. Chairs scrape. 

“Think on it,” you tell Treech as you stand up. “I’ll see you soon.”  

And see him soon you do. Lyssie sits next to you again in the vans, and she is silent. Your odds feel a little better as the doors slide open. You break away from Snow and Lyssie as you climb the steps to the arena, scanning the line of tributes for yours. 

He’s towards the center front, saying something to Lamina. The chains are off their wrists. You see Coral, Festus’ tribute, eyeing Treech. You’re not sure if she wants an alliance, or if she wants to kill him. 

“Enjoy the show,” an electronic woman’s voice rings out as the first of the tributes are pushed through the gates. It surprises you; they must exclude it from the recordings. You catch Treech’s expression. He seems to have caught the irony. Lamina, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to burst into tears again. 

You step through the gate, the bars rolling with your movement. Treech comes through a moment later, and his wide eyes sweep across the arena. He swivels in a slow circle, stepping back as Pup approaches Lamina. There is nowhere to hide. But there is something. 

“Treech,” you call him. On dazed feet, he crosses the short distance between you. “You said you work in the trees?” He nods, so you point to the mottled surface of the slightly angled wall that leads up to the stands. “If you can get up there, you’re almost golden.” 

He follows your finger. He looks a bit like a trapped animal.

His lips move, and you lean closer, curious on what he could be saying. While you’re at it, you drop the brownie into his pocket, shifting your blazer so one won’t be able to see your hands. “I don’t want to die in here,” you hear, barely audible. You’re not sure if you are supposed to hear him or not. 

“You won’t,” you tell him firmly. 

“Treech,” Lamina says somewhere to your right. You allow them a moment, retreating to where Festus, Lyssie, and Felix are talking. 

“Y/n,” Festus smiles as if he were just talking about you. “Coral is considering your lumberjack as an ally.” 

You don’t like the sounds of that. 

“She’s strong,” Felix crosses his arms, sounding a bit jealous. You think his tribute is the girl with tuberculosis from eleven.

“Hey lumberjack!” You hear Festus’ tribute call, and you turn around to watch the scene unfold. Festus does the same, followed by Felix. Lyssie mutters something about checking on Jessup, leaving you alone. 

Treech pauses, looking at Coral. “Lamina,” he says over his shoulder. Lamina takes a step forward, and Coral narrows her eyes. Her district partner leans into her shoulder. “No, no, just you,” Coral shakes her head. “Just you.” 

Your boy looks down for a moment, hesitating. He almost turns back to Lamina, but instead, he leaves her standing alone, sending one glance in your direction. He’s afraid, you realize. He can either join Coral or become one of the first she runs through in the arena. His chest rises and he opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly, ducking his head. 

Lamina gasps, and you don’t need to look at her to know she’s crying again. Treech had already told her that he wanted to stick together. Ouch. 

“Success,” Festus grins. “Teamwork.” Not for the first time, you want to punch him in the face. You return his grin. Fuck this guy. You are going to be so mad if Coral decides to just kill him. 

Treech, Coral, and…. you wrack your brain. Mizzen? Mizzen and the boy from ten stand together. Outside of the kid, they are going to be a formidable pack. Poor Lamina. She’s still crying, and Treech is refusing to look at her. 

Your eyebrows pinch. Okay, this can still work. Treech just has to turn on them first. You’re most concerned about Coral and Mizzen though. District four climbs rigging, they can likely get up stone if they take their time. Just as you’re about to ask Festus how good of a climber Coral is, the sky caves in. 

The ground rattles violently, sending you stumbling in the direction of the pack. You lose sight of Felix and Festus. You can’t see much of anything past the dust rising in the air. For a moment, you think that’s it. The ground explodes. 

You hit the ground, the realization that the arena was being bombed sinking in. You feel five years old again, warplanes flying over your head seconds before your entire world exploded. The ash and dirt burn your lungs, and you fumble for your handkerchief to press to your face. 

Treech. Where’s Treech? 

You spot him among the rubble, coughing and pushing wooden beams off of himself. He has his shirt pulled up around his nose. You pat your pockets, half delirious and hysterical. Bomb time. You find your backup handkerchief, because who would you be if you weren’t prepared for a situation. Any situation.  

“Treech!” You shout, and your throat feels as if it’s catching fire through the fabric. You’re not quite sure how you reach him so fast, but you thrust the cloth into his hands. He presses it to his mouth and nose immediately, coughing violently. 

There’s shouting, and it seems as if the ground has stopped shaking. You can see Peacekeepers moving, and you realize some of the tributes are trying to escape. The pair from district one are gunned down. Treech hardly seems in a state to run off, and he won’t make it far, either. More bullets fire, and Treech pulls you to the ground. It’s a role reversal, you think as you try to squint up at the roof to make sense of what had happened. You ignore how your skin scrapes against concrete, willing the pain away. 

Sunlight hits you instead. 

Gloved hands pull you up, and Treech is pulled away. The jostling sends fire along your nerves, and you can feel the blood dripping down your fingers. You hope you don’t need stitches. Treech looked nice, your mind helpfully supplies. Too bad your hard work at wiping the dirt off his face went to waste. One of your classmates lays face down and unmoving in the dirt.

You stumble down the smoking steps of the arena, half dragged along by the two Peacekeepers with you. You don’t think you’ve met a single polite one. It makes you giggle a bit. A classmate is shouting, trying to pull one of the tributes out of the rubble. Mizzen? Your eyes fall on waiting ambulances, and you can hear a few more sirens approaching from deeper within the city. 

You don’t see any of the tributes, but you catch sight of some of your classmates. Snow on a stretcher. Iphigenia with hair turned grey from the ash. Lyssie, eyes wide being escorted down the steps. 

You’re taken to the back of one of the ambulances and sat down on the sidewalk behind it. EMTs swarm you, asking questions that you try to answer to the best of your ability. Your heart pounds and worry coats the inside of your skin to the point you can hardly feel it as they stitch your finger and begin to wrap your hands in gauze. You’re unsure where your handkerchief went. 

Still in a daze, you’re cleared by the medical teams, the only thing on your mind is your boy from district seven. Is he alright? Where is he? Are the games going to continue if the arena has been destroyed? You won’t get the Plinth Prize, but it doesn’t feel too irritating to know in that moment. You hope the cloth you gave him protected his lungs. What tributes are even left? The pair from one was gunned down in front of you. 

You’re not quite sure when or how you got home. Your parent's fuss over you, but you brush them off, heading straight to your room. You have no idea what happened to Festus or Lyssie, and you’re relatively certain you saw Persephone still in the collapsing arena as you were taken out of it. Snow looked worse for wear, he’s surely in the hospital by now. 

You sit on the floor by your bed, trying to make sense of the bombing. The arena is left untouched for nearly the entire year, only used now for the games and then a short clean up immediately after. Who knows how long the bombs were lying in wait. They could have been put up just this morning, but by who? Rebels? Rebels in the Capitol? Unthinkable, but there aren’t a lot of other motives you can think of. Targeting the affluent children, maybe?

The phone ringing on your vanity startles you, bumping your head on the metal of your bedframe. You scramble up, cursing whoever is on the other line. The phone rattles on its stand. You frown as you pick up, knowing it is one of the few people you’ve given your personal number to on the other end. 

“Hello?” The pressure of the phone in your hand is unpleasant, resting against your stitches. 

“Y/n,” the person on the other end sounds relieved. Festus. Why was he calling you? You half consider just hanging up on him. “I lost sight of you and Coryo after the rebel bombing.” 

“I saw Coryo,” you say. “He was on a stretcher; I think he’s been taken to the hospital.” Festus sighs. “What happened to you?” 

“I got thrown across the arena. Bruised but fine. Those Peacekeepers were rough.” Festus sounds displeased, and you imagine he’s already taken the issue to his father. “Listen, my father just got off the phone with the Academy. They’re continuing the games.”  

You’re still in the running for the Plinth Prize, then. And the games were still going to continue. It leaves an uncomfortable feeling in your chest. “In the same arena?” 

“Yeah, they’re currently putting cameras in the passages the bombs opened. Half of the arena collapsed. Figured you would want to know since we’re working together now.” A pause, and you can hear his smirk before he opens his mouth again. “And I’m sure you’re worried about that boy of yours.” 

Because Festus’ tribute was probably going to kill him. Your finger twitches in annoyance, pulling the stitches. You almost can’t believe the games are still continuing. 

“I see, thanks for letting me know.” 

“Right.” There’s a shuffle on the other end. “If you hear anything about Coryo, let me know, okay?” 

“I will, don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine,” you try to reassure him. You’re pretty sure Snow was smoking when he was loaded into the back of an ambulance, as if he was recently on fire. Festus hadn’t seen him. You don’t know why he likes that boy so much. Maybe Festus will sing at Snow’s funeral. “‘Snow lands on top’ or whatever it is he says.” 

Festus laughs, but it’s a tired thing. “It’s a cold line.” 

“Funny,” you shut your eyes at the pun. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Festus says. “We can talk strategy then.” 

Great. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” you say instead. You know his habits. 

“Whatever, maybe Dr. Gaul will stop in tomorrow to tell us about a new thing she’s implementing.” 

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan. Every time you have to talk to the head Gamemaker, you feel like a rat trapped in a cage with a gun to your head. Festus laughs. “Good night, Festus,” you rub your nose. You click the phone back to its stand. You should have asked if he had seen Lyssie. 

If the floor is open in that arena, the games have real potential to go on for more than a day or so. Meaning, the system of sending tributes gifts will mean something. If cameras have to be put in the tunnels, they go far under the arena, and there should be places to hide down there. 

You need to tell Treech.

Your hands still sting. The white gauze wrapped around them is just begging to be picked at. You never got to see the extent of the damage, just the blood through the smoke, and that isn’t any good indicator of the injury. You curse yourself, wishing you had done more for Treech. Instead, you got caught in bomb time. 

The fading sunlight filters through your window, turning the floor in front of you orange. Firm determination sets in as you lift yourself up off the ground. You dig a handful of cash out of your drawer, stuffing it into your pocket. If they don’t let you in to see Treech, guards can always be bribed. You know beyond a shadow of doubt that Snow and Felix have already bribed the guards this past week. 

You change out of the Academy uniform, not wanting to call attention to yourself with the red, opting for a darker color scheme. You tap your fingers against your arm as you consider what exactly to bring with you. The movement hurts, but you don’t stop. 

A new handkerchief gets folded into your pocket, simple white with blue flowers embroidered at the ages. You have a shirt that matches it, hanging up in your closet somewhere. You drop a bottle of water into your canvas bag, and after a moment of hesitation, you toss in your burn cream, some gauze, bromelain cream, and disinfectant. You have to make sure he looks presentable, you tell yourself. You’re not entirely sure you believe it when you say it. 

You sling the bag over your shoulder, and your hands scream in protest at the action. It’s ignorable, so you brush your knuckles against the cash in your pocket, ensuring it’s where you put it. It would be embarrassing if you arrived and left your money on the table. 

“I’m going to Lyssie’s” you call out into your apartment. She will cover for you if anyone actually does go looking for you, but you doubt it will come to it. You wonder if she ever got that medicine to Jessup. Pulling your shoes on, you take your keys off the hook and slip out into the hall. You choose not to use the elevator down to the ground floor, taking the steps two at a time. You catch yourself on the railing as you reach the bottom, heart pounding and a little out of breath. 

The sky is streaked purple, shadows long in the street. You walk quickly, just short of running, and you’re sure you look a bit silly to anyone who looks out of their window at you. It’s humid. A car roars past. By the time you reach the zoo, the sky is dark. You step over a rat twitching on the ground, blood leaking out of its mouth. Apparently the rat traps are doing something. Or maybe it’s the most unlucky rat in the world. 

It doesn’t matter, in the end. It’s not why you’re here. 

You spot a pair of Peacekeepers quickly enough, guns in their hands. “No visitors, zoo is closed,” one of them says to you. The other squints. 

“You’re an Academy student, I saw you on the TV.” Astute observation. Guards should be rounding the perimeter in a moment. You don’t respond verbally, instead splitting the cash in two and offering it over to them.

They hesitate, but only for a moment. “Be quick,” the first one says as he pockets the money. 

“I’m just checking up on my tribute,” you slide past them before they change their mind. If they snitch on you, they’ll have bribe money in their pockets that they will have to explain. Your hands ache. You quiet the fall of your footsteps as you approach the monkey cage where the tributes are being held, counting heads. More than a few are missing, unless you just can’t see them in the dark, hidden behind something. 

You skirt the edge of the enclosure, avoiding fallen branches and twigs on the ground, and narrowly missing a box of rat poison. Yeah, you’re pretty sure the rat you saw earlier was just unlucky. A little stupid, too. 

“Treech?” You whisper as you approach the bars closest to the boulder he and Lamina have claimed for themselves. You don’t see him at first, and your heart speeds up a little. “Treech?” Just as your bag begins to feel heavy, you spot him and his hat sitting in the shadow of the rock. You don’t see Lamina.

His head snaps up, and you can’t see his expression in the dark. You can see the glint of his eyes though, the little light left in the area reflected off of them. “Y/n?” Your boy sounds a little incredulous. You wave him over, and you hope he can see it. 

You kneel down, gently putting your bag on the ground next to you. You watch him gingerly unfold himself, crossing the distance between without a sound. He kneels down slowly across from you. Is he hurt? This close, you can see the dirt and ash on his face. His eyes are hidden in the shadow of his hat. 

“Y/n,” he repeats. 

“Hi,” you smile, relieved to see him in one piece. “Here,” you reach to your bag, fumbling for a moment as you retrieve the water and unfold the handkerchief from your pocket. He’s silent as you uncap the bottle and pour some onto the cloth. Not too much, just enough to make it damp. You reach through the bars of the enclosure, and push Treech’s hat back, fingers brushing his hair out of your way. You’re a little surprised he lets you. 

His eyes track your hands. 

“Are you alright?” You whisper, bringing the handkerchief to his face. He’s still for you as you begin to carefully wipe the dirt off of him. “Are you injured?” 

“A veterinarian checked me over,” he frowns. You’re appalled. A veterinarian? Your disbelief must show on your face, because he raises his hands. You look down, pausing in your efforts to clean him up, and take in the first degree burns. It could be worse. You can’t tell if there are bruises or burns on the rest of him, though. You can see the skin rubbed raw around his wrists. 

“I have something for that,” you promise, trying to scrub a particularly stubborn mark under his eye. 

“I have your other cloth,” Treech murmurs, staring at you. His eyes are nice. 

“Keep it,” you say. “Give it back to me when you get out of that arena.” He frowns but doesn’t comment. “Listen,” you wipe his face one last time before you’re satisfied. He looks good when he’s kind of damp, like a wet cat. “The arena is completely different. They’re putting cameras down in the tunnels. You can hide underground now, and gifts sent into the arena will serve a real purpose; this year's game is not going to be over quickly.” 

“I left Lamina,” Treech says after a moment. “I think I destroyed any strategy you had. I didn’t want to,” he looks at you intensely, and you realize that he’s apologizing. 

“You don’t want Coral hunting you,” you fold your handkerchief. You understand why he did what he did. He was just scared. 

“I tried to get her to let Lamina join, but she said to drop it or I’ll be first,” he says, tired sadness twinging his voice. You bite your lip. 

“Who’s in it?” You try not to let any anxiety creep to the edges. 

“Tanner, Coral, Mizzen, and I,” Treech shifts. 

“Are they hurt?” You feel around in your bag for the ointments you brought along.

“Just a few scrapes, Tanner’s face is burned.” 

“Tanner, is he the district ten boy?” 

Treech nods. His chance of survival completely depends on who stabs him in the back first. “I won’t tell you to leave the pack first, but strike before they strike you.” 

You pour a little more water on the handkerchief, aiming for a clean section. “Give me your hands, I brought burn cream.” He hesitates, but the promise of medicine persuades him quickly enough, and he sticks a hand through the bars so you can get to it better. 

Your boy’s hand is warm in yours, but it might just be the inflamed skin. Resting his palm on your fingertips, you dab the cloth around the red skin, careful to not press too hard as you try to clear the wound of dirt. It’s a little difficult in the dark, and you feel a bit trapped under Treech’s gaze. 

“How is Lamina?” You ask quietly. Half your mind is on the blood on your handkerchief that isn’t going to come out without effort. 

Treech swallows. “She’s fine. She was crying last I saw her, she won’t talk to me. Says she doesn’t want to win, she just doesn’t want to be alone.” 

“I see,” you say. For his sake, you hope Treech isn’t the one to kill her. It’s a good thing that he’s free of her, even if it’s a harsh thought.

“I know,” Treech looks down at his hands as if he can read your thoughts. With the way he was looking at you, he very well might be able to. 

“Give me your other hand, don’t let this one touch the ground,” you guide his hand back. He allows you to take the other one without a fight. You repeat the process, trying your best to be gentle as you wipe away any dirt. “Did they put anything on these?” You lift his hand to your face, trying to determine if any medicine had already been applied. 

Treech just shakes his head, and you can’t decide what to do with the anger in your stomach. It doesn’t feel like how anger usually sinks into you, but you don’t know what else to call it. You click your tongue, and with one hand supporting his, you spread your handkerchief out in your lap. Your knees sting from where they are pressed into the hard ground. You unscrew the burn cream, suppressing a wince as your stitches pull again. 

You set the tube on your lap, guiding Treech’s hand to rest above your knee. It’s better than risking the open wounds rubbing against his clothes, clothes that are covered in dirt and ash and who knows what else. You wipe your hands with a clean corner of your handkerchief, and spread some of the burn cream on your finger. 

“This is Capitol stuff,” you tell him, taking his hand that he’s kept in the air for you. His palm is rough, and you resist the urge to press your hand against his. Instead, you begin to rub it into the broken and peeling skin. “Even one coat will act quickly.”

“Feels nice,” Treech watches your hands move. “Cold.” The warm July air of the night seems heavier as he says that, and you become aware of the hair sticking to the base of your neck. You can’t believe Treech has been wearing a jacket this whole time. 

You smear the cream across his hand, flipping it over to get the spots on his palms. “Don’t move your hand,” you warn, placing the heel of his palm on your knee. You take up his other hand, dabbing the ointment on the burn. Treech looks as if he’s relaxing as the cold soothes the angry skin. “If the games continue on schedule, your televised interview should be Sunday, three days from now,” you tell him, recalling the schedule Dean Highbottom told you earlier in the week. 

Leaving his hand in the air, you wipe your fingers on the edge of your handkerchief. You should have rolled up his sleeve earlier, you have to put something on his wrists too. Hands wiped as clean as they’re getting, you slide your fingers under the edge of Treech’s sleeve, taking care not to bump the raw skin. 

Maybe you should have gotten him to just take the jacket off, it isn’t like he’s going to be getting terribly cold. You inspect his wrist, pulling him closer to your eyes. You still have to squint, trying to take advantage of what light you can pick up to see. The skin doesn’t look pretty, but it’s superficial. 

“I’ll put a disinfecting gel on these,” you move onto his other wrist, cuffing the jacket. The main damage appears to just be on his hands. The jacket caught the worst of it, but even it isn’t too worse for wear. “Have you considered what you want to do for the interview? I think both strategies I suggested would be fine. Maybe throw in some stuff about your family, a lover, give them something to root for.” 

Treech gives you a look as you hover both his hands in the air, and reach for the water again. “It doesn’t have to be true,” you remind him, tipping the bottle over his right wrist, and then the left. Cool water wets your fingers and slips down his skin. You fold the handkerchief over again, patting his wrists dry. 

“Think about it for me,” you say.

“I’ll think on it,” he agrees, and you know that’s the best you’re going to get tonight. You uncap the disinfectant, gingerly applying it to his wrists. Treech is quiet as you work, rotating his palm around to apply the gel to the underside of his wrist. 

You’re pretty sure you covered it all, but it’s hard to see in the dark. 

“Here, I have something for your bruise too,” you wipe your fingers again, reaching for the bromelain cream. “You have to lean closer for me,” you inform him as you squeeze the medicine out onto your index finger. 

Treech obliges you, shuffling closer. His gaze is to the side as you reach through the bars, tilting his head to the side and into the slim bit of light from an emergency streetlight. His face feels hot under your fingertips, and, unless it’s a trick of the light, you think his cheeks are dusted a light pink. 

Under different circumstances, you might have leaned in for a reason other than trying to help his injuries. He was pretty enough, and it isn’t like every person you’ve ever kissed ended up as the love of your life. You like pretty things, what can you say? 

You hold his head in place, dabbing the bromelain on his cheekbone and under his eye. He flinches when you press a little too hard. “Close your eyes,” you whisper. His eyes fall shut, and you gently swipe your finger over his eyelid. The bruising isn’t too bad the higher you go, but a little medicine isn’t going to hurt.

With a tap on his cheek, his eyes open. You smile. “There, much better.” Your boy shifts back. “Let it dry before you go messing with things, it shouldn’t take long,” you pack the medicine back in your bag. You want to wrap his injuries at least, but you’re unsure if he will get in trouble for it. You might, even if he doesn’t. You can’t get him out of the arena if you get a demerit. “This is the best I can do for now.” The handkerchief goes into your bag next. 

Treech looks at his hands, and nods. “Okay.” 

You’re about to put the water back in your bag, but you think better of it. You’re not sure how clean the faucet water the tributes are given is. Ah, but Treech’s hands are covered in ointments. “Thirsty?” You ask. Treech reaches for it, but freezes before his fingers wrap around the plastic as if just remembering the work you just put in for him. 

He frowns looking a bit hurt, and stares at you as if you’re trying to trick him; as if you are mocking him. “Sorry,” you say automatically. “Here, open your mouth.” You bring the water up to him, waiting. You think he’s going to refuse as his brow furrows. He averts his eyes again and allows you to bring the mouth of the bottle to his lips. You wonder what has brought on the docile behavior.

You tilt the water for Treech, who drinks eagerly. When he pulls away, you’re not quick enough, and spill some down his chin and neck. “Oops,” you mutter, sliding your sleeve over your wrist. You’d use the handkerchief, but it’s in sore need of a wash. You wipe the water off of him with an apologetic smile. 

“I’ll see if they’ll let me in tomorrow,” you screw the cap back onto the water. “I’ll leave this, but be careful.” There’s only a few swallows left, but it’s something. “You’ll be fine, okay lumberjack?” You’re half convincing yourself of it. You pick up your canvas bag, raising yourself up off the ground. “Get some rest,” you tell him. Brown eyes bore into your own, and that’s where you leave him. 

Your hands throb painfully as you walk out of the zoo, able to focus on the feeling now that you’re not paying almost complete attention to your district seven boy. The veterinarian comment continues to bother you as you walk. You wish you could have done more. The feeling of his hands in yours plays over in your head. 

You hope the medicine works as intended, there’s no reason for it not to. You need him to be able to hold an ax if you want to win. He’s sure to garner support based on looks alone. For some reason, that bothers you. 

Waving as you duck out of the zoo, you whisper thanks as you walk past the guards. They do not acknowledge you, and you thank the stars for it. You’re glad tomorrow is Friday, you’ll have the weekend to plan and talk with Treech, even if you have to keep bribing the guards. You learned early in life that there are very few Peacekeepers who are unwilling to look the other way for a bit of cash. 

You fall into bed that night with a strangely giddy feeling in your lungs. It’s paired with a heaviness that you can’t lift off your shoulders. Your dirty handkerchief sits on your vanity, folded into a neat square. The last thing that passes through your mind is the image of Treech kneeling on the ground as you left before sleep overtakes you.