Fandom Collective Writting

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜:

Finnick Odair:

Echos

A Soothing Touch

I love you, I’m sorry (in the works)

Haymitch Abernathy:

Finding Magic

A Change of Plans 1 2

Not a Kid

Coriolanus Snow:

Angel Eyes

Sweet Lullaby

Second Thought

Used to be mine

Three’s a Crowd

Safe and Sound

Sejanus Plinth:

Until the Mockingjay Sings

Peeta Mellark: None yet

Katniss Everdeen: None yet

Lucy Gray: None yet

Johanna Mason: None yet

What are the Odds Series: 1 2 3

The Valley song Series: 1 2 3 4

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚐:

Whatever it Takes Series: 1 2 3

Xaden Riorson:

Shoulder to Cry on

Easy to Blame

Garrick Tavis: None yet

Bodhi Durran:

Out of Reach

Liam Miari: None yet

Aaric Graycastle:

Choose Me

Imogen Cardu: None yet

Violet Sorrengail: None yet

Rhiannon Mattis: None yet

Ridoc Gamlyn: None yet

Saywer Hennrick: None yet

Dain Aetos: None yet

Brennan Sorrengail: None yet

Mira Sorrengail: None yet

Miscellaneous:

Tomorrow belongs to me

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁:

The Dance of Ash and Steel Series: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Rhysand: None yet

Feyre: None yet

Cassian: None yet

Azriel: None yet

Nesta: None yet

Elain: None yet

Lucien: None yet

Eris: None yet

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚜:

Anakin Skywalker

Nightmares

Miscellaneous:

A lost Jedi

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚗:

The Violinist series: 1 2

Benedict Bridgerton

A Toast

The Muse

Anthony Bridgerton: None yet

Colin Bridgerton: None yet

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Project Hail Mary

“That sounds like a yes,” another student muttered.

The class dissolved into snickering.

Ryland sighed dramatically, adjusting his glasses. “Okay. Everybody sit down before Ms. Mercer gets here, because I would like my fiancée to think I’m a competent professional.”

That got their attention instantly. Their young eyes

“You’re getting married?”

“You have a fiancée?”

“How old are you?”

“Mr. Grace has game?” Trevor whispered, horrified.

Ryland pointed at him. “Detention is always an option. And I will not have my game questioned,”

The classroom door opened before Trevor could respond and the room went dead silent.

Y/N Mercer stepped inside wearing a dark NASA flight jacket over black fatigues, sunglasses perched on your head despite the cloudy weather outside. You seemed to carry yourself with the easy confidence of someone who regularly flew experimental aircraft fast enough to liquefy the average middle school science teacher. Which, Ryland supposed, was part of the appeal.

“Wow,” one student breathed.You smiled immediately at the students Ryland had told you all about. Usually while complaining over their lab reports and mocked drawings, “Good morning.”

The entire class chorused a stunned, awkward, “Good morning.”

Ryland folded his arms, leaning against his desk with entirely too much satisfaction. “See? This is why I asked her instead of the accountant from down the hall.”

You shot him a look. “You told them I blow things up, didn’t you?”

“A little.”

“You are such a menace. I do not blow things up, you know that,”

“And yet,” he said, wiggling the engagement ring on his finger, “you said yes.”

A few kids made exaggerated gagging noises.

You laughed softly before setting your helmet bag down on the front table. “Okay, before your teacher embarrasses himself further, hi. I’m Y/N Mercer. I’m a test pilot working with NASA Amres Research center and the ESA joint program. Which means I fly aircraft and spacecraft prototypes before they’re approved for missions.”

A hand shot up immediately.“Yes?”

“Have you ever almost died?”

Ryland rubbed a hand over his face. “Ethan—”

“No, it’s okay,” You interrupted, grinning. “That’s actually a very fair question.” The class leaned forward collectively.

“Yes,” you admitted. Your job was risky more than most, and with it, the risks of coming home. But it didn’t make you love your job less, “Several times.”

A chorus of whoa filled the room and Ryland watched as you spoke, the same way he always did when you talked about flying. There was something different about her when you discussed it—something brighter. Sharper. Like every nerve in your body woke up at once.

You noticed Ryland staring, and looked to him with a raised eyebrow. “What?” You asked.

“You’re doing the voice.”

“The voice?”

“The pilot voice.”

The kids immediately latched onto that. There’s a pilot voice?”

Ryland nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah. It’s this very specific thing where she starts sounding cooler than me.”

You snorted. “That is not a difficult accomplishment, Mr. Grace,”

The students laughed.Ryland clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. Betrayed in my own classroom.”

One of the girls near the front raised her hand carefully. “Were you always good at math and science?”

Your expression softened immediately.“No,” you said honestly. “I had to work really hard at it. Especially physics. I was never good at all that stuff so I had to put in extra time,”

Ryland perked up. “See? Important life lesson. Your brains are all squishy and adaptable. Neuroplasticity.”

“Mr. Grace,” Trevor said, “nobody knows what that means.”

“It means,” you translated smoothly, “your teacher is a nerd.”

“THANK you.”

“And he talks like a Discovery Channel documentary when he gets excited.”

Ryland pointed at you accusingly, “You love that about me.”

“I tolerate it affectionately.”

The kids were grinning now, completely invested.One student raised his hand slowly. “So… how did you guys meet?”

Ryland immediately answered, “She insulted me.”

You looked to him with an offended look, “I did not insult you.”

“You called my lecture ‘painfully enthusiastic.’”

“It was painfully enthusiastic.”

“You said I moved around like a caffeinated flamingo.”

“You do.”

The class burst into laughter. Ryland shook his head. “Anyway, I was giving a guest lecture for a NASA outreach program—”

“And he accidentally spilled coffee on himself in front of like fifty people,” you immediately added.

“It was one time.”

“He tried to pretend it didn’t happen.”“

I thought if I ignored it, everyone else would too.

“You literally had coffee dripping off your elbow.”

The students were wheezing now, filled with young giggles.

You smiled at him then, softer this time. Real. It still amazed you even now how you’re ended up together. You both were rather polar opposites. You were an adrenaline junkie, the very definition of an extrovert. While Ryland was….very much not. But it didn’t make you love him any less.

You two found a balance in each other.And that smile you always gave him, that look in your eyes, it always caught him off guard a little. Like somehow you still hadn’t realized you could do better. Because you knew you couldn’t—though Ryland always disagreed.

One of the quieter students near the windows raised her hand carefully. “What’s it like? Flying, I mean.” The room quieted.

You leaned back against the desk slightly, thinking. “It’s…” you paused. “Imagine you spend your whole life looking up at the sky. And then one day somebody hands you the keys.” The room stayed silent, even Ryland as you spoke.

In all honesty, it was impossible to describe the feeling. But you did your best anyways, “And the first time you break through the clouds,” you continued quietly, “you realize the world is so much bigger than you thought it was.”

A few kids stared at you with wide eyes.

Ryland smiled a little to himself. There it was again. That thing you did. Making people believe they could touch the stars.

Trevor finally broke the silence.“…That’s so cool.”

You grinned at him, “Don’t tell your teacher I can be cool. He’ll get competitive.”

~

“Eye movement detected.”

A strange voice filled your ears. Your eye lids twitched but couldn’t move more than a few flickers. Where were you? What was happening?

You tried to move, but nothing cooperated. Not your fingers, toes. Nothing. Was anything broken? It didn’t feel like it. There was a lot of uncomfortable sensations of tubes coming in and out of you, but besides that it seemed to be the extent.

“What is two plus two?”

The robotic voice filled your head again as your eyebrows furrow slightly in response. God your head was killing you. Can you tell the voice to shut up for two seconds?

“Shjskmmmm mmmppp”

You try to tell the voice just that, but it seemed nothing wanted to work, which really on frustrated you more. Which using that frustration you were able to twitch your fingers. Then your toes. Good. This was good.

”Incorrect. What is two plus two,”

This happened several more times before you were able to get the number out. The robot then asked you another question you couldn’t be bothered to answer.

Consciousness pulled you in and out a few times. Your eyes had opened the second time and the light was cruelly bright. The third time you were able to open your eyes you were able to move. Which had been a relief.

But it didn’t help the fact that your limbs felt like jello. Disregarding the robot arm trying to keep you in bed, your arms lift you sitting up before rolling over and out of bed. You let out a cry of pain feeling the tubes pulling out of you, quickly though not necessarily painlessly.

You quickly realized that it had been some sort of tube and…..catheter.

Ouch.

Your body shook as you rolled slightly, trying to escape the sensation, trying to get away from everything attached to you. Little streaks of flood covering the floor and from your IVs.

The room didn’t stop you. It seemed to simply watch you. Something else though, filled your ears beyond the hum of the room.

Footsteps. Real. Heavy. Careful.

Your head snapped up instinctively, vision was still blurred with tears, but you saw him.

A figure.

Human-shaped. Standing at a distance, like he was afraid to approach too quickly. Wrapped in what looked like a sheet, face half shaved. He looked terrifying.

He didn’t move closer. He just stopped. Hands slightly raised, palms open. But his expression was relieved. Why did he look relieved?

“Hey,” he said softly, “Hi. God, thank god you’re alive. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up. But here you are!” He said, breathing out.

But your throat locked as panic surged again, sharper now.

You pushed herself backward on the floor, shaking your head weakly as your back hit one of the curved walls of the room.

The man didn’t follow, safely keeping his distance and you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to force your voice to work. Your chest tightened painfully as you worked your voice up.

“Who—” you tried. You really did. But it broke halfway. Your face twisted with frustration and fear.

The man’s expression softened, like he understood what you were going through. Did he?

“Who…” you tried gain, throat dry and rough, “who are you….”

“I….i don’t know. I was kinda hoping…” he said gently, carefully choosing every word, “I was kinda hoping you would know that..”

The reality of his words hit you like bricks, and panic settled in your stomach at the realization.

THWACK!

The arrow embedded itself in the trunk behind a boy their age — hay-blond hair sticking up in every direction, shirt too big, face smudged from who-knows-what.

Haymitch Abernathy.

He stared at the arrow above his head. His eyes were as big as dinner plates.

“HEY!” You yelled, fear and anger mixing into one. “Are you crazy?! You almost got shot!”

He blinked once. Twice. Then squeaked — actually squeaked — “Why’d you do that?!”

“WHY’D YOU SNEAK UP ON ME?!” You shot back, cheeks blazing, eyes widened.

Burdock immediately burst into laughter — doubling over, clutching his stomach, literally losing his balance and falling off the log. “Oh—oh my—Y/N almost killed him!”

“I DID NOT!” You immediately snapped, your hair whipping around as you shot a glare at your twin.Haymitch pointed up at the arrow still quivering over his head.

“YOU DID!”

“It was an accident! You scared me!”

“You’re not supposed to shoot people when you’re scared!”

“You’re not supposed to sneak up on people with a bow!”

Burdock wheezed from the ground, now rolling in pine needles. “I’m—never—gonna—stop—laughing—”

You stomped forward, face red, grabbed the arrow from the tree, and glared at Haymitch, who shrank back even though he was the same size as you, maybe just a hair taller.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt,” you said, her voice wobbling a little more than she wanted.

Haymitch kicked at the dirt. “Well… you didn’t have to aim at my head.”

“I wasn’t aiming at your head!”

“You hit above it! That’s the same thing!”

“It is NOT!”

Burdock groaned in between giggle fits. “You two sound married.”

“SHUT UP, BURDOCK!” both you and Haymitch shouted at the same time.

You both froze. Looked at each other.

And both turned bright red.Haymitch cleared his throat, scuffing the ground with his shoe. “…It was a good shot, though,” he muttered. “I mean… for almost murdering me.”

You let out an irritated huff and rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to murder you.”

“But you could’ve,” he said, then added quickly, “which is kinda cool. In a terrifying way.”

Burdock finally stood up, brushing pine needles out of his hair. “Haymitch, you should know by now — you don’t sneak up on Y/N. She’s like a feral cat.”

“I’m NOT—!”

“She’ll bite.”

“I DON’T—!”

“Or shoot.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”

Haymitch peeked at your bow. “…Can you teach me?”

You couldn’t help but blink at him. “Teach you what?”

“How to shoot like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not the part where you almost kill me. Just the… good part.”

Burdock grinned. “You? Shoot? I give it two minutes before Y/N quits. Stick with knives, Abernathy,”

Haymitch glared at him. “I can learn things!”

But you just sighed dramatically despite a smile tugged at the corners. “Fine. I’ll teach you. But only if you promise not to creep around like some—some forest goblin.”

Haymitch’s face lit up. “Okay! Deal!”

“I mean it!”

“I said deal!”

Burdock slung an arm around both of their shoulders. “Well! Excellent. Now if she actually does kill you next time, at least you’ll know why.”

“BURDOCK.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Burdock.

Burdock. God, you wondered what he was doing now. The two of you had never been separated like this before. Where one was, the other was always around one way or another.

Was he out in the woods making sure your bow was safe? Was he making sure that Lenore Dove didn’t get into any more trouble with the peacekeepers while Haymitch couldn’t?

What was Ma doing? Was she holding onto hope that somehow, out of 48 children, hers may somehow get back home? Did your Pa think so? Working away in the mines, forced to work those endless hours in the dark, where would his mind go to but his only daughter sent into the Games to be what was almost promised certain death.

The Games had always promised a Victor one way or another. Someone would have to make it out of there alive. Would it be you? Or Haymitch? Wyatt? Or Louella? Would it be any of the runts from District 12?

Your chances were as good a dirt. Compared to the chances of the other districts at least. Especially ones like District 1 and 2. Well fed. Trained for this. Having at least a hundred pounds on all of you combined.

Your eyes lock out the window of the train as the breakfast was brought out to you all.

Though the smell wasn’t as inviting as you would’ve liked. As much as you should eat, the idea of putting anything into your stomach made your stomach tighten. You didn’t want to accept anything from these people.

The same people who were trying to fatten you up like pigs to a slaughter house. Prettying you all up to seem likable, wanted by sponsors later on in hopes that you may get some help in that god forsaken arena.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Haymitch piling some bacon and toast and eggs onto his plate. Though you can see on his expression that he’s a fan of this as much as you are. But you don’t move. Don’t pull your gaze from the wandering landscape as you get closer and closer to your deaths.

“Hey,” you hear a voice call from beside you. Turning your gaze from the window, you turn to focus then on Haymitch beside you.

He looks exhausted — shadows under his eyes, hair unbrushed, posture slouched. But when he glances at you, you see it: the flicker of protectiveness, of familiarity that goes all the way back to childhood.

he mutters quietly so Louella and Wyatt don’t hear. “Try to eat something. Just a little. You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. You need something,

“I can’t,” you whisper back. The idea of eating anything makes your stomach turn again. Besides, how can you eat the food here when you have friends and family who are struggling just to have anything on their plates? It was wrong, it all just felt wrong.

“That’s fine,” he says. No softness, just honesty. “Just have a few bites of some fruit, yeah? Just like home,” he tries. But he knows just as much as you do that this is nothing like home.

The too perfect cut up fruit of concerning brightness of pinks and greens were nothing compared to the dark red and blues and blacks of the berries in the meadow and forest. But you appreciate what he’s trying to do. So you try too.

Reaching forward you pile some fruit that seem to be a little familiar and have some. Small bites, one after another of a surprisingly delicious fruit—something between a strawberry and something else you couldn’t put your finger on.

Haymitch nods beside you, before his attention turns to Louella to make sure the younger girl is also getting something into her stomach. To his pleasure, she is.

None of you really have had this much food before you. Even the food they seem to deem worthy for the tributes are luxury items and meals that you know none of you would ever be able to afford on your own. You might’ve been able to make a Seam/Everdeen version of it, but nothing would come close to this.

Your eyes shift up, and you could feel Haymitch tense beside you as Plutarch comes in with Drusilla behind him. Her face showed enough. Her eyes dragged over the four of you like you all were runts she was being paid to just barely keep alive; which you supposed was exactly what she was doing.

Plutarch’s hands clapped as a smile grew on his face. “Well good morning!” He said, a happy chirp to his tone, like he was unable to read the atmosphere of the room. Or he did and he just chose to ignore it.

“I hope you’re all filling up, we have a big day ahead of you! Once we arrive to the Capitol soon you’ll be off being….cleaned up, and meeting your stylist for the parade and then afterwards you’ll be brought to your quarters and meeting your Mentors,” he said, the camera behind him zooming and shifting around as if to gather your reactions.

Your own eyebrows furrow as you meet Haymitch’s gaze. None of that sounded appealing. To you, it sounded much like when you and Burdock would be cleaning off a kill before showing it off to your parents.

But the thing that got your attention was the mention of Mentors. District 12 didn’t have any. None that were alive at least. Your Ma had told you stories, hushed and rare as if even speaking about it would bring you to the Hanging Tree or the whipping posts. But regardless, you didn’t have mentors like the other districts.

“We don’t-“ before the rest of the words could slip out, Drusilla huffed in irritation. As if the very question was stupid, let alone the thought.

“Of course you don’t,” your escort almost spat, “

And as they pulled up into the Capitol station, your eyes budged at the sight. The shining beautiful colors towering above. The people behind the railings. All in different colors . And the buildings that you could see above? The colors of the gumdrops Lenore Dove loves. Reds, cotton candy pinks, azure blues, green like the grass in the meadow.

It was like they just painted everything with the prettiest colors they could imagine. It was difficult to process the fact while her family, her friends starved in homes and shacks, kids living in shacks and group homes, people starving—here the Capitol was.

From behind you, you could hear Plutarch’s grin. The cockiness of someone showing off something that know was grand. Something beautiful, clean, untouched by tough hands and struggle and turmoil. Something that was a privilege to live in by their strands. It was what separated them—Capitol and District.

But you knew the truth. The Capitol was built on the backs of the District. All these resources, they couldn’t have survived without them—they can’t. But you couldn’t help but wonder if these sleazy Capitol people knew that too. If they knew that if the Districts stopped, if the Districts cut off their supplies—the Capitol would fall within minutes.

“District 12, welcome to the Capitol.”

The welcome to the Capitol wasn’t entirely all that welcoming. It was a stunning view before you all were separated. You and Louella were moved to one side while Haymitch and Wyatt were moved to another.

Luckily, if you could call it that, they did this with all the tributes. 24 girls going one direction, and 24 boys going the other. Though where you were being brought? You had no idea.

With the chains on your wrists you all were bought into a large room with shower heads. You make sure to stay with Louella as you look at the other girls. Ranging from all ages—most of them afraid. But there’s a good handful who seem to be as ruthless as ever; heads up and high.

The next few hours blur together. And you can’t remember which event it was caused by. Maybe it was the way the peacekeepers slashed away at your clothes, sprayed you all down on cold water like animals before dousing you in some chemical spray.

Or maybe it was afterwards as you were poked, prodded, shaved, waxed, and hair cut to seem more ‘presentable’.

You hated every second of it. Each second their hand was on you. Luckily, they seemed to leave your hair alone. It was at least the one thing they weren’t able to take from you.

After they deemed you clean and presentable, they provided some undergarments and clothes to wear; all black to meet your stylist.

When you enter to the room, you’re reunited with Louella who seems to be relieved that you’re alright. The boys seemed to be good too. Cleaner, clean shaven, hair properly put together. But you can see on their faces that you all feel the same way: violated.

The room smells like sterilized stone and floral sanitizer when Magno Stift sweeps in. He carries himself with the kind of exaggerated elegance only the Capitol produces — every movement controlled, poised, and theatrical. His hair is sculpted into spirals of silver and black, and a single jewel glints from the center of his forehead.

He studies the four of you like exhibits in a museum:

you, Louella, Haymitch, and Wyatt — already stripped down, scrubbed raw, waxed, trimmed, and left feeling like strangers in your own skin.

“Well.” Magno smiles, revealing shining lilac-colored teeth. “District Twelve. My tributes for the Fiftieth Hunger Games. How… rugged.”

Haymitch mutters something under his breath. You elbow him, gently, but Magno is too busy gesturing to a rolling rack behind him to notice.

The rack is covered in fabric — a hopeful sight for three whole seconds — until Magno pulls the sheet off with a flourish.

And reveals…

Overalls.

Heavy, coal-stained, outdated miners’ uniforms. Old boots with worn soles. Faded helmets with fake headlamps glued on.

Not outfits. Not costumes. Just relics of poverty.

The two students, Proserpina and Vitus, if you remember correctly, seem absolutely furious. After sharing a look Proserpina huffs,

“Where are their new and amazing costumes?” She questions.

Magno beams. “These are them. I didn’t have time to start from scratch. But these will do. A classic District Twelve aesthetic, no? Very authentic. Very true to your roots.“ his words are slurring and you’re sure the reptile on him must be feeding him some sort of venom to feed into whatever delusion he thinks he’s doing.

Beside you, the two students seem to be cringing and almost frustrated

Wyatt snorts. “They love a freak show.”

Louella’s face goes pale. “We’re supposed to wear those?”

“You’re supposed to show who you are. And who you are—are coal miners. It is what they expect. It’s fine,” Magno corrects, wagging one long finger.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds:

“And don’t mind the chains. They’ll stay on until after the parade. Symbolism or something,”

Haymitch’s jaw clenches. Yours does too but no one argues. There’s no point, you don’t have anything else to wear. And so while you know that the other tributes are dressing in pretty sparkly things, you get to wear your Pa’s work uniform.

You’re handed your outfit piece by piece. The overalls hang heavy on your frame, smelling like old canvas and manufactured dust. The boots pinch. The helmet feels ridiculous, too big, too fake.

Louella looks miserable in hers. Wyatt looks like he’s given up. Haymitch just looks like he’s ready to kill Magno right here for messing up their chances.

Peacekeepers escort you down the winding, gleaming hallway toward the loading bay where the parade will begin. Your wrists remain chained together — a humiliating clinking reminder with every step.

A lift carries the four of you downward, and the temperature rises as the sound grows louder: cheering, screaming, chanting. The roar of the Capitol crowds swells like a living thing.

Your heart pounds.

“Just breathe,” Haymitch says under his breath, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

When the lift doors open, the preparation chamber stretches out before you. Two dozen chariots. Two dozen teams. Every other district stunning despite the choices of coloring. Their horses stamping their hooves, snorting, decorated in colors of their districts.

Your own horses are thin, nervous things, dyed black with glittering fake soot brushed into their coats. The chariot is blackened wood with a rusted metal plaque that simply reads:

12

Haymitch helps Louella climb into the first chariot. She trembles so much he has to lift her by the arm. They move stiffly, chained, adjusting to the balance.

You and Wyatt are led to the very last chariot in the line. The final pair. The final district. The ones no one expects to survive. The ones no one expects to care about.

As you climb in, the chains tug awkwardly, pulling your balance off. Wyatt steadies you with his free hand.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “We don’t let them see us scared. Our odds for sponsors will go down.

You nod, though your stomach twists.

The giant metal doors begin to rise.

Light floods the tunnel — blinding gold, sparkling off the marble ramp.

The noise strikes next, a tidal wave.

Cheers. Screams. Shouted names. Boos. Laughter. And something else — the murmur of catcalls, crude remarks, mocking whistles. You can’t hear the specifics, but you can feel the intention in the way eyes rake over you like you’re merchandise.

Haymitch and Louella’s chariot starts first. Then you and Wyatt.

Each district rolls into the Avenue with its own grand presentation. Silks. Flames. Jewels. Painted armor. Genetic embellishments.

And then there’s you four — covered in fake coal dust, chained, in overalls two sizes too big.

Wyatt lifts his chin. You force your shoulders straight.

When your chariot pulls forward, the lights hit you like a spotlight on prey. The crowd’s reaction is immediate and deafening.

A rain of flowers hits the ground around you. Some blossoms land at your feet discarded like pity. Something hard — a coin, maybe — bounces off your shoulder. The air fills with glitter and perfume.

A man in the crowd shouts something you can’t make out, followed by drunken laughter. Another whistles sharply.

Instinctively, you inch closer to Wyatt. The chains pull taut between you.

“Don’t look at them,” he mutters.

And you don’t. You keep your gaze on the back of Haymitch’s chariot. His shoulders are squared, but you can see the tension in the way his hands grip the railing. Louella keeps glancing back, her eyes catching yours as if checking that you’re still okay.

The horses beneath your chariot prance nervously. The noise is constant. Too constant. Too loud. And you want nothing more than to cover your ears and crouch and hide. But nothing can hide the view of you and the other tributes on the screen. Your grip tightens on the chariot before—

BAM!

A firework explodes above the Avenue. Not the polite sparkle you expect at a parade — this one cracks like a cannon, a shockwave of sound that rattles your ribs.

The horses shriek.

Your chariot lurches violently to the right.

You stumble — the chain yanking you forward — and Wyatt’s arm jerks hard in the opposite direction as he tries not to fall and help you at the same time.

Ahead, Haymitch’s horses rear, hooves slamming against the marble as Peacekeepers rush forward. The chariot jerks and rushed forward. Screams and cries erupt as everything blurs together.

The crowd screams — some in delight, some in confusion, some in fear.

Another firework bursts — louder, closer, brighter.

You could still see your sister’s wide eyes, bright and defiant even in terror, hair catching the flames like a crown of sorrow. You could still hear your father’s last roar of defiance, the sound echoing in your ears, impossible to block. The smell was the worst though. The smell of burnt hair, flesh and clothes. It was just adding two more to the hundreds that were being executed that day. It was a smell that would haunt you for the rest of your days.

“The sun in the meadow is summery warm…”

The song begins in your head, trembling, familiar, while you try and grasp for something familiar. Something to take your mind off the sight of your family long gone while the General moves on to execute the next group. And it was as if your father’s voice is brushing your cheek, your sister holding your hand.

You remember mornings in the garden at the family estate, sun spilling over the hedges, the scent of wildflowers and dew. Your father had sung this line softly, protective, as you tiptoed barefoot over the grass, still shaking from nightmares. That warmth—the innocence of it—feels like a knife in your chest now. The world is gone, yet the melody remains. You clutch it like a lifeline, whispering it to yourself over the roar of fire and the growl of the dragon.

Smoke curls around the dragon’s maw, licking the cobblestones and curling toward the sky. Its wings flex, the scraping of talons against stone echoing like distant thunder. Navarrean soldiers standing in formation, their polished armor reflecting the sun like cold, unfeeling mirrors. *Traitors. Cowards*. You can almost hear the rhythm of their verdicts in your mind. The words of the song pulse through your consciousness—defiant, fragile, comforting.

“The stag in the forest runs free…”

You close your eyes and see her—the sister you lost, laughing as you ran through the forest behind the estate. You remember the feel of her hand brushing yours, soft and warm, the teasing grin as she darted ahead, daring you to catch her.

The smell of pine and wet earth, the sound of leaves crunching beneath your boots, the way sunlight slanted through the canopy, catching in her hair. Freedom. She had always been free, untamed, untouchable, even when you were small and terrified. And now…she is gone, and the forest is silent. You whisper the line to yourself, summoning courage from memory, trying to run with the stag even as flames lick the edges of the courtyard.

Liam’s arm tightens around you, grounding, stabilizing. One around you, one around Sloane. His presence is proof that survival is still possible, that not everything is lost. You squeeze his hand in return, and the faint scent of his cloak—earthy, safe—anchors you. Memories of training together before the war flash in your mind: long, quiet afternoons running drills in the estate yard, his voice calm, steady, unshakable. Even now, that steadiness reminds you that you are still alive, still capable of fighting.

“But gather together to face the storm…”

Memories of your father flicker in sharp, painful bursts. Nights spent in his study, candlelight flickering across shelves of books, maps, and trophies of your family’s victories. You remember the sound of his voice, low and confident, teaching you strategy, courage, the honor of Tyrrish heritage.

His hand had guided yours across pages of ink-stained maps, showing you how to think, how to plan, how to endure. He had held your hand through every minor crisis, never letting you feel small. Now the storm is real, bigger than anything he could have prepared you for. But the song gives you courage—tiny, fragile courage—but enough to face what comes next. Together. Liam. Sloane. Yourself. You are still here. You are still breathing.

The dragon shifts again, wings scraping the stone, heat washing over you in thick waves. The low rumble of its growl vibrates in your bones, rattling your teeth, shaking the ground beneath your feet. You press your hands to your ears, but the roar does not silence the song.

You think of your sister, her defiant grin as she once dared to leap into the gardens to challenge you at a race. Her laughter echoes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the wind in your hair again, hear the leaves rustling, smell the flowers and fresh grass. Fearless. Maybe, in some small way, a part of that fearlessness still flows through you.

“The branch of the linden is leafy and green,

The Rhine gives its gold to the sea.

But somewhere a glory awaits unseen.”

You remember the estate gardens. The linden tree under which your father and sister would sit, trading quiet jokes, sharing family secrets. You remember your father’s voice telling stories of Tyrris before fear and tyranny, of heroes and legends, of battles won not with strength alone but with cleverness and heart. Somewhere beyond the smoke, beyond the dragon’s fire, beyond the destruction in the courtyard, that world still exists. You whisper the words to yourself as a prayer, a promise, a vow to find it again, no matter the cost.

“Tomorrow belongs to me.”

Your hands clutch your chest, feeling your heart hammer in rhythm with the song. The words taste of grief, fire, and a burgeoning determination. Tomorrow will not belong to the men who orchestrated this nightmare. Tomorrow will not belong to the dragon that devours all in its path. It will belong to you. It must. For your sister. For your father. For every memory that survives in your mind—the scent of home, the taste of spiced bread at the family table, the feel of your father’s hand on yours, your sister’s laughter like sunlight across a shadowed room.

The soldiers shift, the dragon’s growl rises, smoke stinging your eyes and filling your lungs. You refuse to flinch. You are alive. Your voice may be silent, but your defiance is not. You feel the spark of rage flare in your chest, hot and bright.

“Now Fatherland, Fatherland, show us the sign

Your children have waited to see,”

This was not supposed to happen. The apostasy was meant to free you. To allow the Riorsons to retake control of their land. To speak your native language, practice your culture, uphold your traditions. But now…everything is gone. Torn from you. Reduced to ash, smoke, and memory.

“The morning will come when the world is mine

Tomorrow belongs to me

Tomorrow belongs to me

Tomorrow belongs to me.”

You think of your sister’s laugh, your father’s stern guidance, the quiet evenings of whispered stories, the sunlight on your home’s stone walls. Every memory is fuel. Every memory is a weapon. You let it fill you, anchor you, ignite the fire that is not the dragon’s, not the soldiers’, but yours.

“Tomorrow belongs…”

Your eyes lift. There he is—the man responsible for orchestrating this nightmare. Rage explodes in your chest, hotter than the dragon’s breath. He has taken almost everything from you, but not your fire. Not your courage. Not your voice. You will survive. You will remember. You will fight. And someday, he will pay.

The dragon shifts again, wings scraping, smoke curling, and the soldiers’ boots echo on the stone. Your body quakes, but you are alive. The song persists, threading through your grief and terror. You are defiant. You are burning, not in flames, but in purpose, in memory, in vengeance.

You close your eyes and see the estate one last time in your mind: the golden light spilling through windows, your sister racing through the garden, your father reading by candlelight. You breathe it in, memorize it, commit it to your soul.

And so you whisper again, barely audible over the roar:

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

Rows and rows of identical steel tables stretched across the room like lifeless lines, each one packed shoulder to shoulder with soldiers in gray, medics in white, refugees in remnants of other lives.

Children clung to parents, wide-eyed and silent, uneaten food cooling on metal trays. No one moved. No one spoke. Every gaze had turned, magnetized to the broadcast beaming down from the mounted screens high on the walls.

There, under the cold fluorescence, sat Katniss Everdeen, her posture rigid and unmoving. Her tray sat untouched in front of her, the food forgotten. Her hands were clenched so tightly around the edges of the tray that her knuckles had gone white.

Beside her, Finnick Odair hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. Across the table, Gale shifted forward, jaw clenched, tension radiating off him in waves. The other members of their unit sat nearby, equally still, equally shaken. Haymitch stood off to the side, a flask half-lifted in one hand, paused in midair. Even Plutarch, for once, was silent, his usual theatrics gone.

It was as though the entire underground city had frozen.

Because on the screen—brilliant and sharp, framed in garish Capitol silver—sat Peeta Mellark.

And Y/N Maren.

They were side by side on a too-familiar stage, lit by the artificial glow of Capitol spotlights, each of them flanked by the unmistakable figure of Caesar Flickerman. His suit sparkled like starlight, and his smile was as blindingly bright as ever.

But the smiles on Peeta and Y/N’s faces… they weren’t real.

Tight. Controlled. Artificial.

Wrong.

And their eyes—gods, their eyes. Peeta’s were hard, hollowed, the blue dulled by something deeper than fear. His shoulders were squared, back straight, the perfect image of a calm young victor. But the stillness was unnatural, stiff. Forced.

Y/N sat composed, dressed in soft lavender, her curls perfectly styled in Capitol fashion, her skin powdered and glowing under the lights. She looked ethereal, delicate—even lovely. But beneath that flawless façade, something was terribly, unmistakably off.

Her fingers twisted in her lap, knuckles pale as she gripped the hem of her dress. And when she blinked, it was too slow. Too deliberate. Her lashes didn’t flutter; they dropped like a curtain.

Something in Finnick’s chest twisted.

He knew that look.

“Panem,” Caesar announced, his voice smooth and syrupy, cutting through the silence like a knife, “what a joy it is to have two of our most beloved victors here with us today. Peeta Mellark and Y/N—alive and safe. You cannot imagine the relief this brings to the Capitol.”

Y/N gave a small, elegant nod. “We’re incredibly grateful to be here, Caesar.”

Her voice was calm. Too calm. The words were evenly measured, rehearsed. Not her voice. Not the way she laughed in the early mornings. Not the way she used to murmur his name, soft and sweet and full of hope.

Finnick felt a breath hitch in his throat.

He heard it—the tremor in the last syllable. Barely there. But it was real.

Peeta followed, his voice flat, eyes vacant. “Thank you. We are forever grateful for the Capitol’s generosity.”

No gratitude. Not really. His jaw flexed after the words passed his lips, like they’d tasted sour.

The camera zoomed in slightly as Caesar leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“And tell me, how are you both adjusting?” he asked. “After everything that happened in the arena… I imagine it’s been incredibly difficult.”

Peeta’s eyes flicked to Y/N for just a second. It was quick, but it was there.

“We’re… still trying to understand what happened,” he said slowly. “Putting pieces together still.”

Y/N nodded again, more carefully this time. “It all happened so fast. The explosions. The lights cutting out. The ground shaking. Then… being separated. Our friends being taken. And then… us. Waking up here.”

The word she used landed like a stone in the chest of everyone watching.

Captured.

A ripple moved through the room. Someone audibly gasped. Another cursed under their breath.

Caesar didn’t falter. “Yes, of course. Tragic, really. And I imagine it must have been quite a shock to wake up and find yourselves in Capitol care—especially after what certain rebels had planned.”

Peeta’s expression didn’t change. “What… rebels?”

The question was genuine.

Caesar blinked in mock surprise. “Why, the plan to escape, of course! The plan to break you out of the arena. You didn’t know?”

Y/N’s face paled. Her hands curled into fists on her lap.

“No,” she said softly. “We weren’t told anything. We had no idea of any sort of plan. We were left in the dark…”

Caesar gave a sympathetic nod. “Oh, dear. That must have been quite a betrayal.”

Y/N hesitated, then spoke again. “We thought… we were going into the arena to fight. Like before. Like we were supposed to.”

“And instead,” Caesar added smoothly, “the rebels used you. Used your reputations. Your hearts. To fuel a war.”

Peeta’s lips parted. “Is that… is that what this is? A war?”

A pause. Then a solemn nod from Caesar. “I’m afraid so.”

The camera closed in tighter. Every detail of their faces filled the screen now. The furrow in Peeta’s brow. The subtle panic behind Y/N’s composure. A single tremble in her jaw.

“We don’t support any of that,” Y/N said suddenly. “Whatever this is—this rebellion—we were never a part of it. We didn’t know. We weren’t told of a plan to get out. We didn’t… we didn’t know anything.”

A quiet breath left Finnick’s chest, sharp and painful. They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. And now they were being paraded like puppets. Like propaganda.

That’s when it happened.

A single voice from the back of the mess hall cut the silence like a blade.

“Traitors!”

Finnick flinched. So did Katniss.

Then another. “They turned on us!”

“They’re lying!”

“Capitol dogs!”

More voices rose, angry, afraid, confused. Rumors swelled like a storm.

On the screen, Caesar continued smoothly. “And what would you say to the people of Panem?” he asked, hands clasped. “Those caught in the crossfire?”

Peeta turned toward the camera, his eyes glassy but pleading. “Stop this. Please. This isn’t the way. Think about what you’re doing.”

Y/N leaned forward, voice low but urgent. “You’re being lied to. We were lied to. And people will die for it. Please. Think for yourselves. Don’t just believe what you’re being fed. Ask questions. Look deeper. What’s the line? What will they cross to get what they want?”

Her voice cracked.

No one in the mess hall moved. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Caesar’s practiced smile returned. “So brave. So wise. And we’re so grateful you’re with us now—safe, and on the right side of history.”

Y/N’s eyes locked on the camera, piercing through the lens.

“If you care about us…” she whispered, “stop fighting. Please. Please make it stop.” Her voice sounding more clear than ever before.

And then the screen went dark.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Finnick stared at the blank space where she’d just been, his chest rising and falling too fast. His hands trembled as he reached for the rope in his pocket, gripping it like a lifeline, the coarse fibers biting into his palms.

Beside him, Katniss was shaking. Her face was pale with fury, her eyes glossed over with unshed tears. When she looked at him, something passed between them—a silent, devastating truth that he had known this whole time.

We left them behind.

Finnick bowed his head, rope clenched so tightly now his skin broke. He swallowed against the ache in his throat, lips barely moving as he whispered:

“I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry…”

Then, after a beat—firmer. Clearer. Sharper.