#emory.

Twig’s spent the years since his victory keeping his head down. Doing what they wanted him to do; being what they wanted him to be. But, since the moment Harbor’s named was called back in District Seven, if feels like he’s been undoing all of that. Like, no matter what happens with this year’s Games, there will be no going back to the life he had before.

But maybe it doesn’t matter. What good has two decades of compliance gotten him? His life, and little else. He tried to cash in on his oldest friendship, and found that it was worth nothing at all.

He sees Emory, a familiar face from years and years of Capitol events. Her, singing in front of the Capitol crowds. Him, sitting among them, rubbing elbows. He tries for sardonic, but mostly he thinks he just sounds tired: "What do you think? Did I just undo a decade of advice?” Namely: just try and have fun; or, failing that, at least look like you’re having fun. He hasn’t been doing either very well.

               The whole world had turned gray and red and silver, the very air pierced by shrill screams and orders and sounds her brain couldn’t follow. Both hands still clasped over the cut running along her collarbone, ignoring the sting as best as she could, Eira shouldered her way throuh the crowd, voice getting hoarser with every shout. “ Emory ! Emory ! ” Fear coiled inside her belly, insidious. He was so close to the dais, so close to Orion, so close to the explosion, and she couldn’t let herself imagine the worst scenario possible. Whatever gods are listening, have mercy. She stumbled over her own two feet, the smoke-filled air scraping at her lungs, and a sob built itself in her throat as she spotted Leira’s mane of red hair. Leaving, running, or maybe pulled away ; by the time Eira had rubbed at her eyes to see clearer, the girl was gone. And there was Emory, hunched over a body, the bodice blue and green and stained silver and— Her heart jumped to her throat, or perhaps it simply stopped.                She was reminded of another scene not so long ago, another person sitting next to another still, too still body. Except that that person was her, and she’d clasped her mother’s hands in hers and begged her not to go, not to leave her to fend for herself just yet. The helplessness settled into her gut again this time around, as her mind registered the features she stared at wihout seeing as lady Osanos’. The corpse Emory cradled could not look more different from the dazzling, put-together woman she'd first met only a few months back. A few more stumbling strides and she was next to him, kneeling besides him in the rubble, grasping at his shoulders until her knuckles turned white. She was dimly aware of something warm running down her cheeks and dripping down her chin, but whether it was tears or blood from a cut she had not yet seen, she couldn't tell. " Emory, dearest, we've got to go, we've really got to. I'm— I'm so sorry, but you're not helping her, you've got to come with me. To safety. Please. Look at me, Em. We can't stay. " She wiped her bloody hands on the front of her dress the best she could. Prying Emory's fingers away was an already-lost battle, but she caught his chin, forcing him to stare into her eyes. " Please, " she repeated, the word weighing heavy on her tongue. " Leira's inside already. "