#neabl

“I don’t understand.” Your mind is racing as Hilarius levels you with a cool stare once more. So the pattern has gone since your arrival: a near-constant ebb and flow of information and confusion.

“We believe District 13 is alive and well.” And though his first words are slow and careful, doing their best to impress the same intelligence as before upon your unreceiving person, the explanation that follows feels like a blur.

“Think about it: a District with singular control of nuclear weaponry, responsible for spearheading a rebellion– that succumbs to one round of bombs? No. There had to have been a plan in place. Some sort of failsafe.” The pads of your fingers press themselves deeper into the sides of the simple tin cup before you, the heat nearly unbearable. You force yourself to concentrate on the pain rather than the uneasy feeling in your stomach. A trick. This has to be some sort of trick. A cruel joke concocted by Snow and his Gamemakers to goad you into a misstep so large that killing you would be the only reasonable course of action. Your eyes, harsh and unblinking, flicker with the mistrust pooling in your gut. Hilarius only sighs. 

“You don’t believe me.” His tone is resigned as he shifts, turning to shuffle through his bag for something.

“I–” You open your mouth to disagree, but the words die in your throat.

“It wasn’t a question. Here.” The object he pulls from the depths of his satchel is larger than you had expected, but you recognize it immediately from your time in the Capitol. They were a more recent development; these nearly pocket-sized projectors, and you swallow hard as Hilarius powers it up, inserting a small rectangular object into the side before pressing play. The video is grainy at first, and the man in front of you takes a moment to fiddle with the dials, bringing the picture into focus. Your stomach drops. 

The place, you know, immediately, having left just this morning after pressing a swift kiss to your mother’s temple. You recognize the ornate, Capitol-made carpets and the open door to your own bedroom. It is the people who take a moment to register—one glorious moment before the punch lands. Your eyes begin to water as the version of you in the video pulls Treech forward. As your lips meet in a kiss. 

“What is this?”

“A show of goodwill.” You laugh, harsh and brittle, at the response, shoulders stiff, blinking back tears.

“This is the only copy,” Hilarius presses on. “It's all here. The whole Victory Tour, every moment you spent together.” He wrenches the key bearing the recordings from the player, and the projection dies in a flash. Then, he does the unthinkable. He marches his way over to the sink and drops it into the garbage disposal, flipping on the switch to grind it to pieces. Your mouth falls open in shock. Still, your thoughts race with the possibility that this is all some sort of ploy. 

“How do I know that’s the only one?”

“I suppose– I suppose you don’t, for sure.” He clears his throat then, and his eyes meet yours with an earnesty so jarring you almost feel the need to look away. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

“But why– Why do you care?” This time, the questions are quick to bubble up, to overtake you. Hilarius eyes you warily before seeming to steady himself to respond.

“I was a mentor, in the 10th Games. Did you know that?” The question is quick to pass his lips, though he does not wait for a response. “The little girl from 8, she was my tribute. She was fifteen, but God, she couldn’t have looked older than twelve.” Your mind reaches out for a memory, nearly forgotten– A small child, a tank of snakes– You swallow hard.

“She would have been five when the rebels attacked, too young to even understand what was going on. It made me sick, watching her in those Games. Made me sick to watch the Games at all. And then, this year, my husband and I– We decided to adopt.” He stops to chuckle, a soft, natural sound. “I have a son, I’m not sure you knew that either. Plutarch. And every time I look at him, all I can think of is her. Wovey. Of how she deserved better. I want a better world for him. Just like I should have wanted a better world for her.”

The silence is deafening between the pair of you, echoing out through the near-empty house.

“Why–”

“I just told you–” Hilarius huffs, patience clearly reaching its upper limit.

“No. I heard.” You snap, though regret is quick to follow the lash of your words as all traces of vulnerability evacuate his face. “Why me?” Your mind flits back to Hilarius’s initial proposal: We need you, the Victors.

“Why us? The Districts, they basically hate us now. You made sure of that: forcing the same faces to show up every year and cart away two kids who never come home. And it’s not like things are much better in the Capitol. Sure, they’re warming up, but there isn’t a single place we can go without being recognized, so why–” Your mind is going a million miles an hour as you try to fathom Hilarius’s seemingly baseless decision.

“That’s actually exactly what I’m hoping for.” He smiles a sly sort of grin.

“What?”

“Look, you don’t need to worry about contacts in the Districts. I have those covered. And I would have to be an idiot to assume you’d be of any use sneaking around with all the eyes on you in the Capitol. No. I want–” He starts, but the dots have already been connected.

“You want a distraction.” He smiles, and though there is a touch of sadness to it, there is something else as well. Pride. 

“Exactly. When the time comes for us to carry out this plan, I need something the Capitol can’t look away from. Something so distracting that they forget everything else.”

“You need a show, and we’ve been performing since the day we won the Games.” And now you are smiling too, eyes wide like some sort of loon.

“I knew I picked you for a reason. So what do you say?”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of the risk settling itself around your neck like an open hand. But then you think of Treech. Of Fawn and Lennox and your mother. Of your father’s corpse laid to rest under the Capitol’s watchful eye. You think of Teff. Of his daughter. Of every tribute to take the stage in the town square. Of the first two who had died under your watch. Bee’s hair falling like water out of your careful plait. Colt’s empty eyes.

“I’ll do it.”

There were six Victors on board then, though you wouldn’t know it until almost a year later upon your first meeting in the Capitol. Still, life plodded unforgivingly forward, and though every day brought gratitude for the continued absence of the ‘Gem of Panem’s’ limelight shining down upon your personal life, it also brought a growing curiosity. What kind of connections did Hilarius really have in the other Districts? How do you develop a plan for rebellion without a singular space free from observance? And most important, who else knew? It was that question, more so than any other, that clawed at your mind and caught you scrawling undelivered questions into the corners of your brain. Who exactly would you be working with? Teff? Trawl? Treech? You absently hoped so, aware of the danger but hopeful the burden might be lighter if it was shared.

It is April when you speak to Hilarius again, and this time, he comes to you. It is one of those days when the sky is clear, and the weather not so unbearable when he appears at a distance as you sit, back to a nearby tree, watching Bluebell graze not too far off. Your sketchbook is open, flattened across your lap as you pencil in a lazy outline of the horse, following the movement of her muscles. You barely lift your head in greeting at his approach.

“You here to call me back to the Capitol?” Your tone is light, though it is brimming with caution. Hilarius doesn’t reply, and his silence reeks of truth. When you lift your eyes to meet his, he only nods.

“Fuck. How long have I got?”

“About an hour. I’m here to collect you so you can get your things together and say your goodbyes. Train leaves at 2:00 pm.” Say your goodbyes. Stays in the Capitol were always temporary, still the invitations never came with the promise of returning home. You swallow the thick bile in your throat, mind traveling back to Hector. To his anger. To his lifeless body on a stretcher. You snap your sketchbook closed. 

“You bring a horse?” You question, and Hilarius grimaces distastefully at Bluebell.

“I don’t ride.” You snort at his unserious expression, lip pulled back in disgust.

“I could show you how–”

“I know how. I choose not to.” His tone carries a finality to it that you choose to respect, though not without casting a teasing smirk in his direction.

“You go ahead of me, I’ll catch up,” he promises, watching as you hike a steady foot into the stirrup before swinging the rest of your body atop Bluebell’s back.

“Whatever you say,” you chuckle, giving him a mocking tip of your hat as you pass by. A smile lights his face then, earnest and wide, and you feel accomplished in the dismissal of his cold exterior as you take off for the barn, heels digging into Bluebell’s sides. 

Riding to you has always felt like the closest human experience to taking flight, the wind peeling its way across your face, pinching at every inch of exposed skin. The first time your mother had ever watched you ride, she’d nearly forbid you from ever taking to the saddle again, legs tight around the horse’s belly, arms out like an angel. The men on the ranch called you crazy, but with that dull look of recognition in their eyes, like they were watching a ghost.

“Crazy like your father,” someone had finally admitted to you in passing, and the pride from the sentiment nearly punched a hole through your chest. But you’d never felt crazy, fingers spread wide with the air coursing through them. You’d simply felt free. 

You arrive at the train five minutes before its scheduled departure time, with Hilarius presumably having disappeared into another car. Still, you do not find it lacking in company, and in spite of the looming knowledge of your destination, you cannot suppress a smile as Teff turns to face you. 

“Well, if I’d known you were gonna be here, I wouldn’t have taken my time.” You are practically beaming when he stands to pull you into a warm embrace. Behind him, you note Reed, sending you a quick wave in greeting. You nod back. 

“Any idea what this is about?” Teff asks as he pulls away. You only shrug.

“The usual, probably, take us out of our boxes and show us off. Make sure nobody ever forgets about the Hunger Games,” you mutter bitterly before twisting your grimace into a smile. 

“How’s Seeder?” Teff is glowing with pride as he recounts his daughter’s latest misadventures, the girl teetering on the edge of her terrible twos. And for a moment, that’s all that matters: his soft smile, his beautiful daughter. For a moment, you indulge. And then the train lurches forward.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Lux boards the train, making a beeline for the place beside yours. Still, you allow her to wedge herself between you and Teff, stifling a laugh at the quick pat she delivers to his knee and the awkward look of surprise she leaves in her wake. 

“What the–”

“So?” Her question is pointed at you, eyes brimming with open curiosity.

“So what?” Her tone is lively, teasing even, and your shoulders tense at the seeming change in her demeanor. But she looks relaxed, at ease almost, as though she knows something you do not. 

“Please, don’t be coy; it’s not a good look. Even on me.” To her other side, Teff makes no effort to hide his prying gaze, which flits between the two of you in an easy pattern.

“Coy? I–” 

“Hello? The Victory Tour? Don’t think we all missed out on the fact that a certain somebody had to pay a visit to 10,” she chirps, a jovial sort of mischief practically pouring from her smile.

“Lux–” You hiss, suddenly conscious of every movement on board, slight or otherwise. Several seats away, Octavian shifts in his chair, smirking quietly at something Antonia has just said. Beau hisses in discontent as a drop of condensation from the drink he’d poured upon arrival hits the leg of his pants. Reed’s head doesn’t so much as lift at her comment, but Teff watches, his dark gaze calculating. You wonder what he’s thinking. Your chest feels so heavy.

“Seriously, were you dropped on your head as a child? What happened?” Suddenly, it’s all too much, and your fists open and close around nothing. Treech would know what to say, how to smile just right, and skirt around the truth; you only babble awkwardly.

“What ha– How do you–” You sound like an idiot. 

“Please, the two of you shared a room for years. You didn’t seriously think none of us would notice, right?” You swallow hard. She has a point. You only wish you were better at this. The game everyone except you seems to know how to play just right.

“Nothing– Happened,” you choke out, awkward and stilted. Just over Lux’s head, Teff scowls in disbelief. You want to give in, to confess. It would certainly be easier that way, for the time being at least. But Lux remains a mystery to you, and Teff, with all his sympathy, knew Treech was a mistake the first time around.

“It was awkward. Maple was nice.” So you feign bitterness, forcing your brows together in an ugly grimace, and you pray Treech will do the same, though the thought of his open scorn, blistering and harsh as it had been all those years, sends a shiver down your spine. Lux only groans in response before flipping her head in a vicious circle to observe you dead on, hair batting Teff in the face. 

“Have– Did Heavensbee come to check in on you?” Teff stiffens immediately, abandoning his futile attempts to pull her perfect blond tresses from the spots where they are stuck to his lips.

“Lux–” His tone is a warning of its own.

“What? I don’t see any cameras, and even if there are, it’s not like–”

“You’re being too bold.” Teff chastizes, and the remark seems to cut her down like a blade, all the ease she came on board with draining from her face, leaving the hardened exterior you’d grown accustomed to in your years of being acquainted. 

When she drifts off with a drink pressed between her fingers, she almost looks like a ghost, but it does not prevent the moment from playing over and over in your mind. Does not eradicate the sadness that pools in your gut at what you now know she has lost. A girl, curious and excitable, buried beneath a cool facade. You wonder how often she mourns the person she was. The train jolts, coming to a halt, and a woman’s voice, clear and crisp, announces your arrival in District 4. Mags boards first, with Trawl trailing just behind and you note the way his eyes linger on Beau before he makes his way over to you. You do your best to shake the look, to shake the recognition that passes through you like a wave, drilling yourself with a wordless reminder to keep your own face in check when Treech steps foot in the compartment. To be cordial and stiff. Unbothered with a tinge of resentment. To make the Capitol believe in the existence of nothing at all between the two of you.

Your indifference is mediocre at best and certainly not helped by the fact that you nearly choke on your drink the moment he fixes his gaze on you. He only looks away, practiced in playing the part, but his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck, and you know it's just for show, the tell-tale habit exposing his nerves. He makes the rounds, and you watch carefully from your place at the bar, gaze honing in on the easy smile he plasters across his face as he shakes hands and offers embraces. By the time he reaches you, you’ve already downed the glass of posca you were working on upon his entrance and are making quick work of a second. 

Treech speaks to Teff first, questioning Seeder’s well-being just as you had, before pulling Trawl into a half-hearted hug. And suddenly, there he is, standing in front of you.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice is stiff, eyes dark and unblinking. You couldn’t read a thing off his face if you tried. He stretches out his hand, and you eye it cautiously before placing your drink down on the bar to slide your palm into his. You almost wish you could look away, his cordial mask making your skin crawl, but then he squeezes your hand, a movement so slight you barely notice, and you relax into the touch, shoulders dropping as your face morphs to mirror his. 

“Wish I could say the same.” You squeeze back, and if you weren’t watching so intently, you might have missed the slight pull of his lips upward– The look of amusement pooling at the corners of his eyes. Beside you, Teff disguises the beginnings of a laugh with a cough, loud and resonant. Trawl only smirks. But none of it matters. The rest of the world has fallen away because Treech is still holding your hand. 

When he does finally release you, having kept you in his grasp just a moment too long, he is hasty in his departure, spinning on his heel to find a seat towards the front beside Maple. 

“I see things have gotten more tense?” Trawl teases as you shrink back into your seat.

“You have no idea.”

Press tours, as Hilarius calls them, are always the same– surprisingly apparent in their lack of actual press. Instead, the greater part of these visits to the Capitol are occupied by networking, another word Hilarius likes to apply. Late nights spent sucking in the muddled air of some club or other, sticky with sweat and alcohol, and praying for an escape. 

“Tigris.” The greeting sounds more like a sigh of relief passing your lips, and you sink back down into your chair, having started with anticipation at the sound of the door opening. She gives you a nod, eyes soft and sweet, before stepping to the side to allow Leto to enter with a rack of clothing. 

“They’re all so–”

“Short? I know. Look, they’ve been killing me with these requirements, but trust me, not a single one is under the length they’ve called for. Also, I’ve made some adjustments– Things like tulle and ruffles don’t actually count, so we’ve even managed to push the boundary a little.” Tigris gives you a meaningful look, and even Leto seems to pity your situation, having grown more gentle over the years. 

“Thank you.” And you are thankful, really, the gratitude shining from the wrinkled corners of your eyes. 

“What have you got for me?” Your nails drum listlessly against the side of the coffee cup firm in your grasp. Nights like this always go late, and though sleep has long since become a luxury you can never quite afford, it never hurts to be safe.

“Well, Fabricia–”

“Please, you know I’m not interested in that crap. What have you got for me?” Tigris stifles a smile, though you can feel the excitement radiating from her figure as she selects several pieces from the rack. It was always impossible to be too upset in one of her designs. 

“This one’s my favorite.” She flips the hanger, the dress splaying itself across her forearm, and you can’t help the grin that spreads slowly across your features. 

“It’s gorgeous.” The top is corseted, with several thick bones running through the fabric and a delicate piece of ribbon lacing it together. The bottom, though, is what draws your eye. In spite of its length, the silhouette of the saloon-style skirt is obvious. Your mind draws forth a memory, frayed around the edges, of your mother’s wedding dress, wrapped in butcher paper and stowed safely in a box beneath her bed. Of Fawn, nearly six, traipsing around in a pair of too-big boots, the fabric slumping off her shoulders and spilling onto the floor. It looks like home. 

“I know we usually try to avoid the whole cowgirl thing, and let me be very clear, this is by no means an open invitation to wear your workboots, but–”

“Tigris, I love it. Thank you.” 

There is something uncomfortable about the fit of the suit Titania has selected, and Treech wonders distantly if she meant for it to choke him as his hand comes up to tug at the collar. A collar, you know, like a dog? Your words from years before echo in his head, taunting him. The button-up feels stifling, and his fingers reach for his throat, itching his chin instead in some odd, avoidant pattern. He considers undoing the first few buttons. Considers granting himself some air. But in the same way, the shirt is a prison, it acts as a shield. He is no stranger to the lingering eyes of the Capitol– To the way they stick to any piece of exposed skin, hungry for more. Treech swallows hard, irritated by the mere thought. There is a knock at the door. 

“Just a second.” Absently, he thinks it must be time to go, taking caution to fidget once more with his shirt before turning to leave. The person on the other side does not wait, however, and he is nearly knocked over by its swinging open. 

“Titania, what the hell–” The words die in his mouth at the appearance of Coriolanus Snow, armed with his characteristic cold demeanor. “You.”

There is an accusation in the word, simply uttered, and if Snow were made of the same skin and bone as his fellow man, perhaps the sentiment would have struck a chord. Still, he smiles all the same, the wolfish expression wiping the humanity from his features, and Treech resists the urge to shudder. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Snow chuckles, malice seeping from his tone. “It’s been a while, no?”

“Never long enough,” Treech speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling into two identical balls at his sides. Distantly, he recalls a night many years ago. One where Coriolanus Snow had found his way into the arena. He wonders how it would have felt to kill him then. Coral had come close, that much he knew. Still, he considers how it would have felt to sink his axe into Coriolanus Snow’s skull. Would he have smiled? Would he have watched his blood spill out onto the arena’s marble floor with a grin? He had taken no joy in the deaths of his fellow tributes, but some darker part of Treech tells him he would have watched Snow die with a sneer, wretched and angry, stretched across his face. Men like Coriolanus Snow didn’t tend to learn any other way.

“What do you want?” Men like Coriolanus Snow also didn’t tend to show up without demands. 

“I have a proposition of sorts.” Snow replies, his voice level and unemotional. He takes several steps across the small room, placing himself before the vanity pressed against the back wall. His fingers, long and delicate, reach out to trace a photograph, one Treech had meant to stuff in his pocket, to keep a secret. His sisters and his mother peer out from the image, seeming jostled in their attempts to crowd the frame. Treech remembers the moment with ease, himself behind the camera, his family in a fit of laughter. The corners are worn down, but the love is there. The love will always be there.

“Cute,” Snow chuckles, and it is harsh like the winters back home in 7. As he draws his hand back, Treech resists the urge to grimace at the soft flesh. In the Districts, an unscarred hand, one free of callouses and rough skin, would be seen as a sign of weakness; here, however, he knew it to be a point of pride. Pathetic. That’s what his father would have said. And yet here he was, back to the wall, rooted to the same spot he’d been in when the other man had entered.

“As you well know, we’ve been cultivating the Capitol’s taste for people like you for quite some time now.” People like you. Treech wants to scream. Wants desperately to become the animal Snow thinks he is. Instead, he does nothing. 

“And for the most part, our efforts have been a success. Recently, however, we’ve been encountering a new need. The people of Capitol desire your company. Private company.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Treech’s voice feels dangerously low, even to himself. 

“What do you think it means?” And really, he never needed it spelled out for him. The answer was there, lingering in the open space between them, hot and oppressive. He feels silly for ever thinking a couple extra buttons could protect him, but more than that, he feels like throwing up.

“You can’t seriously expect me to–”

“There would be benefits, of course, should you choose to comply. And, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, consequences should you choose to become a thorn in my side.” Snow’s gaze lingers on the picture beside his fingers as they drum an eerie pattern. 

“Fuck you.”

“Either way, I’m certain you will eventually come to the right conclusion. Perhaps I could even stop others from sharing your same fate.” The implication is clear. He is talking about you. “Influence and power aren’t really so distant from one another. Try to see this as a positive.” Snow glances at the photo once more before turning to face Treech, the corners of his lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Oh, and don’t let this nasty business ruin your night. I’m sure you have plenty of fun ahead of you.” And with that, he is gone, and Treech is alone, resisting the urge to curl in on himself, to shed the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He wants to go home, but not to the Victor’s Village. He wants to return to a place where his father slept. Wants to hear the echos of his sisters’ laughter from another room. He wishes briefly he were still young enough to crawl into bed with his parents, wishes he could stay there forever. But it’s just a fantasy, and on the other side of the door, he can hear someone calling his name. Telling him it’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.

The club is packed by the time you arrive, ushered in with the other Victors from your car. As you sweep through the entrance, you crane your neck in an attempt to catch sight of Treech, but he is nowhere to be seen. A tug at your elbow, however, informs you that you have company, and you square your shoulders, pasting the semblance of a smile to your lips before spinning on your heel. It is only Lux, and the relief that passes through you is visible in the way your frame shrinks, sinking back down into its natural state. 

“I need a drink.”

“Way ahead of you.” She tilts her head in the direction of the hand not laced around your arm, indicating a glass full of something you can’t quite identify. “C’mon, bar’s this way.” There’s nothing rough about the manner in which she pulls you through the throngs of people, her grip more of a guiding force than anything else, and you realize it is not often people handle you with this sort of care. When she finally releases you, you barely register the loss of her touch, its gentle pressure seeming almost to ebb away as the pads of her fingers lift. Behind the bar, a man barely disguises his grimace at your appearance, and you try to brush off the piercing look of recognition in his eyes as he grits his teeth.

“You got any white liquor?” He huffs out a laugh, presumably at the expense of your cheap taste, but moves for the shelf behind him nonetheless. 

“Neat. Please.” You manage, flashing a glance at your shoes, flimsy little things with straps winding up your calves. Your face is flushed with the embarrassment of it all when he finally sets the glass before you, and with little forethought, you lift the cup to your mouth, downing the liquid in a single, desperate go. Unlike the stuff you would snag back home, it travels down your throat with surprising ease, pooling in your gut with a biting warmth. 

“I’ll take another when you get a chance.” Beside you, Lux leans back against the bar, snorting softly into her own drink. 

“And I thought I needed this,” she jokes, her hair gathering in a pile on the smooth marble surface as she tilts her head back. 

“I don’t really get out much back home.”

“Frankly, I’d be shocked if anyone got out at all in that honky tonk town of yours.” She smirks playfully, and you know there's little venom behind the jab, but you choose to bite anyway.

“Excuse you, we happen to have a world-class dance hall–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there– There is no world in which you stomping around in some dilapidated building counts as getting out.” You’re laughing now, a rare endeavor, but you can’t help the way it bursts from your lips at her quick retort.

“It’s not– You can ask around– Really, it's more of a barn than a dilapidated–”

“And is there a bar in this oversized shack of yours, or just the stench of desperation and a dirt floor?” She quirks her head at this, goading you.

“I’ll have you know we laid a brick floor just last year–” Behind you comes the clink of your second glass of white liquor hitting the bar. Lux juts her chin in the direction of your cup, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Alright, cowgirl, I’ll take your word for it. Now, how about you finish that and I show you what a real dance floor looks like?” And it feels good, being friends with Lux. Like in some distant universe, you could have been nothing more than two girls in a bar, excited for a night on the town. As the second drink hits your tongue, you play at resisting, groaning in faux annoyance at the fingers that lace between yours, pulling you towards the floor, but really, it's a relief. At the bar, you’re a sitting duck, incapable of blending in and waiting to be approached. At least out on the dance floor, you’re a moving target. 

At first, there’s a heaviness to your motions, unaccustomed to moving so erratically, but slowly, you feel yourself loosen up. Before you, Lux appears almost entirely at peace, her body wrapped up in a gentle swaying movement, eyes shut. You fight a smile, dipping your head back and allowing the music to flood your senses. Time seems to slow, nearly grinding to a halt while simultaneously flying at an unprecedented pace. When you open your eyes once more, you’re unsure if it’s been minutes or hours, but suddenly, the room feels stifling and you’re drenched with sweat. Still locked in her own trance, Lux appears entirely unbothered as you jerk your head around, looking– no, searching for something. Someone. Treech. 

Several sweeps of the room reveal he is not on the dance floor or seated at the bar, so, squeezing Lux’s shoulder in warning, you begin pushing your way back through the crowd. You spot him the moment you break through the swarm of bodies, his gaze already fixed on you, an unreadable expression tugging at his features. He’s settled into a booth, arms splayed out across the back of the seat, and a woman on each side. The girl to his left tugs at the fabric of his shirt, her pointed nails like claws as she fumbles the top button, freeing it from its hold. Her eyes are heavy with a sharp sort of hunger, and for a moment, some irrational part of you fears she will unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole, licking him clean of muscle and flesh until he is nothing more than a pile of bones. She only leans in, appearing to inhale his scent deeply before pressing her mouth to his ear, words you cannot distinguish from afar passing her lips. His eyes never leave you, welling with some odd mixture of pleading and regret. And guilt. The guilt is what overwhelms you, the sentiment coming off of him in waves. It feels like a shot to the chest. 

And really, you knew it would be like this– That this is the way it has to be, but the sting it leaves is raw and biting as it burrows deep within your skin, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up. To curl up and sob and stomp your feet and scream and tug at your hair with the same ferocity you had as a child, incapable of stifling your own pain. You shake your head in a feeble attempt to make the image go away, eyes slamming shut, and your nose scrunching with the effort of it all. Nothing changes, so you school your features into the meanest grimace you can muster, forcing its weight upon him, before spinning on your heel in search of some quiet place where you can teach your lungs to breathe again.

There’s something angelic about the way you look out on the dance floor, Treech thinks, your features glowing with sweat, hair forming a messy halo around your face. You look lighter this way, the way you sometimes did when you slept, like the world was slipping away from you. Like you are slipping away from the world. It’s irrational, he knows, but some desperate part of him wants to watch you like this forever, arms spread over your head, chin tipped up towards the ceiling. It’s all he can think about, the image etching itself so deep into his skull he almost doesn’t notice that you’ve come back down. That you’ve turned to push your way through the crowd. That you’re nearing the edge of the dance floor like a wave cresting on the shore. And then it’s too late, because you’ve broken through and you are looking right at him.

If he wasn’t watching so intently, he might have missed the stagger in your step, hand dropping to your stomach as though you’d been shot. But he sees it all, feels it like a dagger in his chest when you square him with a glare. And it’s all he can do, not to reach for you in that moment, jaw clenched so hard he wonders if his teeth might split in two. Instead, he palms his drink, bringing the glass back to his lips and finishing off the bitter liquid inside.

“Can I get you another?” the woman to his right asks. He only nods in agreement.

You allow yourself a full fifteen minutes in the bathroom before leaving to rejoin the mix outside. Not long enough to arouse suspicion or saddle you with a punishment, but a welcome break all the same. The first five minutes are spent in tears, and the next ten collecting yourself. You use the pads of your fingers to blend away the wet trails forged down your cheeks and a hand towel to clean up the now smudged makeup around your eyes. All the while, you remind yourself to breathe. To forget. To let go. 

You accept the first drink offered to you as you push your way back into the crowd, barely eyeing the contents of your cup before downing them with a rather unbecoming haste. From then on, it's a blur. All you know is that the glasses in your hand never stay full for long. Sweat seems to cling to every inch of your body, pasting your hair to the back of your neck and keeping your dress glued to the tops of your thighs. Around you, every face seems to curl into the same disgusted leer. You don’t care. You push on, allowing your anger to drive your body. It isn’t until Teff catches you, swaying on your feet by the bar, that you realize how deep you are in it. He coaxes you into a seat and watches as your greedy hands wrap themselves around one glass of water and then another. Anything to negate the way the room seems to spin out of control, steadiness just out of reach. 

Eventually, time slows, and the crowd begins to thin. That is when the exhaustion hits, your shoulders slumping with defeat. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Teff coaxes, his face gentle and inviting. You only shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on your finger as it draws careful circles around the rim of your glass. Eventually, Lux finds her way back to you, settling into the seat on your left and allowing her head to dip forward and touch the counter. The slow rise and fall of her shoulders reveals that she is asleep moments after making contact with the cool marble surface. Around you, though, the music remains deafening. Suffocating. Again, you find yourself drifting towards the bathroom, craving the solitude and quiet. With your back pressed to the icy tile wall, everything feels distant, as though your head is underwater. A part of you wishes you could stay like this forever, isolated and numb. Someone knocks on the door. 

You don’t register the woman who pushes past you into the room, only that the tulle on her skirt itches your wrist as it brushes up against you. Still, you square your shoulders and set your jaw into an apologetic smile, dipping your head as you inch past her. You’ve nearly broken free of the back hallway when you feel it, someone pulling at the edge of your skirt, grasping at the fabric as you pass by. You expect it is the woman, intrigued by your presence, or worse, upset, but when you turn, there is only Treech.

He appears almost disheveled, eyes wet and red around the rims, and he reeks of liquor. You pull away, taking a quick step out of his orbit, but he moves faster, hand darting out to wrap itself around your wrist.

“Please–” 

“Don’t– Don’t apologize to me– I knew, we both knew this is how it has to be. I just– I didn’t–”

“No,” he is pleading with you now, all his walls lying in rubble at his feet. 

“Maybe it was better before– Maybe that’s how things should be, how we should have stayed.”

“Don’t say that.” 

“What else is there to say?”

“I spoke to him. It can– I can make this work, make it better–”

“You spoke to him?” Hilarius, it must be, you think. Then a jolt passes through you. “We can’t talk about this here.”

“Who cares where we talk about this?” And there’s a carelessness in his words that jerks you back into reality. 

“You’re drunk.”

“It’s not like you’re sober.”

“No Treech– You’re hammered– What–” 

“I’m gonna fix this–” He keeps pressing on, and you can’t suppress the concern that spreads itself across your face. 

“Yes, yes, I know, I talked to him too, but you can’t just–”

“You talked to him?” Something between panic and rage flickers in his eyes, and suddenly, he appears almost wild.

“Yes, but– Look at me, we can’t talk about–”

“But he promised– Well, maybe he didn’t, but he said–”

“What?” 

“He can’t– He can’t make you, I won’t let him–” He’s panicking now, the force of it causing him to shake, and it’s all that you can do to reach out and steady his shoulders. To pray that the warmth of your palms will bring him down to Earth once more. “Let him? What are you–” But it doesn’t get any farther than that, because before the full sentence can leave your mouth, the man in front of you is doubling over to throw up. 

“Oh my god.” 

When he stands back up from the hunched position he fell into, you note the pool of vomit at your feet, but it’s not what concerns you the most. Treech’s eyes seem almost to have emptied out, as though the life itself has left his body. His face is entirely blank, gaze fixed on some distant scene you’re all but certain doesn’t exist. 

“Treech–” You begin to speak once more, but it doesn’t matter because a tug at your elbow reveals Teff and Lux, and you know without asking that it is time to leave. Distantly, you’re aware you may never have the chance to have this conversation again, but then you are tugging Treech into a Capitol car, and the city is streaming by in a strange mix of blurred lights, and the moment is over, buried beneath the dirty floor of a club you’ll never visit again. All that remains is his labored breathing against your shoulder, forehead doused in sweat as it rests against the crook of your neck, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach that this is the beginning of the end.

The days in the Capitol all seem to blur together, and you find yourself craving the return home in spite of the task set before you. By the time the meeting rolls around, you are struggling to keep from flitting about your room and have to clench your hands in two identical fists to keep them from shaking. One wrong step and it’s all over. You slip carefully from your apartment before riding the elevator down two floors to Hilarius’s suite. The Peacekeeper in the elevator with you stands at attention, and you square your shoulders, keeping your eyes trained before you. This whole thing should appear as nothing more than a standard visit. A time to touch base with your Capitol wrangler. As far as you knew, the plan was as follows: Hilarius would host a series of meetings with the Victors, going over the usual humdrum repeated on these trips. Except, one of those meetings would be different than the others. Your meeting, where Hilarius had managed to organize for all the Victors who were in on the plan to come together.

You force a steadying breath as your hand lingers on the doorknob. What is behind this door? Or, more importantly, who? A name sinks deep into your chest like a prayer, but you refuse to even think it, afraid reality will only douse the sparks of hope flaring up inside your ribcage. With one final thought, you open the door: Please let this work.

You are not the first to arrive, though the other presence in the room does send a jolt down your spine. Octavian. Perhaps the last person you expected to see, the District Two man, the very first Victor of the Hunger Games, seems relatively unfazed by your appearance. 

“You look surprised.” He says it like a fact. 

“You don’t.”

“Can’t say I didn’t think you had it in you.” It almost makes you smile, a sort of pride blooming in your chest. 

“I never thought–” 

“That’s good, I suppose. At least for our plans.” He pauses then, and for a moment, you believe he has finished speaking, before he begins anew. “You might understand– At least better than some. The first Games were–”

“Brutal.” And it’s true, without some fancy backdrop, there was something real about what happened in the arena, and not just for the tributes. It was human and it was horrifying. Even the Capitol had shied away. 

“No one moved, you know, when the clock struck one. We all just stood there, stupid. And then the Peacekeepers started shooting. Took out one of the kids from Five and both from Nine. But it could have been any of us. We were all the same to them back then, without the betting and the odds.” You had never been able to stomach rewatching the Games, and any memory you had of Octavian’s was faded now, but it struck a chord nonetheless. 

“And then Hector.” Of course, Hector. Hector, who seemed to haunt that apartment upstairs, no matter how much time had passed. 

“You don’t have to–” 

“No, I do. I’ve never said any of this out loud before. I think– I think if I don’t say it to someone now, while I still have a chance, I’ll die choking on it.”

“I understand.” And you do. Because really, you are always thinking about it. About Bee and Colt and Brandy and Skinner. Fawn and Lennox, your mother and father. But you had hardly spoken those words out loud. Your anger, your motivation. You stuffed it all down. You had to, to survive. 

Coriolanus Snow is many things, he thinks to himself, but incompetent is not one of them. So there had been the Lucy Gray hiccup. Helping her cheat the Games only for her to die at the hands of Dr. Gaul’s snakes after he failed to slip the handkerchief into their tank was inconvenient, to say the least. As was his brief stint as a Peacekeeper as punishment for his dishonest tactics following the discovery of a certain compact with her remains. Still, he had learned a valuable lesson. Love is no more than a disadvantage, a distraction lodging itself like an unfortunate bump in his flawless plan. And now, he is back, having traded Sejanus’s life for his own advancement. It was nothing personal, really. Personal is a luxury, the only one he can not afford.

Sure, the loss had hurt, but the District 7 boy made a fine victor and one he could control with a far greater degree of ease, given the detachment he felt in regard to the kid’s safety. New year, new him, new Games, and this time, things would be different. 

His proposals had gone through without much struggle, especially with Dr. Gaul practically eating out of the palm of his hand. He is the protege; his mentor is the kind of woman you do not cross without bearing the consequences. 

And so, on this fine morning, as he stands with the casual grace of a cat, elegantly perched on the corner of his desk, he can’t fight the grin that spreads across his face as he delivers the order he’s been waiting for weeks to give.

“Well? Go get them.”

It is a cold day in District 10, at least colder than most you think as you finish your daily sweep of the ranch and its expansive territory. You pull back lightly on the reins, bringing the horse to a slow stop.

“To name an animal, any animal, it’s counterproductive. Selfish even. Makes for a more difficult slaughter; always best to remain detached.” Your father’s words echo in your head as you dip your neck to whisper soft praise to the creature below, her hind branded with a string of three numbers: 039. Her label, to call it a name, would be to demean anyone granted the privilege of such a thing.

“That was good Bluebell, nice easy ride. Told you it would get better.” She is young. Young enough to spook with a fair amount of ease, but then so are you. Had been ever since your Games.

You dismount, hitting the ground with a soft thud before coming around to face the gentle giant and fishing a handful of sugar cubes out of your pocket. She nuzzles the food in your palm before beginning to eat, and you run a hand up and down the bridge of her nose. The world is quiet, dew still catching the light of the rising sun when you see it in the distance: the armored vehicle speeding towards the cabin housing the front office. It is not unusual for Peacekeepers to come and go from the building, but the night shift typically does not end until 8:00 am, and dawn’s colors still paint the lower half of the sky. Something is wrong.

Two men exit the vehicle, entering the small building before quickly reappearing at its entrance, a third companion in tow. He stands on the porch for one beat, two, a lazy hand draped over his eyes as he scans the field for something. Someone. And then he points. You. They are looking for you.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your body screams at you to mount once more and ride as fast and as far away as you can, but you stay rooted. Frozen. You watch, helplessly still, as the car only comes closer, pulling to a stop on the other side of the fence, keeping the pastures separated from the open road. The Peacekeeper in the passenger seat steps out, boots scraping the gravel.

“Ms. L/N?” You only nod.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us; you’ve been called to the Capitol.” You feel like screaming, but your throat constricts, and all you can do is take slow, encumbered breaths as your body caves in on itself and you crumple to the ground.

“I– What?”

You do not mind the mud on your knees, and the slow chill that begins to spread from the places dampened by the wet grass is barely perceptible in your state of shock. Called to the Capitol. Your mind jumps back home, your brother and sister still tucked away, blankets to their chins. They would not rise for another thirty minutes at least. You picture your mother. Savoring a final moment of quiet in her busy day, sipping the coffee you’d left in the pot just for her. Your mind replays the goodbyes you had paid them this morning. Careless and quick, not like the day of the reaping. Just sloppy kisses pressed haphazardly to their foreheads and a gentle farewell on your way out the door.

“That’s not possible– It’s not– I haven’t…” There is an eerie stillness to the world at this time of day. One that only seems to press inwards, suffocating you. Distantly, you feel the soft pressure of Bluebell’s muzzle on your shoulder as though urging you to get up

Though the man in the driver’s seat seems annoyed by the inconvenience, his partner fails to shield the look of pity that flits across his face as he dips to pass through the fence, pulling you up and then back through the gap with him. He is not rough as he sets you in the backseat, not like the Peacekeepers you remember from your Games, or maybe he is; everything seems a blur as the car makes its way to the train station, and it is only as the compartment doors to close behind you that you think of Bluebell, left out in the pasture, probably licking fallen sugar cubes off the ground.

Treech releases a labored exhale as he tries once more to readjust his grip on the axe. It’s just a tree. He can sense the nearby Peacekeeper shuffling from foot to foot, anxious for him to get on with the process. This is not the arena. I am safe. I am home.

There is no time off granted to returning victors following their stint in the Games. Production is production, and there are quotas to be met, so Treech had arrived home, and the following morning, before the sun had kissed the hilltops with its light, he had risen to go to work. Only work didn’t come easy the way it used to, lulling him into a rhythmic sense of comfort with its repetitive motions, and each time he raised his axe, all he saw was them. The other tributes waiting to receive the killing blow.

Treech wipes the sweat from his brow in a single frustrated motion in spite of the cold, then, squaring his jaw, he takes a swing. Crunch. The axe lodges itself in Teslee’s head, and he stumbles back, eyes wide with fear. Only it is not Teslee. No. He blinks once, twice, and it is only a pine tree, and he is back in the forest, sinking under the weight of the Peacekeeper’s heavy glare. The man, stationed less than a yard away, begins to move towards him, and Treech prepares himself for another beating, the sharp threats from the last time still ringing in his ears.

“Officer,” a voice calls out in their direction as another man of higher rank, from what Treech can gauge, approaches the pair. The two men meet and begin to speak in hushed voices, eyes flitting in his direction every few sentences. They’re gonna fire me. Or worse, string me up in the square and use me as an example. His grip on the axe tightens. His axe. His father’s before him. He will not go down without a fight.

“Hey, you,” Treech keeps his eyes on the forest floor, silently praying to any higher power that will listen that he is not the you in question. 

“Hey! Hey, you!” He can hear the man approaching, but the sound of his footsteps is dulled by the pounding of Treech’s heart. He feels like a child in a bathtub, head halfway under the surface as the water beats at his eardrums, completely still and as loud as a tidal wave. A firm grasp settles around the fabric of his winter coat, far too thin for the cold but the best he can afford.

“Listen to me when I’m fucking speaking to you,” the Peacekeeper spits, and Treech’s mouth settles into a hard line, his hand curled into a tight fist, twitching by his side. The man before him huffs in frustration.

“Call came in from the Capitol; you’re on the next train out,” he moves as though he’s going to release Treech before yanking him back in, close enough to press his mouth to the boy’s ear. 

“You’re lucky the order came from above; if I had a say, I’d gun you down right here for the disrespect.” With that, he gives the kid before him a hard shove before beginning to stalk off.

“Let’s go.” But Treech feels as though the ground beneath him has disappeared. Back to the Capitol? Would they send him into the arena? He was done. Won his Games fair and square. He was supposed to be free. What more could they want?

The first thing you notice about the train is that it is the nicest thing you have ever set foot inside of. During your Games, and all those before and after, transport to the Capitol had been relegated to old cattle cars used to shuttle livestock across Panem, and the same had been true on your return trip. This is different. Every inch of the compartment is decorated with the lavish and ornate, all-cushioned seats and elaborate chandeliers.

The second thing you notice is the boy. He is older than you, you think, by several years. Five, maybe six. He seems out of place, tucked into the corner of one of the booths, sizing you up suspiciously. He looks familiar.

“I– Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met before,” he responds, cold and guarded. But there is something about him, his build, tall and broad, dark skin and brown eyes; you could almost imagine them looking soft and kind in a different environment. 

He keeps the sharp look on his face, and you have yet to move from the doors when it clicks.

“You won seven years ago; I remember you. District 11. Teff, right?”

“You’re the girl from 10,” he says, and his posture relaxes, if only by a fraction.

“Y/N.” You smile, and you mean it to be a comfort, but there’s a fear in your eyes that betrays the anxiety deep in your gut. Still, you move closer, sliding into the seat across from him and bringing your hands into a neat pile on your lap.

“What are we doing here?” It’s small and whispered as it escapes your lips, and your gaze refuses to meet Teff’s as you wait for an answer.

“I have no idea.”

It is several hours before the train stops again, and though they are mostly passed in silence, the occasional attempt is made at small talk. Whispered theories mingle among everyday questions. So, what do you do in District 11? Do you think they’re gonna kill us? There’s lots of horses back home, cows too. They can’t put us back in, right? Only once, that’s what they said. 

The next time the doors open, you are in 2, as indicated by the towering stone walls keeping it separate from neighboring Districts. Three people get on. One of the boys you recognize immediately: Octavian Blackwell, the first victor. His hair is dark, clipped short in a sort of military cut, and his eyes look as though they are carved from steel. Beside him is a girl, small and lithe, her posture relaxed and tense all at once. Antonia. The name echos out from some dark, cavernous corner of your mind. The first female victor, 3rd Hunger Games. The final boy is taller than both his counterparts, though leaner in build than Octavian; you wrack your brain, praying for some form of recollection, but he remains unfamiliar to you.

“More victors,” whispers Teff, and you watch as the three faces before you seem to come to the same realization.

“What the fuck is going on?” It’s the District 2 boy who breaks the silence, the one whose name continues to elude you. 

“Hector,” Antonia hisses, a warning lacing her tone, but her eyes betray a curiosity lingering beneath the surface. 

“They can’t put us back in, right? There’s not enough. Not to mention, half the districts wouldn’t even have tributes,” you sputter the words up, an involuntary torrent of concern spewing from your mouth. Your gaze flits nervously from face to face, and in spite of the many hardened exteriors, you can feel it beneath the surface, a brewing apprehension. Octavian breaks the silence.

“They won’t put us back in.” And he seems certain. He is old, you think. Not old in the way a grandparent is, but aged certainly. You had never taken the time to imagine a tribute outside childhood, escaping adolescence into fully formed adulthood, but here was Octavian, who must have been at least twenty-six, with several deep-set wrinkles beginning to mar his brow.

“Probably just rounding us all up to kill us, send a real message after those shitshow Games last year,” Hector grumbles, moving further into the compartment and thrusting himself into the booth across from you and Teff. “Just watch; I bet we’ll hit 4 next, then 7, and 1.”

The noise of uncomfortable shuffling seems to fill the compartment, and eventually, Octavian and Antonia settle into the booth beside Hector. You can’t help but allow the shell of a laugh to brush past your lips. A whole train car for the lot of you, and here you were, pressed into the two corner booths. Sure, the cage is bigger, but you still cower like animals. Like you’re back in those trucks ushering you from the train to the arena, gleaning a last moment of comfort as you brushed shoulders with the children you would watch die.

Hector was right. The train stopped at 4, though only one boy got on. Trawl, he’d won the 8th Games, just before yours. You remember distantly hearing of another victor from 4, a boy who was killed upon return. Murdered by the father of his district partner, who accused him of killing her. Stabbed him in the town square, they said. The Peacekeepers only watched.

The train grinds once more to a halt in 7, and quick glance outside the window reveals a station made entirely of wood, grand posts carved with ornate designs supporting the massive roof. You glance towards the door, waiting for him, the newest victor. You do not have to work hard to recall his name, Treech; the two syllables had echoed from every radio in your mother's house the day the 10th Games ended.

The doors open with a hiss, and he stumbles in as though pushed, a mop of curls obscuring his eyes. He seems dazed. As he lifts his head, you watch it happen. The same realization that had dawned on every victor to enter the compartment after you, but then his gaze only grows dull as though accepting some secret fate you had yet to be alerted of before he shuffles forward, taking a seat on a longer bench facing the door. Alone. 

It is several more hours before you reach 1, and although some hushed conversation continues to fill the train car, you sit in silence, casting worried glances at the quiet boy with his head in his hands. He is not crying, you think; his shoulders are too still, but his breathing remains too rapid to indicate sleep. Maybe he just likes to listen, you suppose, trying to grasp the newest direction of the chatter around you. Maybe he’s scared. As you turn once more to analyze his hunched shape, Trawl catches your line of sight, speaking up from beside you.

“Just leave him alone; if he wants to sit by himself sulking, that’s his problem,” he mutters close to your ear.

“For all we know, we could be walking into an ambush. Give him a break,” you say, moving to stand before making your way over to the place on the bench beside him. You are quiet for a time, unsure how to start, but as your lips begin to purse around a greeting, he interrupts you.

“I like your hat.” His voice is flat, a single eye visible from behind the curtain of his hair. You forgot you were wearing a hat. It was your father’s from his brief time on the ranch before transferring to the slaughterhouse, where he met your mom. Your hand darts up to trace the brim.

“Thanks, it was–” But then his tone registers, and you recognize the snark behind the compliment, “You don’t mean that, do you?”

“You some sort of cowgirl?”

“How do you know what a cowgirl is?” You ask, and your eyebrows draw together in surprise at the knowledge.

“Read about them in school once, before I dropped out.”

“I guess so. Usually, people just call me a ranch hand.” He lifts his head at this, and you realize he’s quite pretty on closer viewing.

“Doesn’t sound as cool.” The ghost of a smirk lights his face as he says it.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” you say, grinning back. His smile is quick to fade, and he turns once more, fixing his gaze ahead, away from you.

“Why are we here?” He asks, his cocky demeanor gone in an instant. You ache to be able to provide him with an answer, but the same question has been clawing at you since the two men showed up on the ranch this morning. 

“I– I’m not sure.” He nods, and it is solemn, like a prayer, but he does not return his face to his hands, instead watching the miles of land roll by in a blur, no single thing occupying the space outside the window for longer than a second. You find yourself looking, too, imagining how it must feel to go 250 mph. You decide it's probably like flying.

By the time you reach 1 to collect its two victors, a searing silence has spread over the train, the atmosphere tense. The journey to the Capitol is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and as the skyline appears over the barriers built to keep people like you out, you feel the apprehension shrouding the compartment begin to buzz. It is only then that Hector speaks, shattering the stillness with a single phrase.

“Welcome back to Hell.”

The sun is setting as the train pulls into the station, and you twitch nervously, scraping your nails against the pads of your fingertips. Beside you, Treech watches your movements with a fixed gaze as though pondering reaching out to still the repetitive motions himself. He does not, and you fail to notice his attention on you at all, eyes fixed ahead on the double doors. 

When they open, a swarm of Peacekeepers descends on the car within a matter of seconds, hoisting you from the seats, snatching at arms and shoulders in their attempts to muscle you out of the compartment. A startled yelp escapes your lips as the man with a harsh grasp on the collar of your shirt rips you forward and onto the platform, jostling your hat from your head. 

“No–” You lunge for the single remnant of your father, straining against the Peacekeeper working to wrangle you towards an awaiting vehicle, but it is no use. He wraps you in a firm pair of arms, lifting you, kicking and biting from the ground the remainder of the distance before tossing you onto the floor of the car. As you whip around to assail him once more, the doors fall closed with a thud, leaving you to pound futilely against them.

Eventually, your jabs lose their power, and you sink down, forehead pressed to the cool metal, biting your lip to prevent the oncoming tears from spilling over. A hand makes its presence known on your shoulder as the car begins to move, and you turn to glimpse Trawl, his face painted with concern. A quick once over of the vehicle reveals only half the victors had been loaded on: you, Trawl, and the two tributes from 1, Lux, who sits with both hands clasped primly in her lap, and Beau, whose only visible sign of distress is the repeated preening of his hair.

“My– My hat. It was my dad’s–” you stutter out as Trawl helps you onto the seat beside his, “I don’t– there’s nothing else left.” The concern in his eyes settles into pity, and you feel like shrinking under the weight of his compassion, tired of feeling helpless.

It is not long before the car pulls to a stop, and the doors come open once more. It is dark out now, and you can’t help but find it unusual, the feeling that you are being smuggled, rushed in under the cover of night. Typically everything is a display in the Capitol. If they are going to kill you, where are the cameras? You are ushered into an elevator, and one of the Peacekeepers extends an arm, scanning a card before pressing the button for the top floor. You think distantly this might be some sort of hotel. You have never been inside a hotel before. A simple ding alerts you to the fact that you have reached your destination, and you are jostled out and through the door directly before you following the swipe of another card.

It is a large room. You had always believed hotels came with the promise of a bed, but this seems more like a home: a kitchen with appliances you do not recognize, a luxurious lounge with a semicircular couch facing a large projection, and a man, his hair as white as snow.

“Please, let’s not manhandle our guests,” he calls out to the group of Peacekeepers herding you into the center of the room, and they back away, taking up posts on the surrounding walls. Their message is clear: you are not permitted to leave. 

You reach up to rub at the place where, only moments before, your arm had been kept in an iron grip when the door to the room flings open again, the remainder of the victors stumbling in. Teff comes first, ripping his bicep from the man beside him upon entrance, followed by Hector, Antonia, and Octavian, who seem more contained. Last is Treech, a newly formed bruise beginning to darken the area around his eye, and your father's hat held delicately in his hand, fingers pinched around the rim. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor but lifts his head upon hearing your stifled gasp. 

“Come, make yourselves comfortable. I don’t bite, I promise.” The man at the front of the room speaks with a placating tone and words meant to dulcify, but he smiles like a wolf. No one moves.

“Let’s try this again. Sit down.” From behind you, you can hear the Peacekeepers beginning to shuffle from their stations, inching forward. Octavian is the first to budge. He takes a tentative step in the direction of the couch before nodding at Antonia and Hector, who follow close behind. You look to Teff and then to Treech, only a few feet away from him, still holding your father’s hat. The former surveys the room once before giving you a slow nod, and you move to sit. They file in behind you, Trawl quick on their heels, and the four of you occupy a single corner of the couch being sure to leave room for Lux and Beau. As he slides into the seat next to yours, Treech tenderly sets the hat atop your lap, and you mouth a subtle thank you that he leaves unacknowledged.

“Much better.” The man before you grins, and out of the corner of your eye, you see a look of recognition pass across Treech’s face.

“So glad you could all join us.” He claps his hands together before clearing his throat to begin.

“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what you’re doing here, and I want to assure you that in spite of the worries you expressed on the train, we are not going to kill you.” A chill passes down your spine at his implication: they had been watching you.

“See, you represent a new beginning. The birth of a different kind of Games. A better kind of Games.” A wave of confusion seems to pass over the lot of you. Though it is more like anxiety, and you feel a bit like you are drowning in it.

“Now, last year, well, that was quite the mess,” he says, nodding to Treech as though they are in on some sort of joke together. Your stomach turns. 

“But the important thing is, we learned something: the people of the Capitol need someone to care about. To root for, if you will. Which means it’s time for a new way of thinking.” He pauses as though for dramatic effect, and you can’t help but think his speech feels practiced. Had he smiled this morning, delivering his death knell to the bathroom mirror?

“Right now, the Games, they make people sad, uncomfortable even. Too much humanity, not enough spectacle.” Beside you, Treech tenses. “There is nothing commodifiable about the current structure. But if, say, we were to place a higher value on the victors and make you celebrities of sorts, then this blight becomes an honor.” The nine faces before him appear as though they are sculpted from stone; he clears his throat before continuing.

“And how, you may ask, do we plan to do that? Well, starting this year, the past victors will be in charge of mentoring the children from your districts.” Here, there is some breakage. Anger, plain and simple, seeping through the masks. Antonia begins to speak.

“Fuck no–”

“I’m not finished, thank you. Now, this will come with an array of new challenges. There will, of course, be interviews to prepare them for, something you obviously have no experience with, as well as a tribute parade.” Your nose crinkles in disgust as the sole image your mind conjures is last year’s tributes chained to a flatbed truck, Brandy’s dead body swaying from a crane above them. Brandy, who you knew. Who was only one year younger than you. Who had a talent for soothing any creature with which she came in contact and who cried for three days the first time she killed a hog.

“And you will be in charge of organizing sponsorships once they are in the arena, networking, and such. But not to worry, each of you will be given an escort from the Capitol, someone to help you navigate the trickier aspects of the job. And you will not go unrewarded either. Starting this year, victors will be granted financial compensation as well as eventual housing in a Victor’s Village, which will be put up in each of your home districts. Still, we will need to begin with a sort of reintroduction to teach the public what your new role as a victor is, and–”

“That’s not fair,” you mumble, so quiet you think no one hears.

“Excuse me?” The man’s gaze is icy cold, like a knife to the chest.

“That’s– That’s not fair. What about the kids in 12? 8? 6 and 5? If you do this, the same people will win every year.” You stare back, and when your hands begin to shake, you hide them beneath your thighs.

“I don’t typically give lessons in power for free; you should be grateful.”

“You’re evil.” And it is not a question. You are certain.

“Not evil, just practical.”

“The Capitol hates us, they think we’re scum. They’ll never get behind this,” Treech offers from beside you, and you see it on him, the mark of last year's Games. The toll they took.

“If the citizens of the Capitol think we care, they will too. I’ll put you on television with the goddamned President if I have to. This will work.”

“What if we won’t do it?” Teff demands, his voice low, tinged with a warning.

“You have a family, do you not?” The man asks, and the threat pools in his eyes, but he voices it anyway. “Would you like to continue having a family?” It is quiet for a moment, and the weight of his words feels heavier than anything you’ve ever carried in your life.

“We were supposed to be done. We won our Games,” It is Hector who speaks this time, rising from his seat. He pauses for a moment, then raises his brow as though in a challenge. “Well, I don’t have any family. Not anymore. Not thanks to this bullshit fucking system, so you know what? I think I’ll pass.” From beside him, Antonia claws at his arm, a pleading look in her eyes. It is too late. The man with the white hair nods, and two of the Peacekeepers on the back wall step forward. 

“That’s too bad. He can go.” They are on Hector in a matter of seconds, but they do not make for the door; instead, they seize him, one on each arm, and turn towards the hallway, splitting off from the large central room. Several victors move to stand, with Trawl and Octavian making an attempt to follow, but they are swiftly restrained, and you sit in silent shock as the sounds of Hector’s struggle become distant. A door slams. Then, a gunshot. After that, it is quiet. Your limbs feel stiff, frozen even. From your other side, Lux releases a stifled sob. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Teff throw up.

“Anyone else have any concerns they wish to voice?” It’s as though you have all stopped breathing.

“Wonderful. We’ll begin in the morning. You’ll each have a team here to prepare you for the press tour. Your rooms are numbered by district. Be ready at 5:00 am sharp. I’d hate to have any more incidents.”

“So, we’re trapped here?” You speak again, though the sound of your own voice comes as a shock. The man only sighs.

“This is not a prison, no. Though we would prefer you not leave the premises–” You don’t give him time to finish, making a hasty exit through the door where you came in.

“Just make sure she doesn’t leave the building,” he sighs with a haphazard wave of his hand in your direction.

You are at the bar when Treech finds you, two glasses of Posca deep.

He hadn’t meant to go looking for you, really, only to clear his head and get away from that room. Shortly after your departure, two men had entered with a stretcher and left only minutes later with it full, the vague outline of a body visible beneath a white linen sheet. He had followed them out and then quickly abandoned their company at the prospect of sharing their elevator, instead descending the stairs. From the 32nd floor. And there you were, right as the door to the lobby opened, hat on the bar and your eyes fixed on something he wasn’t sure was really there.

“No hard liquor here. At least not for us,” you huff, slumping in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“And don’t bother asking for the bottle either. They’ll just give you one of these. Nothing more dignified than drowning my sorrows in a glass that costs more than my mother’s house,” you wave a limp hand at the ornate flute before you, doing little to disguise the biting sarcasm in your tone.

“I’ll take what she’s having,” Treech mutters to the man behind the bar, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the counter, unwilling to bear the weight of the curious gaze being pressed upon the pair of you.

“Do you remember them, the other tributes?” You ask suddenly, as though the thought had been clouding your mind for hours.

“The other victors?” You shake your head.

“No. The other kids in the arena.” Treech freezes for only a moment, caught off guard, but it’s enough time for the truth to plaster itself across his face. Every day.

“Sure.” You don’t say anything, only sit patiently, waiting for him to continue. “There was– There was Lamina; she was from home.” I watched her die. I sat by and did nothing. “And there was Coral and Mizzen; they were from 4. And the youngest. She was from 8. Had these hearts made of buttons on her pants. Wovey, I think. From 12, there was Lucy Gray, the girl who sang. Reaper, he was the last to die. I killed him. Killed the girl from 3, too. Teslee.”

He feels his voice begin to waver and opts to stop talking. You sit in silence for a moment, trading quiet nods with the bartender as he returns with Treech’s drink.

“Rye.”

“Sorry?” Treech asks, still lost in the memories of his fellow tributes.

“He was the youngest. He had these eyes just like my kid brother, big and sad. He just stood there, I remember, when the games started. The boy from 2 killed him; just walked up and broke his neck. Couldn’t have been that hard; he was so small. But he looked so surprised like he hadn’t known it was coming, even after he hit the ground.” Treech thinks he might be sick, and beside him, the color has drained from your face.

“Twenty-four kids every year, and we’ll have front-row seats to all of it. The people in the districts, in the Capitol, they’ll forget, let a name or two slip, but we’ll see them all. Watch them train, see their interviews, pick them apart in hopes of a weakness.” Treech downs his glass in one go before signaling to the bartender he needs a refill. You push your flute in the same direction, looking the District 7 boy up and down as though you’d never given him too much thought before.

“I never envied you. The way the Capitol dragged you through the streets for all those funerals, put you behind bars in a fuckin’ zoo, had you play nice and pleasant before sending you off to slaughter. At least ours was quick. Picked us all up on the train, threw us in the back of a truck, and then dumped us in the arena. Nobody knew who we were. Nobody wanted to.” You break off in a laugh that is brittle and unforgiving.

“Maybe it’ll be better this way. I’m in the market for a new job. Turns out you’re no good at chopping trees when you can barely hold an axe anymore,” Treech jokes, but the smile on his face does not reach his eyes.

“They–” but you are quick to pause, halting mid-sentence as though contemplating continuing. You exhale softly before clearing your throat and lifting your eyes once more to meet his. 

“They had to fire me.” Treech’s brows lurch forward in confusion, creating two dimples in the flesh just above his nose. 

“At the slaughterhouse,” you supply. “They had to fire me. I couldn’t– I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t kill anything. The Peacekeepers, they just wanted me gone. I’m pretty sure they would have just gotten rid of me too, you know, set an example, but I knew the guy who ran the place. I used to give his daughter art lessons. He made a call, and I got transferred. Started working as a ranch hand instead.” You stop, and for a moment, Treech thinks you’ve finished.

“I kept thinking they were him. I would pick up the knife, and suddenly, it was like I was back in the arena, watching him die.” The last part came out in a whisper.

“They say what I did to that kid; they say it was mercy. A mercy kill. But I still killed him, and he’s still dead. And I have never stopped thinking about it.” You clear your throat once more and cast your gaze down, hoping to disguise the tears collecting in your eyes. Treech takes notice. He remembers a conversation not two months prior with his mother. The way his voice shook as he spoke. About the games. About the other tributes. He recalls the twisted expression of discomfort she bore, the pity, and above all, his own anger at feeling helpless. Wounded.

“Art lessons? You paint?” Relief, instant and undisguised, etches itself across your features. 

“Draw, mostly. Charcoal, pencil, anything easy to come by. I was gonna be a veterinarian before– Well, you know. I was practicing for scientific sketches, but I just sort of fell in love with the way they moved– animals.”

“You have a favorite?”

“Horses are the hardest. Cows– they’re soft, like people. Some people, I guess. I saw a fox once, little gray thing, sleeping in the grass. I think maybe I liked that one the best. My mom used to say it was good luck, a fox crossing your path. Though, I can’t imagine how. That– That was the day before my reaping.”

You sit in silence for a moment before Treech speaks again.

“You lived. Maybe that was it: the good luck.”

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Like maybe everyone else got out easy, and here we are still living in a nightmare.”

“It won’t be like this forever,” he whispers, but it’s as though he’s pleading with some higher power that it might be true. “It can’t be.”

“Wake up, Treech. This is it for us. They are gonna drag us out here every year to flounce around the capitol, parading new kids to their deaths– or worse, whatever this is, the horrible aftermath–”

“There’ll be new mentors. New winners–”

chapter 1: nothing's new | word count: 6.5k

“You’re evil.” And it is not a question. You are certain.

“Not evil, just practical.”

chapter 2: vampire empire | word count: 7.1k

“You really shouldn’t tell people so much.” And it hurts to say. It burns like hot guilt in his chest, but he knows it is right.

“Why? You gonna spill all my secrets to the Capitol, pretty boy?”

chapter 3: oh, children | word count: 7.6k

“You never answered my last letter.”

“I–” he begins, but then seems to think better of what he was going to say, instead clearing his throat before continuing. “I must have forgotten.”

chapter 4: i bet on losing dogs | word count: 6.2k

3. Something moves in the water. Something large.

2. The boy from 8 steps off his platform a split second too early. It blows. To his left, Bee brings both hands up to shield her face, sinking away in panic. Her heel nearly slips, and you feel like throwing up. 

1. The room is silent. Dead silent. On the screen, the tributes begin to run.

chapter 5: killer | word count: 9.3k

You can hardly imagine a world where, upon being faced with you, the Capitol citizens can manage anything other than sheer horror. Still, if some party is all that’s standing between you and returning home, you’ll find a way to get through it, even if you have to grit your teeth and bite your tongue until it bleeds.

chapter 6: bite the hand | word count: 6.6k

“I hate you.” And he flinched as though the words had hurt him. As though he hadn’t spent every moment of the last three years trying to probe that very reaction from your lips. And you knew he must not have meant it. That it was nothing more than the residual regret leaving his body, but a part of you relished it. Relished causing him pain after the torture he had put you through.

“Good.”

chapter 7: sign of the times | word count: 6.7k

“You still love him, don’t you?” The question nearly has you jumping out of your skin. Still, you elect to avoid any direct sort of answer because the truth is, you aren’t sure.

“How would you know?”

“I’m your sister. I know you better than I know myself.”

chapter 8: abbey | word count: 7.8k

You are silent for a moment, the weight of the risk settling itself around your neck like an open hand. But then you think of Treech. Of Fawn and Lennox and your mother. Of your father’s corpse laid to rest under the Capitol’s watchful eye. You think of Teff. Of his daughter. Of every tribute to take the stage in the town square. Of the first two who had died under your watch. Bee’s hair falling like water out of your careful plait. Colt’s empty eyes.

The morning of the reaping is hot in 10, though any month past March usually is.  You had stayed at home the night before, foregoing sleeping in the bunkhouse for the bed you share with Fawn, and as the first rays of light begin to peak through the blinds, you fight the urge to roll back over. Today is the day.

Pushing the covers off only your side of the bed so as not to disturb the mess of hair and limbs beside you, you allow the soles of your feet to soak up the heat of the floor for a moment before moving to stand. 

There is movement in the kitchen. You can hear it as you approach from down the hall. Though it does not surprise you, your mother is always up early on reaping day, flitting about the house nervously, ironing the same outfits she painstakingly selected the night before. This morning, it is Fawn’s dress, and you watch as she turns it this way and that, passing the iron over each fold and wrinkle with unwavering concentration. When your father was still alive, he would say it was as though she thought her efforts could keep the day away. That if she kept on ironing, the reaping would never come. You knew better. Knew that her shaking hands and furrowed brow were only indicators of love. A love that she pressed into every seam with each careful pass of the iron, like a final plea to the Capitol. Please, you don’t understand; these children are loved by someone. They are loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

It is Fawn’s first reaping today. The thought has clouded your mind for weeks. And though you reassure yourself that it is nearly impossible that you could both be reaped, there is still a sick feeling pooled in your gut. You attempt to shake it off as you pour yourself a cup of coffee, nabbing a piece of toast from the table. Whether Fawn’s name is pulled or not, you are headed for the Capitol today, and who knows the next time they will remember to feed you. 

As you shuffle over to the table, you note the letter from Teff that had arrived just yesterday, still sitting out from last night. You fold it neatly, placing it back in the envelope before standing to file it away with the others. Two from Trawl, four from Teff, and a single letter from Treech. Your fingers reach out to gently trace his handwriting on the back of the envelope before closing the drawer. You’d already read it enough times to have the damn thing memorized. Besides, you would see him soon enough, back in the Capitol for the Games. The Games. You feel yourself flood with guilt for the indulgence of your line of thinking. Two children will be reaped today. That is what’s important. That is where your attention should be. You shake away all thoughts of Treech, returning to your coffee and toast and observing your mother as she finishes her work on Fawn’s dress.

“It’ll be okay. She won’t be picked,” you assure her over the lip of your mug.

“Like you were okay?” She doesn’t look up as she responds, but there is a cold tinge to her voice, and you feel the sting of her words; the sting of knowing the ghost of your Games still haunts your mother. Before you can respond, there is shuffling from down the hall, and you rise from your seat to grab some of the honey you’d bought from the local bee farm just last week for today’s breakfast. Something sweet to ease the pain. Fawn emerges, her hair stuck out at odd angles with Lennox hot on her heels. At only six, it would be years before your brother’s first reaping, and you help him into your lap, beginning to spread the honey onto a piece of toast just for him. 

“Fawn, when you’re finished eating, go get your brush so I can braid your hair.” Your mother has moved on to pressing Lennox’s shirt as attendance at the reaping is required for all citizens of the Districts no matter their age, and you note your own outfit, hung from a handle on one of the cupboards. A long jean skirt paired with a leather vest and a nice button-up. The vest you recognize from your father’s own wardrobe, though the fit now looked suited to your own shape, and you realize your mother must have made some adjustments so that you might wear it. The skirt surprises you, though you suppose it makes sense. In previous years, your mother had opted for jeans, knowing the chances of your survival in the arena were only increased by the mobility they would provide. But those years were over, and with the Games behind you, there was no chance of your name being drawn. With no tesserae taken out in her name, Fawn would only have one slip in the reaping barrel, and you know your mother is relying on the dress to draw out her youth and innocence should she be selected. There is a strategy to it. To all of it, you think, and though it feels calculated, it is the price of survival.

Fawn scampers off to retrieve her hairbrush after virtually inhaling her toast, and you remove Lennox from your lap, sending him in your mother’s direction to get changed. 

As you comb through the mess of hair before you, you feel the spirit of your mother overtake you, pleating love into each and every fold like a prayer. This child is loved. This child is loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

A letter had arrived several days ago, notifying you that you were to remain on the stage throughout the reaping. A display of your new role as a mentor. A reminder of your victory. An echo of every child from 10 who had and would succumb to the Games. You approach the steps and spot Calpurnia situated beside an empty seat, the stage teeming with Peacekeepers, and you feel your brow furrow at her presence.

“What are you–” “I’m here to do the reaping,” she says, delivering a curt nod in your direction.

“But the mayor does the reaping,” you respond, thoughts returning to this day just two years ago when his sweaty hand had dipped into the barrel and fished out your name.

“Not anymore. Capitol orders.” As you settle into the seat beside her, you recall an incident from last year in 12, projected onto the screen above the stage. A girl who slipped a snake down the dress of the mayor’s daughter. You nod in understanding before taking the seat beside hers, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You search the crowd for Fawn, stiff in her place among the other twelve-year-old girls. She does not look up, eyes fixed on the ground before her. 

The kids from 12 are reaped first. The girl is older, lean but with muscle you recognize must come from work in the mines. The boy can be no more than thirteen, and you swallow hard at the look of fear plastered across his face, forcing your own gaze downwards. Eight comes next. Then 6 and 11. You note Teff in the corner of the screen as the two tributes from his District are drawn. His features remain tight and unmoving. District 10 goes seventh, as it does every year, and as Calpurnia rises from her place beside you, your jaw locks into place, eyes drilling holes into the sides of the barrels as though looking hard enough might allow you to see the names drawn before they even pass through the opening. As though it might allow you to breathe. Not Fawn. Please, not Fawn.

“Ladies first,” Calpurnia states, and there is little showmanship to the affair as she wastes no time plucking a carefully folded parcel from the barrel to her left. 

“Bee Shepley.” The name rings out across the square, and your relief at not hearing Fawn’s name is short-lived as you watch the section of fourteen-year-old girls begin to shuffle. It is not hard to pick her out, a skinny little thing with a face full of freckles. Her mouth moves as though rigged to do so, opening and closing without any sound coming out. Around her, girls begin to shy away, leaving a cold, empty space with Bee at its center. From within the surrounding crowd, there is a horrible, shuddering cry, followed closely by the babble of what you can only assume to be a toddler. With a push from the girl beside her, Bee advances towards the stage. 

She is crying, you note, as she makes the slow journey to the stairs, but before she can take the first step, she presses two firm hands against her face, wiping the tears from her eyes. By the time she takes her place, the fear on her visage begins to meld with determination, a steely look passing over her features. 

“Now for the boys.” Calpurnia moves to snag a second paper, though there is something different in her tone, which for the first time sounds strained and watery. You realize with a start that this woman has probably never before seen the districts, and now here she is, damning two of 10’s children with their own probable deaths.

“Colt Harrier.” You know Colt. He had been a few years behind you in school and looks to be about seventeen as he moves from his place among the boys. Your fathers had worked out on the ranch together, and for a while, you’d worked side by side in the slaughterhouse after leaving school at around fourteen. He was only twelve then. He is bigger than you remember, no longer so boyish. With dark hair and piercing eyes, he towers over Bee as he takes his place beside her. Still, his face betrays nothing, and had you not recognized his sister among the cluster of fifteen-year-old girls, you might have thought his gaze was simply trained ahead, unfeeling. 

What comes next hits you like a bag of bricks. Four Peacekeepers emerge to collect the tributes, and a look from Calpurnia indicates to you that it is time to depart. No goodbyes. No final moments. They might as well be branded: property of the Capitol from this day forward. You enter the arched doors of City Hall, and they slam heavy and unmoving behind you. It is all so fast. No.

“No.” Calpurnia startles beside you at the sudden outburst, but you pay her irritation no mind. “No. They should get to say goodbye.”

Ahead of you, the Peacekeepers continue to guide your tributes toward the exit that will lead the group of you to the train station. You do not care, planting your feet in refusal.

“That is not in the instructions–” Calpurnia begins, but you stop her soon after.

“Instructions? They might never see their families again. They should be allowed to say goodbye.”

“It’s just never been that way,” she chides, moving her arms as though trying to usher you forward. Down the hall, the Peacekeepers begin to slow, having noted your absence.

“Well, this year is different. It’s already different. There are mentors and escorts, and they should be allowed time with their families. Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. Calpurnia, you’re the only one who can–” 

“We are going to be late.” And her tone is sharp, but her eyes dart towards the ground, and you can feel her caving to your request.

“Well, they’re not gonna leave without us.”

“I– Will you stop this nonsense if I ask?” You nod solemnly, and she sighs, leaving you momentarily to speak to one of the four men. There is a back and forth, and he seems displeased, but eventually, he begins to guide Colt in a different direction, another Peacekeeper following suit with Bee, while the remaining two make towards the stage you have only just left.

“Five minutes,” Calpurnia hisses as she returns to your side, “It’s all they would agree to.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, alarmed by the heavy sincerity of your own words, and you see it, in that moment, something soften deep within her eyes. She nods before spinning around to face the other direction, her heels punctuating each step with a sharp click.

“Well, come on then. We’ll meet them on the train.”

It is twenty minutes later when the doors to the train open, and Colt and Bee stumble inside. Lighter than her District partner, Bee takes the impact of the Peacekeeper’s shove worse than Colt, skidding onto her hands and knees before looking up to eye the table where you sit beside Calpurnia. You are on your feet in an instant, moving to help her up, but Colt bars your way with a glare, dipping to lend her a hand. Your heart sinks deeper into your chest. 

“Right, if you could both take a seat, we have lots to go over,” Calpurnia states, sorting through the array of files spread across the table before her, and Bee takes a hesitant step forward. Colt does not move.

“What is she doing here?” He is looking at you.

“I am your mentor for the Games,” you explain, resisting the urge to shrink beneath the look he gives you.

“So you work for the Capitol then?”

“I suppose technically I do,” you answer, and even Bee’s eyes trace over you, guarded by a layer of skepticism. “But I’m here to help you. We both are.”

“Okay, we really don’t have time for this. We have a schedule to go over, people,” Calpurnia huffs, making an ushering movement with her hand to urge both tributes to take a seat. Bee slides into the seat beside yours, and after several seconds of silence, Colt follows her lead.

“Alright, so, upon arrival in the Capitol, we will meet with the team of stylists for District 10 who will get you fitted for tonight’s tribute parade as a part of the Opening Ceremonies–”

“Parade?” Colt’s brow furrows, and a mixture of confusion and anger begin to darken his face.

“The parade will take us to the newly built Training Center, where you will be staying until the Games commence. Tomorrow, after being allowed a day to determine your own strengths, you will be assessed on your skills, and we will close out the night with individual interviews. Are there any questions?” Calpurnia finishes, looking up.

“One day that’s not enough ti–” Colt begins.

“What do you mean interviews?” Bee asks quietly from beside him.

“Why are we doing all this shit anyways? If they want us dead so badly, just put us in the fucking arena; why waste the energy?” Colt demands, his steely gaze fixed on you.

“Because this year is different. The Games are changing. Now, why is none of my business, and frankly, I don’t know if I could answer that question myself.” A small lie never hurt anyone. “But what we do know is how. All this ceremonial bullshit–” Calpurnia shoots you a look of warning, and you clear your throat.

“--Stuff is so that the Capitol can get to know you. Starting last year, a system was put into place, one that allowed Capitol citizens to sponsor their favorite tributes so that their mentors could send them gifts in the arena: food and water. Things you need for survival. We know that the arena is different this year, which means that these gifts could be more important than ever in helping you survive.”

“So putting us in the Hunger Games wasn’t entertainment enough for them? Now, we’re supposed to make them like us before they send us off to die? Fuck that, I’m not doing it.”

“This is not a matter of choice. You will participate,” Calpurnia cuts in.

“Or what? You gonna kill me again?”

“Not you. But your sister, maybe. Your mother. The Capitol does not take kindly to refusal. Trust me,” you speak, your voice harsh like it’s never been before, and your thoughts travel to Hector. Hector who is dead for his defiance. Colt crosses his arms, sinking back into his seat and you feel yourself nearly jolt in surprise at the sound of Bee’s voice.

“What do we have to do?”

Arrival in the Capitol is certainly not a calm affair. The moment the train stops, the four of you find yourselves being ushered into a car that takes you to a building just off the City Circle. While Calpurnia wrangles Colt and Bee, guiding the two down the hall straight ahead, several Peacekeepers meet you at the entrance, taking you in a different direction, presumably to meet up with the other mentors. 

To meet up with Treech. No. You shake the thought from your head, urging your brain to remain focused. You don’t have time to think about him. Not now, not ever. 

It is not long before the two men leading the way stop outside an ornate wooden door, one stepping forward to tap a key card to the pad on the wall before opening the door.

You seem to be the last to arrive, likely on account of your request that Colt and Bee be given a moment to speak with their families, and your eyes flit across the room, decorated with a large couch, a television, and an open bar. Trawl is the first to spot you, a boisterous greeting bursting forth from his lips as he rises from his spot at the bar to wrap you in an embrace, Teff only a few feet behind. The handshake he extends to you bears a more solemn tone, but his eyes dance with the familiar light of the friendship you have come to know from his letters.

“How are you?” He leans in to whisper, concern evident in his tone.

“I’ve been better.” You shrug, attempting to plaster an easy smile across your face, and he nods in return, traces of sympathy in his eyes. Turning, you cast a wave over your shoulder at the victors from 1 and 2 who populate the couch, and from his place beside Antonia, Octavian gives you a nod. You spin back around, expecting to encounter Teff once more, only to find he has been replaced.

“No hat today?” Treech.

“No, hello? It’s nice to see you?” You joke, and your eyes rake up and down his figure, taking him in for the first time in months. He looks nice, still in the outfit you assume he wore to the reaping. It is similar, you note, to the one he wore in his Games, and you decide it must be considered the fashion back in 7. “Besides, I see you’ve got one on for me.”

He reaches up to grasp at the brim, tipping it in your direction, and you feel your features split open into a smile, nearly forgetting the reason you are here. Nearly. Your grin fades at the recollection, and you suddenly remember another thing.

“You never answered my last letter.” It isn’t a question. Not really. There is no explanation demanded of him, but you fail to disguise the disappointment in your words, and his face seems to fall as well.

“I–” he begins, but then seems to think better of what he was going to say, instead clearing his throat before continuing. “I must have forgotten.”

“Hm.” You nod before skirting around him to rejoin Trawl and Teff at the bar.

“Trouble in paradise?” Trawl teases, raising his drink to his lips to take a sip while his eyebrows lift suggestively, head tilted in Treech’s direction. The boy from 7 stays standing where you left him for a moment, gaze still trained on you before opting to take a seat beside Beau on the couch.

“Are you fucking serious?” Trawl’s mouth opens once more as though he intends to quip back but quickly shuts upon further consideration. After several moments of silence, he speaks again, caution evident in his tone.

“Yes?” You only glare in his direction, further discouraged by the soft snort from Teff. 

“Okay, I just don’t understand why you both seem so resistant to the fact that you clearly wanna fuck each other,” Trawl shrugs, and you feel your mouth fall open in shock.

“Are you ill?” You demand, reaching out to press the back of your hand to his forehead. He only swats it away.

“Am I saying something untrue?” He asks, looking to Teff for help.

“Ill-timed, insensitive, inflammatory, could probably get us all killed for encouraging collusion or friendly mingling among the Districts, you know, given that the Capitol wants us to hate each other–” Teff begins, marking each new point by lifting a finger.

“Thank you, Teff,” you cut in, breathing a sigh of relief, and beside you, Trawl’s smirk begins to form a pout.

“I wasn’t finished. All those things are true, of course, but he’s still not wrong–” Your look of thanks turns to a glare, and from beside you, Trawl lets out an excited yelp, causing the people on the couch to look in your direction. 

“Yes!” You are sure to reward him with a swift elbow to the stomach before turning to mouth an apology at a rather annoyed-looking Lux.

“And if we can see it, I promise you they can too,” Teff continues, pointing to the emblem of the Capitol decorating the mirror behind the bar shelves. Trawl’s look of victory quickly disappears.

“No! That’s not– You’re supposed to be backing me up here–” he whines, but you only sigh, allowing yourself a glance in Treech’s direction. When your eyes reach his face, you find him looking right back.

“He’s right, Trawl. It’s too dangerous. Even if it is true.”

The Opening Ceremony goes about as well as you could have hoped. Both Colt and Bee appear to be dressed as cowboys of some sort, and you make a mental note to thank Tigris for what you assume to be her intervention, guaranteeing your tributes are not costumed as unidentifiable roadkill. Bee even manages a small smile, coached by Calpurnia, no doubt. Still, you feel yourself fill with gratitude at the sight, knowing it might just be enough to charm at least a single sponsor. 

Each set of tributes stands on a chariot, and as the procession makes a particularly wide turn, you note the chains keeping their ankles bound to the mode of transport. Your shoulders sink at the sight of them. 

The parade continues throughout the city, each block lined with Capitol citizens, and it soon becomes clear that it has no intention of returning to City Circle, where you remain with the other mentors. Instead, it pulls to a stop before a grand hotel you quickly recognize from your last stay in the ‘Gem of Panem.’ It is not long after that a group of Peacekeepers enters the room, escorting the lot of you to an awaiting vehicle, likely headed in the same direction. 

You expect to stay with your tributes, so a jolt of surprise runs down your spine as you are all led to the same suite as last time, with the assurance that you will be given the privilege of visiting them in the morning. The place remains virtually untouched, aside from a single wooden box set plainly at the center of the coffee table beside the couch. Trawl is the first to approach it. As he lifts the lid, you catch sight of ten slim cases, and he dips his hand inside, pulling out the first one. 

As he cracks the case open, you spy an almost iridescent disk with a hole directly through its center.

“What is it?” You ask, noting that most of the other victors seem to bear the same look of confusion.

“It’s a DVD,” Lux supplies suddenly, a look of excitement on her face. “We used to have them back in 1 when I was a kid, before– Well, you know. They play things on the television.” 

She moves quickly to stand beside Trawl, taking the case from his hands before turning to observe the television at the front of the room. After a couple of minutes of fumbling with the remote and a slim black box below the display, the screen springs to life. And suddenly, your heart feels as though it is free-falling through your chest. 

The footage is distant, clearly that of an old security camera blurred with age, but you recognize it immediately. The arena. The slow pan across twenty-one individual tributes. It is a feed of the very first Hunger Games.

Your eyes flit to the remaining nine cases in the box and you feel as around you, the other victors seem to come to the same conclusion. Octavian remains frozen, eyes glued to the television. He looks as though he might be sick. 

“Turn it off,” Antonia urges from her place beside him, and Lux returns once more to fumbling with the remote. On the screen, the countdown begins. “Turn it off!”

The screen goes black, but your mind is racing. Who else has access to these DVDs? Who else has seen them? You had known during your Games that the Capitol insisted on streaming them to the Districts. To send a message. But here they were again, immortalized on a flimsy piece of plastic, readily available for consumption, seemingly for no reason at all.

“Why–” Beau begins, voicing the same question lurking just behind your lips.

“To study,” Treech answers, taking a hard swallow before beginning again. “To help us strategize and find weaknesses to extort.” He looks tired as you study his features, shoulders slumped and head bent towards the floor. Your own mind swirls with memories, consuming you in horrible waves of terror. Beside you, Teff is shaking, with rage or fear you can not tell.

“They can count down in that arena all they like, but these disks mean the Games have already begun.”

Your room feels empty without Treech’s mattress populating a part of the floor, but you do not invite him to stay. Nor does he ask, trekking down the hall, following the discovery of the box before slamming his door behind him. You sigh, readying yourself for bed before descending into a restless sleep.

To say you do not often have nightmares would be an outright lie, but tonight’s is worse than any you have experienced in a long time. You are back in the arena, the count ticking down from ten, but the boy from 5 is no longer beside you, as he had been in your own Games. Instead, Trawl looks back, eyes pooling with a fierce hatred. Your head swivels, taking in the other tributes, and you note that no more than ten people surround the cornucopia. To your other side, Beau bears his teeth, an animalistic hiss emitting from deep within his chest. Your eyes scan the arena with desperation, and without really knowing why, you are looking for him. Searching for Treech.

He is several places away, eyes narrowed in concentration, and you spy the axe on which his gaze is fixed, determination weighing down his every feature. The countdown hits three, and without meaning to, you stoop to run. Only then it is at one, and you are stuck, frozen in place, watching, stiff with fear as the Games begin. Antonia is the first to go, eyes glinting with betrayal as Octavian spears her through the chest. Then Teff, struck by Trawl’s trident. Your eyes move to Treech, and he is already looking at you, taking slow steps in your direction, axe at the ready. He is three feet away now. Two. One. Your noses are so close that it feels almost like intimacy, but his gaze is hard and resentful. He lifts his axe to kill you, and you find the movement to sink back, away from its blade. An arrow pierces his chest, sudden and sharp. He looks almost surprised. He looks like a boy. He looks like he hates you, and you are not sure which is worse: that he is dying or that he wants you dead.

He begins to sink to his knees, but his hand darts out to grasp your arm, pulling you forward into the blade of his axe. And you are screaming. Choking on your own blood but unable to stop yourself from falling further forward into the pain. Into him. 

There is a hand on your arm, and someone is shaking you awake. Your eyes peel open, and you fly into an open embrace. It smells like cedar. He smells like cedar, whispering words you know are meant to soothe, but the panic rises like bile in your throat at the sight of the boy who, only moments before, had looked at you as though you were nothing. Scum. You pull back, hands stretched out before you in defense, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed. Treech reaches out to steady you but thinks better of it as you cower further into the duvet.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but you have to breathe.”

He is right; the choked gasps for air are doing you no good, so you steady your eyes on him as he takes a deep breath, hand rising and falling with the action as though he is instructing you. You do the same, and as your gaze bores into his, you note no hatred within the look he gives you. Only concern and care. The emotions split his face open in a way you have only seen once before: that first night with his smile. You inch closer.

“You were screaming,” he says, huffing the words out like a breath. “I thought something was wrong– I thought–” 

“I’m okay. I’m okay now,” you reassure, noting the familiarity of your situation. “You can go now if you want to.” 

And you look away, not wanting to watch him leave.

“Do you want me to?” Your eyes dart up, meeting his gaze, vulnerability plastered plain and simple across your visage. You pause, considering his question. Considering the fear you had felt only moments ago as the same curly hair and soft eyes had attempted to end your life. Only that was not him. No. This boy is looking at you as though you are something to be protected, something worth saving.

“No.”

“I can sleep on the floor if you want, if–” he assures you.

“No.” You shake your head, moving over to allow him room, and he slides into the bed beside you.

“Could you–” you begin to ask almost absently, the way you would of Fawn.

“Of course.” And he reaches a gentle hand out to trace simple patterns into the fabric of your shirt, just as you had done for him. After a while, you turn to face him. Treech’s gaze searches your face intently. 

“You never answered my letter. You wrote me first, and then you just–”

“Don’t do this,” he asks, but it’s more like begging.

“I wanna know why. Tell me why,” you reply evenly, and a piece of hair falls into your face with a slight movement of your head. Treech reaches out automatically, brushing it behind your ear.

“You know why.”

“No, I–” “I heard your conversation with Teff and Trawl. You know why.” And the embarrassment of his admission has your cheeks feeling hot. Until you make a second connection.

“You also–”

“Stop.” You do. But you do not turn away, instead pressing in. Closer. He pauses for a moment before wrapping you in his arms, his voice merely a whisper against your forehead.

“Just for tonight.”

You are up early the next morning, though this time Treech is already awake, features hardened in comparison with last night, but his arms still locked around you in a tight embrace.

“I have to–”

“Go,” he answers, unraveling himself from you, and you stand, ushering him out the door so you can prepare to meet with your tributes for the first time since yesterday.

A Peacekeeper lets you into their suite after you make the journey down to the tenth floor, and when you enter, you see Calpurnia, already present, a spread of papers before her. There is food in the kitchen spread across the counter and a fresh pot of coffee, which you gladly indulge in before joining her on the couch. It is then that you see it. The small wooden box beside the television. You note with relief that it appears untouched and sip your coffee while waiting for the clock to strike 7:00 am, at which point you rise to knock on each of your two tributes’ doors. They exit not long after, picking at the food on the counter before settling onto the couch to hear you speak.

“Today, you will be taken to a training center to hone any skills you might have before being assessed tonight. Now, you may think the most important part of today is preparing yourself for combat, but I want you both to look at it as an opportunity to make allies.” Colt huffs from his place on the couch, and you attempt to level with him.

“Allies will be important–” you begin once more, but he cuts you off.

“We don’t need allies.” There is a finality to his tone, and you sense that this battle will not be an easy one.

“Well, then, you’re being arrogant,” you respond. The truth is harsh, but it is the truth. “Now you’ve got each other, and that’s a good start, but if you manage to align yourselves with another District–”

“Why should we listen to anything you have to say?” He cuts you off again, and this time, the disrespect in his voice is blatant. You look to Calpurnia, but her brow is furrowed in equal confusion at the sentiment.

“I– I’ve done this before. And survived, which is more than most people can say,” you tell him, doing your best to keep your voice from shaking.

“Yeah, barely. And if we’re being honest, it was probably just luck.”

“What?” You really aren’t sure what else to say. Where is this coming from?

“We watched your Games last night. Parts of it,” Bee speaks up for the first time from her place beside Colt.

Ah.

“My Game–”

“We need to get ready. For the Training Center, but we’ll see you there,” Colt states, standing from his place on the couch before stalking off to his room. Bee only gives you an empathetic nod but follows all the same. You remain stood in place until Calpurnia’s voice manages to pull you from your thoughts.

“Well, that could have gone better.”

“It’s official. My tributes hate me,” you mutter to Teff, who stands to your left. You are arranged in order of District, stood against the back wall of the Training Center as Coriolanus Snow delivers several opening remarks to the twenty-four tributes. Something about using the equipment and their time to the fullest. You do not listen. Instead, your thoughts swirl with concern. If you can not make your tributes trust you now, they never will. And in the Games, trust is everything. Colt’s face haunts your every breath. The frustration in his eyes. The words he so clearly longs to say. You’re pathetic. You’re not cut out for this. You will never be good enough to bring me home.

You are too distracted to hear Teff’s response. Too distracted to notice Treech’s eyes on you. And definitely too distracted to hear Snow the first time he speaks in your direction.

“So, any volunteers?”

“What’s happening?” You whisper to Treech, who fixes his gaze ahead. 

“Demonstration. He wants two of us to spar, to give the tributes an idea of how they should be training.” You swallow hard, mentally kicking yourself for not being more suspicious when Calpurnia provided you with training clothes as well this morning. Still, you say nothing.

“No one? Alright then, let’s just have our two most recent victors.” He smiles in your direction, and his blue eyes light up with a warning. The two most recent victors means you. You and–

Treech steps forward, making his way towards the wall of weapons without much hesitation, and his face, which only moments ago held concern for you, has morphed into something different. Something you recognize from the glimpses you had seen of his Games. It is as though he is playing a character. You follow his lead. 

You are not surprised at his decision to take the axe and you take your time in considering the possibilities offered by the wall. Your eye catches on a small knife hung beside a bundle of rope, and you take the rope first, unraveling it before tying a single quick knot and snagging the knife on your way toward the mat. 

Treech stands on the opposite end, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“You will go until one of you taps out,” Snow calls from off to the side, and you adjust your shoulders, loosening your frame. Across the makeshift ring, Treech speaks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.” 

It’s a bit like a slap in the face, and though there is a lightness to his voice, a teasing edge, you sense that there’s some truth in it. You’re pathetic. You’re not cut out for this. You will never be good enough to bring me home. You can feel Colt’s gaze hot on the back of your neck. You need this win. 

Treech blinks back at you, unmoving, before taking a step forward. He is confident. Too confident.

You toss the lasso in a loose arc across the ring. It lands just before Treech’s feet and he gives a quiet huff of laughter, eyes glinting at the prospect of an easy win.

“You missed,” he says, his face splitting open into a sly sort of smirk. One, you could imagine him donning in the arena before cleaving his axe clean through your skull. You only shrug, posture loose and unbothered. He steps forward as though baiting you, placing his foot inside the open loop of your lasso.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” he teases once more. And this time, you can’t fight it, the laughter that bubbles from your lips at his ego, the way it blinds him entirely. Then, you pull. Hard. 

The panic in his eyes is evident as he hits the ground with a thud, and you give another good yank, dragging his body closer within reach before lunging forward to pin him with your knee and bringing your knife to his throat. You pause for a moment, allowing yourself to soak in his surprise, before leaning forward to press your lips to his ear, speaking in a whisper meant for no one else. 

“Just because I didn’t go out of my way to kill anyone in my Games doesn’t mean I wasn’t capable. Remember that next time you’re thinking of going easy on me.” Treech gives the mat a series of three taps, and you pull back, releasing your grip on him before moving to stand.

His brow is furrowed as you lend him a hand, and you sense that you’ve revealed too much with your words, the insecurity you’d been battling to keep hidden gushing out in a moment of weakness. He says nothing. Only shakes your hand with a nod before moving off the mat. 

You turn to face the tributes, but your eye goes directly to Colt, his eyebrow still raised in a look of surprise. Beside him, Bee allows the beginnings of a smirk to grace her features. You will win them over, you think. You don’t have a choice.

Assessments go off without a hitch, and though Bee scores relatively low with a six, Colt manages to pull a nine, leaving you feeling a bit better about their initial odds. Several tributes stand out, including those from 1 and 2 and a boy from 8. There is also Trawl’s girl, Mags, who receives a ten, and you make a note to keep an eye out for her. With interviews on the horizon, you find yourself tucked away in the corner of Bee’s dressing room, doling out several last-minute pieces of advice, confident Calpurnia will have a much easier time convincing Colt to listen to her than you might. With Tigris and her team gone, it is just the two of you, and in her absence, you advance to fret a bit over Bee’s hair, tucking several pieces behind her ears and adding pins here and there.

Your thoughts travel briefly to Fawn, but you shake the connection, aware of the fact that it will only serve to weigh you down.

“And just remember to smile, and–”

“He doesn’t hate you, you know. He’s just worried, I think,” Bee says suddenly, eyes searching yours through your reflection in the mirror.

“But he doesn’t hate you. Calpurnia told us what you did, letting us see our families. He’s grateful; I know he is. And he remembers you. From when you were young together, he says. I know he’s mean sometimes, but promise me you’ll still help him?”

“Bee, I–”

“We both know he has a better chance and when I’m gone, you can’t just leave him to die. Please, promise me.” She is so young, you think. Sitting here, begging you to save Colt’s life. You crouch before her, grasping both of her hands in yours. 

“I know Colt is not evil. He’s just a kid. And I am going to do everything in my power to protect you. Both of you. I promise,” you nod at her, and she gives you a nod in turn. 

“Will you braid my hair? Before the Games tomorrow? I don’t want it to get in my face, and I never learned how.”

“Of course,” you say, but you look away, no longer able to conceal the tears in your eyes and wishing more than anything you could change the world. If only so that this little girl might go home.

It is nearly midnight when you arrive back at the hotel, and you decide to stay with your tributes for the night, sneaking up to your room for a blanket and pillow before returning downstairs. At 2:00 am, you have yet to go to sleep, working on some final paperwork assigned by the Capitol, when down the hall, you hear a creek. From the shadows, Colt emerges.

“Late night?” He asks, and for once, there is no malice in his tone.

“Just finishing a few things. You?” You reply, looking up to take him in. 

“Can’t sleep.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“No,” he huffs, and the guard is back up, but you will not allow this opportunity pass you by.

“Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. You think I’m a traitor. A sellout. That I have nothing to teach you. So, let’s start over,” you offer, and he gives you a long look, expression hard, before taking a seat on the other end of the couch.

“I am here as a job, yes. But not one I chose to do. It isn’t exactly a coincidence that the only victors who aren’t here are dead. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna do my best to get you through those Games.” Colt looks down at this, and you sense his guilt before you see it written across his face. Still, you continue.

“I didn’t win by slaughtering my opponents because I knew I couldn’t do it. Physically, I was capable. I knew all the right tendons to cut, all the places that hurt the most. You don’t learn nothing working in a slaughterhouse. But I knew, when it came down to it, that I couldn’t do that to another person for the sake of my own survival. So I outlived. I hid, and I survived. After 12 and 11 were gone, I knew that most of the other tributes had probably never gone for as long without food or water as I had before, so I waited. And eventually, the kids from 1 and 2, they hunted the rest of the tributes down. They were so hungry and dehydrated, I don’t think they could’ve remembered me if they’d tried. And then they started killing each other until there was only him. The boy from 2. Orion. The girl from 1 got him pretty good. And he was just laying there heaving and dying. Suffering. So I came out, and I could see it in his eyes. He thought he’d won. That it was over. I remember he just closed his eyes and nodded. He didn’t have to ask; I knew what he– Anyways, there is more than one way to win the Games. And if you will let me, I’d like to help you try.” 

By the end of the story, you are shaking, fighting hard to keep from crying. Colt’s expression reveals nothing, and you begin to sink in on yourself, certain that it's over. That you’ve lost him forever. 

And then he nods.

“I believe you. I believe in you,” he says, standing from his place across the couch. You breathe a sigh of relief, the weight on your chest lighter than it has been in days, only to return the moment he reaches the hallway, spinning back around to face you one final time.

You do not see Colt again before the Games begin, and though you manage a few moments alone with Bee, it is only because you begged Calpurnia for the right to braid her hair the night before.

The young girl is back in the clothes she was reaped in when you appear in the doorway of her room, gracing the wooden frame with a light knock that has her head twisting in your direction. She is afraid, that much is clear, fear leaking out of every open feature on her small face, and you take a moment to steady yourself in the way you often found yourself doing for Fawn when the weight of the world seemed too much. 

You do not say anything as you enter, only bringing your hands out from behind your back to reveal a brush and several small rubber bands meant to keep her hair in place, and she nods, giving you permission to advance further into the room. As you approach, Bee moves to stand, clearly eyeing the seat before the vanity in the corner of her room, but you only shake your head, climbing atop her mattress and positioning yourself behind her as she clings to the edge of the bed. Reaching a careful hand out, you smooth the mess of strands on her head before running the brush through the sea of chesnut locks. 

There is something soothing to the pattern of your motions, and you feel your own shoulders begin to lose some of their taut energy. Bee begins to relax as well, no longer visibly shaking as she leans her head back into your touch. 

Setting the brush down, you begin to section off the pieces, pulling them into a careful pattern on the back of her head, and suddenly, she feels so small. So much like Fawn, wolfing down the last of her toast before coming to sit before you, fidgeting with the sticky hands of a child. You want to cry, but you fight the urge, swallowing the pain in your chest in favor of focusing on the work at hand. Each fold in her hair feels like some sort of sacred spell, and you find yourself in a state near prayer, repeating the sentiments you had braided into Fawn only days ago. This child is loved. This child is loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

As you reach the last careful pleat, twisting a final band into Bee’s hair, the fear returns, flooding your system once more. The trance of the moment is gone in an instant, and bile rises slow and angry in the back of your throat. You are opening your mouth to say something, to croak out some useless sentiment, when she whips around to face you, burying herself in your chest, small arms coming up to grip you tightly. And it is all you can do to hold her in return, pressing her closer, closer, and placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head. She doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this. 

“Thank you,” Bee whispers, and it is muffled by the fabric of your shirt, but that does not stop you from catching the wetness in her voice. You do not reply, afraid your own voice might crack if the words on your lips bubble out. Instead, you nod, pulling her tighter against you until it is time to go. Until the Peacekeepers arrive at the door to her room, ushering the two of you apart, and even then, it is a moment before you relinquish the girl to their grasp, slipping a single already loose strand behind her ear and drying some of the tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. And you don’t know what else to say so you repeat her words from only moments before.

“Thank you.” For you allowing me to know you. Even in small part. Even in the worst days of your life. Thank you.

When the Peacekeepers come for Bee, several more follow to collect you, bringing you down to the lobby where you are met with the other mentors. Most look as though they have been up for hours, and several, including Treech, look like they haven’t slept at all. Your brow creases in concern as you cross to stand by his side. 

“You look exhausted,” you state, restraining yourself from reaching out to tidy his curls.

“Thanks. You look like shit, too,” he grumbles in reply before his head shoots up, a slow look of regret spreading over his features. “I mean, like you haven’t slept– Like there are bags under– But you look gr– fine.”

“Thanks,” you respond, though it sounds more like a question as you say it. “Did you get any food this morning? Coffee?” 

“Yeah, I had coffee. I had a cup of– like four cups of coffee,” Treech speaks, nodding at the end of each new phrase as though reassuring himself he’s finished speaking. His hands are shaking.

“Nothing to eat?” You ask, looking around to ensure no one is looking before taking one of his hands into yours and pressing it flat between your palms. You try not to think too hard about the movement. About the implications that follow. About the feeling of his fingers grazing your wrist ever so slightly.

“I– I–” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and you feel his hand move, snaking around to give yours a squeeze. “No.” You nod, understanding. You’d barely been able to manage the piece of toast you’d forced down your throat this morning. Still, you dip your hand into your pocket, producing a napkin from the hotel room with a small croissant wrapped neatly inside.

“I saved it in case I got hungry later, but honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it if I wanted to,” you say, extending it in his direction. And for a moment, Treech only looks at you, eyes wide and unsure, but you nod, and the spell on him seems to break as he reaches for the food and begins to eat, slowly at first, then nearly inhaling it.

Not even five minutes later, the group of Peacekeepers begins to usher you outside, this time filing the group of you into a single van, and you find yourself wedged in between Teff and Treech, the latter looking a bit better after having eaten something. To your other side, Teff appears nervous, pulling repeatedly at his collar and drumming his fingers in a smooth pattern against his knee. You fix your eyes ahead, meeting the gaze of Lux, and even her typically unshakeable composure seems to be caving slightly as she digs ardently at her nailbeds, nearly tearing at the skin. Casting your gaze down once more, you try to breathe, but each inhale feels ragged, as though there is no amount of oxygen you can take in that might be enough. The van jolts to a stop. 

When the double doors to the back swing open, you fight the urge to wince at the sunlight that pours in, nearly blinding you with its intensity. Instead, you attempt to get a good look at your surroundings, feeling your gut begin to sink at the sea of red just visible from your place so deep in the van. You recognize it easily, though, from last year’s Games. Academy Red. It is not difficult to recall the hours of footage taped within the Academy, putting all those selected for mentorship positions on display, and you wonder if this year will be the same. If they will make you a part of the show or keep the cameras confined to Flickerman out of fear of detracting too much from the action with your presence.

It is two Peacekeepers to a person as they guide you inside, and frankly, you’re surprised they don’t chain your wrists and ankles. You remember the man with the white hair and all his talk about appearances and making victory an honor. This must be your reward. But how free is a dog without a leash if there is still a gun pointed at its back, keeping it in place? 

You ignore the sick feeling in your stomach, thrusting your shoulders back and keeping your head held high; you have to be calm. For Bee. For Colt. You have to be calm for them. 

When you enter the room, which appears to be more of a lecture hall, it is set up in an odd fashion. The screens at the front mirror their positions from last year, with one for each tribute and a larger screen at the center, which would likely stream the Games, but with eight desks, the surrounding area looks sparse and pathetic. Especially given that the desks for 1 and 2 are pushed together to facilitate better communication between mentors with partners. You breathe another unsteady exhale as you are led forward, brought to stand beside a chair painted with a large 10 in between those for 7 and 11. This is really happening.

No one speaks, with the exception of the large audience of Academy students being led into the surrounding stands. From the back of the room, you recognize the particularly grating voice of Lucky Flickerman, and a single glance over your shoulders reveals that he is seated at a table, a half-drunk martini in his hand and his microphone just in front of him. The man with the white hair is there. Snow. He stands before the central screen, and after a few moments of waiting for the crowd to settle, he begins to speak.

“Dr. Gaul will be here momentarily to join us for the beginning of the Games, but for now, I would like to get a few things straight. As mentors, this is where you will remain until the end of the Games. Food and drinks will be provided three times a day and aside from use of the bathrooms, you will not leave this room until we have crowned a victor. This applies even if your tributes are dead. Now, the Games will begin following the countdown, as I am sure you are all aware, and they will also be televised in their entirety. That means if Lucky Flickerman is on screen, you are too, so look alive.” Snow continues to ramble, but you find your attention elsewhere, lingering on the two screens marked with Bee and Colt’s faces. Beside each is a number, and it doesn’t take you more than a second to register that they mark the donations received by your tributes. Your gut sinks at Bee’s measly sum of 82, and your eyes flit down to your screen, scanning your options. Not even enough for a bottle of water. 

There is a sudden noise at the back of the room as the double doors are flung open. Your head jerks in the direction of the disturbance only to be met with an odd-looking woman, each eye a different color and her hands tucked away in a set of latex gloves. It is unnerving the way she surveys you. All of you, victors, as though you are prey, and for the first time since the arena, the hair on the back of your neck raises with the distinct feeling that you are being hunted.

You swallow hard and look away, training your eyes ahead on the screen, trying not to flinch at the sounds of her footsteps echoing throughout the cavernous space. Two desks down from yours, Trawl shivers visibly. She reaches the center of the room.

“Welcome, victors; we are so pleased each of you was able to join us for this momentous occasion.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with something poisonous. Something like a threat, and you begin to feel as though you are missing some key piece of information. “Mr. Flickerman, whenever you are ready, I believe all of the tributes are in place.”

From the back of the room, Lucky Flickerman grumbles something about having to run on other people’s schedules before standing from his seat and making his way to the front. 

“Alright, people, try not to look so vaguely threatening and downtrodden; you’re going to be on television, for God’s sake.” He clears his throat, doing what appears to be a vocal warm-up of some sort before nodding to the man behind the camera. Somewhere behind you, a man’s voice counts down from three. 

“Hello and welcome to the eleventh annual Hunger Games. I’m your host, Lucretius ‘Lucky’ Flickerman, and joining me today are the eight mentors for this year’s tributes. Speaking of tributes, it looks like we are just about ready to begin, so without further ado, let’s switch over to those arena cameras.” 

Behind him, the emblem of Panem vanishes, fading into black, before a brand new image populates the screen.

“What the fuck?” You don’t mean to let it slip; you are on national television, after all, but when the darkness lifts, you really aren’t sure what else to do. The cornucopia is there. That much you recognize. And the tributes, they still stand in a wide-spread circle around it. But it is not the stadium you recall from your Games. Instead, the tributes find themselves on an island of sorts, lush with grass and surrounded by a stream that departs into smaller floods behind them, shooting off into a large wooded area. Although, upon second glance, the stream seems too deep to really qualify as anything less than a river, cutting all twenty-four children off from the safety of the treeline.

“This isn’t the arena!” Antonia whips around to face Dr. Gaul, rage evident in her features. The woman only smiles. Still, that does not stop Teff from making his own demand.

“Where are they?” 

“Well, if you must ask, since the rebel forces in the Districts thought it appropriate to bomb the old arena, we decided to go a different direction this year.”

“That’s not fair,” Beau barks, and his words almost seem like a snarl. “You should have told us– We would have trained them differently!” At the front of the room, Lucky Flickerman’s faux smile begins to dissipate. 

“Could we try not to disrupt the broadcast–” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“If you would like to leave, I’m sure your tributes would be very understanding if we notified them you’ve given up.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with a sickening sweetness.

“We can’t leave. You made that clear when we got here,” Treech growls, and the woman before you feigns a look of surprise.

“Oh? Did we? Well then, I suppose you will just have to adapt.”

There is a tall sign attached to the cornucopia, with a facade of LED lights, much like an old scoreboard; you recognize it from your own Games. As Lucky Flickerman clears his throat once more, it begins to count down. 10. Your eyes do a frantic search of the screen, scanning for Bee’s chestnut braid and Colt’s broad build. You only manage to find the latter. 9. You watch as he steadies himself, crouching as though preparing for a race. And really, it is a race, but you want to shake your head and scream, recalling the advice you had drilled into each of their heads in the prior days. Do not engage with the cornucopia. 8. She catches your eye finally. Bee. Her hands are curled into two neat fists by her side. You swallow hard. 7. You watch her spot Colt, several platforms away. Stay together. Please, God, stay together. 6. For a moment, you are back in the arena. The boy from 5 twitches in his place, and you want to reach out and steady him. But it is not real, and he is dead. 5. 4. Your hands are shaking. Your breath is unsteady. Treech is looking at you.

3. Something moves in the water. Something large.

2. The boy from 8 steps off his platform a split second too early. It blows. To his left, Bee brings both hands up to shield her face, sinking away in panic. Her heel nearly slips, and you feel like throwing up. 

1. The room is silent. Dead silent. On the screen, the tributes begin to run.

Bee skids backward off the platform, landing awkwardly in the grass. She plants her hands at her sides, lifting herself slightly, and you watch as her gaze veers toward the remains of the boy from 8, who was dead before he hit the ground.

“Don’t look. Don’t look,” you mutter to yourself, hand gripping the back of your seat. Any of the mentors have yet to sit down.

Five platforms away, Colt is mere feet from the cornucopia, and you narrow your eyes, attempting to spot exactly what he’s going for. On one of the rocks close to the mouth, there is a machete propped atop a bundle of rope. Smart boy, you think. If he can reach it in time, the other half of your mind taunts distantly.

Back at her platform, Bee is still struggling to stand, knees visibly shaking even through the distant footage. Several yards away, the first of the tributes have managed to make it to the river. Almost simultaneously the boy from 2 reaches the cornucopia, turning, knife in hand, out towards the approaching competition. In a flash of silver, the weapon has lodged itself in the chest of the girl from 5. A loud signal sounds throughout the room, marking her death. 

The girl from 11 takes a careful step into the water, and you wade through thick memories in an attempt to pull forward her name. Olive, your brain supplies. You wait, breathing seemingly suspended as she plunges deeper into the expanse, and feel beside you as Teff tenses. She is older, you note. Probably about eighteen. Her last year in the reaping. She nods to the boy on the bank, her District partner, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Then, so fast you think you may have imagined it, she disappears, yanked below the surface. Teff steps forward, hand reaching subtly from his side as though he intends to save her. There is thrashing at the surface, and over by the cornucopia, another tribute falls, the boy from 3. Olive’s head reappears, and she is screaming, a swirling mass of scales encircling her throat. Arms dart out, grasping and pulling at whatever is urging her downward. She disappears again, and this time, she does not resurface. The alarm rings out, and Teff stumbles back, sinking into his chair. You want to go to him. You cannot. Colt has reached the cornucopia.

He is off as soon as the rope and machete are in his grasp, and you note that the girl from 1 has armed herself with a crossbow. Not good. She loads it with ease, and a single bolt whistles through the air, piercing the stomach of the boy from 12. His District partner, who had been making her way to his platform, likely in an attempt to coax the poor frozen boy to flee with her, lets out a vicious scream, and you shudder at the pain, raw and palpable in her voice. She eyes something on the ground before picking it up and beginning to advance on the responsible party. A sword, you quickly note. Her eyes are alight with rage. With the promise of vengeance and, she looks almost like an angel of death, setting out to reap the soul of her fellow tribute. The girl from 1 stumbles back. In shock or fear, you are uncertain, but you can see the pace of her breathing increase as she fumbles to load another bolt. It clicks into place and she raises the crossbow, sending it whizzing straight past her target. Celica, you note from the screen plastered with the District 12 girl’s face. She continues her advance, slowing now as she grows closer. The girl from 1 loads another bolt, and this one hits, piercing through Celica’s shoulder. She growls, and it is tinged with a muffled sound of pain, but does not stop. Another shot sounds off, this one entering her stomach, and her advance, though slow, continues until she is only inches away from the girl from 1, her head dipped to load the weapon a final time. She never does. The sword enters her stomach and she looks up, something mirroring surprise painting her features. Both girls sink to their knees together, and it is odd the way they collapse forward, almost appearing as though they are intertwined in an embrace. The alarm sounds twice, a piercing buzz amid the chaos, and Lux lets out a sob.

Bee is on her feet now, head whipping around in wide arcs. She is looking for Colt. He moves in her direction with a sort of urgency in his step, ducking his head and just missing the blade of another knife sent spiraling across the arena by the boy from 2. Instead, it plants itself in the neck of the boy from 4, who collapses to the ground, blood leaking from his open mouth. Trawl lets out a string of words you don’t quite understand before turning away for just a moment, eyes brimming with grief. You are so distracted you almost forget to note the girl from 2, slowly approaching Bee from her right side. The small girl does not seem to see, still slowly approaching the river, eyeing the boy from 11 as though assessing the threat. Where the fuck is Colt? You note Mags, Trawl’s girl from 4 nearby, eyes lingering on the still coughing form of her District partner from the water’s edge. She notes the option to escape but forgoes it, turning back towards the boy to kneel down beside him. 

“What is she doing?” Trawl questions, face white with fear.

“She’s making sure he doesn’t die alone,” Treech responds, voice flat with detachment, but his eyes tell a different story.

The girl from two is almost on Bee now, grasp firm around the bar mace in her hand, and like a shining light in the dark, there he is. Colt. Leaping in front of Bee and swinging his machete around in a wide, arcing motion. The message is clear. Get back. Her eyes narrow, but she seems to think better of attacking the pair, turning her gaze back toward her District partner. The alarm sounds. The boy from 4 is dead, and Mags reaches forward to brush his eyes closed before turning to survey her surroundings. You watch her eyes land on the boy from 11, and you feel a thick bile begin to creep up your throat, unsure if you can watch her kill him. At only 12, he is the youngest tribute in this year’s Games. 

Across the arena, you watch as both the tributes from 7 and 6 assess the river, clearly considering the safest means of crossing. Beside you, Treech is completely still. You watch as the boy from 6 begins to back away, preparing to take the leap, before sprinting forward and pushing off the ground. He clears it, though not by much, and you fight the urge to gasp at his actions. The girl from 7 approaches next, soaring across, followed by the girl from 6. 

A field away, Colt seems to realize that Bee will never make the jump alone. He dips, whispering something to her before staying bent over to allow her to climb onto his back. No. They’ll be too heavy. There’s no way they’ll make it. 

He backs up. Mags is a foot away from the boy from 11, and he whips around to face her, eyes wide with fear. She lifts up a hand. To push him– No. He flinches away, but she does not continue her approach, only offering her open palm. He eyes it suspiciously, then looks over her shoulder, seeming to note the four approaching tributes from 1, 2, and 3. He takes her hand.

Mags pulls the pair back and, almost in unison with Bee and Colt, they start toward the river. Bee’s eyes are screwed shut, hands digging into the fabric of Colt’s shirt. Similarly, the boy from 11 looks petrified. All four reach the edge of the grass and jump, and when they collapse on the other side, it is nearly in a pile, but they all make it over. You breathe a sigh of relief, attention shifting back to the boy from 7 who takes the leap and seems to clear the bound until his heel slips, footing on the bank failing, and he tumbles into the water. His District partner darts forward, instinct probably, but it is no use; the river seems to swallow him whole, and unlike Olive, he sinks like a stone.

Treech’s face remains cold and unfeeling, but his fist clenches and unclenches by his side, and in a single, barely noticeable movement, he flexes his jaw, huffing out a long breath.

You are not sure when, but the male tributes from 5 and 9 have died, their screens overlayed with the Capitol’s domineering emblem. The girl from 8 is gone too, putting the death toll at twelve, only seven minutes in. Half the tributes gone in one day. You sigh, sinking into the chair beside you, watching as Colt and Bee make for the woods. Still alive. Not safe, but still alive.

After several hours of seeming inactivity, the Academy students begin to lose interest. Several stand to leave following the bloodbath, and most follow in the remaining hours of the day. This year’s pack quickly set up camp in the cornucopia, likely gleaning security from the surrounding waters while the remaining tributes spread themselves in the woods, most using the remaining daylight to search for food and a safe water source.

You give Teff a quick squeeze on his shoulder as you pass behind him to pour your third cup of coffee, and he pauses his conversation with Trawl momentarily to give you a solemn nod. The District 4 mentor does the same, face lacking its typical mischievous smirk. They both look exhausted already, grief topping most shoulders like a wet blanket, heavy and inescapable. 

You snag a mug for Treech as well before reconsidering, having remembered his shaking hands from the morning and reaching for a water bottle instead. 

On your way back to your seat, you nearly collide head-on with Lux, who scoffs, sending a pointed glare in your direction, and you almost ignore it. Almost.

“I’m sorry. About your tribute.” She has only just whisked past you when you speak, and for a moment, she freezes in place before spinning slowly to face you, eyes still cold.

“I don’t need your apology.”

“I’m not trying to–” you start, but she cuts you off. 

“Don’t.” And this time, her eyes soften as though she is trying to say something else. You aren’t sure you understand, and suddenly, Lux steps forward, painting her face with the meanest look she can muster before whispering in your ear.

“If you apologize for every lost tribute, you are going to spend the rest of your life swimming in guilt. Don’t start now. Not when we both know this isn’t your fault.”

When she steps back, she gives you a shove. Not hard, but enough to jostle the coffee in your cup and it spills over slightly, dripping onto your sleeve. When she walks away, several sets of eyes are trained on you, but you fix your gaze ahead, feigning frustration and moving to approach Treech.

“What happened there?” He asks, lifting a single brow in question.

“Nothing. Just Lux being Lux,” you say, taking your seat beside him. And really, it’s not untrue, but no one needs to know the rest.

“If you say so,” he mumbles, just as the camera view switches to his remaining tribute, Hazel, who has secured herself a spot tucked away in the trees for the night.

“Brought you a water,” you say, extending the bottle in his direction. He reaches to take it from you absently, accidentally brushing his fingers against your own. His eyes flit in your direction at the contact, but he doesn’t say a word, only uncapping it to take a sip.

You watch him closely, the bags beneath his eyes far worse than two nights ago. Far worse than when you had– Not the time. You shake the thought from your head, and for a while, it does not plague you. But it is still there, lurking beneath the surface. Had he had another nightmare? Trouble sleeping in his room all alone? Had he slept at all? It was a miracle you had made it through the night without anyone beside you. You recall the couch in your tributes’ suite. The silence of the room. No muffled snores from Treech or movement from Fawn. No distant babble from Lennox’s bed, who could hold a whole conversation in his sleep if pressed. Just the ticking of the clock hung on the sterile hotel wall. Overpowering. Constant. A reminder that time will pass and you will remain here in this cycle. 

From his place beside the screen, Lucky Flickerman interrupts your thoughts.

“So, how about that river?”

The next day passes without much activity, and you find yourself beginning to doze off on the third day when the screen suddenly switches to Colt and Bee, monitoring an avid discussion between the pair.

“I don’t like it,” Colt states, crossing his arms and pinning her with a hard look.

“Just for a little while. Come on, we’ll cover more ground that way,” Bee pleads. “We have to find water.” Colt only continues to stare her down, uncertainty plastered all over his face, and you find yourself sitting up, mentally pleading with him to say no.

“Come on, you idiot, it’s not worth it,” you mutter, causing Teff to look over in your direction.

“Fine. But we meet back here in one hour. And if anything happens, you start screaming.” No.

“That seems inadvisable,” Bee snarks and you almost forget your frustration, so caught off guard by her wit.

“I don’t care. So help me, God, if you die out there, I will bring you back so I can kill you again myself.” Colt threatens, but it is all empty, affection seeping into the edges of his tone. Your heart feels as though it is folding in on itself, and you recall Bee’s words from the night of her interview. We both know he has a better chance and when I’m gone, you can’t just leave him to die. Please, promise me. When. The word rings out in your head, pounding against the inside of your skull. When.

The two part from one another with nothing more than a shared nod, and you find yourself standing from your seat, wringing your hands. 

Twenty minutes pass, and your heart rate is through the roof. The camera sticks with Bee until it doesn’t. Until it is just behind the girl from 9, peeking out over the shrubs. Watching your tribute. Something in her hand glints. A knife.

“Fuck–” You feel the gazes of the other mentors hot on your neck, but you do not care. All you care about is the girl on the screen, eyes fixed on the bush beside her, inspecting its berries. The girl from 9 begins to stand, having inched close enough to safely lunge for Bee. And then she does. And all you want to do is look away, but you can’t, eyes glued to the screen and wide with fear. The young girl begins to scream, thrashing in her attacker’s grip. Your eyes brim with tears, hot and angry. You do not move, completely powerless.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a trident thrusts itself through the girl from 9’s torso. She lets out a yelp before sinking down on top of Bee, unmoving. Distantly, you hear the alarm sound, but it is not over yet. Colt carries a machete, and as far as you know, none of the tributes had left the cornucopia with a trident, which means– The girl from 2 steps into frame, fixing Bee with the same look she had only two days ago, and you want to cringe away from the scene. With a single move, she kicks the body from on top of the young girl, leaving her to scoot away, hands pressing into the dirt. Behind her, you note the presence of her District partner, several throwing knives tucked away in his belt. Still, he stands cool and unmoving, simply observing the scene before him. The girl points her trident at Bee, who kicks out at her feet, attempting to sabotage her balance. It does not work, and she continues her slow advance until Bee is pinned back to a tree. She raises the weapon, and there is a sharp intake of breath from behind her. The alarm sounds. Her District partner hits the ground with a thud, revealing a visibly displeased Colt.

“What did I tell you about dying?” Relief floods your lungs in one swift motion, and you want to sink to your knees and give thanks to whatever higher power has just allowed Colt to find Bee, but the moment is shortlived as the girl from 2 darts forward, thrusting her trident in Colt’s direction. He catches it before the blow can land, his machete lodging itself between two of the prongs, but she pulls back, swinging again with a speed he can’t match, this time piercing through the muscle in his shoulder.

“No!” And you aren’t sure if it’s you screaming or Bee, but suddenly, she’s on her feet, launching herself onto the other girl’s back and wrapping both arms around her neck. The girl from 2 stumbles before steeling her gaze and slamming herself back into a tree, causing Bee to cry out in pain and release her hold. She hits the ground with a thud only to shrink as the larger girl pivots, fixing her with a glare.

“Bee!” Colt calls out, moving in her direction, and it is almost as though she is the only other person in the world. You think of Colt’s sister, only a year older than Bee, and you recognize that look. It is the same one you give Fawn. It is deadly. 

Bee sees it coming first, the way the girl from 2 whips around, drawing the trident back. Her hands surge forward as though it can be prevented. As though her weak grip might be enough. It is not. And she is looking at Colt, and he is looking at her, saying something indecipherable before his shaking hand reaches down to graze the three prongs impaled in his stomach. 

The girl from two moves to pull it out. To leave him bleeding and twitching on the forest floor, but he grips the handle, keeping it steady, before with one final ragged breath, bringing his machete in a wide, arcing slash across her face. 

She screams, gripping the wound that cuts straight through her eye, and you note that it must be surface level, though you would not be shocked if the attack left her blinded. Still, no amount of screaming can drown out what happens next.

Colt hits his knees, and the whole forest seems to shake with the impact. You want nothing more than to reach out and touch him. To wipe the sweat from his brow and promise him it will be alright. You think of the sister he will never see again. Of the children, she will have someday who will hear his name spoken in tales, a whispered fable at the dinner table. You remember his father, who had worked so closely alongside yours; Colt’s face the echo and legacy of all his achievements. Of days spent in the slaughterhouse when he was too small to pull his own weight, and you would slip some extra meat into his scale so that he might meet 

the required amount. Of the story, he never finished telling you on your final day. Something about Old Man Higgins from down the street being so blind he wore his shoes to work on the wrong feet. You long to hear it again. To hear the sound of his laugh, lighter then, fill the space between you. You would listen to the ending a thousand times if it meant you could hear it just once.

You do not speak at first, feet rooted to the ground as you take him in, and really, he is not so odd, but there is something different about him. Something you can’t recall having seen in years. His hair is the same, just as long as the last time you saw him, though perhaps a bit more unkept as a result of the long train ride over. Nothing about him seemed out of place at first glance. Still, you are sure to check again. You always check again with Treech. But it’s not there, the change you are looking for. No. It is in his eyes. Careful. Steady. Unguarded. Pooling with– 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” But you shake the thought because this is Treech, and the last time he looked at you like that, he had been sure to let you know it was a lie. He merely balks at your tone, flat and unimpressed, leaving you to huff and roll your eyes before pushing past him to guide Bluebell toward her stall without a second glance.

“You weren’t at the train station this morning.” You nearly freeze at the weight of his words. He had been looking for you, or at least intrigued enough to note your missing presence.  But how had he known to find you here? The mayor certainly had no idea as to your whereabouts. Sure, Calpurnia may have made a good guess, but she had long since stopped trying to stick her nose in your business. And more importantly, how had he managed to slip away from the festivities unnoticed? Questions clutter your mind faster than you are able to supply them with makeshift answers. Still, you don’t ask.

“I had work.” And you don’t have to see him to know he is narrowing his eyes just behind you, face probably painted with the same scrutiny he typically reserved for lectures from Hilarius.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to work anymore. Isn’t that the whole point of victory? A quiet life of rest?” You can’t resist huffing out a laugh at the familiar snark that edges its way into his tone, and for a moment, you are both eighteen again, scared shitless and shoulder to shoulder on a train headed for the Capitol. It doesn’t last.

“Well, I don’t see them here putting me under arrest, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep at it.” As you reach Bluebell’s stall, you feel Treech hesitate at the door, and a look over your shoulder confirms he has trained a weary gaze on the horse. You muffle a laugh, and his face hardens into a glare.

“The mayor said you weren’t feeling well.” Ah. So that’s why he is here. To catch you in a lie. You shrug in response and listen to the sound of his nervous shuffling before Treech forces himself to speak once more.

“Crowd was pretty focused on Maple, so I– Well, I snuck off. Thought I’d check in at your house, but you weren’t there. Obviously. Your sister said I might find you here.” You feel your shoulders tense. 

“You talked to Fawn?” Your voice is cold and sharp as the words pass your lips, and Treech is quick to raise both hands in defense. 

“I’m not here to– I want to talk to you,” he begins, but you can feel yourself already starting to lose patience.

“Why? You haven’t cared about me in years.” He looks hurt when you turn to face him, shoulders sagged and his eyes heavy with apparent exhaustion.

“I–” His eyes flit to the upper corner of the stall. To the camera used by the Peacekeepers on duty to ensure you are on task at all times. “Is there–” And no, Treech isn’t your favorite these days, but you understand immediately, halting yourself in the process of removing Bluebell’s saddle. You are supposed to be back at the bunkhouse for lunch in ten minutes. Lunch, midday meeting, and then the rest of the day off, your boss, a short, stalky man who had grown up with your father, had insisted, not wanting you to get yourself into any more trouble.

“I have to make a call.” You pronounce each word slowly, the implication heavy in your voice, before dropping both hands from Bluebell’s side to make for the phone beside the double doors to enter the barn.

Treech has never seen a horse before. Well, maybe that’s not completely true. He could remember seeing a couple of your sketches from back home and the old photographs from his textbooks in school, but to be face to face with the creature felt completely different. It is large, barely moving aside from the occasional shifting of its legs or a slow blink, though the remainder of the barn is filled with their subtle sounds, huffing and knocking at the ground with their great hooves. He swallows the air in his lungs, pushing it further down and taking a step back so that he comes in contact with the wall. The horse swats at several flies with its tail in a single practiced motion. Treech thinks about stepping out of the stall completely, and it is only as he turns his head to consider an escape route, back still flat against the wood-paneled wall, that he notes that you have returned. 

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed tight across your chest and eyes gently considering his situation. Though, he can sense something else as well, a brewing aura of mischief as you stifle another laugh at his expense.

“It’s not funny. That thing is really big,” he mumbles, and you allow a full-on chuckle to escape. The sound of it fills his chest with warmth.

“It’s a little funny, given that you're about to get on one of these things.” The warmth is gone in an instant.

“What?” 

“Only way to get where we’re going. Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your day walking.” Treech swallows hard, face drained of the vast majority of its color. He looks as though he might be sick.

“Don’t worry, you can take Baxter. He only bites a little.”

At nineteen, Baxter is one of the oldest horses in the barn, docile and gentle with age. Still, Treech doesn’t know that, and you make no effort to tell him as you journey out with a tight grip on his lead and your own. The man beside you is stiff as a board, though you’re surprised to see his grip on the bridle has loosened significantly over the last thirty minutes.

There are three blind spots in the entirety of the ranch when it comes to cameras. The first is where most ranchers take their smoke breaks, though it is commonly occupied and never lacking in company. The second is the small stretch of land between the showers and the bunkhouse and the third is at the very periphery of the ranch, where someone a long time ago cut the wires on a camera no one ever bothered to fix. That is where you are headed now, and you feel your shoulders sink in relief as it comes into view just over the next hill. Relief, which you assure yourself, has nothing to do with the tense form beside yours and his comfort whatsoever. 

Getting Treech onto the horse had been seemingly more trouble than it was worth as you coaxed him into mounting following several demonstrations, only to be forced to start from ground zero after Baxter chose to adjust his stance as Treech lifted a foot to the stirrup.

“This thing is trying to kill me.”

“I promise you he is not.”

Still, concern over his perceived well-being had long since stopped being a pressing issue for you, though even you can admit seeing Treech in any real danger always sent a sharp twinge through your chest.

Upon arrival, you give the reins a quick tug, signaling it is time to stop before swinging yourself off of Bluebell and tying both leads to a nearby post. Treech is admittedly steadier on the dismount, probably out of sheer desperation to come in contact with the ground once more. However, he stumbles a bit as his feet hit the dirt, and you note the immediate distance he creates between himself and Baxter. 

“It’s safe here since you’re so hellbent on talking.” You toss the words over your shoulder, focus locked in on checking Bluebell’s saddle for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing catches your eye, but then, you knew it wouldn’t, using the task at hand as a welcome distraction from the itch of the gaze on the back of your neck.

“I didn’t– I–” Treech’s words seem to trip over themselves on their journey out of his mouth, and you find yourself surprised at the uncharacteristic nervousness in his tone. A glance in the man’s direction reveals his body to be giving the same impression, eyes darting in an awkward dance around each feature on your face, hands clasped tightly together.

“If you have something to say, you might as well just say it. I’m not gonna be all ears for forever–” His eyes are steady now, fixed on you with the only emotion you have known them to hold for what has become the majority of your time together. Frustration. Anger.

“Would you stop that?”

“Stop what? I’m just saying you should probably pick up the pace. I mean, how long do you really think the crowd is gonna go without noticing that the Capitol’s favorite pretty boy is missing in action–” You are agitating him on purpose; there’s no question about it. But what’s the fun in letting him have it easy now? After what he did? After the way he left you feeling all that time ago?

“Stop! Patronizing me! Just let me explain. God, when did you become so mean?” Your body goes rigid, and regret, immediate and palpable, paints itself across his face. 

“Mean? You wanna talk to me about mean?”

“No! I– You know I didn’t– Fuck me, I’m messing this all up.” And really, you’re ready to pounce. To take four years of heartache and anguish and make every second of pain his problem. But then it happens, so subtle you almost don’t catch it, at the tail end of his last sentence. A break. A warble. Call it what you want; you can hear the tears, and any snide remarks die on your tongue at the sound. 

“Can I start again? Please?” He doesn’t deserve it. Won’t even meet your eye to ask, but something about how he looks, the way he had at eighteen, that first night at the bar, so hopeless and lost, makes you give in.

“Whatever, sure.”

“I– Do you remember that night I came to your room after that first party at the President’s mansion?” His hands on your waist. Your fingers deep in his curls. His lips pressed against yours. Close. So close.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you remember the morning after?” Treech reappearing in your room just as sleep began to slug off, presumably attending to business of some sort. Presumably deciding he didn’t want you anymore. 

“Look, if you just came here to relive the glory of telling me–”

“Do you remember that phone call I got?” Phone call? For Treech? In your room? Phone call. It must have been close to seven in the morning. He’d bent down and kissed you goodbye on his way out the door. How could you let that slip?

“Well, it was from Snow.” Your heart just about stops in your chest, mind moving a million miles an hour and though you probably don’t need Treech to explain the rest, he goes on.

“He saw us together. I guess there were cameras in the Victor’s Suite. He called me that morning. In your room. That’s when I should have known something was wrong, but I still managed to get all the way to the end of the hall before having the brain to realize something was up. Anyways, he– He told me I had to end things. Two victors from different Districts? People might get the wrong idea. Said he wouldn’t go after us. That he’d start with our families. With your family. And I knew I couldn’t do that to you.”

“And look, you’ve always been braver than me. I was worried if I just told you, you’d get it in your head that we could fight this. You know? Find some way to defy fate. So I told you I didn’t want you. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe.” He stops and though he hasn’t even been talking for that long, he looks as though he’s out of breath. You feel lightheaded.

“Wh– Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because about two years into my genius plan I realized that I was probably doing a pretty shitty job of looking out for you if I didn’t even know what was going on with you anymore. You can’t protect someone you don’t know and I made you into a stranger,” he finishes, eyes scanning the grass as though each individual blade were the most interesting thing in the world. That’s probably why he doesn’t see it coming. Your first shove that is. Still, by the second one, he seems almost resigned to the onslaught.

“You. Are. Such. An. Idiot. I can’t believe you. I hate you so much.” But there is no real malice to the words and he catches your fist, tight in his hand as you bring it down to punctuate the end of your final sentence.

“I– uhm–” And he goes to speak, but perhaps realizes just how close the two of you are, faces only inches apart. You breathe him in, the same scent of cedar still populating the space around him. You want to sink down inside it. Want to kiss his face. His lips. Dig your hands into the curls you have not touched in four years. Your mind flashes with memories of that last night. Of the morning after. Of the things he’d said. You pull away.

“Well, don’t expect me to just come crawling back to you. I do have dignity, you know.” 

“Right, of course.” Treech brings a hand up to scratch at the back his neck. The same nervous tick from all those years ago.

“But– Maybe we could try being friends again.” And there he is, all open and smiling and bright. And your heart warms at the sight.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Upon your return to the barn, with you having guided both horses back at a far more leisurely pace, you promise to meet again before tonight’s event at City Hall at your house in the Victor’s Village. The trek home isn’t so bad with his company, and you spend the time filling in the gaps four years had left you with before bidding him farwell and parting ways.

You’ve only just finished buttoning your jeans when Lennox appears at the door to your room. Since your move to the Victor’s Village, you often found yourself longing for the closeness you once shared with your siblings. Still, they found ways to get under your skin even in a house as impossibly big as the one the Capitol had so generously gifted you. 

Your father's vest still fits like a glove with the alterations your mother had made several years ago, its denim softened by age and still smelling faintly of tobacco, the one habit your father never could quite shake. 

With one final glance at the garment and an additional once-over of your outfit, you had turned to face the youngest member of your family, only to discover something missing from his newly pressed dress shirt. 

“What the–”

That was fifteen minutes ago, though no amount of time passed seemed to be bringing you any closer to an answer.

“Lennox, I don’t understand. Where did the first three buttons on your shirt go?” 

“I dunno.” Still, the boy refuses to meet your gaze, and something about him reeks of a lie. You crouch to deliver your next sentence, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Well, you better start thinking because it’s not like buttons just get up and walk away.” He squirms beneath the weight of your calculating stare, which holds him unrelentingly, hands coming up to keep the boy in place and negate all chances of escape.

“Urgh, fine. I traded them.” And it’s almost bizarre, but then, this is Lennox, and he is a child. And to children, things like buttons seem so simple and uncomplicated. So unnecessary and silly. You almost want to laugh.

“What do you mean you traded them?”

“I gave them to a boy at school.” You force yourself to hide the smile settling into your lips, dipping your head, and making an exasperated sort of sound.

“No, that’s not– I understand where you traded them; you don’t go anywhere else. What I’m trying to figure out is why. We have everything you could possibly need here.” 

“Not honeydrops.” The smile is gone now, banished in a moment. And Lennox knows. At least you’ve told him the way your family must live now, what must remain off limits. But then, it really is nothing more than candy. 

“Oh my god. Tell me you did not.”

“I don’t understand why all the other kids get to have it, and I don’t.” And you feel it again, that creeping sensation of guilt that arises every time you must pull something from your siblings’ grasps.

“Because candy is a contraband item, and we are basically living in the Capitol’s spotlight. Lennox, we’ve talked about this.” He frowns, and the action darkens the entirety of his face. His lip jerks out, beginning to shake.

“Please don’t tell Mom.”

“I’m not gonna tell Mom, just–” There is a knock at the front door. You can hear it from upstairs. Fixing the boy before you with a look of warning, you deliver a final address. “It better be gone when I look in your room tonight.”

He is off in an instant, presumably intent on packing every remaining honeydrop into his mouth at once, and you bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it, but it is the kind of laugh that rattles cruel and unforgiving in your chest, bitter in its birth and you force yourself to shake it before making your way downstairs. Fawn beats you to the door.

“What are you wearing?” You open your mouth to scold her for the remark, blatant in its disrespect, but another voice cuts off your own, ringing out through the foyer.

“My dress clothes? Why do we look bad?” Treech. By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs, it is clear what Fawn is grimacing at. The outfit is by no means abysmal, similar to those you’ve seen Treech don while arriving at the Capitol following the Reapings, but it is certainly not appropriate for where you are going. Behind him, Maple stands rather awkwardly, a similar look of worry spreading across her face.

“No. She looks fine. She looks like some Capitol stylist at least had the sense to look at a single picture of District 10 before arrival. You look like you can not wear that to City Hall. You– You– You have to come inside before anyone sees you in this outfit.” At this point, you make your presence known, pulling Fawn from her position blocking the doorway before ushering the pair of victors in with a smile. 

“Sorry about her; clearly, we haven’t hosted guests in a while,” you grit out, flashing a glare in Fawn's direction. Maple laughs, covering the sound with a cough.

“Is my outfit actually bad?” Treech fusses at his selection of clothing, pulling uncomfortably at the hem of his jacket.

“Well, no. It’s just not–” You begin, though Fawn does not let you finish.

“Yes.” You are quick to deliver an elbow to her gut, though she only responds with a shove in return and an offer to Maple to join her and your mother in the kitchen.

“Really, don’t worry about it. How about I try to find you something here?” You offer, and Treech shoots you a grateful smile before trailing after his charge.

Upstairs, you take to alternatively rooting around your closet and considering the same three work shirts laid out on your bed, none of them formal enough. You are just about to give up entirely when a knock sounds at your door.

“Fawn said you needed something suitable for City Hall tonight?” Your mother’s head appears, followed by the remainder of her, a single, pressed shirt hooked over her arm and an accompanying vest tucked beneath it. Your father’s clothes.

“Oh, Mom, I couldn’t possibly–” She only shakes her head. Laying the garments out atop your mattress. In a subtle act of care, she fidgets with the cuff of his old shirt’s sleeve. 

“Don’t be silly; it’s just for tonight. Besides, all these clothes do is sit and gather dust anyway. He would’ve wanted them to go to good use.” You don’t say anything, only moving forward to pull her into your arms before pressing your words into her shoulder, unsure if she will even be able to catch them.

“I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

She is kind enough to alert Treech to the need for his presence in your room, and with her disappearance comes his arrival, stepping timidly across the threshold as though entering a sacred space. 

“It’s not a museum; you’re welcome to move around,” you chuckle, barely looking up from the bed. When you finally do draw your gaze away from what’s been set out for him, you note he is taking in the drawings on your wall, hand outstretched, as though it is itching to trace the lines of each design. You clear your throat.

“Sorry,” he nearly jumps at the sound, though he appears to have been reminded of something, reaching into his coat and dipping a hand into an apparently hidden pocket. “I just remembered I have something for you.”

The wrapping is plain, and you recognize the paper from the butcher’s shop, but each corner is folded carefully by hand with only the subtle imperfections indicating that he has likely completed the project himself. You take a seat on your bed, careful to avoid the clothing spread across your quilt before tearing into it. You blink in surprise at the contents, nearly confused at the book in your hands. It is beautiful, bound in leather, thick and heavy. But it is not until you open it that you process the true weight of the gift, each page just as blank as the last.

“I figured it would be nice not to have to draw on butcher paper anymore.”

“It’s– I– Thank you.” You pull a quick hand across your tear line, eradicating any evidence of a more emotional reaction before swallowing hard and looking away. Friends. You are trying to be friends. 

“Uhm, I laid these out for you,” you say, standing to indicate the clothes your mother had brought in. You swallow any stories about your father, unprepared to be quite so vulnerable yet.

“Do I get a hat?” Treech asks, and you let out a laugh, real and warm.

“Do you want a hat?”

“I wanna look like a real cowboy.” Your mind flits back to that first conversation. The smile on his face tells you his does, too.

“You can wear my hat.” And he doesn’t have to know what it means. Still, Fawn sends you a knowing smirk on your way out the door, and even Lennox allows a curious gaze or two to pass over the addition of your accessory to his outfit. Yours. Yours. Yours.

The barn in the back of City Hall is crowded when you arrive, with most being relieved of their work early in favor of seeing the Victory Tour pass through. There are, of course, formalities to begin the affair, the mayor makes a speech, and Calpurnia, although initially shocked by your presence, brings you up on stage with Treech and Maple to make the ‘welcome statement’ you’d been meant to deliver this morning. Still, after all the fuss is over and the lot of you clear the way for the band, the atmosphere seems to settle into excitement typical for nights when the Dance Hall opens up.

You make your best attempt at teaching the two victors from 7 several easy steps, and though Maple seems to catch on with relative ease, it is not long before the shadow of frustration casts itself over Treech’s features, incapable of keeping up. It is only then you offer to take a break, though the opportunity is quickly lost with the appearance of Lennox who is determined to take over your attempts at tutoring your old friend.

“You’re just not explaining it right,” he says gruffly, skirting quickly around your legs to take his place between Treech and Maple.

“Oh? Is that right. Well then they’re all yours,” you relinquish, casting both hands up in surrender before shooting Treech an apologetic glance. His eyes only grow wider with fear upon taking in the speed at which Lennox is talking, the pace of his feet nearly matching that of his mouth. Back at the table you had claimed before, Fawn remains seated, your mother having disappeared to chat with several of the other women from work while your younger sister picks gloomily at the vegetables that some well-meaning friend of the family had heaped onto her plate without asking.

“Aren’t you a bit old to still be playing with your food?” Still, she does little to acknowledge your comment, instead staring past you, and a glance over your shoulder confirms she is looking directly at Treech.

“You still love him, don’t you?” The question nearly has you jumping out of your skin. Still, you elect to avoid any direct sort of answer, because the truth is, you aren’t sure.

“How would you know?”

“I’m your sister. I know you better than I know myself,” Fawn does look at you now, with those big brown eyes, just like your father’s. And you look away. Look at Treech. At the slow, anxious smile he wears trying to follow Lennox’s fast-paced teachings. At Maple two feet behind him attempting to swallow a laugh. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so rattled.

“Yeah. I do.” And really you always have, but the moment it passes your lips, there is no taking it back.

“Well, was it worth it?” Fawn presses.

“What?” You ask in return.

“Whatever reason he had for breaking your heart all those years ago?” You think back to this morning. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe. Keep you safe. Had he? You’re still unsure.

“He seems to think so.” 

“And you don’t?” Fawn lifts a single brow in question, always so adept in peeling back the layers you press on to conceal the truth.

“I think he was doing what he thought he had to in order to protect me.”

“And is that a bad thing?” You aren’t sure if you’ve thought about that before, so focused on the anger and frustration at time lost for a plan you cared little to acknowledge as worthwhile that you forgot to consider the weight of his intention.

“No, but he lied to me to do it. Purposefully kept me in the dark about things and pushed me away. How am I supposed to trust someone who does things like that?”

“But he told you the truth eventually, right?” You are almost arguing just to argue. Determined to be right. To be acknowledged as right.

“Well, yes, but–”

“All I’m saying is, I haven’t seen you look after yourself since Dad died. So maybe having someone to take care of you wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” This time, you are quiet and when Fawn looks to you for some sign that she should continue, you only manage a nod. 

“Look, I don’t know what it’s like for you out there, but I know things are a hell of a lot different. And I also know that you’re not very good at playing games–” The hair on your neck prickles with indignation.

“What the fu–”

“Stop. I’m being serious. You’re blunt and emotional and a terrible liar.” You could just about wring her neck.

“Careful, I think you might be about to say something nice about me–” She only presses on, leveling you with a cool and even stare.

“But this guy, he seems like he gets it. Like he knows the right things to say and do. And he looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars. And if he thinks he did what he had to, well then I’d trust his gut before I’d trust yours.” Your mouth opens and closes several times before any singular thought is given the opportunity to fully formulate and you can only gape, because suddenly Fawn seems so old and you’re not quite sure how you managed to miss it. Not quite sure when you looked away and the old Fawn, squealing and pigtailed got up and disappeared.

“Fawn I–” You are interrupted, of course you are interrupted. Still the resentment is incapable of running deep on a night like this, especially when the distraction looming over your shoulder has the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“I was thinking maybe I could steal a dance from you?” Treech extends a hand in your direction and you tilt your head in question before noting the relaxed sway of the dancefloor’s current occupants as a slow tune rings out around you.

“I would–”

“Actually, I get the next dance,” Fawn cuts in, quickly abandoning her now cold leftovers in favor of catching the man by the wrist and tugging him away from you.

“Fawn–” You nearly choke in surprise.

“What? Just because you okayed him doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna grill the fuck out of him.”

It is much later when Treech finds you again, Lennox’s slumped form curled up in your lap, his head resting easy on your shoulder. By now, it has long since been time to go, but Fawn had insisted on putting the poor lumberjack through the wringer of a myriad of line dances, leaving him flushed with embarrassment and itching for an escape.

“Not so fast, pretty boy; I still haven’t gotten that dance you promised me.” 

The barn is all but cleared out now with most of the stragglers getting ready to go and even the band starting to pack up, but a single nod from you to the woman with the fiddle has her pulling the instrument from its case once more with a smile and striking up a slow tune. You turn to your mother deep in conversation with an old man you recognize from the ranch and unload your brother into her arms with practiced ease, before lacing your hand with Treech’s and pulling him to the center of the floor. 

“Should I waltz, or–” His hand wraps itself around your waist, eyes immediately falling to the ground. 

“Relax. It’s just us. You have to stop thinking so hard. Just listen to the music and look at me. Your feet will do the rest of the work I promise you.” He takes a deep breath and you squeeze the hand holding yours, subtly encouraging him to loosen up. Eventually, it works, and the beginnings of a grin crack through the mask of nerves.

“You’re smiling. I thought you hated dancing.”

“It’s easier with you. Everything is easier with you.”

The tune is an old one, soft and sad. You can recall your father humming it to himself after a long day’s work, perhaps that is why you know the song has only just reached its halfway point when your mother calls out, letting you know it’s time to go.

It is later that night when you finish your dance, drunk in your kitchen, two pairs of clumsy feet trampling all over one another. Between the two of you, you manage to down a quarter of your mother’s contraband bottle of whisky before making your best attempts at sketching one another out on the brand new pages of your sketchbook. Treech only manages a crude drawing of your face, echoing the skill level of a child and though your sketch does little justice to the talent you boast sober, you sit, feet draped across his lap and quiet giggles passing your lips, copying down every aspect of his face. Hoping to etch the memory of it into your mind aswell, his curls a messy halo, his cheeks flushed with the liquor’s effects. Beautiful, you think absently.

“What?” Treech’s eyes shoot up to meet yours brow arching in a question, but the lazy smile on his face betrays the fact that he’s heard you, and you fight the urge to shrink away with embarrassment.

“I–”

“I think you’re beautiful too. Always did. That’s why I remembered your hat, you know? From your Games? It was the only time I’ve ever had to stop like that. Like nothing else in the world mattered except looking at you.” The confession slips happy and slurred from his mouth, though he follows it with a quick dip of his head which does little to conceal the blush that has now spread to his ears.

“I called you pretty the first night we met,” you share, hoping to ease his discomfort.

“I know. I heard you that time too.” And that smile has returned, and you’re certain it could provide you with enough warmth to survive every winter for the rest of your life.

“You little shit.” And you laugh, and that kitchen in the Victor’s Village, that has always felt to big, fits just right. For one moment. One blissful moment.

“I’m leaving.” The knock at your bedroom door had come as a bit of a surprise and, you won’t lie, with the added bonus of your hangover a nuisance of sorts. It was early, the hands on your clock indicating the time to be several minutes past 5:00 am, still your best efforts at ignorance did little in the way of driving your unwanted guest away, so you’d risen, groggy and half unsure of your footing only to find Treech, poised to knock again on the other side.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the train station,” you groan eyes only just beginning to peel open, but upon allowing the light to break through, you note the desperation contorting his features and that alone is enough to pull you from the maw of sleep.

“I can’t say goodbye to you in front of all those people.”

“Why not?” You know why not.

“You know why not.” Still, you’d promised just friends, and not amount of drunk waltzes in your kitchen or late night sketch sessions with his hair brushing your cheek as he propped his chin on your shoulder to watch could change that. You offer stiff handshake, palm extended in search of his.

“Friends?” Treech blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. His hand slides perfectly into your own, fingers wrapping gently around your skin still warm with sleep.

“Friends.” But then a minute passes, and there is his hand, still in yours. And there are all those thoughts you’ve been working so hard to suppress. And he is pulling away, mumbling something about getting going, but your grip just won’t relent, eyes beginning to pool with inexplicable tears before you tug him closer. So fast. Too fast maybe. 

You are nose to nose and he blinks steadily in return, though his breath comes out labored and heavy. 

“I don’t want–” You look down, your hair invading all pretense of personal space as you lean forward into him, eyes fixed on the floor. His grip on your hand tightens.

“I don’t wanna be your friend.”

“I don’t wanna be your friend either.” And when you lift your head, it is as though he is drinking you in for the very first time, studying a face that has somehow become lost to him, before his hand drops yours and moves to grip at your waist, pulling you close and his eyes drop down to your lips, almost closing entirely. Still, he waits, just as he always has, for you. And when you give in, you do give in, it is bliss, his mouth on yours once more, arms tightening against your form, rendering you inseparable. Nearly inseparable. 

“Your breath stinks.” Treech pulls back, a grimace lighting his features and you instantly recoil in embarrassment, hand flying from its place on his neck to cover your mouth. You squirm in his arms, attempting to free yourself from the scrutiny, but he only tightens his hold on you, letting out a low laugh before dipping to trail several kisses down your neck. You elect to bring both hands to your face instead, obscuring your visage entirely.

“Sorry about that, my asshole ex woke me up without warning.” He expels a sharp gust of air against your shoulder, an indicator he finds this situation all too charming before shifting his tone to fake indignance.

“I thought we were friends?”

“Friends don’t usually taste eachothers morning breath, but maybe that’s just my opinion.”

And he mumbles something low and indecipherable into your hair, pressing additional kisses into the mess. Something that sounds like I love you. And in the dull silence of those quiet morning hours, the beat of your heart sounds exactly the same.

Treech has been gone for two weeks when the letter comes. There isn’t even a stamp in the corner. Just an envelope with your name on it and a single piece of paper tucked inside with an address printed in neat lettering across the page. Beneath it, someone has scribbled down a time and date as though that information was some sort of afterthought. Your stomach drops immediately upon opening it, and you are quick to assume the worst. That they saw you with Treech, in your own home. Of course. Snow would have to be some sort of idiot not to have cameras planted in the newly constructed Victor’s Village.

The letter is from the Capitol. That much you can be sure of. The heavy feeling of the cardstock between your fingers is enough to signal the mail has emerged from a place of luxury: the best most people could find in 10 is old butcher paper. Still, perhaps you are wrong. You remember the feeling of Treech’s letter to you from 7, along with a scrawled comment about how being in charge of paper production had its benefits. You remember the sketchbook he’d left you with less than a month ago. Your heart feels lighter, if only for a moment.

But you know Treech’s handwriting like the back of your hand, the boyish charm to his messy lettering and rushed sentences. Besides, everything that came from him smelled of cedar and arrived veiled in a thin layer of sawdust. You liked to imagine sometimes he wrote to you from the same desk where he sat hard at work, carving whistles in the shapes of birds for his little sisters.

No. This letter was different. Drenched in the stink of expensive cologne with ink that appeared dark and smudged in certain places, too wet to be from the cheap pens you know most Districts keep on hand.

Your chest bundles with nerves, remaining tight and suffocating until the very moment of the meeting arrives, the address bringing you to an old ranch most had believed to be unoccupied for some time. You take a steadying breath as you raise your fist to the door but find no time to knock as it swings open, revealing a familiar figure. Hilarius Heavensbee in the flesh.

“I just think it was a mistake. It should never have happened, and– And it won’t happen again.” And just like that, your heart was shattered, scattered across the floor in a million pieces. Well, maybe not just like that. In fact, for a moment, you’d thought the whole thing was a joke of some sort. But then his eyes had caught yours, cold in a way you’d never seen them before, and you had to stop yourself from staggering back, from hitting the wall, because this Treech, the one standing before you, he looked just like the man who’d put an axe through your heart in a dream you’d tried so hard to forget.

“I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with the fact that you disappeared this morning?” Sure, you had been out of it when he’d left, but it didn’t take long for the panic to set in, waking once more to a cold bed, mind reaching out to a memory formed only an hour ago. A mystery phone call to your room. Treech disappearing out the door.

“No, I– No. Just listen to me. This is it, it’s over.” Not the phone call. Him. He wanted this, and next to that, the phone call felt like something to be forgotten in its entirety.  But why?

“You came here last night. You showed up at my hotel room, saying you couldn’t take it anymore, and now, what? You’ve changed your mind?” Anger was quick to follow confusion in those fleeting moments, and as you surged forward, hands tangling desperately in his shirt, you weren’t sure if the intent was to pull him in or push him away.

“You’re just not–” And his hands were on yours, brushing a sweet, delicate pattern across your knuckles, bringing you that soft, quiet feeling he always had. And for a moment, you could feel him leaning in. To hold you? To kiss you? You weren’t sure. “I don’t want you.” 

It was like a punch in the gut.

“I was enough last night.” Tears clouded your vision as you held steady willing him to look at you, to pull his gaze from the ground, to wrap his hands around yours once more. They were limp now, hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you never were.” You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out and disappear and explode with the unmistakable rage inside you. You couldn't. You could barely speak.

“Treech, I–”

“We’re done. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.” And with that, he pushed you away, spinning to exit out the door just behind you. Leaving you to crumple to the ground. Alone. Unwanted. 

Over the next four years, you had five more conversations with Treech alone, each leaving you more confused than the last.

The first time you spoke was just over two years after he told you that night had been a mistake. That you were a mistake.

It was harder to stay away in the beginning. Hardest at night when you could hear his screams, telltale signs of the nightmares you knew he fell prey to. The nightmares that formed mirror images of your own. Several nights, you found yourself frozen outside his door, compelled for some unearthly reason to stand guard, to make heavy, unyielding eye-contact with the painted number 7 as though waiting long enough might make it open without any necessary action. You knew then what you really wanted. To go inside. To assure him it would be okay. To offer him the same place in your room you always had. But then, he didn’t want that. He’d made that clear enough. And so after minutes, or sometimes hours of waiting, you would escape back to your own room before your presence could be noted. Afraid of the harsh words he might have stored up this time, lashings for your petty emotions.

It was one of those nights, the first time you spoke, although the nightmare was yours, not his. It had left you in a cold sweat as you jerked yourself from the duvet, still sobbing, and you found yourself wondering when the room had become so unbearably large. A glass of water, you’d thought. A coffee, maybe; chances are you’re done with sleep tonight anyway. You’d wondered how Treech was. You always did when your own nightmares exceeded their typical limits, and the thought had infiltrated your mind until the minute you’d pulled the door open, revealing his seated form just outside, back pressed to the wall. Alert. Awake, as though certain his presence alone might ward off any oncoming evil. 

He appeared nearly as shocked as you at the reveal, quickly launching himself to his feet and plastering a grimace across his features, darkened by the little light in the hall. And just as you’d opened your mouth to speak, to question his attendance at the foot of your door, he’d bit with words of his own.

“Could you try not to be so loud? Some people here are sleeping.” You did not populate the hall outside his door so much after that. You did not populate his presence at all.

The second time was out of necessity. It was that same year of the 13th Games, and you had found yourself down a tribute, the girl, Rhea, having lost her life in what was beginning to be known as the bloodbath. Skinner was older, the boy. Eighteen and a walking tragedy, so close to escaping. That was the year before they stopped locking you all in the Academy. Before Lux convinced them that sponsor relations could only bear to improve if mentors were allowed the ability to mingle with the people of the Capitol, within reason, of course. Before the Games grew longer, sometimes lasting over a week. 

The night was young, but you were on your third cup of coffee, unable to tear your eyes from the screen. From Skinner’s restless movements as he sat back to a tree, with eyes that scanned his surroundings in wide, impatient arcs. He was alone, and no allies meant no sleep, so he clung to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, begging it to carry him to safety. 

On your right, Teff fidgeted with his screen, clearly agitated by an increased sense of anxiety at the prospect of both of his tributes escaping the mess of fighting that began the Games. It was harder that way; you had come to learn. Longer survival meant hope. Hope that will infiltrate your thoughts. Your emotions. Higher risk of attachment. And with two tributes, a higher risk that the death of one would only serve to destroy the other. Or worse, a higher risk that they would be forced to take each other on. You’d seen it happen. In the 12th Games, both remaining tributes came from 2, and while Octavian remained firm and unmoving in his seat, Antonia could barely force herself to watch.

Still, you had liked Skinner, cursed with the gangly limbs of a teenager on the verge of adulthood, with a crooked smile and a biting sense of humor reserved only for Rhea in their short days together, so you pushed on. And if the lingering claws of hope had curled their way around your heart, so be it. Maybe this would be the year you could save one. Maybe this would be the year you saw a kid survive.

To your left, there was Treech. Always Treech, who endlessly invaded your thoughts in those weeks you were forced to travel back to the Capitol. In the years since your first visit, the trips had only increased, with Snow managing to find a reason to gather you all in the ‘Gem of Panem’ at least four times a year. Press, he called it, and Hilarius often assured you that networking of that sort was necessary, but it was hard to believe even from his mouth, and you often felt yourself feeling more inclined to believe Teff’s theories. They just want to remind us who’s in control.

Treech was down a tribute, too; though both had escaped the initial violence, the career pack had managed to track the pair, quickly ending the boy’s life and leaving only his girl to escape. Arbor. It had been some time since you had noted her presence on your screen, but you didn’t dare to even attempt casting a look in Treech’s direction, fearing the rash display of the temper you had come to know as reserved for you and you alone.

And you wouldn’t have had to, really, if it weren’t for what happened next, the crushing of underbrush underfoot, the cacophony of voices infused with a false confidence. Skinner’s head shot up in an instant, fear plain on his features. He stood slowly, pushing himself up from the ground with the bark of the tree cutting into his palm for support. The career pack was coming, and he was as good as dead.

Several low branches stuck out to you, and silently, you begged him to climb in spite of a display earlier that day which assured you he did so with the elegance of a toddler. Still, it was all that was left, and you were clinging to hope. Stupid, useless hope. He turned to size up his route upwards, and the voices grew nearer. It was now or never. The pace was the first problem you noticed as Skinner inched up the tree with the speed of a snail. You realized in passing he’d probably never climbed a tree before. Sure, they weren’t a rarity in 10. There were plenty out on the ranch, and as a child, you often sought solace among their branches when your father had allowed you to tag along with him to work. But for a kid like Skinner, confined to 10’s more industrial parts, spending days cooped up in the slaughterhouse, climbing a tree wasn’t exactly within the realm of knowledge he should possess. 

“Fuck. Come on.”

The second thing you noted was the noise. Certainly, there aren’t many silent ways to climb a tree, with the continual brushing of leaves against the fabric of your clothes, but the footfalls were doing little to help in the way of masking his presence, and though he’d made a bit of progress, you almost wished Skinner would stop moving completely. 

The third and most glaring problem, however, was that you’d finally managed to find Arbor, crouched and observant several branches above Skinner. No weapon. That was good. What wasn’t good was that it would be well within her rights to give him up. And beneficial, too. You sucked in a large breath. 

The pack had reached the foot of the tree, though it didn’t seem to note the two tributes hidden within its branches. Still, they idled for a moment, and your whole body tensed with anticipation. Skinner’s foot slipped. And you knew you shouldn’t, but you shielded your eyes, waiting for the impact, incapable of watching him fall into death’s open hands. It didn’t come. Instead, as you removed several of the fingers obscuring your vision, you found Arbor, hand clinging to the back of his shirt, and her face screwed up into a scowl from the effort of keeping him upright. Skinner’s clumsy hands managed to catch a branch, and he pulled himself up, mouth already opening in a question, but she was faster, pressing a hand to his lips and shaking her head with a vehement look that encouraged only silence.

And so he said nothing, and for a while, that’s how they remained, waiting for the pack to move on, her hand over his mouth, simply taking each other in. It was only once the coast was clear that he dared to speak.

“Why did you save me?”

“Well, I didn’t need you making a bunch of noise and giving me away,” she said, releasing any hold she had on him. For a moment, her face only served to support the harsh words, cold in its regard, but the instant his eyes shifted towards the ground, it softened, revealing the true intention, simple and unbridled care. She reminded you of Treech.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” Skinner sounded almost defeated, and he did not even bother to meet her gaze as he asked. Her expression, safe from his sight, twisted into one of concern before she masked it once more.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have any weapons, and the chances of me strangling you are low at best.”

“I don’t have any weapons either,” Skinner admitted before appearing embarrassed by the confession. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a threat, so– please don’t try to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could kick my ass,” Arbor returned, her tone flat and a small smirk gracing her features. Skinner flushed at the expression before admitting defeat with laughter of his own when she let out a chuckle.

“So where’s your partner?” He asked.

“Dead.” The response was factual, but the traces of pain on her face remained obvious. “Yours?”

“Dead.” It was quiet for a moment, and though neither of them spoke, you noted Arbor eyeing Skinner's rope.

“Maybe we could make a deal?” She asked.

“Like what?” He was slow to respond but less guarded than before.

“Like allies?” And she extended a hand in a truce, only continuing after noting Skinner’s hesitation. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, and if I’m gonna sleep in this tree, I’d prefer to do it tied down and with someone to watch my back. We could take shifts. Even if it's just for tonight?”

“Okay.”

It was not then that you spoke with Treech. Nor was it over the following days, watching the pair grow closer. Watching them reach the final five with the boy from 11 and the girls from 1 and 2. No. The days registered simple interactions. Nods indicating bread and water would be sent, and curt conversations regarding strengths and weaknesses. It was only on the sixth night that you shared more than a handful of words; even then, it wasn’t much. And yet, it was more. Heavier than any of the terse exchanges you’d held since you stopped speaking altogether.

Because, on the sixth night, Arbor and Skinner shared a kiss. He had fallen earlier in the day. No simple fall either. His leg would only carry him so far, but Arbor remained loyal, and the two traveled as a unit. Under the moonlight and the cover of darkness, she had stopped them to take a look at the injury, steady hands unraveling the makeshift bandage she had torn from her own shirt. Skinner only cringed in pain, regardless of her soft-spoken attempts to comfort him as she poured water from a nearby stream on the wound.

“It’s no use. I’m dead weight. You should go. Get out of here before I accidentally screw you over.” The defeat was evident in his tone, but so was something else, something more. A need for her to make it out. To survive.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw was tense as she focused on the work before her, but you sensed it was not out of a need to concentrate.

“Arbor, I’m not gonna let you die for me–” He was exhausted, eyes heavy with sleep and glistening with pain. Sweat collected at his brow, and he raised a lazy hand to wipe it away, but she got there first, swiping her thumb across his forehead before speaking again.

“Well, I’m not gonna let you die, period. So, just drop it.”

“Arbor.” His hand moved to still her own as though begging her to meet his gaze.

“Skinner?” She asked, annoyed by the disruption but looking up nonetheless.

“What happens if it’s just us?” And you could hear a pin drop in the Academy lecture hall; not even Lucky Flickerman bothered to present his input.

“Well, we aren’t– That’s not… I’m gonna get you out of here,” she stated with finality. Beside you, Treech stiffened, the scene beginning to appear all too familiar. Two kids from 7 and 10, with nothing and everything on the line at the same time.

“I wouldn’t let you do that. I wouldn’t be able to let you do that.”

“Why? Why are you being so selfish? Just let me save you–” And she pounded at his chest, but there was no feeling in her attacks. It took Skinner no effort at all to stop her fists, collecting her hands within his own.

“I don’t want to live if it means you have to die. Because I– Well, I know I haven’t known you that long, but I– Well, I–” And suddenly she was kissing him, telling him wordlessly she felt the same. And suddenly, the world was crashing down, fear pooling in your stomach at the consequences you were sure would come, and you couldn’t help it, looking at Treech, who was already looking at you. Your mouth was dry.

“I don’t– I–” Your chest was constricting, and the room felt hot, hotter than ever before, and your mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. You crossed to the entrance in mere moments, not even noting Treech directly behind you until you had shoved your way out, back slamming into the wall just outside as you crumbled to the ground.

“I– I–”

“You’ve got to breathe. You– We have to get back in there. It isn’t something until we make it something.” His tone was cold, but he was crouched before you, and when his hands reached to pull you off the floor, you swore his thumb ran carefully over your arm once. Twice.

“But it is. You know it is. And if those kids die at the Capitol’s hand, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering if it's my fault. If it’s our fault.” And it was true. It may not have been love for him, but for you, the echoes were everywhere. And though you’re sure the Capitol never saw what happened that night, Dr. Gaul knew enough for the connection to be dangerous.

“You don’t know if that’s what they’ll see–”

“Is it what you saw? Because it’s the first thing I thought about. And I know you hate me now, but you can’t be stupid enough to think that Coriolanus Snow could miss it.” His face only grew more tense before it passed to stone once more.

“What other choice do we have?” He was right. Of course, he was right. So you reentered and took your places, fixed yourselves with masks of unbothered poise, and for nothing. They were dead by morning, carcasses wrapped around one another in a pile of bones and flesh once the Gamemakers’s mutts had finished. And as the camera panned away, you swear you felt a lingering gaze on you, but you did not look, only faked a cough as you brushed the tears from your cheeks and fixed your steady gaze ahead.

That was the year Teff’s boy won, Reed, and once more, before you were allowed to return home, you were forced to attend a party at the President’s mansion, this time with the inclusion of a Victor’s dance. 

“Teff, come on, I am begging you–” You began, but the older boy was already shaking his head.

“I can’t, alright. Octavian already asked me if I’d dance with Teresa, and I gave my word that I would. He registered us a week ago,” he sighed, and you wanted to scream; how could you have been stupid enough to forget about this?

“What about Reed?” At this point, anyone would do. Anyone who wasn’t Treech.

“He’s not doing the dance; his leg is broken, remember?” And you did; the boy had fallen off the top of the cornucopia while securing his win, landing on top of the girl from 1, whose neck broke on impact.

“Well, do you think Mags will switch with me?” You were grasping at straws, aware the answer would be no the moment the suggestion passed your lips.

“You know the deal, the only reason we are allowed to have partners from other Districts is because–” But you interrupted him, already knowledgable of your oncoming defeat.

“We don’t have any from our own. I know. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“It’s one dance, it can’t be that bad.” He reassured, but you knew better.

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“You spoke the other day–” Teff corrected.

“That was different; I was basically having a meltdown.” You recalled that moment in the hall. His thumb on your arm. Part of you was convinced it never happened at all.

“I don’t know what to tell you; take it or leave it; this is your only option.” He shrugged, and the conversation was over; you both knew it, but not before you vocalized your frustration one last time.

“Fuck.”

That is it, the third time you talk to Treech, at the President’s mansion, surrounded by Capitol citizens. Before you take the floor, you recall your last dance in this place with a certain Heavensbee. Your mind drifts to the events of that night. To what happened after you departed. You shake the thoughts away. Now is no time to linger on what used to be. 

When it is time to go, Treech appears at your side, extending his arm to lead you onto the floor, and you note that he seems to flinch away from your touch, which barely grazes the crook he creates for you. You are already seething. Was it really so painful for him to even touch you? Were you really that deplorable? It is a simple waltz, one your escorts were able to instruct you on with ease, and though the first few steps are taken in silence, as the music continues, you hear the other victors around you begin to chatter. You and Treech remain quiet, your eyes fixed on the floor below, watching the pattern of your steps. Thinking about anything except his hand on your waist and the other delicately gripping yours.

“You’re not supposed to look at your feet,” he mutters, and that gets your attention enough to force your gaze away from its previous target.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t supposed to look at your feet. It makes it easier to screw up the steps.” You don’t answer, only fixing your sightline over his shoulder instead, fully expecting the silence to engulf you once more.

“I hate dancing.” He sighs bitterly, and you almost have to resist a smile because it makes sense that the stoic boy before you would loathe the exercise in trust and coordination, ripe with opportunities for embarrassment. For creating holes in his well-kept facade.

“I don’t.” And you aren’t really sure what prompts you to speak, but maybe it is his clear discomfort with the practice, evident in the way his shoulders bunch awkwardly with each turn and his eyes, in spite of his own advice, continue to flit down towards the floor.

“There’s lots of dancing back in 10. Line dances, mostly from a long time ago. But there’s other stuff, too. Once a month, there's a big dance at City Hall. There’s this big open barn connected to the back, and they decorate it, and everyone goes. My dad taught me how, so it reminds me of him.” You can’t help but smile at the memory of your father, pulling the hat from his head and dropping it onto your own before spinning you around the kitchen in preparation for your very first dance. When the day finally came, you’d already forgotten all the steps, but he didn’t mind setting your feet atop his own, the two sets of boots moving in a stilted pattern around the barn, all shrieking laughter and love.

You feel Treech’s shoulder relax beneath your touch, his gaze now fixed on you and nothing else. The movements become more fluid, and by the end of the dance, it feels like flying. That is until something else seems to catch his attention just outside of your sightline. And suddenly, his grip on your waist tightens, ushering you closer, but his eyes grow cold. For a moment, you could have sworn he was shielding you from something until he wasn’t. Until the music came to an end, and he was pushing away, but not before leaving you with a cutting remark.

“Thanks for the story; I’ll remember that the next time I’m pretending to give a shit about you.” You almost gape at him, unsure how to respond, but as rage, hot and untethered, licks its way up your spine, you give into the cruelest thing you can think to muster.

“I hate you.” And he flinches as though the words hurt him. As though he hadn’t spent every moment of the last three years trying to probe that very reaction from your lips. And you know he must not have meant it. That it is nothing more than the residual regret leaving his body, but a part of you relishes it. Relishes causing him pain after the torture he had put you through.

“Good.”

Victory Tours weren’t uncommon by then, so when it was announced the tribute from 11 and his mentor would be making their way to 10, people were well prepared. Lennox in particular seemed to be veritably jumping with joy, unable to sit still after having received the knowledge that you would be hosting the visitors in your new home in the Victor’s Village. Even Fawn, who at the now ripe age of fourteen was determined to allow nothing to faze her, seemed excited at the prospect of the celebration that typically occurred in tandem with the arrival of a victor. 

You on the other hand were simply happy to see Teff, pulling the taller man into a warm hug the moment he set foot off the train. He seemed not to mind, laughing as he pulled you tighter against him and after a long day of festivities including a night of dancing and the best food 10 could offer, you found yourselves sat around your kitchen table, enjoying one another’s company and a couple of drinks.

“Are we gonna talk about what happened at the mansion? That night, at the party? Quite a scene you two caused,” Teff asked, finally digging into what you knew he’d been itching to talk to you about. You allowed your head to slump forward, burying your face within the comfort of your arms with a groan.

“What am I supposed to say? I was being very civil. He’s the one that ruined it.” Teff only nodded in understanding, having come to know the events that made up your rocky relationship with Treech through snippets divulged over the years.

“You know I’m just worried about you is all. Just wish you would fly under the radar like the rest of us–”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Tell me about you. About home. How’s Harvest?” Teff was quick to relent, never displeased when talking about his favorite subject, his wife of two years. 

“She’s good. She’s– Well actually I’ve been meaning to tell you this– She’s pregnant.” And though the news reeks of joy, there is an uneasy smile on his face. Still, you are quick to rid him of it.

“That’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.” And you are, beaming from ear to ear, but a part of you aches, just as you know it does for him, for that unborn child. For the world they will surely face.

The fourth time you spoke, it was your fault. At least, that’s what Treech told himself. It was the year of the 14th Hunger Games, and in preparation, the Capitol was running a television program highlighting each of the Districts. It was for that reason Treech told himself it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the small screen in the corner of the hotel bar filled with Lamina’s face, especially given that she was his District partner and, as he was the only existing victor from 7, an obvious choice for closer study. Still, it didn’t stop the shock from cutting to his core like a knife. 

You had taken the seat beside his, though clearly not intentionally. It was the only place left in the whole bar, and upon your arrival, he had watched you hesitate to even stay, but with the Games set to start in two days, you needed a drink, exhausted by the prospect of another year.

It was as though you could sense his discomfort, gaze clearly flitting in his direction and dragging across his tense form. The television program blared out, filling any gaps in conversation left by the bar’s occupants, and you observed it keenly following Treech’s reaction.

“She seemed kind.” And there you were, attempting to comfort him after all he’d done to push you away.

“She cried a lot.” It is easier than telling the truth. Than admitting he had known Lamina long before the Games. That she was family, a cousin on his mother’s side.

He often saw Lamina in you. In your quiet moments of soft kindness and generosity. Even in moments of fear, watching you steel yourself and move forward in spite of the difficulties. Sometimes, he would imagine a world with no Districts or Games. A world where a gentler version of you who had not been left hardened by survival had met Lamina, and the two of you had become fast friends, spending your days whispering confessions among the branches of the tallest trees or stretched out in a field, you with a pencil and paper and Lamina fashioning a crown of flowers.

“You remind me of her.”

“Because I’m weak?” Your brow furrowed as you gazed down into the drink before you, preparing yourself for the harsh words you had come to expect of Treech.

“Because you’re brave.” He couldn’t help it really, the way it sprang forward from his lips, toppling out before he could fight to keep it in. He suspected somewhere in the wide universe, the spirit of Lamina was laughing at him. That she was somehow responsible for the admission. He hated her for it. Hated himself. Your own face revealed little more than an obvious state of shock, blank blinking eyes staring back at him when he finally summoned the courage to fix your gaze with his own. Your mouth moved, jaw seeming to hinge and unhinge, but nothing came out. Nothing until the soft syllables of his name slipped from your lips in a stilted sort of way, like a sharp breath. 

Treech was on his feet before you’d finished, the remainder of his drink easily downed in his haste to depart, but as he turned one last time to eye the television in the corner, he could have sworn your eyes were brimming with tears.

The final time you spoke to Treech, it felt as though he had something more to say. Like the words he wished to express had caught on his tongue like glue, unable to escape. It was the final day of the 14th Games, five years exactly since your own. On days like that, you forced yourself to remember the things that often felt too painful. The names that sunk like stones in your chest, fading each year into more distant memories. Rye, with his eyes like two wide saucers. Orion, who was so close to victory that he had nearly succeeded in having it. Baron, the boy from back home who’d lost his life within minutes, figure slumped and unmoving in the center of the arena for the remainder of the Games. And, of course, there were others. Brandy and Tanner. Bee and Colt. Rhea and Skinner. Kids from home. Kids just like you. Except here you were, not dead, while they lay, presumably rotting in some mass grave deep within the Capitol’s walls. The thought made you sick.

That year, your fourth as a mentor, your tributes hadn’t even managed to outlast the bloodbath. The second Rochelle’s body hit the ground, you knew it was over, but it didn’t keep you from hoping. Hoping against reason, she would find a way to fight it. To get back up. She hadn’t. And that year, as the buzzer rang out and the bile rose in your throat as it always did, you noted that the pain was less. Less intense. Less crippling. And then the disgust was back again, drowning you, with its aim pointed inwards, armed and ready to feast on your heart. How could you be so cruel? How could you allow yourself to become so hardened and unfeeling? 

Because it is easier. Because there has to be a better way. Because you will never survive this if you cannot learn to leave some things behind. Still, you’d never left a single thing behind your whole life, clinging to every passing thought, person, or feeling like it might be the last. So when Rochelle was gone, signaling your Games had finished, you pulled the small notebook from the inner pocket of your vest and scribbled her name just below Gavin’s with its own set of notes. 

Rochelle. Two sisters, no parents. Lived with her father’s brother and worked nightshifts at the slaughterhouse. 15. Kind. Enjoyed the color green. Was learning to knit with some of the excess wool from her uncle’s work at a nearby farm, sheering the sheep.

Your fingers traced over the list, gently passing each name with the pad of your thumb. So many names. It was easier now to write them down. It was easier now to emote, to feel openly without the watchful eye of the Capitol analyzing your every move just behind Lucky Flickerman. Well, at least without it trained directly on your soul.

A bit further down the bar, Lux sat by herself as well; Beau tucked into the seat beside Trawl, the two having become closer over the years. Maybe even too close, you thought regretfully, mind flitting to a time you had caught the former making a quiet escape from Trawl’s room in the dead of night. Still, you’d bit your tongue, refusing to lecture someone you were aware already knew of the potential consequences. Besides, words often fall on deaf ears when spoken from a position as precarious as yours.

There were three kids left then, each with no alliance in place to keep them safe. A boy from 2, a girl from 5, and Maple, Treech’s girl from 7. She was ruthless, doing little in the way of preserving any image of humanity with her kills, but you understood that there was more than what appeared to pool on the surface. That those who seemed the most heartless were often the most human of all, filled with an unparalleled desperation to return. For a loved one. For themselves, hoping to go back to some semblance of a childhood they would never see again. Your heart swelled for her. For all of them. Still, you’d been doing your best to avoid her mentor since your last encounter. Afraid that he might snap once more, leaving you frustrated and hollow. Or worse, that he might plant some ridiculous seeds of hope as he had with your fourth conversation, calling you brave before disappearing completely. He was infuriating. Aggravating. Annoying, vexing, and completely incensing. 

He was also sitting directly across the bar, arm draped over the seat of the woman beside him with the same lazy arrogance you had come to register as a part of his Capitol persona, a smirk painted light and unshakable across his face. It was as though you could not even recognize the man before you. Still, he looked good. That much, you could easily admit, curls on the lengthier side now compared to the more cropped cut you’d last seen him with. You wondered if they still felt the same, if running your hands through them would still have the intoxicating effect it had years ago. You want to punch yourself in the face for the indulgence of a thought like that, forcing your gaze away with the heat that rises to your cheeks, and just in time, it seems, as the screen switches to capture Maple, finishing off the girl from 5. It is over in a second, and all of the sudden, there are only two remaining. 

Your heart aches for her, the dead girl from 5, without a mentor or guidance, left in the dark. Still, you cannot stop your gaze from traveling across the bar again to fix on Treech, only to find he is already looking at you. The woman beside him has rid herself of all pretense and is curled into his side, back arched like a cat. And yet, he appears almost regretful, eyes trained on your face with the sort of steely focus that rarely graced his features these days. 

Hours later, when Maple does win, pushed over the finish line with the help of several grandiose sponsorships, you can’t say you are all that surprised, no. The real shock comes as you move to exit the bar when a hand catches your forearm within its grasp. You almost ignore it. Almost push to continue on your steady path toward freedom, but it pulls hard, whipping you around, nearly sending you barreling into the chest of your assailant. Treech. And he stands there, blubbering like a fish, features painted with the unsubtle earnesty of a boy. And that alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I– I–”

But not for long. You’d learned your lesson long ago. Wrenching your arm from his grasp, you spin on your heel before he so much as forms a second word, making for the elevator. You would not fall prey to him again. Not now, not ever. In your eyes, Treech was as good as dead.

It was another month before you saw him again, although, on the morning of the Victory Tour’s arrival, you were nowhere to be found within the awaiting procession. Despite the Capitol’s wishes, you’d continued work on the ranch in your free time, and this morning was no exception. Especially considering you’d requested the shift, putting as much distance between yourself and the upcoming ceremonials as possible. 

Just last night, you’d sent notice to the mayor that you’d been feeling unwell, vomiting, and the like, pleading to be kept from the tour for the safety of those involved. He’d kindly agreed, considering your consistent attendance in previous years, and so you’d spent the last few hours with Bluebell, who had grown over time into as much your horse as one could be, walking the ranch’s perimeter and assessing the different pastures for any sign of intrusion the previous night. Finding none, you dismounted, ridding the creature of everything but her bridle and allowing her to graze within your sightline as you sat in the grass, pencil at the ready and sketchbook perched easily in your lap. 

Bee has disappeared, but the alarm remains silent, and the girl from 2 is still swinging. You force yourself to blink past the tears rapidly welling in your eyes; you will have to save them for later. As of right now, you still have a tribute in the Games. But where is she?

From his place before the camera, Lucky Flickerman cries out in excitement at the feat. 

“And Little Bee from 10 pulls off a miraculous disappearing act!” He displays an array of cards, waving them back and forth before making them vanish in one smooth movement, punctuating the end of his sentence. To your left, Treech sinks further into his seat, frustration palpable. You are still standing, heart beating at the erratic pace of a jackrabbit, and time moves unbearably slow as you continue to scan the screen for some sign of life.

And then it comes, and really, you aren’t sure what to say. The boy from 11 appears first, crawling out the shrub’s other side before Bee joins him, her hand tightly clasped in his own. They are careful, making little noise as they emerge, but the quiet does not last. The moment they are on their feet, they are moving with a speed that can not help but be loud, feet pounding against the forest floor. The girl from 2 makes no effort to chase, seemingly accepting the defeat of the moment, and you note, with a sinking feeling in your chest, that Bee turns back, for just a second, to eye Colt’s unmoving form, sprawled across the ground. Still, she does not stop running.

It catches you off guard, the nudge from Teff, but you follow his finger as he indicates the television with Bee’s face spinning in a slow circle. Her sponsorships. They are increasing. You want to scream, to admonish the people of the Capitol for their pity money. She had no worth to them before, and now here was her grief, a commodity to them. You say nothing but give a curt nod in thanks to the District 11 mentor for pointing it out.

When the boy tugging Bee along eventually pulls her to a stop, it is in a clearing already occupied by another: Trawl’s girl, Mags. She spins on her heel, clearly readying a speech of some sort, but stops herself when her eyes settle on Bee.

“What the fuck is this?” Her voice is tense, not like you expected from the girl who put her life on the line to hold her District partner as he lay dying and took in the alliless boy from 11.

“She needed help; I saved her,” he says.

“We don’t need another person. She’s gonna slow us down.” And you know it is not her intent to be cruel, only logical, but her words sting.

“She’s smart. And she’s small; she can hide like me.”

“Jadam– I am barely taking care of us; what made you think I could handle someone else?” Mags’s arms fly out in exasperation.

“I just thought that–”

“No. Okay? I won’t kill her, but she has to go.” The panic in your chest begins to rise. You have to do something, and quickly, too. Your eyes flit to Bee’s mounting donations, beginning to dwindle at the 430 mark before traveling down to your screen and the price of bread. A single loaf would cost you 400. All her sponsorships out the window in a single move. Still, it is a risk you have to take, your chest constricting with the knowledge that if she loses this alliance, she will have no one. You slam down on the button. 

On the screen, Jadam turns to Bee, an apologetic look painting his features. Mags only eyes the forest floor behind him, arms crossed and clearly set in her decision. In the distance, there is a noise. 

All three heads dart up in seeming unison as a drone comes into view just above the canopy of leaves before beginning to lower itself slowly to the ground. There is a tin attached at the bottom, but the trio of tributes remain frozen with fear. It is Mags who eventually moves, after several moments of silence, to inspect the device. Slowly, she pulls the tin from the drone, before opening the small container. A note tumbles out from inside, and she dips to collect it, but her eyes do not leave the contents of the metal box. She is hungry; this much you know from having watched her closely the past two days. She has yet to eat.

“It’s for you,” she says, her jaw growing tight as her eyes travel up to meet Bee’s gaze. The smaller girl moves forward with caution and, after noting the bread, pulls it from the container and begins to tear it into separate parts, handing one to Mags and tossing a second to Jadam before squaring her shoulders and making towards the large expanse of woods ahead, her section of the loaf clutched tightly in her hand. Come on. Don’t let her leave. 

She is almost out of sight when Mags calls out after her.

“Wait.”

Bee whips around, features unreadable as she pauses, allowing Mags to continue. The older girl only sighs, the sound dripping with defeat.

“You can stay.”

The sentiment has barely left her lips when your shoulders sag in relief, and you are off, headed for the doors.

“Bathroom,” you hiss at the Peacekeeper who moves to block your path, and he shifts to let you pass. 

It is all you can do to halt the muffled sob that threatens to escape your lips the minute you set foot in the hallway. The heels of your boots make a distinct echoing sound as they come in contact with the cold marble floor, and succession of clicks is so loud you almost miss the second pair of footsteps ringing out behind you.

You whip around, prepared to warn whichever victor has just followed you out to stop tailing you. To plaster a blank look across your features and tell them you are fine. It is not a victor. You recognize Dr. Gaul from the beginning of the Games, clearly on her way in as you make your way out. She has made several appearances over the last two days, though none too prolonged, mostly spent at the back of the large room, whispering to the man with the white hair. To Snow, you correct again subconsciously.

“Ms. L/N,” she says, nodding in acknowledgment. “I saw what happened to that boy of yours. Pity, really.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re concerned. What’s one more kid when you’ve already killed so many?” You grit out, unsure where the courage to do so has emerged from, but holding firm. Refusing to look away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be confused. I was talking about the boy from 7. That’s too bad about his tribute. Although I must admit, it was disappointing to see the other one go. He truly would have made a strong contender. Much better, I’m afraid, than the little girl.” Fear, cold and sharp, travels down your spine at her words, and you fight the urge to flinch away from the woman, instead fumbling to defend yourself.

“Treech is not–” The doors to the lecture hall bang open, and the very man on your lips appears in the doorway. 

“Interesting,” she notes with a dangerous grin before turning on her heel to enter the room. Treech eyes you with concern, one brow raised in confusion.

“What was–”

“Fuck off. You have to fuck off,” you cry out, and it almost sounds as though you are pleading with him as you swerve, avoiding his touch and making for the bathroom once more. All you wanted was a minute to cry in peace.

“What the hell? What is your problem?” He demands, anger creeping into his tone, but don’t respond, reaching the bathroom door and giving it a harsh tug. He slams it shut, planting a firm hand over your head. 

“You. You are my problem!” You are inches apart, and your chest is heaving. Treech only looks lost, features plainly read for once. His lips are parted, body warm. The smell of cedar invades your personal space once more. You give him a shove, hard and meaningful, before darting inside the bathroom. He follows. 

You want to scream in frustration, and the tears you have been fighting begin to wet your cheeks as he turns to lock the door, his eyes doing a quick scan of the walls. No cameras. At least as far as you’re aware.

“What is going on with you?” He hisses, and a wretched sob wracks your body. Treech takes a step forward, and you inch back.

“Don’t act so concerned now. You’re the one who said this had to be nothing,” you spit, knowing it is undeserved, but you are angry, and with rage wrapping its thick hands around your throat, it is difficult to see straight. To see who should truly bear the burden of your wrath.

“You said it first!” Treech looks exasperated at best, but he does not approach again, treating you like a wild animal of some sort as though afraid you might spook and disappear.

“You didn’t answer my letter!” Unfair. You are being unfair. But you will do anything to get him out of here. To make him leave you alone. Because at least alone, you are not a threat to his life.

“Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.” He shakes his head, frustration lighting his features once more.

“So it’s my fault?” And by your third attempt to corral him out the door, you can feel your resolve weakening. Can see it in the mirror too.

“No! So it’s no one’s fault! You think I don’t– Every day I spend with you, I think about this. Us. And every day, I have to remind myself that it would get us both killed. But fuck, I–” His words feel heavy where they should fill you with excitement. With joy. And suddenly, awareness of your situation burdens you again. And he looks so earnest, the words tumbling from his lips in a regrettable stream. So vulnerable.

“Gaul knows.”

“Knows what?” He is taken aback, and you know it is not the response he wanted.

“She was calling you my boy from 7. She knows about whatever this is.” And once you have begun the words come pouring out in quick succession. 

“She knows, and Teff and Trawl know. And at this point, I’d be surprised if Lucky fucking Flickerman hasn’t been made aware. And I am exhausted. And scared. And Colt is–” But you don’t finish, as all the emotions from earlier make their way back in, and the weight is unbearable, forcing you to your knees. Treech rushes forward, and this time, you do not stop him as he catches you halfway to the ground, pulling you close as he had two nights ago. And really, today’s frustration all comes back to that. Colt is dead, and no amount of screaming and crying will make it not so. Maybe that’s why you let it happen. Allow Treech to gently rock you on that bathroom floor and whisper soft words in your ear. Maybe that is why you turn to curl into his chest. To pretend, in spite of the lurking anxiety just beneath your skin, that this is alright. That there will be no consequences. No one to answer to. Just for a moment.

Treech reenters first, and by the time you step through the archaic double doors, it has been thirty minutes, and the girl from 6 is dead. You make for the back table, eyes fixed straight ahead, and pour yourself another coffee. Eight kids left. Something has to happen, and soon. 

The walk back to your chair feels eternal, and you slump in your seat upon arrival, fixing the screen with your gaze. The sun has set, and Bee sits crosslegged beside Mags, who watches over the sleeping form of Jadam, his head in her lap. 

“There’s no food out here. No water except for that fucking hellscape of a river. We can hide all we want, but we’re never gonna survive if we keep going down this route,” Mags sighs, her shoulders slumping.

“At this rate, we’ll all just starve to death,” she laments, eyes softening on their path over Jadam’s features.

“They can send us bread from the outside. Like today–” Bee supplies, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone. Your own gaze flits down to her sponsorships, measly and non-existent after your splurge on her peace offering.

“They need money for sponsorships. Money that no one is gonna send if we’re just sitting around doing nothing,” Mags reasons, and a sick feeling in your stomach tells you she is right.

“There’s food in the cornucopia,” Jadam mumbles, and you realize with a start he was only feigning sleep.

“What?” Bee asks, head turning to consider him and his words more carefully. 

“There’s a whole box of it in there. I saw it on the first day, during the countdown. There’s apples, bread probably–” Mags cuts him off.

“Yeah, there’s also the boy from 1. The girl from 2. Or are you forgetting that?”

“I’m just saying–” Jadam tries once more, but the older girl will not let him finish.

“Well, don’t. It’s not safe. We’d be walking into an ambush. Completely weaponless. It’s not happening.”

Bee stands from her place beside the pair, brushing the dirt from her clothes before turning to make her way out into the woods.

“Where are you going?” And it is more of a demand than a true question, sharp and cold though tinged with worry as Mags asks it.

“Bathroom,” Bee explains easily, though her eyes do not meet the older girl’s before she spins on her heel and disappears. Your shoulders tense, gaze fixed on her departing form. Jadam rolls onto his back, eyes trained upwards on the twisted expression of concern on Mags’s face.

“She’ll be alright,” Jadam whispers, and Mags almost appears to flinch at the words of comfort.

“We’ll have to split from her soon,” she states, clearing her throat, and your own heart sinks deeper into your chest. It is true. They cannot stay together forever without eventually needing to kill one another.  Still, Jadam asks the question you have already found the answer to.

“Why?”

“There can’t be many of us left, and I don’t want to have to kill her when it comes down to it.” 

“What about me?” His words echo out across the room, quiet now from the lack of academy students, and you feel your gaze being tugged toward Teff, his brow creased into an unreadable emotion as he watches the screen.

“What about you?” 

“Won’t you have to kill me? If we stay together?” There is a look that passes over Mags’s face, one you recognize from Colt. From the way he looked at Bee. From the way you look at Fawn. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The truth hangs in the air with a heavy silence, broken only when Bee reappears. She thrusts something onto the ground. An object, heavy in weight. A trident. Not just any trident, the one that killed Colt.

“Where did you get that?” Mags demands, shock evident in her voice.

“Found it.” You know she is lying. And you thank God they have no fire lit because you are sure her face would appear blotchy and swollen. 

“What–” Mags begins.

“You said we were weaponless. Now we aren’t.” And a wave of pride passes through your system, at little underestimated Bee and her bravery. It is quickly smothered, though, by disgust with yourself, thick and rampant at the realization that she should not have to make this stand in the first place.

“Bee–” 

“Look, there’s two of them and three of us, and now we can fight. We need food. So let’s go get food.” 

Something big is coming; you can feel it in the way your hands shake, gripping the fine china of your mug. Only it feels sinister, and with each second that creeps by it settles into certainty. The 11th Games is coming to an end. All there is to do is sit and wait.

The girl from 3 dies in the night, along with the boy from 6, which brings the number of remaining tributes to six. Neither gone of natural causes though, you note, with a worrisome lurch of your stomach. The fierce duo from 1 and 2 is on the hunt, and they show no signs of stopping.

You feel uneasy as you fix the screen with a watchful eye, camera trained on three small backs, lying in wait. It is Bee who speaks first, turning to Mags with a hushed whisper.

“I’m telling you, they’re not there. They must be out looking for other tributes. This is our chance.” Mags appears hesitant but eventually gives a nod, and the three creep out from their place in the tree line. 

They make the jump across the river separately, and though Jadam nearly slips, both girls lunge forward, pulling him to safety. A soft yelp passes his lips, but Mags is quick to shush him, jutting her head in the direction of the cornucopia. Her implication is clear: they could still be inside. 

As they get closer, the three take care to press themselves against the wall, with the District 4 girl in the lead, taking a shaky breath before readjusting her grip on the trident in her possession and peeking her head around the corner. Her shoulders drop in relief, and she delivers a curt nod in the direction of the others. They are safe to move forward. 

The trio creeps inside, splitting up to peel the lids off of several boxes and fish around their contents. There are several long beats of shuffling and silence before Jadam clears his throat, lifting his head with a sly grin on his face and producing from the confines of the plastic container, a bag of apples. 

And you can’t help it, really, your own slow smile at the small victory, especially as glee and relief plaster themselves across Bee and Mags’s faces. Finally. A win.

And then there is screaming. Distant at first, but quickly approaching. And the camera view changes and the girl from 7, Treech’s girl. Hazel is making a mad dash from the woods towards the center of the arena, the pair from 1 and 2 hot on her tail.

“Fuck.”

The trio has barely made it to the mouth of the cornucopia when she makes it over the river, hurtling herself with a violent force, the remains of the pack just behind her.

“We’ve gotta go,” Mags begins to rush, ushering the pair of younger tributes ahead of her and making toward the bank. It’s then the ground seems to begin shaking, all six remaining tributes hitting the ground, and suddenly, the center of the arena begins to shrink, pieces breaking off into the river as the water continues to engulf the chunks of land indiscriminatley. 

The girl from 2 is up again, a twisted growl darkening her features as she lunges Hazel, still splayed out from the fall. It is quick and merciful, the sword passing through her chest, and before you can truly process it, she has gone limp, and the buzzer signals her death. Beside you, Treech flinches. 

On the screen, Mags’s head whips around in several wild motions, trying to calculate an escape route. The trio edges closer to the river, and the pair from 1 and 2 notes their presence for the first time, the girl turning her mean scowl on Bee, the mark of Colt’s attack stretched across her face in a jagged scar. She starts to run, and the ground begins to shake once more.

A piece breaks off, this time not unpopulated. Jadam hits the water with a splash. Mags lets out a cry of concern, lunging forward to pull him from the river. Her free hand connects with his, but there is a clear tug at his figure, and he screams in pain, accidentally pulling her in with him. The girl from 2 is nearly on Bee when both of them disappear beneath the surface. 

One half of the pack takes Bee to the ground, and you resist the urge to reach for her. Beneath the water, there is movement. Both heads resurface, but Jadam’s lulls awkwardly to the side, and his eyes are unblinking. You feel like throwing up as the buzzer sounds again. 

Mags seems to notice as well, her eyes welling up and a strangled sob escaping her lips. And then she is lifting the trident, stabbing down and something seems to give as she moves through the water towards the shore, gripping at the dirt and pulling herself up. Her eyes are cold, and she barely seems to notice as she turns, as though on instinct and impales the oncoming boy from 1 with her weapon before discarding him into the river. 

The girl is next and, from behind, poses less of a threat. Beneath her, Bee has stopped struggling so much. Something is wrong. The trident pierces the girl from 2’s throat, and with several wretched choking sounds, she falls to the side, revealing Bee, drained of color beneath her. She is still breathing, though barely, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths and a large gash painting her stomach. She looks up at Mags with eyes filled with tears, and you wonder if the older girl will deliver the final blow just to get it over with. She seems to consider it for a moment, and Bee’s eyes squeeze shut, awaiting the impact.

The trident hits the ground, cast aside in one harsh movement, and Mags sinks slowly to her knees, pulling the younger girl into her lap. Her features grow tired, though admittedly warmer, and she begins to stroke Bee’s hair. You choke back a sob.

The careful braid you had pleated into her chestnut locks is almost completely undone, and Mags runs her fingers through the strands, undoing your work and then beginning to work at the knots that had formed in the Games. There is no need for the braid anymore. There will be no more fighting, no more days spent working in the slaughterhouse. Instead, her hair falls loose around her shoulders in the way a little girl’s hair should, wild and free. Uncontained. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mags whispers, the words croaked and wet. 

“Don’t be. I was never gonna win.” The response comes, weak and small.

“Could you do me a favor?” Mags only manages a nod, and Bee flashes her with a half-smile.

“If you ever make it over to 10, tell my mom not to worry about me. And that I love her.” 

“I will. Of course, I will,” Mags promises, tears falling atop Bee’s fragile form. She is quiet for a time before speaking again, moving her hand to lay over Mags’s.

“Do you think there’s another world where we could have been friends?” The older girl’s lip shakes as she takes a minute before responding.

“I’d like to think we don’t need another world. That I can tell people we were friends in this one.” Bee smiles, real and bright, though fading by the second.

“That’s nice. Friends. I’m sorry it wasn’t for longer. I think I really would’ve liked getting to know you.” When she finally stills, Mags lets out a final shuddering sob before loosing a scream, angry like no other you’ve heard before. She does not hear as they announce her the victor, barely seeming to notice the Peacekeepers entering the arena through some passage in the cornucopia. Instead, she leans forward to press a kiss to Bee’s head and clings, shuddering to her form until they pry her from it, pulling her towards the exit.

The first thing you do upon arrival at the victor’s suite is take a shower. It has been days, and you scrub at your skin with a ferocity previously unknown to you, but the ghost of the Games does not wash away.

Trawl has been called elsewhere, likely to meet with Mags, but the rest of you have been told you will remain in the hotel until called upon for further ceremonies, and so you do. Wait, that is, as the hours tick by in a vile silence. Several of the other victors depart towards their rooms to rest or perhaps escape the group and the constant reminder they provide of the events that have just occurred. And really, you should sleep. In the last five days, you’ve probably only managed to crash for a grand total of two hours, and even that time had been dispersed in fifteen-minute chunks. But closing your eyes means seeing them. Colt sprawled out, his eyes still open and the ghost of a smile on his face in spite of his leaking chest, and Bee, whispering her final words to the girl from 4, her hair a messy halo in the grass. You wonder what will become of what is left of them. 

It is a thought that has plagued you since your own Games, what the Capitol does with the remains of the District children. The first few years, they had shipped them home in boxes, though little had been done in the way of embalming, and often, the children arrived in a condition so bad that parents were denied the privilege of even seeing them. One year, the Capitol sent patches torn from the clothing of the deceased as a means of commemoration. But eventually, they ceased pretending to care about the families of fallen tributes, and in the last few years, when your child died, you were left with nothing but the memory of them and an empty grave.

Your hands shake as you enter the kitchen, barely noting the other mentors in the room. You haven’t eaten much in the last few days; the Games made you feel sick, and keeping anything down felt difficult. Still, the lack of care seems to be catching up with your body, so you force down some toast from the plater on the counter as well as a piece of bacon before turning to observe the suite.

You note Treech’s absence almost immediately, and though a good part of you longs for his presence, you know that after the events of yesterday, you should keep your distance. Teff is seated alone at the dining room table, hunched over and scribbling something. Probably a letter you note. Probably to Jadam’s parents or Olive’s. You shake the thought as it brings in a torrent of others. Should you be writing letters? What do you even say to the mothers of two children who will never see their homes again? Nothing. At least nothing they haven’t heard before, and certainly nothing that makes the absence feel any less cruel.

On the couch, Octavian sits, stiff as a board, his eyes glued straight ahead. The television plays something you don’t recognize and, therefore, must not be the news, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He stares blankly past the screen, gaze fixed on something you’re certain isn’t there. 

Beside him, Antonia has begun to nod off, though she jerks awake every few seconds, eyes doing a desperate search of the room before landing on Octavian and, noting that he is safe, closing once more. Further down, several feet away from the pair, Lux sits, feet tucked primly beneath her and a magazine in her hands. You note that the pages turn too quickly for her to possibly be reading the text, but the movement seems to calm her, apart from the occasional fidget. You make your way over, taking the seat beside hers.

“What are you doing?” She asks without so much as looking up from the task before her.

“Sitting down?” You snark in return, sinking further into your seat.

“You can’t sit somewhere else? Further away?” She turns to face you now, nose crinkling in mock disgust, but you ignore the twisting of her features, hoping mostly for a moment of normalcy.

“Lux–”

“We aren’t friends,” she says plainly. And bickering with Lux feels normal, but her statement still strikes at an odd place between your ribs.

“Jesus, I know–” You begin once more.

“I’m not gonna sit here and play patty-cake and braid your hair.” This has you rolling your eyes, a soft snort escaping you.

“Would you calm down? I’m sitting next to you, not asking you to marry me.”

“Well, I would hope not; I’ve seen the wedding customs you have in 10; frankly, they’re a bit barbaric,” she taunts, flipping a long strand of hair over her shoulder and just barely missing your face. Still, there is something about the conversation that feels better than sitting catatonic like Octavian and staring at the wall.

“I’m sorry we can’t afford to be quite as gaudy with our ceremonies as–”

“Gaudy? We are very tasteful– I suppose you’d just have us walking down the aisle in work boots?” She sputters at the notion, and you know you are under her skin. Still, you do not stop, pushing forward with the jest.

“You know honey, maybe it would be better if we just eloped. I never really got the whole fuss around weddings anyways.” And suddenly, Lux breaks off in a laugh, though her brow remains raised in surprise as though she hadn’t been expecting to enjoy your company.

“I wanted a big wedding,” she admits after a long beat, turning to face you as though telling some sort of secret. 

“When I was a girl, I would dream about falling in love and getting married. Perfect dress. Perfect venue. But nobody wants to lie in bed next to a killer. At least not back home. Not now. And by the time this Capitol plan kicks in and changes their minds, I won’t be me anymore, and that little girl will be long gone.” Her face has gone sour by the end of her confession, and you feel your own heart sinking in your chest at the turn in conversation. You want to say sorry. To reach out and comfort her. But she is Lux, and to do so would only encourage scorn, so you nod, trading a secret of your own.

“I always thought I would never marry. I wanted to work on the ranch like my dad; I thought that was what freedom looked like. And then it turned out all the ranchers ever really talk about is home. Their wives and husbands and how much they missed them. And I realized freedom doesn’t have to mean being alone. We don’t wear boots to our weddings. At least, not all of us do. It’s a ranching tradition. The whole bunkhouse saves up for a pair, and then the night before the wedding, you gift them to the person marrying into the ranch life. Like the things that are important to you become more important because they’re sharing them with you. And even though I didn’t believe in weddings or marriage, I started dreaming up those boots, what they would look like, and who would be wearing them. And then it didn’t seem so bad, falling in love.” Lux snorts at the notion, but when she dips her head to take in her magazine once more, there is a soft smile spread across her lips.

“You’re not so bad,” you say, quiet so only she can hear.

“I guess I’ve had worse company,” she replies, and you feel a piece of the weight chip away, just for a second.

For two days, the Capitol seems to forget entirely that you exist. Mags makes several television appearances accompanied by Trawl, but neither so much as enters the hotel. As for the rest of you, the space feels suffocating. At night, you escape to the lobby, seeking a change of environment and anything strong enough to drown out the Games that haunt you from every screen in the Capitol. The day proves to be more difficult, and you pass the hours making strained conversation with the other victors. 

Several times, you consider writing Bee and Colt’s families, but the thought continues to bring bile to your throat, and you decide you will visit with them instead upon your return.

On the third day, there is a knock at the door. Several people enter all at once, including a pair of Peacekeepers led by a man you’ve never seen before. He has a sharp nose and eyes that remain guarded, almost appearing glassed over as he speaks. In addition, they bring Trawl and Mags, the former drawing you into an embrace upon arrival.

His companion shows signs of obvious discomfort, keeping close to her mentor as he makes his way to the couch. The man takes his place before the television, and you note he is likely here to pass on information regarding the next steps in this process, though you feel surprise creep into your system, wondering what has happened to Coriolanus Snow. Probably basking in the glory of his successful undertaking. It is a sour thought, but you have no doubt it is mostly true.

“Hello there, we haven’t met before. My name is Hilarius Heavensbee, and going forward, I’ll be working with Coriolanus Snow to oversee the mentorship program.” He is met with silence, but you all file in, aware there is likely a speech in store. He squares his shoulders before continuing.

“I’m here to let you know we’ll be keeping you here a little longer, mostly to get you prepped on what the first-ever Victory Tour will look like. Additionally, as part of our campaign to endear you to the public, each of you must pick a talent to cultivate and integrate into your personality.”

“Talent?” Antonia asks, a sneer decorating her features.

“Some sort of interesting skill. Drawing, poetry, dance, frankly, I don’t really care what you pick, as long as it’s something,” he says dismissively, though his posture conveys that there is a layer of deception to the aloof nature he presents.

“I’m good at chopping down trees. Can that be my talent?” Treech speaks up from beside you. Lux snorts, and he shoots her a glare.

“No. No, your talent needs to be something that distinguishes you from your district. Remember, on your new victor’s earnings, you will no longer be a part of the working class. This should be something you do for fun. A hobby,” Heavensbee prompts.

There is a wave of muttering that passes through the room, and you hear as several times the words fun and hobby are tossed around in a tone that indicates little more than confusion.

“Right, well, you’ll have until the end of the day to decide on something. And try not to pick the same talents; we don’t need nine victors who can knit,” he says, clapping his hands together before moving to depart and leaving the suite buzzing with confusion.

“What are you doing for this stupid talent thing?” Treech does not knock before entering your room; only thrusts himself down across the end of your bed and waits expectantly for your answer after closing the door behind him.

“Well, I already know how to draw, so probably just sketching,” you shrug, though it isn’t really a question; you’ve already decided.

“Urgh, this is so dumb,” he groans, burying his face in the duvet.

“C’mon, there has to be something you’re good at besides using an axe,” you tease, your lips twisting into a smile when he lifts his head to send you an indignant expression before the emotion on his face melts into something more contemplative.

“Sometimes I make little… things out of wood. For my sisters,” he says, slow as though weighing the option.

“There you go,” you encourage, pleased to have solved the predicament so quickly.

“No.” He shakes his head, setting it back down with another sigh.

“What do you mean, no? It’s right there. And you already know how to do it.”

“I don’t want them to have that. It’s– I want that to be for me.” And you cannot blame him for that, though the thought had not occurred to you before, and you think of your own talent. Of how the sole surviving symbol of your teenage dreams to become a veterinarian was the skill you would now hand on a silver platter to the Capitol.

“Okay,” you nod, thinking for a moment before speaking again. “Do you know how to play any instruments?” 

“Do I look like I know how to play any instruments?” He quips, voice muffled by the bed.

“Maybe you could try the guitar,” you say, and it is mostly a joke.

“As if. Do you know how ridiculous I would look trying to play the guitar?” You resist a laugh at the thought.

“Please, the women of the Capitol are already practically falling at your feet; just imagine if you could serenade them.” 

“Shut up,” he says, looking up at you with a pout plastered across his face. Still, you don’t stop.

“Play me your guitar, oh Capitol loverboy. Is it true? Are you really a tortured dark soul, like they say?”

“Shut up,” Treech exclaims, louder this time, and as the words leave his mouth, he lunges forward to muffle your remarks with his hand. You struggle to break free, laughter slipping from your lips as he pulls you closer in his attempts to silence you, but it is of little use as you continue to pester him with your remarks until you gain enough traction to whip around and face him. 

You are inches apart when your eyes meet his, and the words seem to die on your tongue as you note the distance, or lack thereof, between you. And for a moment, the world seems to stop. And his lips are so close, his eyes so soft. You recall the feeling of his curls between your fingers. You think you will never forget that feeling. His nose brushes yours, and your eyes flutter closed, cheek leaning into the open palm inches from your face. But you cannot. You know you cannot. So you pull away.

“Treech–”

“I know,” he cuts you off, allowing his hand to remain outstretched for a moment before dropping it to his side. His eyes linger though, tracing each crevice of your face with a look you cannot quite dissect.

“I should–”

“I’ll go,” he interrupts you once more and stands to depart. And your heart feels as though it is heavy enough to crash through all your vital organs, sinking into the bottom of your stomach. “I think maybe it’s better if I stop staying in your room.” He doesn’t turn around, his words projecting out towards the door, and you feel the biting sting of tears forming in your eyes. You want to speak, but you’re afraid your voice will break and betray you. He is gone before you can even manage a shaky breath.

You do not speak with Treech the next day, silence providing a strain between you, though you spare him a glance upon Hilarius’s return when he announces he will, in fact, be learning to play the guitar. 

Before his departure, the new hire announces that you are all set to return tomorrow, but not prior to engaging in one final festivity, a celebration set to be held at the President’s mansion. Lux nearly squeals with excitement, though the decision seems to breed more questions than answers among others. “They won’t even let you come in here without a security detail, and now we’re invited to a ball?” Teff demands, brow furrowed in concern. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“This is all part of the larger plan in reconstructing your image as victors. We want the people of the Capitol to regard you as favorites. That starts with getting you in the same rooms with them.”

“This is gonna be fucking miserable,” mutters Treech, and you cannot help but agree. You can hardly imagine a world where, upon being faced with you, the Capitol citizens can manage anything other than sheer horror. Still, if some party is all that’s standing between you and returning home, you’ll find a way to get through it, even if you have to grit your teeth and bite your tongue until it bleeds.

Your stylists arrive hot on the tail of Hilarius’s departure, and by 9:00 pm, you are all ready to depart. You find yourself standing by Mags in the center of the suite’s common space as you wait for the cars meant to transport the lot of you to arrive, and upon noting a fallen eyelash on her cheek, you reach out on instinct before stopping yourself and clearing your throat.

“Sorry, it’s just you have an eyelash,” you start, indicating its location with an outstretched finger. Her eyebrows lift and she quickly moves to dust off her cheek, but to no avail.

“Here, let me.” You reach out once more, this time making contact with her skin and brushing it from her face.

“It’s good luck, you know. They say you’re supposed to put it on your knuckle and then blow it off and make a wish,” you smile, offering it back. 

“Thanks, but I don’t think any of my wishes have a chance of coming true.” You nod, quiet understanding passing over your face before moving the piece of her to your own knuckle.

“Well then, I’ll wish for both of us that tonight goes decently well.” You shut your eyes tight and huff the eyelash out into the room.

“You’re not supposed to say it out loud.” And there is the ghost of a smile on her face at your mistake.

“What are the chances it comes true anyway?”

That was two hours ago, and as it turns out, the answer is zero to none. In fact, so far, the night had proved to be a disaster. No self-respecting Capitol citizen wanted to be seen talking to someone from the Districts, and so, as expected, no one spoke with you at all. Picking at the abundance of food lining the tables that fill the garden had only earned you several hard stares, and there came a point where even talking to Teff felt frustrating under the weight of so many watchful eyes, and so, about thirty minutes ago, you had pressed yourself into a corner, brimming with the hope that you might get lucky and simply disappear. 

At present, your gaze is fixed on Treech, locked in conversation with a woman you recognize as his mentor from the 10th Hunger Games. She is a pretty girl; hair twisted back and away from her face and a visage like a cherub’s. Not that you really take notice. Not that you’re jealous or anything.

“May I have this dance?” Your thoughts are interrupted by the sudden presence at your side, and with a jolt, you turn to meet Hilarius Heavensbee, looking slightly more preened than he had several hours ago in your hotel room. You cast another glance in Treech’s direction, though it reveals nothing new. He is still wrapt in his conversation with Vispania and you are still standing in the corner, only not quite so alone. 

“Shouldn’t you be sneering at me with disgust from thirty feet away?” And really, he’s done nothing to deserve it, but you are not exactly in the mood to be extending courtesies, and his offer seems to you more like an attempt to get under your skin than anything else.

“Well, I would, but then you’d be stuck standing in this corner, and I cannot think of a worse way to waste a perfectly beautiful dress.” You only snort in response, but the words seem genuine enough, and he extends you a careful hand, which, after several moments of consideration, you take. He leads you with ease, you note, as you settle into the pattern of his practiced steps, and you begin to relax in spite of your newfound position thrusting you into the limelight. Your eyes flit back to Treech, who, having noted your presence on the dance floor, appears distracted from his conversation with his former mentor, expression unreadable.

“How’s your night been so far?” Hilarius asks low and quiet in your ear. This conversation is just for you, meaning your biting tone from before feels at liberty to return.

“Is that a joke?” You scoff, meeting his gaze with a single eyebrow arched in question.

“They’re warming up to you,” he reassures, gathering the implication of your words, and you mull over his comment.

“Yeah, to Lux and Beau. And Octavian, I guess.” This much is true. The three had been the most successful in engaging with the other partygoers, with Lux in particular managing to charm a group of Capitol citizens who have yet to depart from her side. Hilarius only sighs before seeming to make a quick shift in conversation.

“Do you know the real reason I’m dancing with you?”

“Well, given that I saw the ring on your finger the minute you walked up, I’m assuming it's not an attempt to get in my pants,” you chuckle, eyes traveling to the golden band on his left hand. He grants you a smile, though his head shakes in tandem with the action.

“Look around. Look at the way they’re looking at you.” And you do. And he’s right, you note, not even having heard his reason, because the people of the Capitol have stopped glaring, fixing you instead with looks of curiosity and interest. It’s working. 

As the music comes to a stop, he steps back, taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the skin. You nearly jerk back in surprise.

“Was that really necessary?” 

“No. But you should see the look on your face.” You roll your eyes, casting your head around to gauge the reaction of your audience. The place beside Vispania is empty, and all that’s left of Treech is a retreating form headed for the house.

“I have to go, sorry,” you whisper, barely looking back as you set off after him.

It is not for lack of trying that you come up empty in your search for Treech, doing the rounds of both the gardens and the house for the remainder of the party to no avail. By the time you return to the hotel, it is nearly 3:00 am, and Treech is nowhere to be found. You crash into the soft padding of your duvet, not even bothering to wipe the makeup from your face, and the hem of your dress spills over the side of the bed, brushing against your ankles.

You think of Hilarius, of the dance you’d shared and the seeming sympathy he had lent you in his attempt to garner you even a modicum of support and respect. Your brain picks at his possible motivations: advancement within Snow’s ranks, better support for their sadistic project, a false sense of trust instilled in you as a mentor. Genuine kindness. You keep coming back to that answer, but it feels ignorant to let yourself believe, so you move on to other musings. To Treech.

It is incredible, you think, the amount of time he spends occupying your thoughts. You run your hands down your face, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself as you picture once more his retreating form. Was it something Vispania said? Or maybe, just maybe, was it you? Your dance with Hilarius? The thought feels indulgent, and your mind travels to earlier today. To your almost kiss. To the awkward battle, the two of you seem locked in, both wanting to give in but refusing for the other. Your mind begins to drift over the what-ifs. 

There is a knock at the door. You are on your feet in an instant, though upon reaching it, your hand hovers over the handle. What if it’s not Treech? Or worse, what if it is? What do you even say? That this is doomed. That the two of you are doomed. You twist it open, and he doesn’t even look up as the light of your room floods the hallway, soft curls hanging down in his face and his frame draped against the entrance. 

“I–” You begin.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He does not look up as he speaks, and his voice is strained as it travels in your direction.

“What?”

“When I’m with you, I can’t have you. When I’m ignoring you, you’re all I can think about. This is driving me insane. I feel like I’m insane and like no matter what I do, I’m losing. And I can’t just push it down anymore– Trust me, I tried. And I just knew I had to tell you. Well, technically, I’ve already told you, but this is the last time I’ll say it and–” And he is looking at you now, eyes wild.

“Treech–”

“When I saw you with him tonight, it felt like I was– Like I couldn’t– I’m not good at–” His struggle is palpable, but even as you move to interrupt him, you sense he has more to say.

“Treech,” you begin again.

“Like I was drowning.”

“Treech.” And this time, he doesn’t interrupt you as you move forward, placing a hand on his chest to still his breathing, which has become a bit erratic. He freezes, and for once, every emotion on his face is clear. Fear. Frustration. Adoration. It pools at the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. You are inches apart. Your mind flits to several days ago in the bathroom. To yesterday in your room. To all the nights you’d shared your bed. To that very first trip out to the Capitol, his pinky twisting around yours moments before you stepped out on stage. You take a shaky breath, and he leans in closer. Your noses are brushing. Now is the time to pull back. You can stop this here. But you can’t, not really. You don’t think an oncoming train could pull you away. Your lips brush over his, and his eyes begin to flutter closed before opening once more, fixing you with a questioning regard. 

You only need to nod once, and it is as though time, which had stopped, has started again. And the kiss, which is soft at first, becomes frenzied, his hands pulling desperately at your waist, your own traveling up into his hair. And you pull each other closer, impossibly closer, appearing for a moment to devour one another. Completely undivided. Completely unaware. 

It is early the next morning when the call comes; it sets the phone beside your bed ringing, and in your haze, you reach towards the sound only to discover Treech, who is closer, has released his hold on you to answer it. His voice is heavy with sleep, and you decide later that it was sleep that rendered you too dumb to perceive the danger of allowing him to pick up the phone. The phone in your room. Your room in which he was not meant to reside. But he continues speaking, in short, snippy phrases, before hanging up and turning to press a chaste kiss against your cheek. 

“I’ll be right back.” And again, it should have scared you, his getting up so suddenly to depart, but all you can manage is a nod before you curl back into the warmth of the bed, unplagued by concern.

Snow’s office is much smaller than Treech expected, though that does not prevent the cold from seeping in. He had been quick to dress himself after receiving the call to your room, a mistake he had only recognized after speaking. Not that it would have saved him the grief. It was him Snow was asking for, not you. That thought alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine. How had Snow known to reach him there? He pushes the thought away, toying with his hands nervously while the other man finishes shuffling through a stack of papers before turning to him with a nonchalance that should have almost lowered his guard. It does not. Treech only clenches his hands into two tight fists while waiting for the man in the pressed suit to begin.

“No need to look so nervous. As long as this conversation goes well, you have nothing to worry about.” Snow smiles, face contorting into the expression as though unsure how to proceed.

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here, though at this point, given your numerous indiscretions, I feel it should be a bit obvious.” Treech does not share the expressed sentiment and sets about wracking his brain for anything he might have done.

“Oh, come on, don’t look so confused. Your relationship? With the girl from 10? You didn’t seriously think I was that stupid, did you? And I mean, it was fine, all those sad puppy dog looks and missed glances, but then you had to go and do something about it, didn’t you?” Anything he might have done that didn’t involve you, his single gross oversight. And suddenly, it all falls into place. The call placed to your room, the teasing glint in Snow’s eye.

“How–” He begins.

“You’re in the Capitol, Mr. Elmore, my domain. There isn’t a single place in this city I don’t have eyes on.” And he’s not sure Snow even has to say it. But he does. And the words sink like a stone within his gut.

“Anyways, you’re in luck. It’s a simple fix, really. You cut ties with the girl, and I overlook this mistake.” Cut ties? He has only just gotten you within his grasp, and now he is supposed to, what? Throw you away?

“I can’t–”

“Oh, you can. And you will. I understand you have a family, several sisters? A mother? Not to worry, though. I wouldn’t start with them. You see, Miss. L/N happens to have a family as well. One that is very dear to her, as I’m sure you know. And wouldn’t it be a shame if that little sister of hers was reaped for next year's Games? A tragedy, I assure you, though it would make good press.” There it is. A threat strong enough to stop him in his tracks. A promise that his actions would result before all else in consequences for you and you alone.

“So what? I just stop talking to her? What if she won’t leave me alone?” It occurs to him that try as he might, it isn’t exactly in your nature to just let things go. 

“Well, then you make her. Frankly, that’s not my concern. Just make it happen.” And just like that, you are gone. No longer within reach. No longer within reason.

“You can go now.” And Treech is nearly at the door before he speaks again.