#th:self

The interviews were always difficult to watch. Maybe it was the bizarre clothing, or maybe it was the statements that objected to everything he’d seen of some tributes in the last few days. He almost envied the tributes who could lie so easily, somehow seem both threatening and endearing at the same time. He’d seen them all, though. He’d tuned up the simulation stations so they were easier to navigate, and he’d watched from afar as they cut down pixelations. Most of it was over cameras, because his attention was required elsewhere. 

It’d been over two years now. Two years and he hadn’t burned out like a lot of new recruits. Over two years, and he was no longer working on half as many red herrings. He knew the arena would be an ancient town for at least three months before launch. 

So as much as he could, he watched from afar during training. Watching over cameras to make sure no one fucked with the technology in the training center too much. The same consoles that he used to fiddle with like they were toys were now viewed as prized possessions. Only he was allowed to fuck with them. Aside from updates on the simulations some tributes wanted in their skills presentations, he had very little contact with the tributes this year. It was better that way.

Especially when they were plastered in makeup, dressed up in chiffon, and sent out to talk to Calix. He didn’t want to see the tributes from Three in their interview. He’d successfully avoided them for over three days, he could continue that now. But every television in the Tower was tuned into the interview. He had no desire to go home. Evie and Paslee left that morning on the first train to Three, an agreement decided upon in the last few Games with Belle that it was best for Evie to be away. Easier to control what she saw, either on television or in her uncle’s tired eyes when he came home. 

Chip knew every television in the HQ would be tuned to the interviews, too. The psych department would be taking notes with each second that passed, and they would be feeding information along to supervisors for adjustments. He walked from bar to cafe to bar to lounge, and everywhere he looked, a tribute was seated across from Calix Crystal. Absolutely insane, really, that this was the last “pleasant” memory afforded to the families of tributes watching. He couldn’t pretend to be that mad about it, really. He just selfishly didn’t want to see.

He descended in the elevator this time. The training center was brightly lit, still, but there was no one there that he could see. Outside the elevator, he used his keycard to open a Gamemakers Only door and took a winding flight of stairs. The room overseeing the training center was brightly lit, too. It had been cleaned up nearly entirely since the presentations, but there were a couple glasses of wine that he spotted tucked discreetly behind a cushioned chair. More like left, and just out of view of Avoxes who weren’t allowed through the Gamemaker entrance. 

Chip hadn’t been asked to attend the skills presentations this year. It was usually just an occasional courtesy. They would randomly invite a couple people from the fringes of tech and landscaping and agriculture to help weigh in on presentations that weren’t so obviously impressive. 

He walked to the glass at the edge of the viewing area, the tip of his nose cool as it barely brushed the window. He wondered if someone from the tech team had been in the room during his skills presentations. His eyes easily traced the pattern of small explosions and sparks he’d set off once upon a time. He could’ve done better. He could’ve placed a dummy within the line of fire, or built a more complex trap. But he was eighteen, and he was stupid. He had no idea what was to come.

Chip shoved his hands in his pocket, looking around the various television screens in the room to see they were all dark. The interviews never lasted long, so he was certain by the time he left the room and got back up the elevator, he’d have missed all the District Three tributes had to offer. He ran a hand over the top of his hat as he walked toward the door, turning his head to the side. To see the wine glasses. 

They were still there. They’d likely been there for over a day. 

Chip’s knuckles went white as he clutched the doorknob. He’d never liked wine, anyway. It always tasted like vinegar to him, but it’d never stopped him.

Did it still taste that way? He could take a taste. Sommeliers did it all the time, and just spit it back out in a bucket. There was no bucket around, but a few drops, or a few sips, wouldn’t do anything. 

He let go of the knob, and walked to take a seat in the cushioned chair. He tapped one foot agains the floor, then another. He finally pulled his hands from his pockets and reached back. He took only half a sip before he spit the red wine back into the glass. It tasted awful. He reached behind him for the other glass and stood up, placing them both in obvious view on a coffee table. He should go.

But he took a sip. And awfulness aside, he hadn’t swallowed, had he? He’d always preferred beer, something with a little more body, with a little more fizz that almost resembled a soda. It was best that he tried a sip of wine first, really. To show he hated it. To show he could try it, though, too. To show he wasn’t eighteen anymore, that maybe with age, with time, with wisdom, he could have a drink. Just one drink, now and then. It was such an important part of the Capitol social scene, to just go for a drink. Such an important part of life in Three, to go to a friend’s house and crack open a cheap beer to talk shit about an employer.

Chip kept his eyes on the training center as he approached the mini fridge against a wall. When he opened it, there were several bottles of champagne inside. He closed it, headed for the door, and backtracked. Champagne was for a celebration, and this was a celebration. All the bullshit he’d overcome, this was a perfect reason for champagne. Just a glass, though, he reasoned as he used a key to tear off the foil. Liquor, beer, wine, had never been the real problem, after all. Just something he swore off. Gotta twist this wire shit off. This was different. Pop. Just one glass. 

It was easier to swallow than the red wine, but the fizz reached his nose. He squeezed his nostrils and walked back toward the window, looking down over the training center. It was remarkable, really, how despite all the changes above ground, this place stayed the same. They updated it every year, of course, but he wondered if it really looked all that different from some of the earliest Games. Sleeker, most likely, and shinier, but had weapons really advanced that much? When was the last time someone invented a new patented object to kill someone with?

He forgot how small champagne glasses were. It had to only be about four ounces, at most, with all the fizziness of the drink. Hardly the equivalent of a real drink, even a single drink. He poured another glass and turned on the nearest television. It flickered to life, and Calix Crystal’s face was the first he saw. He sat back on the arm of a sofa and watched as another tribute came out. The carbonation hardly bothered him as he gulped down the second glass. He waited, impatiently, until at least the next tribute’s interview to pour another glass. 

A jolt went through his elbow as he used it to lean against the door to the staircase, but it was easily ignored as he paused, refilled his glass, and then very carefully went down the stairs. He pressed his thumb over the top of the champagne bottle and used the weighted bottom of the glass to push open the door to the training center. As the door closed behind him, he took a long gulp from the champagne flute. He was drinking from a glass, much more controlled than he’d ever been before. After not drinking for so long, he’d probably have a hangover after finishing this bottle of champagne, but that was just a fun complaint of life. Oh, I’m so hungover. Like it was nothing. It was nothing. He’d just drink water once he got home, and have an extra cup of coffee before his launch shift. That was all it took, right? For everyone else? Why couldn’t he be like everyone else?

He topped off his glass and set the champagne bottle down very, very carefully in a trash can. Flute still in hand, he took a lap around the training center. He touched nothing, just looked at it all with a critical gaze. Noted where things needed unnecessary improvements, like he was the mastermind who would truly change how tributes trained for the Hunger Games. For the Games he thought he was doing something to end, but he hadn’t done enough. Because his foot was always out the door; out the door on the rebellion, on Three, on the Capitol, on this job, on his sobriety, on Evie.

Leaves. He’d scattered leaves across the ground, and put small bombs and sparkers all underneath. How fucking understated, considering what he could’ve done. 

Chip took a long sip from the flute, and turned his gaze from a ball of wires to the rack of knives. He approached, taking a couple more sips in the time it took him to close the space. The large blades were still immensely intimidating, but there was a small survival knife that caught his attention. He shifted the glass into his left hand and picked up the knife. He could not clearly make out his own reflection in the blade, but he could make out the silhouette of every person he could cut through with it.

And he could feel nothing. Finally, it was back. 

As a child, he’d been sent to several different psychiatrists and therapists. They’d said a lot of words that didn’t make sense to his young mind. A few stood out, though. Intelligent, naturally, stuck to his ego. Shy, like anyone needed confirmation. 

Empath. It didn’t make sense, and it made every bit of sense. It explained every lack of expression, or emotion, behind his gestures and tone. He was hiding, because everyone else was so easy to read, so easy to take in. The world was all just a math problem, after all. The warm smile minus the blank eyes minus the sagging posture minutes the back-handed compliment equalled a total lack of approval, of support. It was all so easy, to see facial features, posture, and hear tone, and put it all together into a formula that equated to an unspoken emotion, an emotion that, according to order of operations, affected him last. 

He felt Seraphina die first. He wanted to know why, and he dug in. All problems have a root calculation. If one dug deep enough, they could surely find where Chip’s formula met Sera’s, met Freyja’s, met Perl’s, met Vidia’s. If they just got to the core of the problem, that would solve everything. 

But who the fuck wanted Chip Foster solved?

The knife was returned to its spot on the rack. Chip finished his drink, and hung the flute ever so carefully on a few spare hooks. He needed to go home, to his house that was now empty, and relax and drink water and recover. He found his way up the elevator, and out to a cab, and said something to the driver, and then was somewhere more familiar than his own new home. Champagne tended to end him up here, so he gave in to old desires. This was controlled. This was just to say hello to old friends, and then head home. Maybe have one more drink, but that was it. The world was starting to get a little less concise, a little less upright, and he shouldn’t push it. 

Because it was different this time.

Until the bouncer didn’t recognize him. He recognized the face as a victor’s face, and so Chip was let in, but there was no celebration, no grand welcome that he’d been expecting. A few steps into the club and he could feel his heartbeat eager to be in tandem with the bass. No one’s head turned at his entrance, as he’d expected. His cheeks went pink, not like anyone could see under the dark lights of the club. A bartender he didn’t recognize asked what he was having, and he told her a water. He needed a water, so he asked for it. He could have something that wasn’t liquor, even in this insanely uncomfortable scenario.

Then the manager came out from her office. Chip intentionally or not, who knew how he was acting now, was right in her line of vision. He saw the smile, and he smiled back, finally relaxed. Finally relieved. Finally fucking seen. He didn’t even ask, but a whiskey ginger was placed in front of him within sixty-seven seconds. He counted. He was always fucking counting, it came to him like breathing.

“Nothing’s changed.”

Chip was about to take a sip from his new cocktail but let the glass fall back to the bar suddenly, splashing whiskey and ginger all all over his hand. “I-I-”

“Shut up. You know.”

Chip only gave a slight nod, eyes drifting to his periphery as he took a long, long sip of his drink. He forgot how easy every liquor was to drink once it was mixed with soda. But he’d only have one. And he’d only look once at the stage, and the chairs on the edges where dancers were getting personal with clients. He didn’t recognize most of them, and quickly turned his attention away when he thought one looked at him. He finished off his drink, and waved down the manager to ask for his bill. He paused, and asked for another drink.

He didn’t recognize most of the dancers, but he recognized one. He was already standing when the manager slid him the fresh drink. One sip, and he tasted more whiskey than ginger ale. He swallowed down a gag, and kept walking. He took a seat on the side of the stage, consistently sipping on his drink through tiny straws. 

He’d be hungover tomorrow, but that was just part of a stressful work life. He wouldn’t drink again for weeks, probably, at the very least. This was just a final night of fun before the arena. He was fully in control. Alcohol had never really been the problem, anyway.

A money clip always made this easier. He forgot why he got rid of it until now, when he was awkwardly trying to balance his wallet and his drink in his hand. 

She took the wallet. He remembered her favorite ploy, that ended with the wallet tucked back in his pocket. He didn’t protest, sitting so stock still it made the final part of the performance almost impossible. 

“Chip. C’mon?”

Remembered. She remembered him. He knew enough, logically, to know her manager might’ve whispered his name in her ear. Or maybe it was the victory. Or maybe this was the one arena where he’d really been special and notable.

He pressed his elbows into the sides of the chair and pushed his hips up before sliding down more in the chair. “Jewel. C’mon.” 

She mastered that knowing smile, and he knew it. Every ounce of flattery afforded to him in a place like this, he knew was practiced. But that was part of the freedom. To know it was all bullshit but at least he’d be satisfied. He paid her the remaining cash in his wallet for a lapdance, and ordered another drink when the manager came to check on him.

“We still have the VIP room, Mr. Foster.”

“N-Nah, I’m-” He shook his head to deny the offer. He couldn’t afford it with the cash he had. Also, he told himself, he didn’t want it. This was just a night of fun ahead of a few stressful days. He would sleep, go to his next shift, and no one had to know where he was the night before. He’d just have to shower to get the scent off him. And if all it took was a shower, some coffee, and a nap to get him cleared up, well... He could have more fun, right? If everyone else could do it, he could. He was in control of this situation. He knew the actions, and the consequences. And he had room in his schedule for consequences. 

When his money ran out, he only had cigarettes left to burn. He knew the way without direction. Through the bar door, through the kitchen, out to the back alley where he could smoke a cigarette in peace. And he had peace, for just a moment. Until Jewel joined him. He forgot this was technically for workers only.

“It’s almost closing time,” she informed him.

“I’m going home,” he replied, he reasoned, he implied. He said, whatever that really meant. He said a lot of things in the last hour he didn’t concretely recall.

“Really?”

“Really.” 

This was all about control. He could control this. He could keep this, this thing he refused to apply a noun or verb or anything to, and still live his life. He just had to be careful about timing, careful about who saw him. So he would finish the drink still waiting for him at the bar, and he would go home, and he would have a half gallon of water, and he would sleep until his shift. And if he wanted to do this again, he could. On the weekend. Maybe even have another drink, maybe even do a line, maybe even, maybe even, maybe even...

But it really was all so clear. He could be totally in control this time.

Jewel had finished her own cigarette, and was standing with the back door to the club still open. 

“Are you coming back?”

Surya was uneasy after the 126th Hunger Games drew to a close. She found herself falling asleep too easily, and with little desire to attend the event she was invited to. It was peak party season in the Capitol, but she excused herself with an uncharacteristic quietness on a train back to Eight. It was just her, several suitcases, and several bottles of wine.

In Eight she slept with only her tarot cards. She tended to her garden, and researched the best flowers for the climate for the coming fall. She tried her hand at new makeup techniques she wouldn’t dare to try if she were to go out in public in the Capitol. It would look too messy at her own hand. But on a trip to the square in Eight, she was still the most adorned, most beautiful woman in sight.

She had sponsors who owned factories come to dine and stay for just one night. She had the mayor over for dinner a few times. But she was finding that company wasn’t as constantly appealing as it used to be. She did not rise with the sun, and she completely forgot to wear makeup the last two times she went to the square.

She’d found some bursts of motivation and joy in decorating her home, the one granted to her for her efforts in the arena. What a dark arena it was. It felt like she was back there sometimes, even in the middle of the day. It had to be that the dark skies were chasing her somehow. She fell asleep during the day when she was not really tired, but there seemed to be little else to do. It never stopped her from noting that it was certainly time to go to bed. 

The mayor’s wife dared to say she looked tired at their last dinner. Surya smiled, and ignored the way it felt like the skin under her eyes folded in on itself under the weight of the criticism, the reality of her tiredness. She pointed to a new wrought iron wine rack in the dining room. She asked the mayor’s wife if she wanted another bottle of wine, or if she wanted instead to touch the newly hung, curled up whip on the wall. 

“Is that...?”

“Yes.”

It was not. Surya didn’t think she’d ever get her hands on the whip she’d used in her arena. If anything, it deserved to go to the Fitch family to burn and curse her. Maybe that was what had happened. Maybe there was something wrong with her energy not because of her own doing, but because someone else had figured out a way to manipulate it. Maybe it was an enemy. That made it so much more complicated. Staring at the whip after the mayor’s family left, she found her list of enemies was alarmingly long. 

She grabbed a bottle from the wine rack, and poured it out to the top of her glass. She didn’t have the energy to remove her makeup, but she managed to change into her nightgown only because it was so hot. She emptied the glass and left it on her vanity, but took the bottle with her to bed. 

The first thing she tasted when she woke up was the sticky, sweet aftertaste of red wine. Then dirt, and skin. A hand clamped over her mouth and nose, turning her from groggy to alert in a blink. She could hear crashing downstairs, could hear heaving breathing as the weight of a body knelt over her, but she couldn’t see anything yet. It was still too dark. She started to struggle, but the attacker above was stronger, or maybe just more prepared. She felt something cold on her neck and immediately froze. Her body twitched as something cold and sharp was dragged across the skin. It hurt enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she could feel the blood start to drip, but it was a flesh wound. It would not kill her.

Amateurs.

She curled her lips against the attacker’s hand before they could realize their mistake in the dark, and sank her teeth into their finger until every lingering taste in her mouth was replaced with blood. The attacker quickly pushed off her. She heard something fall in the dark. Not the knife. The bottle. The bottle of wine. She placed one hand to her neck to add pressure and reached around until her hands found the bottom of the bottle. She could hear the other person scrambling in the dark, too, and someone was heading up the stairs. 

Her eyes were adjusting. She used both hands to hold the bottle by the neck and smash it over the first assailant’s head. The bottle slipped from her hand soon after, but not before a piece of it lodged in her palm. She tore the glass out, grunting against pain. She held the little bit of glass out as the person came at her again, aiming for their stomach until the moonlight through the window showed her a better option. Their eyes were actually a beautiful blue, made only more appealing in the shine of the moon. She lifted her hand and stabbed the broken piece of glass in his right eye. It was not enough to stop him, and she was still tackled. 

He hadn’t stabbed her. The knife was somewhere in here. She hadn’t heard it, so it must’ve hit the carpet. 

She pushed both forearms up to try to keep the man away. She hacked up some phlegm and saliva to mix with the blood still in her mouth, then spit at him. He spit right back, sending blood from his eye all over her face. Surya snapped her teeth repeatedly and crunched up to sink her teeth into the man’s shoulder this time. The shock was what she needed, not the damage. He rolled off, and she quickly turned over. The other set of footsteps were in the hallway now. She crawled around on the carpet, hands moving rapidly back and forth until she felt the knife underneath her. The blade was still slippery where there were droplets of her own blood on the end. The handle was still warm from the man’s grip.

There was a new shadow in the room now. Her eyes were adjusted enough to see them better, to see that there was something different about this attacker. They were smaller, but the weapon in their hand was blockier. A gun! A gun! A gun!

Surya grabbed the wine glass from the vanity and threw it at the new intruder’s face. She followed it, diving low at them. There was the distinct sound of a gunshot, then another. Surya froze, breathing hard with palms and knees digging into the woman on the ground now. She waited for the pain to set in. Nothing. She’d missed. There was a sudden crash as her vanity mirror toppled over, and she could see only feathers remained of the pillow where she’d been resting her head. What ugly, ugly weapons. 

She stabbed the knife through the woman’s wrist first, and she released the gun with a sickening spasm. She managed to release it and get the knife through the woman’s throat before the man shoved Surya off. Her back and legs were aching, her neck was throbbing under the cut, but she could still move. She still could see where she was going. Twisting herself free from his weakened grasp, Surya took off. She raced down the stairs, slipping on the last few steps. She ended up curled up on the rug at the bottom, gasping for air. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay there, to go back to sleep, to wake up and suffer with the stiffness and the pain in the morning. But there was movement at the top of the stairs, and through strands of sweat-dampened hair clinging to her face, she saw that her fight was not over. 

On hands and knees, Surya crawled into her kitchen. She used the handle of the fridge to pull herself up and opened up several draws until she realized what she was looking for - the knives - were right in front of her in a block on the counter. There was blood and sweat all over her hands, but she managed to use both to get a grip on the largest knife at the back of the block. She held it out in front of her as the man entered her kitchen. He took a few steps closer, but paused when the knife glinted off a patio light that was left on. They started to circle each other, and Surya’s hands began to ache from her tight grip on the knife. Her hand was bleeding even more now from the pressure of her tensed muscles. Her ankle had twisted on the fall down the stairs, and each small step she took was met with an involuntary twitch and bend of her knee. 

Just when she thought she might be stuck in this purgatory forever, the man lunged at her. One eye was totally gone, and his balance was off. He came at her side instead. She did not dare close her eyes as she brought the knife down on his neck. She was knocked back by the force, sending bottles of wine slipping off the new rack to crash around her. A painting and her whip fell off the wall. The moon provided her enough light to see the blood pooling around the man’s head on the floor next to her. It reached her hands resting next to her, but she did not move them. She needed a moment of stillness, just a moment. 

Slowly, she moved onto all fours again. She wiped her hands on the carpet, and flinched as her fresh wound was dragged over more broken glass. She used one of her dining room chairs to lift herself up. The only sound in the house now, after all the chaos, were her bare feet and her breathing. She walked to her front door that was wide open, with a busted doorknob. There was no safety in staying there.

Surya returned to her dining room to retrieve her whip. Limping, breathing harshly, with a torn up nightgown, and covered in blood from her lips down, she walked out of the Village. She followed the now familiar path that brought her to the square, where it’d been increasingly more dangerous to visit. Her journey took three times as long as it normally did. By the first hints of dawn, she made it. Outside the Justice Building was a defense line of Peacekeepers and soldiers she’d come to learn were from District Thirteen. 

She did not ask for help. When soldiers approached with questions about her injuries, she waved them off. They cautioned her to stay back, but she had nowhere further to go. There was a space in the line of defenders, and she positioned herself there, unfurling the whip at her side.

It did not matter what her crown was made of.

“Monsieur Dupond, they’ve breached the lobby.”

You continue to play. 

“Allard, they’ve breached the lobby!”

You have known your assistant practically since you were children. As with many of the wealthier families in District Thirteen, you were tutored more than you attended public or group classes. He was the tutor’s son, always a constant companion with an intellect to match your own. But not the charm, or attraction, or ambition. He assisted you with the first move to the Capitol. He attended your wedding, but was not in the official wedding party, despite planning the bachelor’s night. 

He never had much of an ear for music. 

“They will block the exits soon!”

You play. 

The world descends to chaos beneath you. It is a beautiful day, with surprisingly clear skies. Over the shouting, over the honking horns, over the gunshots and the occasional loud bang, it is your music that floats over this city of glimmer and misery.

“Allard! They are coming for you!”

The music ends with a screech that pierces through the air in a brief moment of sudden silence. You smile at your old friend, your faithful assistant.

“Look at that,” you remark as you calmly pack up your instrument. “Look how quickly I’ve made them want to kill me.”

You descend through the Avox staircase, picking up the pace as the noise gets closer. There is an armored car waiting for you, ready to take you to a home in the mountains where your father and other District Thirteen residents are hiding out. 

“Eight years,” you declare firmly.

“What?”

“That’s how long I think it will take, eight years.”

“To rebuild the hotel? Not that long, especially-”

“No. To be in charge.”

“You own the hotel.”

Her brother was the one who called her as she was readjusting her dress. Her cheeks were still flushed as she met the January air and demanded to know why he was calling her at this hour. Some sort of crisis with whatever new teacher he was dating this time. She felt her stomach churning, something that had been brewing and she’d been clenching since her fucking orgasm.

But it was too much now. It wasn’t just an uneasiness. It was painful. “Victor,” she gasped into the phone.

It hit the pavement hard. 

Her body hit it harder. 

The ghost of old wounds ached as she stiffened, but it was nothing compared to the pain swelling up from her stomach, from her chest. No one noticed at first. She was just another drunk girl collapsed on the sidewalk outside Saints and Sinners, wasn’t she?

The clip fell out of her hair first, metal leaves and flowers clattering to the ground in a grating sound. It was all grating to her. Every heel that clicked on the pavement near her ear, every voice that asked if she needed help. Of course! Of course! But she couldn’t speak. She opened her mouth, and there was nothing but red. 

A beautiful girl shouldn’t die in such an ugly way.

But that’s life, is it not?

This is short, is it not?

So is life. 

Ask her father. He got ten more years than Valencia, but still short. They can discuss that in whatever afterlife, in whatever next life, they choose to.

There is more we could go into. About the bloody scene in which a girl in a champagne dress was found. A girl whose dreams were broken more than a dozen years ago, who settled on a new dream with such vehemence she actually achieved them.

We can go into so much more, about the way all her vibrant life seeped out of her drop by drop. 

About how the ambulance didn’t matter, because nothing could save her. 

About how her friends were hopefully saved from seeing her in such a devastating state, in writhing pain and a body blotched in both blood spilled and trapped beneath her skin.

Her brother’s eulogy echoed in the church a week later, because her mother could not deliver another eulogy: 

“Play the melody you love most. Dance like no one is watching. Remember that Valencia would’ve danced beautifully next to you.”

And remember that it was a beautiful night when Valencia Flores died. 

she was arm and arm with her friends, in dresses and pants so bizarre it’d make their parents gasp. as if her father has gasped for anything in years. 

poppy’s dress shouldn’t have been hemmed so short and so carelessly, but she took needle to fabric high as fuck. so she got what she got, and she certainly wasn’t upset.

this was her city, was it not? battenberg city, they should’ve renamed it. renamed it for the blood spilled to get it.

bottle in hand, she was solo ahead of her group as she stumbled headfirst through the streets of the capitol.

she paused to stare up at a brilliant image of the young, new victor.

she was awash in light as she looked back at her friends. only the favorite niece of a dictator could look so beautiful in her aunt’s version of utopia.

the lights flashed across her skin like that was all they were meant to do. there was neon glowing where her blood should be flowing.

she was iridescent, for just a moment. she was seventeen. and the grief slipped away from her like silk through her fingers.

for just a moment.

it crashed back to her when she spun, raised onto her toes, to see her aunt’s visage smiling back at her. her friends were drunk. not like they’d ever actually known, as much as they tried. they were only her friends when they were all drunk anyway.

the neon wasn’t so bright as it reflected in her eyes anymore.

she broke from the group, and stumbled home. at some point, she broke the bottle against someone’s head. 

she stumbled into her home with the sharpened neck of a broken champagne bottle and a hand bloodied by the shattered bits. 

“my flower,” her mother said, warm eyes looking tired as she approached her daughter with open arms that carefully snatched the broken bottle out of her hand. her mother had a deftness she still couldn’t pinpoint to a life of sewing. “i told you to wear gloves.”

Every week, Cliff and Netty Dunes have brought a cup of ocean water to pour over Anchor’s grave. Death does not mean a departure from the sea. For those worthy, it means a burial at sea.

Mako hoped his parents would bring him cups, even gallons, of the ocean water when he was buried beside his grandparents. How unnatural, to be so close to the dead so young.

The pain was quick.

Mako wished life did not flash before your eyes before death. He enjoyed most of his life, but there was a blurry, reddened vision that obstructed all the joy.

There was blood in the water, and it was Anchor’s.

Anchor was a bully, a cruel child, but he did not deserve the deadly fate Mako served to him in a panic. Mako wished, everyday, he could’ve spent every recess being beaten up by Anchor until they were both old enough to know better. Mako didn’t believe Anchor really intended to kill him, but tell that to the instincts of a fisherman’s son being shoved underwater. 

There was blood in the water, and it was Edie’s. 

Perhaps the girl from Five was dead the moment she was raised into the arena. Perhaps there was nothing Mako could’ve done to help her, and perhaps he’d really been merciful before her cannon sounded. Perhaps did not resurrect anyone, though. Perhaps would not save Edie from drowning, would not save her from the Reaping, would not save her from the knife that Mako sliced across her throat with the ease of slicing open the stomach of a dead fish.

There was blood in the water.

Mako always preferred surfing over sailing. He wished he’d seen a real beach, where he could’ve found a way to enjoy the incoming tide and its waves fully. He would’ve played to every camera for a surfboard, no matter how irresponsible. He would’ve taught Zeppelin how to surf, how to run at an approaching wave with only hope that it would encapsulate you completely. As there was a pinch at his neck, it reminded him of the way his shell necklace would tug against his jugular as he crashed into the water on a bad attempt at a wave.

There was blood in the water.

A line was let down from a hover craft barely big enough to collect his body. A weight was attached to sink it down through the water until it wrapped around his body. First he hit air, then his body was welcomed into the water, where it belonged. The wound in his neck was still fresh as he ascended, leaving a trail of crimson behind him. 

There was blood in the water. And it was Mako’s.

______________________________________________________________

Mackerel was out the door before his brother was lifted out of the arena. The sun was barely making its way over the horizon, but he didn’t need much light as he started to gather driftwood.

The Dunes do not disrespect the dead. 

His mother went to the ocean with a bowl, filling it nearly to the top with water to bring to Anchor’s grave. She put some soaking wet seawood over her shoulder to carry there and lay in a wreath. Netty would tell the driftwood headstone of her son’s demise without malice or sorrow. 

His father would collect the items that were most associated with Mako. Various random shells and sticks he’d found in funny shape on the shore, funny books, and a rope he’d used to tie his first tiny sailboat to their dock. Cliff did not cry, because that would insult his late son.

The Dunes do not disrespect the dead.

By sunrise, a bonfire was burning in some old overturned buoy and the neighbors were peaking out from their windows to watch a family in mourning. There was not the hysterics or dramatics they anticipated. Instead, various items from the Dunes’ home were placed amid the flames to burn into ash. Netty offered her love and the books Cliff offered his guidance and the seashells. Mackerel offered his protection and the rope, using Mako’s favorite knife to cut it into pieces instead of choking the fire.

They could’ve cried, but Mako would’ve yelled at them. 

The Dunes do not disrespect the dead. They honor them in life as they would’ve wanted to be celebrated in life. 

The sun rose with the tide. The Dunes retreated to their home, but only briefly.

It was Mackerel who led the charge to the beach. He fell on the first wave, and he laughed. Mako would’ve hated for anyone to shed a tear when there were waves to shred.

Next came the kid next door, barely a couple months younger than Mako and still too small for his surfboard - much like Mako had been. Then the backdoor from another neighbor opened, giving way to the three eldest with surfboards in tow. Another door, another neighbor. Another board, another kid who’d laughed at Mako’s jokes in the school yard. Then came the parents, at a slower pace but with a steady board on the waves that were gaining traction with every minute that passed. 

Parents and kids alike tumbled into the water, made absolute fools of themselves as they sought a moment of joy at dawn. The beach was filled with the sound of roaring waves, shouting, and raucous laughter.

Four does not disrespect the dead.

Mackerel was in the water for a while before he noticed the deep gash on his hand. A cut from the knife that got deeper each time he gripped his board. It stung from the sea salt, but he’d always felt the ocean was the best way to heal a wound - physical, psychological, emotional. Anything could be solved by the waves.

So he dipped his hand down into the water, paying more attention to his own body than a wave as it approached. He watched as the water around the now deep cut clouded in a deep purplish color he couldn’t recall seeing before. The wave was approaching quick, he jumped up, but his focus was still on what remained below the surface. 

The sun set on the tenth day of the arena, and Kaelen lied on the floor, helpless as Thirteen barely opened his eyes. There was crashing in the arena, darkness, blood...everything that came with an arena.

From the lake, From the hill...

Kaelen remembered taking Thirteen in. Unexpected, but necessary in the isolation of his bunker in One. He’d never been one to seek out company often, but that was because he had the luxury of a big family at home. Companionship was never far away, until he was back in his home district, skulking among the miners and hoping to find rebels within them. It was all for a lost cause; a cause that landed him with a permanent brand on the wrist of the hand that now slowly pet the top of Thirteen’s head. 

But Thirteen was never a lost cause. The thirteenth puppy to be trained by Peacekeepers - with no success. Kaelen saved him at the last second. He’d never intended on having a pet; and he adopted a shadow instead. When Kaelen came home bleeding, Thirteen tried to lick his wounds. When they moved back to the Capitol, Thirteen adjusted. Whenever Kaelen came home with a busted rib, a busted face, busted knuckles, Thirteen was there to lie at his feet and lap up water as his Kaelen drank whiskey. 

From the sky.

It did seem strangely...whimsical that Thirteen fell into his lap when he did; with the name he did. But it was all the more push for Kaelen to fight. 

He always fought for his family. Bu, there is a luxury that comes with parents being alive. You always assume they will be the one who fights to keep your siblings alive. Until they die. 

Everyone, all the Tyrs, were still alive when Kaelen got Thirteen. It was the first creature fully, entirely in his care. And he did all he could to keep the growing puppy alive and healthy.

And in turn, Thirteen plodded alongside him at his brothers’ grave, at Crycinna’s, at his father’s, at Marcia’s...

And that was only for the blood relatives and old friends he’d lost. Thirteen was there with him for every other burial, every other grave visit.

All is well, Safely rest...

And Thirteen was there the first time Kaelen showed Electra his new apartment. It wasn’t a one-bedroom, like he always had. It had several bedrooms, an unspoken indication of what he hoped to have with the woman who’d been knocking him on his ass for years. Thirteen placed his head on Electra’s lap the first time she sat down, and chased Thing the first time he visited.

At some point, the cuddling and the chasing combined. For all parties. It became their home. And as Electra grew bigger, Thirteen transitioned from sleeping on Kaelen’s side of the bed to sleeping on her side of the bed. When Jett was born, he slept by the child’s crib. When Charlie came along, he did it all again - by Electra’s side until he was by Charlie’s crib.

And now, here Kaelen was, lying on the floor next to his best four-legged friend as Thirteen slept in the hallway, guarding Jett and Charlie’s rooms with life seeping from him with each breath.

God is nigh...

Shepherds aren’t built to last forever. The bigger the dog, the shorter the life, unfortunately. Kaelen always knew that, but he knew that at 27.

And eerything was different at 36, with several Games and two rebellions behind him. Both rebellions were failures in his eye, and he was sad he let Thirteen down so much. The dog deserved more, the kids deserved more, Electra deserved more, his family deserved more.

But there was only so much a man could do on his own. And maybe all he could do was save Thirteen from the slaughter, and raise him in the shadow of a rebel. Was Kaelen even a rebel anymore? It didn’t feel like it, but he hoped Thirteen viewed him that way.

If only he was all he hoped his dog saw him as. If only he was that big, that strong, that powerful. But he would only be a man, always. About six feet tall and hoping to topple a century old regime. How had he ever been so stupid, so arrogant, to think he could? But in the the final moments of his best friend’s life, he couldn’t be doubtful. He had to be strong, to know he’d done all he could to right the wrongs in his life.

Kaelen took Hunter’s tongue, took his voice, and hadn’t said a word yet. How many years ago was that now? At least twelve, if not more. And Kaelen never told him. Kaelen still wondered if he ever should. There were few people he loved more, trusted more, than Hunter. With the kids, Kaelen’s time was preoccupied. But every second with Hunter was a selfish reminder to try better; every second with Hunter was a reminder to fight. Every second with Hunter was hopeful, joyful, and, most of all, more than anything, it put a smile on his face.

So Kaelen smiled at Thirteen, and wished the dog had the energy to stick his tongue out in response. But there was nothing. Kaelen squeezed his paw, and there was nothing. Kaelen rolled onto his side to grab the dog’s back and hold him close. 

And there was nothing.

Thirteen died on August 1st, in the year 118, as ice encapsulated the 122nd Hunger Games arena. He died beside his best friend, Kaelen Tyr. He died in the hallway where he protected his family: Kaelen Tyr, Electra Conduit, Jett Tyr, and Charlotte Tyr. And Thing, who was now sitting at the end of the hallway, facing the door. Kaelen hoped that wretched creature was standing guard over the one who’d now slipped away from them.

Kaelen stayed there until long after the sun set on the Capitol. Until it was nearly too dark to navigate the hallways to turn on lights. He’d cried, shamelessly, and called the veterinarian to inform them of Thirteen’s passing. He caught glimpses of the darkened arena, but it was on mute, and it didn’t matter. Panem existed outside the Games, after all.

With a shaky deep breath, Kaelen sunk to the ground again next to Thirteen’s body. The veterinarian would be there soon to assess, but there was nothing to be done. All Kaelen could do was keep the body of his old friend company, while staring at the doors of his children’s bedrooms.

Right now, Jett’s had a drawing of a little robot on the outside. Inside was an intergalactic wonderland he and Electra wouldn’t have been about to create without some outside help from the mentors in Three. And Charlie’s had a picture tacked out front of a snowman outside their building from February. She’d taken the picture by pressing down on the shutter of her father’s camera after he’d adjusted all the settings. She claimed that picture as her own, and inside the room was a fort made out of pillows and blankets she’d surely demand to rearrange soon. She was a little younger than Jett, still finding what she loved and asking for it to be reflected in the space that was her own. Her parents obliged, because they had the privilege to do so.

One day, Kaelen hoped, his son might make it to the stars and find a new world. Through Electra, they’d always be eligible as tributes in Three between 12 and 21 years old. He hoped...he hoped, he hoped, he hoped, he hoped they never saw the inside of a launch tube. And if they did, fuck everyone, he hoped they won no matter how many gallons of blood they had to spill.

But he imagined Jett among the stars, in a little capsule, talking over an intercom back to some abstract base, telling them the stars were less exciting than he’d hoped. He imagined Charlotte taking pictures - not just of the mountains where she loved to trek alongside her parents, but of the realities of Panem and beyond Panem’s border. He hoped his children, already so skilled, both exposed something new, something wonderful, something...

As he sat looking at the doors that led to his children’s lives, he clearly, truly, whole-heartedly hoped they were not rebels. He hoped they did not shed their blood, did not break their bones for false promises and power-hungry people. 

Kaelen had never been one for distinguishing the difference in words. And it’d been a long time since Kaelen really, really hoped for something. 

But looking at that drawing, looking at that picture, he really hoped his children didn’t rebel.