Archive of Our Own ^beta

LEYA

“Which one do you want to be?”

Alessia spread the glossy photos out over her bed, tribute faces staring up from her ruffly floral bedding. Like Leya, Alessia’s blankets were made from lots of different pieces of fabric (Father said textiles were one of the hardest things to come by after the war), but unlike Leya, who had a patchwork quilt that looked, well, rustic, Alessia’s duvet was done in wide strips of contrasting colours and patterns that should look ridiculous, but somehow managed to pull off charming. Being a Havenwing was like that: making luxury look easy.

Leya wasn’t jealous. The country had gone through a war after all, and the Holts were a bedrock family.

To distract herself from lime-green ruffles and perfect pink rosettes, Leya picked up the photo nearest her, only to drop it immediately as the face of a girl with brown skin and large, sunken eyes stared up at her. She had flecks of blood on one lip and dirt smudges on her cheek. Leya wiped her hands on her skirt, fighting back an awful, crawling feeling beneath her skin. “Do I have to be one? They look … sad.” The boy in the picture next to the one she’d dropped glared up at her, and she winced. “Or angry.”

Alessia rolled her eyes. “Not all of them. You have to pick a good one, that’s the point. I’m Lucy Gray, obviously.”

Leya was about to ask what was obvious about that, except when she stopped to think about it, who else would Alessia possibly be? Lucy Gray was the best tribute, pretty and spunky with the beautiful dress even under all the dirt, and she’d even said a cuss word on live television in front of all those Peacekeepers. Leya could never be that brave.

So Alessia had her tribute, and now Leya had to pick someone else. Someone good. She picked up another photo, this one a boy, also thin and sick-looking. Leya’s stomach tightened. “I don’t know if this is a fun game. They’re all going to die, aren’t they? And they’re all sick and poor and dirty. It feels … mean.”

“I thought their families were criminals,” Alessia said carelessly, leafing through the pictures and giving one of them a critical once-over before letting it fall.

That was what Father said, and of course their teachers — the Games were a punishment for the districts’ behaviour during the Dark Days — but why not put the grownups in, then? Why should the children get in trouble for something that happened before they were born? Except she tried to ask that once, and Mother only raised her eyebrows and said if Leya felt that way, then she must not feel like children deserved their parents’ money either, and would she like to live on the street? Leya didn’t have an answer for that.

“Here.” Alessia shoved crinkled square in her hand. “This is a good one. Coral. See? She’s not that dirty and she looks strong. You can be her.”

The girl — Coral — stared at the camera with blank defiance. Leya didn’t remember what happened at her Reaping, but let’s be honest, nobody remembered anything except the girl in the rainbow dress who sang and dropped a snake down a mean girl’s neck. Well, and the boy who cried so hard he gave himself a coughing fit and nearly fell over. So no singing or fighting back against bullies or cussing in front of a bunch of people with guns, but no sobbing on stage, either. Could be worse.

The story of Leya’s life, really. Don’t complain about beans instead of meat, there are children starving in Twelve. (Even though it’s their fault, and we don’t need to feel sorry for them.)

“So if I’m Coral,” Leya said slowly, “does this mean we’re going to kill each other?”

Alessia’s whole face twisted around her nose as though she’d bit into a peach and found a big, soft patch of fuzzy blue mould. “No,” she said with exaggerated patience. “This isn’t real. It’s all pretend.”

You could only stand up against Alessia for so long before giving in to inevitable. “Okay fine,” Leya said, and Alessia’s bright smile fluttered in her stomach. “I’ll be Coral. We can be allies.”

Well. The real-life Coral and Lucy Gray weren’t allies, but at least they didn’t kill each other. Coral died choking on vomit and froth in a writhing mass of neon snakes, oozing pus in vibrant pink, yellow and blue, and Lucy Gray sang her way to victory. Not until the trumpets played did Leya track the colours of her dress ruffles back to Coral’s weeping wounds.

ALESSIA

The first year Alessia and Leya were old enough to watch the Games was supposed to be awesome, but Leya was doing her best to be a real district bum about it. First she didn’t want to pick a tribute, then she wouldn’t even talk about the episodes at school even though her parents let her watch the real thing, not the kiddie broadcast that cut out all the good stuff. Whenever Alessia asked about it she made a face like she ate something bad and said it wasn’t that exciting and changed the subject, as though Carolina Mayweather’s new shoes or Baron Smulders’ awful haircut were even worth thinking about.

“It’s not the same,” she’d said, all snappish. “You haven’t seen the real Games. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s not fun and romantic like we thought, at all.”

Well obviously it wasn’t fun, it was a punishment, Alessia wasn’t stupid, but death could still be romantic! Mentors and tributes and fellow tributes falling for one another and perishing tragically, what could be more romantic than that? It wasn’t Alessia’s fault Leya’s parents let her watch the uncensored Games broadcast but thought romance novels were too mature for twelve-year-olds.

Still, she got to see the good bits, like Lucy Gray with her skirt of snakes and the boy from Eleven’s extremely romantic death, expiring gently under the Panem flag like a hero in a war story until Lucy Gray came and closed his eyes like an angel. And even though the kiddie broadcast cut away to shots of the sky or the rubble or puddles on the ground right when it got too scary, Coral — the one Alessia convinced Leya to choose — beat three tributes all by herself before the snakes got her.

Maybe next year she’d get to watch the whole thing and Leya would stop being so weird about it.

But then the Games ended and Lucy Gray won and Leya found an even worse way to be annoying about the whole thing.

“I can’t believe you think she cheated!” Alessia glared. They’d come up to the roof to watch the sun set over the city, orange light glittering over glass and concrete, and instead of enjoying the most beautiful view in the whole world Leya burst out with the stupidest theory ever. “Because of the snakes?”

“They were the same colour as her dress,” Leya insisted. “Same with their poison. And I don’t think she cheated, she was inside the Arena. There’s no way. I think somebody outside put the snakes in to help her. I think someone outside wanted her to win.”

“But why?” And this — okay. Well. Actually, Lucy Gray cheating would be horrible, absolutely the worst, most boring ending, but someone on the outside helping her win … that was different, wasn’t it. That sounded like romance. “I bet it was her mentor. The one who shared the sandwiches with her and made all those speeches. It was his job to help her win, right?”

Leya narrowed her eyes. “What if it went even higher? Like — a Gamemaker, or one of their bosses? It must be pretty hard to get all those snakes. I don’t know if a mentor would have time. Maybe —“ She swallowed. “Maybe the President liked Lucy Gray the best, and he wanted her to win.”

Well that’s just silly, Alessia thought, if the President picked a winner from the start why not just shoot the rest of them, but for the first time in days Leya was actually talking to her. “We should watch again and see if we can find clues. Want to meet up at the community centre tomorrow and try to catch some highlights?”

Alessia would get in trouble if she got caught watching the real broadcast, but this was exciting. Like being spies. Obviously nobody actually cheated, but intrigue was really another kind of romance, wasn’t it?

Except that the next day, all the Games channels were playing clip shows from previous years. No Lucy Gray, no Coral, no neon snakes, no crumbling colosseum, no bombs. No mentors sharing sandwiches with their tributes between the bars. The community centre, two different restaurants, the main plaza — nowhere would show them anything from last month’s Arena. Talk shows had moved on to upcoming fall fashion, the best way to upcycle old kevlar and other nanofibers salvaged from battle sites into stylish handbags. The same designer on almost every channel, bragging about a novel way to dye aramids.

“Wow,” Alessia breathed. “I think you’re right. I think this goes right to the top.”

“I don’t like this game anymore,” Leya said. Her face looked waxy beneath its usual golden glow. “I’m going home.”

ALESSIA

So it turned out Thelonius Applebottom was a huge liar who’d never actually been in the Transfer despite all his bragging. He said it was full of booby traps and monsters but it was just a bunch of tunnels with (okay, fair) creepy lighting. He’d dared Alessia to go herself if she didn’t believe him, and a Havenwing never backed down from a challenge.

She maybe could have gone in daylight, though. Faked sick or something and sneaked out during school hours so she didn’t have to creep around in the middle of the night wincing every time her footfalls echoed on the hard steel floors. Maybe there really were booby traps, but not until you were too far in to run for the exit. Maybe the monsters hid in the ceiling vents where you couldn’t see them. Maybe —

Wait. Which way had she come from again?

Something brushed her shoulder. Alessia’s shriek bounced off the walls all the way down the tunnel before finally fading, long after she clapped her hands over her mouth.

A tall, sturdy woman in grey coveralls stood behind Alessia, hands planted on her waist over a thick tool belt. She shook her head firmly and pointed back at one of the identical-looking tunnels.

“I got lost?” Alessia tried, though without much conviction. Papa told her a few years back she was too old to get away with being cute and innocent and she’d have to work on being clever, possibly the most terrifying thing anyone had ever said. Sure enough the woman’s expression went flat, and she wilted. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be down here. I’ll leave. Are … you going to call my mom?”

This time the woman’s expression went a little funny, tight around the eyes like Alessia said something strange, but she only huffed a sigh through her nose and shook her head again.

Alessia tore off for the right tunnel. Once she found it, the way back was pretty easy, and she knew her way at street level. Really, the worst part about the whole night was realizing she hadn’t even taken anything so no one would believe she’d been down there.

She didn’t think about the woman again until the Games party.

This was new; usually her parents watched the broadcasts sometimes, but Mom called last year’s execution ‘dreadfully sloppy’. This year promised to be different: better production values, no more filthy children in cages. “This year,” Mom said, bending down to adjust the gold thread (not real gold, but it looked it, and in the Capitol appearances made all the difference) woven over Alessia’s high, puffy bun. “This year is promising spectacle. If these Games really do take off, we want to be in on the ground floor.”

The party, at least, didn’t hold back. Alessia nearly made herself sick on frosted grapes, and she twirled her puffy skirt as she slipped between the grownups to snatch the tastiest treats. But most interesting, she saw the same people slip in and out, not just their banquet hall but in the background of the Games coverage as well: silent, elegant people dressed in simple, elegant clothing, handing out food or standing at the back of the room, hearing everything. The most privileged of them all: all-access insiders.

“I want to be one of them when I grow up,” Alessia announced grandly when they returned home at a delicious one in the morning. “The people who get to go backstage and hear all the secrets. Nobody even noticed them! I bet they know everything.”

Papa, who’d been making his indulgent face, suddenly looked very fierce. “You shouldn’t say that, Button. Those are traitors.”

Cold water splashed across her face. “What? But they looked so beautiful! And they get to see the all the exclusive areas!”

“It’s not exclusive, it’s called being a servant,” Mom added. “They work in the kitchens, or the sewers, or anywhere decent people don’t need to go. You couldn’t talk to them even if you wanted to, darling, they can’t even speak. They lost their tongues as punishment for their crimes.”

Oh. Alessia fought back a funny feeling in her chest. The woman in the tunnels hadn’t seemed like an evil rebel, and none of the people at the party had poisoned their food or tried to hurt them, but it did seem like you wouldn’t cut out a person’s tongue for no reason.

“If you want influence, Button, there are better ways,” Papa said. “Now shoo, off to bed.”

LEYA

Each year made it harder to ignore the Games. Like it or not, the Hunger Games had become an industry: watch party season in summer, the Victory Tour to liven up midwinter, a year-round entertainment enterprise of parties and gambling and sponsors. Gradually the patchwork of the postwar Capitol sewed itself up; families with old money like Leya’s recovered their assets or found new avenues for expansion, while the up-and-comers like Alessia’s continued their pursuits. Fruits and coffee made it back from the districts to the family table; this year’s fashions came from fresh-grown, new-spun textiles rather than the third generation of trendy upcycling. 

“You can tell the economy is rebounding,” Father said dryly over supper one day. “Melinda Thrupp has a new nose and Bartholomew tightened up that jawline.” 

At eighteen, Leya knew better than to ask about the districts. Their bounty was the Capitol’s prosperity; their fear, the Capitol’s security. If they didn’t like it, they should have thought of that before declaring war on their benevolent masters. Besides, any district who sent a winner earned food for the entire populace for the rest of the year, not to mention a mansion and a lifetime of ease for the Victor. Who hadn’t thought about killing their coworkers now and then for a little peace? 

She tried not to think about it. Nothing she could do for it, anyhow; was Leya really going to run away to District 11 to live a life of misery on protest? Absolutely not. Best to be a self-righteous little hypocrite in private. 

Leya watched the district reapings with Alessia over sliced melon, delicious and cold from the refrigerator. Father had stopped calling fresh fruit a luxury, but she couldn’t help a thrill as she popped the sweet fruit into her mouth. Except eating expensive snacks made the pinched faces of the kids standing in the Reaping squares look even hungrier. 

“This part still makes me sad,” Leya admitted. Alessia, at least, never made fun of her, only patted her knee in sympathy. 

The footage started backwards from District 12, working its way up until — “Wait, what’s that.” Leya sat bolt upright. 

In District 2, a terrified boy with wide brown eyes made his way to the stage, but a voice called out before he reached the stairs: 

“I volunteer!” 

“Oh, yeah.” Alessia snatched a piece of melon from between Leya’s frozen fingers. “I heard that might be a thing this year.” 

An older boy with lean, ropy muscles strode to the stage, confident and grinning. The same thing happened with the girls: a trembling, pigtailed little thing replaced by a beautiful, strong-looking young woman with an electric smile. They joined hands and waved at the crowd amid a thunder of cheers. 

Again in District 1: two shaking tributes, two gorgeous, athletic volunteers.

“Why,” Leya breathed. “They know what the Games are. Why would they do that?” 

Alessia shot her an odd look. “Look at the competition. One of them is going to win. Wouldn’t you?”

For the first time, Leya couldn’t stop watching. Those four beautiful, determined boys and girls her age who volunteered to fight to the death – not for the money, or the mansions, but – “For honour,” said one of the boys in his interview. “It’s a privilege to represent my district and my country. I think we can all agree that the Games aren’t only about the past anymore. We need to safeguard our future. I’m proud to be a part of it.” 

“And if you die?” asked Flickerman, a horrible question.

“Then it’s worth it,” said the boy, and flashed his teeth in a sharp grin. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” 

Tonight she sat with her parents, transfixed on the family sofa. “I don’t understand.” Leya gripped her knees until her fingers ached. “They’re going to die. What does he mean, the future?” 

“Looks like someone finally did the math,” Father grunted. “Twenty-three children each year? It would take over 150,000 years of Hunger Games to add up to the lives we lost in the war. If twenty-three are enough to keep the peace? The districts should kiss the feet of those children as they leave.”

Immediately Leya’s heart revolted – You can’t reduce lives to math! – but the next tribute climbed the stage and the moment passed.

The boy from District 2 won, bloodied and battered, blinking up into the sun. “I dedicate this victory to my district, my nation, and her people,” he rasped through a bone-dry throat.

Leya’s heart pounded long after the hovercraft swooped down to carry him away. What did it feel like, that conviction? That courage? She fell asleep with her hand against her chest.

LEYA

On the 25th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district will hold an election and vote on the tributes who will represent it.

“Mercy! The logistics alone.” Mother handled the backend finances while Father ran the front-facing business deals. “I don’t envy the vote tabulator.” 

“Automated, surely,” Father said, forcing Leya to choke down a scream. Why did her parents have to focus on the minutiae! For the first time, the districts had a say in who they lost.

For the next three weeks it was all anyone could talk about. “I’m voting you for the Games,” Rayaan joked when Cilantra misplaced his tickets for the Optimatrix concert. (“Only if I don’t vote you first!”) Others discussed strategy: better to choose contenders, or eliminate rivals? Leya hadn’t played Hunger Games since she was thirteen and wasn’t about to now, but while everyone debated, her own mind worked furiously.

Recently, Leya and Alessia’s post-graduation promise of monthly visits had been slipping, and the announcement gave them the excuse they needed to catch up. “I think it’s an opportunity,” Leya said, curled up in the window seat of Alessia’s tiny studio apartment with a mug of cider. “It’s meant to be a punishment, but the districts aren’t like here, they don’t have political enemies to worry about. Every single one could choose a winner this year. If they’re clever I think they can use it to their advantage."

Alessia frowned. Outside, snowflakes floated from the sky, fat and picturesque, and she traced a line down the condensation on the glass with her fingertip. “I don’t know. They’ve been allowed to volunteer for years now and only One, Two and Four ever do it. I really don’t think they care about winning, I think they just don’t want it to be them.”

Leya shot her a sharp look. “I thought you were into the Games. Drama and romance! That was your whole thing.”

“Yeah, when I was in school. It was raw and real back then. Now it’s all … commercialized.” Alessia shrugged. “Arenas are getting fancier, Gamemakers control the environments, sponsor gifts are getting more ridiculous. But however we dress it up, district kids are still killing each other for something that wasn’t their fault. Is it punishment or is it entertainment? Feels weird.”

“This is the chance to change that,” Leya said, dogged. Why did she care so much, except that Alessia couldn’t be right. This had to mean something. “Maybe people are scared on Reaping Day, but now they have time. They can prepare. Every district has the chance to come together and choose their best chance to win.”

“You really believe that, don’t you,” Alessia said, and Leya realized with a low, sinking feeling that you could grow up and grow apart at the same time.

Whatever, Leya was right and she knew it. Leya worked at her parents’ company rather than sponging off her inherited wealth for the same reason: what your parents did mattered, but what you did mattered more. On Reaping Day, the district would transcend their punishments and build a future of resilience.

“No,” Leya said. “That’s not right. No!”

Criminals. Invalids. Victims of petty rivalries. Only a handful of districts — the usual — chose anyone with a hope to win. The rest sent their dregs, or sacrificed the weak, the burdens on society, those whose deaths they would most enjoy or whose lives they would not miss.

“I did tell you,” Father said, though not unkindly, as Leya sputtered at the screen. “Most don’t want liberty for everyone; they’re fighting for their turn as the boot. You can’t expect these people to have your vision.”

Shock burned bright and fluoresced into rage as a thin girl with yellow-tinged skin tottered to the stage in District 6. Out in the crowd stood dozens of strong, able-bodied teenagers, defiant beneath the layer of ever-present grime. Any one of them would stand a better chance. “It didn’t have to be like this,” Leya said, comprehension dawning. “They’re letting the children die and feeling sorry for themselves.”

And not only this year, but every year. Nothing stopped a stronger tribute from volunteering for the young, the weak, the terrified. Nothing but selfishness and self-preservation. No sense of solidarity or looking out for one’s community. Just an endless cycle of refusing to help themselves and blaming the Capitol for their problems.

“Victim complex,” Mother said, shaking her head. “The districts are full of it. And of course it’s the vulnerable who suffer.”

Another child climbed the stage, sobbing, and the pity in Leya’s heart froze over.

ALESSIA

The girl from One stripped down to her waist and knelt by the stream to splash water over her neck and arms, rivers of dried blood eddying into the ripples. Now and then she glanced back toward the camera, but never so much to make it obvious she knew it was there.

Every time she bent over, the donation number flashed at the top of the screen. According to her stats, she was sixteen.

Alessia, nursing a migraine, scooted her chair sideways to avoid the screen. She felt … old.

Viewing had been mandatory as long as she could remember, but the recent introduction of engagement metrics made things more complicated. Before, anyone could leave a television playing on mute and go on with their day. You could do that still, but good luck getting that promotion — as Alessia found out last month when Blaine Harcourt made Junior Project Manager after Alessia had spent a year gunning for the position.

“There’s nepotism and then there’s nepotism, Button,” Dad had said, when Alessia stormed his office. “Blaine’s social engagement scores are off the charts. He’s in all the commentary, he sponsors the right tributes every year. No one in the circuit even knows who you are. Where have you been, darling?”

Working! Alessia thought, her whole body going hot with anger, but a girlhood temper tantrum wouldn’t help her now. “What should I do, then?”

“Get involved in discussions. Sponsor a tribute this year — put some money back into the economy! This isn’t the dark days anymore, show everyone you’re invested in the country’s future, not just your own.” He patted her shoulder. “Harcourt is useless, we all know that. He’ll blow out his brains on euphoria in a year’s time and you’ll be there to scoop his job, you’ll see.”

All well and good, except Alessia was meant to increase her engagement in the middle of what everyone was already calling the Games’ Golden Age. More glitz, more glamour, and — for some bizarre reason — more nudity.

“Don’t they seem a little … young,” she asked cautiously at the parade, as twenty-four teenagers circled the grounds in body paint and sequins.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” said the woman by her side, at least ten years her senior. “We get older, they stay the same age.”

Onscreen, the One girl finished washing and zipped up her jumpsuit, stretching out her (sixteen-year-old!) limbs with languorous grace. The donation chyron flashed again; Alessia scowled and stomped across the room to the phone. After that performance, the girl may as well get a sandwich out of it.

The worst part was that it worked. Alessia knew what she was doing; working in pharmaceutical research she understood the psychology of investment, of sunk costs. She hadn’t bought into the Games hype for years now; she would be too smart for this, surely. But the drone cameras hovered to capture the girl’s smile as a parachute delivered her a sandwich, steam rising from the toasted bread, and for a moment she stopped acting like a child’s imitation of a sex symbol and Alessia’s brain said, shit.

She’d sent a sandwich and now she wanted this one to win. She knew without anyone telling her she’d send more gifts before the Games ended.

Sandwich finished, the girl’s body language shifted, and she sucked the grease from her fingertips in the camera’s eye line.

In week three, as the girl from One dozed uneasily in the grey hours before dawn, one of the remaining two tributes — a boy from the urban districts, maybe Five? — crept into her campsite and flayed open her throat.

She was dead, like twenty-one other kids were dead, none of them less worthy or tragic, but because she’d eaten a sandwich Alessia paid for, Alessia grieved more for her than the others, and hated herself for it.

A sponsor official approached her at the wrap party. “Tough luck about your girl,” he said cheerfully. “Better luck next time! But you know, as one of this year’s top supporters —“ doubtful, but Alessia knew a sales tactic when she heard one, “you’re eligible for an early access pass to the Victory Tour in December.”

Alessia raised her eyebrows.

He matched her expression with an extra waggle. “Well, you know, our Victor will return to us in January, and those who’ve been especially generous can register for exclusive access.”

“Exclusive.” Alessia blinked. “Like —“

“Oh, we’d never ask for details.” He winked. “Discretion is paramount, after all.”

All the air left the room. A handful of previous Victors mingled with Capitol guests, as always; Alessia’s brain shrieked. She gripped her wine glass until the stem gave a warning creak. “Maybe next year.”

Magnolia Lovecott pinched District 5’s new Victor on the thigh.

LEYA

Dark trees flashed past Leya’s window as the train wove through the mountains toward District 7. “What people don’t always realize is that we provide a service,” Father said.

Leya had lost count of how many times she’d heard this speech by the time she was ten, never mind forty, but she didn’t mind. Holt Tool and Die had existed for countless generations, and her parents had piloted it through war and unrest to remain one of the nation’s most profitable industries. She could allow father his scheduled comfort rant whenever riots on the news made him agitated.

“We have manufacturing plants in nearly every district. We provide jobs in nearly every district. What other family can say that?” He slapped the rolled-up broadsheet against his knee. “The Havenwings don’t send their products out to Twelve, they’re still drinking tree bark for headaches. Meanwhile we are uplifting people who would otherwise be common labourers and giving them a better life. Tool and die requires training. Craftsmanship. It takes pride. People who work for us are grateful. And these — terrorists! — are holding up my factory?” His voice rose, bouncing off the wood panelled walls. “Don’t they know our work maintains their whole district? Try meeting their lumber quota without carbide bits! Or blades? Ha!”

People did not understand impact, or vision. The last few Games had been particularly bloody for Seven, and so they halted production. No one stopped to think that a district who complied might have better odds at winning the audience’s favour next year. No one considered how missing quotas might affect everyone’s ability to sponsor their beloved children in the Games going forward.

They hadn’t, Leya thought with an ugly twist of irony, done the math.

Negotiations started tense and ratcheted higher. Workers demanded paid sick leave, injury compensation, sponsorship fund — 2% put into a pool to be drawn for their tributes in the Games, at Seven’s discretion — and only grew from there. Paid training. No Capitol overseers. No Peacekeepers inside the facility. Worker owned, worker maintained.

Worker owned. As if they were the ones who had built Holt Industries. As if Father hadn’t given them everything. Leya’s shock boiled off, leaving a slurry of outrage as talks broke down, Father shouting across the table at the lead. She touched his elbow. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested.

Outside the crowds had assembled, singing songs and chanting. The wave of voices terrified Leya — she’d seen riots on the news, but never in person — and the thin wood of the barricades seemed frail in comparison to that hot press of bodies. “I’m about to call in the Peacekeepers to shut it all down,” Father growled. “Fire every last one of them and bring in people who will be grateful for the work. Why am I giving legitimacy to these radicals? I’m sure half of them are plants looking to destabilize us.”

At first she thought a tree had fallen, a branch cracking behind them in the square. But then Father stumbled — his weight in her arms so heavy and so little all at once, a lifetime of passion and devotion summed up in the frame of a trim, sixty-five year old man — a dark stain spread across his shirt. Someone screamed (Leya screamed?) and for a moment even the birds fell silent.

“Hold!” A man in the crowd shouted into the stillness. “Who fired? Find him! Check his boots!”

Too late. Leya had both hands pressed to Father’s chest, wet and hot and slippery with blood — his eyes fluttered back and his mouth worked soundlessly — as the roar of Peacekeeper rifles erupted into the crowd.

They laid Father out on the negotiating table, head pillowed on a Peacekeeper’s jacket. Leya sat beside him, bowed over the ruin of his chest, hands and clothing bloodstained, eyes dry and burning. The labour team knelt on the floor, heads between their knees, rifles pointed at their skulls.

“We never wanted this,” babbled the chief negotiator. “We’re trying to feed our families, that’s all. Our work has made life good for you and your family, we only wanted some of that for us and ours. We don’t want anyone to die.”

The Peacekeepers turned to Leya. She lifted her face, a roaring in her ears. “You should have thought of that,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “before declaring war.”

Gunshots echoed off the walls. The hearing in her left ear returned three days later, the same day President Snow sent his personal condolences.

The news stations played the footage for a week straight. District 7’s tributes died in the bloodbath for the next five years.

ALESSIA

Riots on every channel. Footage of executions in the districts played in the background at parties while Alessia’s colleagues mingled and criticized the finger food. And of course — the recent referendum.

“I voted yes, of course,” said Thelonius, who had not improved with age. “If families can’t keep food on the table, they shouldn’t have had so many children. It only seems fair to trade that assistance for an extra slip in the bowl.”

“Absolutely!” Carolina gestured expansively with her wine glass. “All this fuss over not having enough food, when we’re the ones who need to have it sent to us. They can go out and pluck fruit right off the trees!”

Alessia took a measured breath. “I don’t know if that’s how it works,” she said slowly, running headfirst into a concrete wall. Why did she bother. “They have quotas, most of that produce goes to us.”

Carolina sniffed. This time her wine escaped the glass as she waved dismissively; an Avox moved in to mop up the drips and darted out again. “All the more reason to have the tesserae! If we have to pay for food, so should they.”

Thelonius had developed the pouty look he got when people stopped paying attention to him. “It’s exciting to think about, anyway,” he broke in. “Since one of ours is the one who proposed the idea. I’m surprised you didn’t know, Lessi, it’s Holt who drafted the bill.”

“Holt.” The raucous energy of the party faded, leaving a roaring silence. “You mean Magnanima?”

She knew it wasn’t. Even before Thelonius confirmed, Alessia dropped her canapés next to the punch bowl and fled.

Leya lived in a utilitarian one-room apartment in Midtown. She answered Alessia’s desperate knocking with a robe and narrowed eyes, but allowed her entrance. Alessia probably should have come up with an excuse, a pleasantry, something to maintain the social contract, but instead she burst out: “Tesserae was your idea?”

Leya’s expression shuttered. “Of course. We need a way to stabilize these riots or the country will burn. Tea?”

Alessia fought down the churning in her stomach, but Leya had moved inside and she felt stupid standing in the hallway. “Don’t you think — things are bad out there. Shouldn’t we focus on helping them, not making it worse? The Games are punishment enough, we don’t need to make it harder to feed their families.”

Preheat teapot. Measure tea leaves. Place leaves into pot. “They killed my father.”

She’d gone to the funeral, of course. Leya had barely spoken to her. “And they paid for it! When will it be enough?”

Pause, boiling water held halfway over the teapot. Leya’s eyes, hard as flint. “My father. It will never be enough.”

“So now the whole country will pay for one person’s mistake.” 

“I can’t believe you’re preaching to me,” Leya said, cold and unflinching. “At least I’m trying to make a difference. You spend all your time with Victor whores.”

Alessia sucked a breath through her teeth. “It’s — companionship.”

“Sure.” Leya smiled. The muscles around her eyes pulled tight. “That’s what they all say.” She set the teapot down with a gentle click. “I think you should leave.”

That night, a Victor from District 1 rang Alessia’s doorbell. He wore soft silks and an open-necked shirt, and smiled at her with easy grace. “Again? Someone’s insatiable.”

“What can I say,” Alessia said, taking one step out to catch the eyeline of the hallway camera, “You’re hard to resist.”

As soon as the door closed, she dropped her hands and stepped back. “Garlic rolls are in the oven,” Alessia said. “Pizza and drinks in the fridge. I’m going to work for a while, feel free to see yourself to bed.”

He waved one hand at her without looking, already pulling on the oversized sweater she’d left draped on the back of the couch.

Alessia worked until after midnight, but no amount of data and logistics would drive her conversation with Leya from her mind. She sighed, stretched her back, and wandered back out to the sofa, where the boy had curled up in a pile of blankets. The sheer number of crusts and the sour tang that wafted from the bathroom told her that he’d purged, but that was better than not eating, surely? 

He rolled over as she passed, one eye cracked open. “You know this makes it worse,” he said, voice muzzy with sleep. “When we have to see the next one.”

She closed her eyes, forced herself to swallow. “I know. I wish I could —” help you, stop this, make a difference, burn this whole place to the ground —

“Eh. You can’t save us.” He pulled the blankets over his head. “But I’ll take the carbs.”

LEYA

in recognition of your family’s service and your recent contributions to

your unique talent and vision 

we would like to offer you

Leya’s head snapped up. Mother, on the waiting list for regenerative eye surgery, held out a trembling hand. “What is it? What does it say?”

Thick cardstock, swooping cursive, embossed sigil. Faint perfume of roses. She read it again, and once more for good measure. “It’s an invitation. To join Games High Command. The President — he likes my ingenuity.”

Mother’s hand gripped hers, sudden strength in her gnarled knuckles. “My girl! Your father would be so proud of you.”

For one moment, she wavered. “But — Holt Industries —“

“We built this company to last,” Mother said firmly. “We have survived famine and ruin and war and riots. It will not fail without you. This is important, love. Go.”

Over one hundred-fifty thousand years of Hunger Games, Father had told her once, years and years ago, to equal the casualties of war. Since then, how many riots? How many needless deaths? How many would suffer still for the selfish avarice of a people who would always, always ask for more?

Examples. What to do if a child did not understand? You gave them an example.

“I will,” Leya said. The 50^th Games approached; it was time to show Panem and her people what it meant to be a nation. “I have an idea already.”

ALESSIA

The woman followed her for six blocks, but only allowed Alessia to catch her in a side street behind a bakery proclaiming ‘Glitter Donuts’, whatever that was. “I’ve tripped a loop on the cameras,” she said. “No one can listen in for the next five minutes.” Before Alessia could demand an explanation, she continued: “We saw your vote in the referendum. You aren’t the only one who voted no.”

Alessia smile felt brittle. “Not that it made a difference. The count said 98% in favour.”

“We changed many of the votes to yes before they hit the tabulation system.” She held up a hand as Alessia drew herself up, fury burning in her veins. “What do you think happens when people vote no? They get put on watchlists. They disappear. They certainly don’t get to keep buying dates with Victors and not sleeping with them.”

Alessia opened her mouth. Let it snap shut again. “What do you want?”

She tilted her head to the side. Beneath the wig and makeup she had a steely air, posture that looked like she’d be more comfortable in uniform, carrying a weapon. “The real question, I think, is what do you want? Do you want to spend the rest of your life making drugs for the ultra-rich, spending your bonuses to give Victors the night off? Or do you want to do something?”

Most obvious option: a trap. This woman, a member of the secret police, ferreting out rebels in the Capitol. Alessia would spend the rest of her life an Avox, standing in the corner holding emetics while her former colleagues complained that a plague in District 9 caused a shortage of cannoli, or worse. Smart money on walking away right now and forgetting this ever happened.

Riots. Starving children. Adults working until their fingers bled, their limbs crushed, their lungs filled with soot. Boys and girls half her age making blanket nests on the sofa as her only contribution to a burning world.

Alessia curled her hands — soft palms, smooth fingernails — into fists. “I want to tear this place to pieces.”

The woman grinned. “We can work with that.”